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ellethespaceunicorn · 5 months

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Don't Kill My Vibe

Title: Don’t Kill My Vibe

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Clark Kent x BestFriend!Black!Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Summary: You help Clark ease the pain of his broken heart.

Warnings: mention of a breakup, recreational drug use (marijuana), friends-to-lovers trope, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie, mention of bodily fluids

A/N: This is an AU where Clark Kent is not superpowered and Superman does not exist. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers by me

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist

It wasn’t the first time Clark asked to try some bud, but it was the most pathetic. His gorgeous blue eyes were puffy from crying over that woman. As much as you wanted to say, “I told you so," you didn’t want him to feel any worse about the failed relationship with his reporter beau, Lois Lane.

And yet again, you think to yourself, ‘Fuck Lois Lane’.

When he showed up at your place an hour ago in sweatpants, sneakers, and a button-up pullover, you were surprised to see he opted for something other than his normal flannel and jeans. His hair was mussed, and he avoided eye contact with you. Something was wrong.

You dragged him into your apartment, turning down your Spotify playlist on the Bluetooth speakers so you could talk over the mellow tunes. While you flopped down on your couch, Clark sat down slowly and sighed.

You were already elevated, having taken a couple of puffs from your blue and red glass bowl earlier, so you were struggling to pay attention to everything he was saying. You tried to put on your “I’m not high” face and nod enough, saying “Oh wow” occasionally. But, in actuality, your eyes were as red as the Devil’s dick, and Clark wasn’t stupid.

His eyes looked from yours to the tray on the coffee table that held your various assortments of smoking apparatus, grinder, lighter, and stash box. Leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees, he motioned his chin toward everything and said, “I know you’ve said no a million times, but I could use an escape. And before you say no again, know I’ve tried all the tricks in the book to get over somebody, and nothing is working.”

“I have a feeling there’s another thing you haven’t tried either, but whatever,” you rattled on, waving off his confused expression. “Fine. It should be illegal for you to use those puppy eyes when asking me for something, by the way.”

So here you are, preparing a strawberry cone for you and Clark to share. You were always weird about people using your favorite bowl. You also figure that for a first-timer, it would be the easiest for him to start with. Twisting the end after filling the cone, you reach for the lighter and ashtray.

“First things first,” you purr, using your phone to turn the music up. “Now, watch what I do. I’m going to draw the smoke into my mouth and then hold it for a few seconds, or as long as I can, before blowing it back out. Ready?”

Clark nods as he turns toward you, tucking one leg under the other. Now that you have his full attention, you suddenly feel flustered. Casting your eyes downward, you take the cone into your mouth and light the end. You inhale deeply and take it out of your mouth. Savoring the citrus flavor of the strain, your tongue licks your lips, and you exhale.

You close your eyes and take a few breaths. After a moment, you hear Clark’s voice breaking through your haze: “Everything good?”

Your eyes pop open, and just like nothing happened, you perk up. Handing him the cone, you blink as he holds it like someone who has never smoked. You’ve known Clark long enough that you have a suspicion that is probably true for him.

He’s polite, almost to a fault. He screams Boy Scout, altar boy, and ‘promise ring’ all at the same time. What can you say? Clark was a good boy. And you were getting him high. You little devil!

Clark takes a short pull from the pink-colored joint and manages to hold it for about two seconds, then attempts to exhale. A small plume escapes his mouth, he inhales sharply and has a coughing fit. You take the joint back before he drops it and sit it in the ashtray.

Rubbing his back, you try to talk him through catching his breath. You grab your water bottle and hold the straw to his mouth when he nods his thanks. He sips the water, then clears his throat loudly, burping up a bit of smoke. He laughs quickly as he sees it exit his mouth, reminding you of a little surprised dragon.

“That was fun,” he sputters, his voice deeper than usual.

“It gets easier, Clark. Trust me, coughing is normal. And most of the time, coughing gets you higher,” you laugh, picking up the joint to take another hit.

You inhale, exhaling into the air, and hold it out for Clark to take again. He sips from your water bottle and gives it to you in exchange for the joint.

Holding it between two fingers, he brings it to his lips. You watch his mouth curl around the tip, and your brain conjures up the vision of what else that boy’s mouth can do. He takes the joint out of his mouth, holding his breath for a few seconds, then blows it out slowly. He gives it back to you and leans back against the couch.

“I don’t think I feel any different yet. How long does it take to kick in?” he asks, crossing his arms and pouting.

It being his first time, he is completely unaware that he is already high. His body language is different; Clark Kent doesn’t slouch even a little. He also certainly doesn’t fidget; his hands suddenly become very interested in the material of his pullover.

“You’ll feel it sooner than you think,” you mumble, the joint between your lips as you speak.

Twenty minutes later, Clark tells you exactly what the last straw was that ended his relationship with Lois. He pauses to take a hit, handing it back to you as he exhales. “But it was always whatever she wanted. I treat her like a queen. And she goes and blows Jimmy-fucking-Olsen. Then she lies about it after Jimmy comes clean to me. I…,” he trails off, looking over at you and shaking his head as he laughs.

“What?” you question when you realize he stops talking.

“Nothing. I just… I think I’m high,” he giggles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling when he smiles at you.

“Besides being high, can you describe how you feel?” You press, wanting to know just how high he is.

“I feel lighter. Clear…er? Is it clearer or more clear? Whatever. I think I also just figured out how I want to finish that article on The Wayne Foundation,” he explains, leaning back so he is lying on his back with his head on your lap. “Is this ok? Your lap looked so comfortable,” he wonders aloud, looking up at you.

That’s when you realize three fundamental truths at the same time.

1. Clark is single.

2. Clark is literally in your lap.

3. The crush you have on Clark is swiftly turning into lustful infatuation.

Bringing yourself back to the present, you smile at him and say, “Yeah, of course it’s ok.” You focus on the heat radiating from your best friend as he makes himself comfortable so close to your thirsty pussy.

“You are the best,” he replies, closing his eyes as your hand finds its way into his curls.

“This cool?” you dare, hoping that you can continue to push the boundary between friendship and something more.

As if the groan from the back of his throat wasn’t enough, he voices his satisfaction. “More than cool. I love having my hair played with. Feel free to go to town on me.”

Oh, the importance of phrasing.

This man is not going to make it easy on you.

You’re explaining to Clark about that episode of Bob’s Burgers where Bob and Linda accidentally get high after eating cookies laced with marijuana at their accountant’s office. “So, anyway. Bob, Linda, and the accountant build a pillow fort from the cushions on his couch, and somehow it makes them feel safer which I get because pillow forts were the height of safety when we were kids. And sometimes, people feel safer thinking about the simplicity of their childhood,” you rattle on, leaning forward to grab your water bottle and forgetting about Clark’s head, which is still very much in your lap.

An oomph is spoken into your boobs, and you shoot straight up to a standing position and knock Clark off your lap and onto the floor.

“Shit!” he cries from his spot on the floor.

“Fuck, Clark! I’m so sorry! Are you ok?” You cringe, your hand touching your forehead as you watch him pull himself up.

“Hey, hey. It’s cool, I’m fine,” he reassures, his hand grabbing yours to take it away from your face. With the other hand, he grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Tilting your head up, he smiles and counters, “Are you ok?”

Yeah. Fine. My tits were just thrust into your face for a bit there. Oh, and you have no idea that I like you. And that pesky curl is falling into your pretty eyes again. And your handsome face is close enough to-

One second, you’re staring at his smile; the next second, you’re attacking his mouth with yours. His lips are just as pillowy and soft as they look. At first, the kiss is timid. Surprise gives way to need as he deepens the kiss. His tongue seeks solace as it slides against the seam of your lips. Granting him entry, he licks into your mouth like an explorer discovering new lands.

His hands find their way to your hips, bringing you impossibly close. He feasts on every whimper that leaves you, peppering in some moans of his own. This is the kiss of a man waiting for a moment like this. At least, that’s how it feels.

Begrudgingly, you slowly break away from Clark. His kiss-swollen pink lips beg to be reunited with yours, but you must prove this is real. You look up into his dilated eyes, noting how blue is almost completely taken over by black.

You open your mouth to speak, but Clark beats you to it.

“Unless you are about to tell me you don’t want this, please just kiss me again,” he breathes, resting his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what’s more intoxicating. This drug or having you so close to me.”

Instead of worrying about what this means, you throw caution to the wind. Tilting your head, you slot your lips with his, devouring the subtle whimper that escapes him. From nervous to commanding, you feel Clark’s demeanor change as his hands wander over your body.

He picks you up by the waist, your legs instinctually wrapping around him. With you in his arms, he walks blindly to your bedroom. Once he lays you down, he covers your body with his. The hard length against your mound gives you pause, but you quickly recover as you angle your hips to meet his.

Clark breaks the kiss to sit up and remove his pullover and shirt. A pink hue dusts his cheeks as he watches you scan his torso while you bite your lip. Leaning down, he tugs at the hem of your shirt, wanting you to get rid of it.

You oblige, now topless in front of your best friend for the first time. You don’t have time to freak out over that information because Clark hooks his fingers in your leggings, his eyes begging for permission. You raise your hips, and he pulls them down your legs along with your underwear.

You sit up as he chucks his sweatpants, his heavy erection now visible. Your first thought is, “Now that is a pretty dick.”

“Thank you,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?” You wonder aloud, already knowing the answer.

Clark smiles, nodding at you before coaxing you to lay back. He sinks between your legs, holding them open to kiss your thighs. He teases you a bit, licking and nipping at your mound and outer labia until you wiggle your hips and whine.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Patience, please,” he cautions, shaking his head at you. He winks at you, diving fully into your snatch and sucking your clit between his lips.

You throw your head back in ecstasy as his tongue slides over your swollen button. Humming while sucking on your nub is a fucking power move, and your hands tangle in his hair. You dig your heels into his back as he laps up the juices that accumulate at your entrance. Looking down at him as he worships at the altar of your body, you are taken aback as he peeks up at you over your mound.

With your eyes locked on each other, he watches as he tips you right over the edge. He groans into your pussy, his mouth and chin soaked, as your walls contract around nothing. The euphoria of being high mixes with the joy of being with someone new for the first time.

But this isn’t just anybody; this was your best friend. Warmth and comfort exist between you, allowing you to feel safe enough to fall and that Clark will catch you.

You come down as he plants a kiss on your mound, grazing his lips up your tummy. When he is back above your face, he runs the tip of his dick across your wet folds. He maintains eye contact while he slides in for the first time.

Once he is fully seated inside you, he lets you adjust to his size before he withdraws slightly and thrusts forward. The wet squelch of your pussy and the smack of your bodies against one another are music to your ears. Clark’s grunts as he fucks into you only fuel your impending second climax.

“Fuck, you feel so good. Too good. Not going to last long,” he warns, sitting up on his knees as his hands go to your waist. Throwing his head back, he growls and picks up the pace, using your body like his personal fucktoy.

Your back arches as he repeatedly hits that hidden bundle of nerves. A searing fire erupts in your belly as your cunt clamps down on his dick, spasming and coating it with your cream.

“Good girl! That’s it. Fucking come for me, just like that,” he encourages. “Oh, shit. I’m right fucking behind you. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuck.”

You lock your legs around his waist, keeping him right where he is as his dick spasms and fills you to the brim. Your hands smooth down his big chest, feeling the muscles ripple as he comes down from what is probably the most intense orgasm he has ever felt. He stills soon enough, breathing back to normal as his softening length slips from you.

Flopping down next to you, Clark wraps an arm around you. You curl into his side, an arm across his stomach, and a leg thrown over his. Contented silence fills the room as you both take in this unforeseen turn of events.

Clark’s hand makes idle patterns on your back as you lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. You close your eyes for only a moment, missing Clark smiling at you. He gives you a quick peck on the top of your head, causing you to tilt your head to meet his eyes.

“You hungry?” you guess, feeling a bit peckish yourself.

“Yes!” he exclaims.

“Good. I know a great place down the street that makes the best samosas. Does Indian food sound good?” you ask, already tasting the rich spices of the food.

“Sounds perfect,” he says, picking up his arm to let you get up from the bed to grab your phone, watching your hips sway as you walk out to the other room.

Once back in bed, you order various dishes for the both of you. While you wait for the food, you pass a joint back and forth and steal a kiss or two. You decide there is plenty of time for you and Clark to talk. There is no use in killing the vibe for heavy stuff.

With the way Clark is looking at you, there’s not much to talk about anyway.

🍃The End🍃

A/N: I would love to know what you think!!! Feedback is appreciated!

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brain-rot-central · 7 months

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Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal

A/N: This is a working title. I reserve the right to change it going forward, lol. This is also my first AA fic! Can't believe it took me this long. Also feel free to note any other tags I may have missed. I'll add them as I go.

Rating: E Word count: 5.1k Pairing: Ascended Astarion/Fem!Tav Warnings: 18+, post-canon, PiV sex, creampie, angst, stalking behavior, obsessiveness, possessiveness, manipulative behavior (overall A's not really the greatest in this), use of derogatory language (though not at anyone specifically), messy break-up, depictions of gore, break-up (maybe make-up?) sex

Summary: Astarion has performed the Rite, becoming someone unrecognizable. Tav leaves him after settling their business with the Netherbrain, refusing his proposition to become his consort. She uses these last 6 months to heal her broken heart, mourning all they were and what they could have been. Hopefully all her hard work has paid off, because he's decided he wants her back and drops in for a visit.

♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

“It's awfully dangerous for such delectable morsels to leave their windows open this time of night.”

The whimsical voice comes from behind. With it, a rush of cold air sweeps through the quaint upstairs bedroom. Curtains lining the double panes of the front windows dance as the breeze blows in. Papers on the dresser scatter about the floor.

A young woman dressed in a sheer linen nightgown sits at her vanity, combing through her long red hair, when she freezes.

A familiar scent dances beneath her olfactory nerves - heady, rich, citrus. She breathes deeply, the warm spice of the cologne sweeping through her. Waves of heat pulse throughout her body as her ears pick up the sound of footsteps drawing closer.

With a sigh, the woman closes her eyes as the assailant reaches her position, their footsteps coming to a halt behind her.

It's him, she realizes. She’s never been more sure of anything else in her life.

Many months have passed since their last meeting. Passion burned as hot as an Infernal forge on that night. Promises of love, of pleasure, of power poured freely from their lips as their bodies intertwined. At that moment, she was prepared to give him everything - her life, her freedom, her body, soul.

She would have, had she not come to realize it was all an elaborate farce.

As she cracks open her eyes, daring to look up, the woman catches his reflection in the vanity mirror. With an audible gasp, it quickly dawns on her that this is the first time she’s seeing his face reflected in a glass pane.

Their eyes meet in the mirror, her chest suddenly heaving.

It is him.

And by the Gods, he's even more devastatingly handsome than she remembers.

“You never know what sort of monsters are out lurking the streets, hm?” he purrs, bringing his face close to her ear.

Assaulted once more by the warm spice of his cologne, her head spins.

“Astarion,” the woman whispers, nearly breathless. “What are you doing here?”

Craning his head, Astarion dips down into the nape of her neck, inhaling deeply. Her pulse quickens as he draws near, heart hammering away in her ribcage. His lips curl, fangs gleaming in the faint candlelight illuminating the room as his tongue sweeps over his teeth.

“I needn't an invitation to go where I please now, pet,” he pants against her neck.

A cold shudder shoots down her spine.

There was a time when her body would come alight from his many terms of endearment.

Darling, dear, sweet, pet, love.

Love.

“Nothing special, of course. You're only the first person I truly care for.”

His words echo in the far recesses of her mind. The words of her companion and partner, her lover… of a man who no longer exists.

That night in the ritual chamber, he changed.

The sound of the staff hitting the stone floor reverberates off ancient walls. Cazador and his spawn playing their parts, bound together in blood by the Rite. Astarion, levitating at the center, eyes burning red as an aura of blood envelops him. He's chanting the words - the Infernal seance that was once meant to be his end.

Her tongue lay heavy in her mouth. Words fly across her mind; desperate pleas begging him to reconsider, to stop this. None ever make it past her lips.

Suddenly, the spawn pop. One after the other.

Pop, pop, pop.

Astarion laughs, loud and boisterous, relishing the new found power that comes with each death.

Finally comes Cazador's turn.

He screams - a true blood-curdling scream. The type you hear moments before a person knows death has come, all too late. His voice carries on as she stands in the chamber, helplessly watching Cazador succumb to the ritual. He bursts at the seams into a pile of pulverized matter, dripping onto the floor below, completely unrecognizable.

Then suddenly, the room is engulfed by a haunting silence.

The Ascension… is complete.

The aura around Astarion fades and he drops down onto the platform below his feet. He remains kneeling for a moment. The sound of his breathing is all that fills the chamber, companions too stunned to speak.

He rises, slowly turning to face their leader. Looking upon his face, she sees the horrible truth lay bare before her.

Her lover is no more.

She's mourned him, the promise of them, ever since that night. Cried tears until her head throbbed and her face swelled, cried until nothing but sleep could soothe the ache in her heart.

And here he stands behind her, a scowl littering his visage as their eyes meet yet again in the mirror.

Her heart pounds in her throat, tears welling at the corners of her eyes. She swallows, asking, “Why did you come here, Astarion?”

Astarion pulls himself back, taking a few paces away from the woman. Folding his arms over his chest, he replies, “My darling Tav, I've come to take you home.”

“Home? I am home,” insists Tav. Turning her body, still seated in her chair, she scans him over.

Moonlit curls sweep elegantly across his forehead, framing his face. Ruby gems glint in the dim light of the room. He's wearing a black and silver doublet, blood-red dragons delicately embroidered on the lapel. Every bit elegant and refined; elite.

Astarion's face softens. He draws closer again, Tav’s breath hitching as his hand cups her chin. Tilting her face up toward his, he states, “I've given you more than enough freedom.” He cranes his head, bringing his lips a breath above her own as he whispers, “Don't you think?”

The velvet grace of his voice makes her dizzy. Tav realizes she feels heat radiating off his skin as their faces draw closer in proximity; a stark contrast to his usual aura. Her face burns - a fire that quickly spreads down into her belly. Tav tries to speak but Astarion closes the distance, lips capturing hers in a delicate embrace. His kiss is soft, alluring, unhurried.

Gentle, she thinks to herself. He's being so gentle.

“Astarion-” she protests, logic returning to her as she breaks the kiss. Tav scans his face, drawing her head back. Heavy lids fall over his eyes as they transfix upon her lips. He’s hungry, in more ways than one.

She knows that look. It's the very same he'd give her night after night in his tent, when all he wished was to share his body with her. Instead, they'd find other ways to partake in the ecstacy of one another until they were left breathless and panting.

But that was long ago.

Astarion's tongue darts out to lick over his lips as he says, “A lord is nothing without his dearest consort.” He moves to kiss her again, but Tav quickly ducks out of reach. She stands, hands clenched in tight fists.

“No,” she insists, locking eyes with him. She furrows her brow. “I will not be made into your personal plaything!”

A chuckle rumbles from his chest. Astarion tilts his head, a smirk forming on his face. “‘Plaything?’” he reiterates. “Do you believe I think that little of you?” Astarion brushes his knuckles over Tav’s cheek. “My darling treasure,” he begins, “I have many playthings, though none are quite like you.”

Tav’s pupils blow wide.

Astarion means to make her jealous with talk of other lovers. He means to fill her mind with images of him making love to unknown beings. To make her think of him finding pleasure in others who are not her.

She will not rise to it.

“Your chosen harlots aren’t enough?” Tav sneers. “I thought Lord Astarion Ancunín had everything he desired?”

With a scoff, Astarion replies, “You don't get it, do you?” A twinge of impatience can be heard as he says, “You helped make me what I am. We are bound to one another, until the end of time.”

Tav shudders as his hands come up to hold her face. She pulls in a sharp breath, expecting the cold sting of death from his usual chilled palms. Yet, they're completely warm as they cradle her jaw. Another reminder that he is now very much changed. Alive. His cologne assaults her senses once more and her eyes flutter closed as she settles into the strange comfort of his touch.

“My heart will never stop calling for you,” Astarion speaks softly. “No other can satisfy that hunger.” He brushes over her bottom lip with the pad of a thumb and feels her tremble below him. “You are to be my consort, my bride,” he insists, voice stern but low. “That is your role in this.”

Tav falters beneath his touch, allowing herself to be walked back to the wall next to the vanity. Her hands come up to wrap around his wrists. “Such honeyed words,” she retorts. “If I didn't know any better, I'd actually believe you.” Her back connects with the wall and she gasps.

“Tav, look at me,” Astarion demands with urgency. She doesn't comply, turning her head to the side. Slipping a hand from her cheek to grasp her chin, he forcibly turns her head back toward his. “Look at me!” he spits again.

Hesitant to look upon Astarion’s face, Tav cracks her eyes open. Opening them fully, it's not anger that she finds there. Her stomach flips. No, not anger or even disappointment. Instead, she sees… vulnerability.

“I wish I could replace you. I’ve tried,” Astarion bites out through clenched teeth. His face falls as his eyes settle on her. “Nothing can fill the void your absence has left.” He shakes his head slightly before adding, “Something within me screams for you, as if I were alone in a decrepit crypt and only you can save me.”

Her heart beats wildly in her chest. She feels as though she may suffocate, or that her heart may give out at a moment's notice. Tav begins to feel the tendrils of desire dance across her abdomen. They start low in her groin and quickly spread upward, causing a rhythmic contraction of her walls. She cannot fall for this again, she simply must not. All he's done is spout pretty words and step into her presence. And yet…

His breath pants against her face as he rests their foreheads together. The scent of freshly chewed mint whirls beneath her nose. Her vision spins.

In her stupor, Tav hardly notices Astarion's hands slipping under her nightgown. His palms rest on the backs of her thighs and he lifts a leg, allowing more room to slot himself against her core.

Tav groans as their centers meet, arching her back. Her chest presses into his and she moans, hands seeking purchase in his hair as he rocks himself into her once again.

“Astarion,” she pleads, wrapping her leg around the small of his back. A bolt of pleasure shoots up from her groin. She feels her walls clench again in desperation as his hardened cock brush against her cunt, straining against the fabric of his trousers. Her body remembers him and is all too eager to receive him once more.

Astarion knows. He recalls exactly how her body reacts almost on instinct to his touch. He pants against her lips with each roll of his hips into hers. “Come home with me, Tav,” he groans out. “Please, darling. I need you.”

His voice comes out ragged, stressed. Astarion leans against her chest, slipping his face into the nape of her neck. Inhaling deeply, a fire begins smoldering low in his belly. Her scent is of fresh mountain dew in early spring. Floral, sweet, and holding the promise of possibility. His cock twitches in anticipation.

Tav moans, loud and unfiltered. Her knees grow weak and she nearly buckles off the wall if Astarion weren't holding her up. She throws her head against the wall behind her, back arching once again.

“I mourned you,” Tav tells him, nearly breathless. “I mourned us.” She doesn't protest as Astarion lifts her other leg to join in locking around his waist. Tav doesn't fight how he grinds himself into her again, trapping her between himself and the wall. She feels faint, her vision growing fuzzy at the edges, though she manages to huff out, “You don't get to come here and make demands of me, Astarion.”

Astarion pulls his head back leisurely to meet her eyes. “You left me, remember?” he says low in his throat.

“What choice did you leave me with?” Tav exclaims in frustration. “You wanted me to sacrifice my life in order to prove my love for you. You would have never asked that of me before that accursed Rite!”

“I only wish to live out the rest of eternity together,” Astarion replies. “I promised I would protect you, that no harm would ever come to you.”

Tav stares into his face as realization registers in her mind, mouth falling slightly agape. She's gotten used to reading between the lines of his words, so often laced with duplicate meaning. True to his former life as a rogue of the night.

Her mortality is a threat to his oath.

Astarion cannot fathom going through the rest of time without her. Or, he does, and the thought is too painful for him to ever risk becoming reality. That is what he means to say, though apparently incapable in this new state.

“Isn't this what you wanted?” he asks, quietly. “To be together? Forever?”

Tears well in the creases of her eyelids and Tav sobs. “You are a fool, Astarion Ancunín,” she chides.

Astarion hovers his mouth mere millimeters above hers. “Only for you,” he says. “Always for you.” He captures her lips in a gentle embrace, breathing deeply through his nose as he pushes further into the kiss.

Tav moans into his mouth as she slackens her jaw, creating enough room for their tongues to begin exploring one another. She gasps as Astarion carries her from the wall to her bed on the far side of the room, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.

“Tell me I may have you,” he asks, breaking the kiss as he lays her down over the mattress. He climbs over her, mouth descending upon her neck. He peppers chaste kisses along the underside of her jaw.

Tav writhes beneath him, whimpers escaping her throat as he licks and suckles on the delicate flesh of her throat. With resolve quickly waning, her hands find purchase again in silver locks as she finally says, “You may, but only for tonight.”

Astarion freezes above her. Hesitantly, he pulls himself back, looking her over as he begins shrugging off his doublet. “Are you sure?” he inquires softly.

This is the perfect opportunity to ask him to turn and leave. To not start this over again, to not return down a path in which she knows there is no favorable end. Though, Tav also cannot deny just how much she has missed him, as well.

“It's only sex, Astarion,” she tells him, sitting up to undo the ties of her nightgown. “That's all this will be.”

His hands come to rest atop hers, replacing her motions as he pulls gently at the laces of the gown. With the last tie undone her gown falls open, revealing her bare breasts to his heated gaze. Astarion sucks in a sharp breath as he meets her eyes.

“Only sex,” he ponders aloud as he furrows his brow. “But what if I want-”

“No,” Tav interjects, voice firm. “This is all I can give you. You either take this, or you have nothing.” Her breathing comes uneven as she stares back at him, chest heaving. Her nerves have come alight; she cannot fall in love with him again, but she can at least offer him this.

With a curt nod, Astarion replies, “As you wish.”

His expression is guarded as he fumbles with the laces of his trousers. He pulls his undershirt up and over his head, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor behind the bed. Standing up, he peels off his boots, pants, and underclothes in one fell swoop. He returns to Tav on the bed as bare as the day he was born, following her eyes as they roam down the long plane of his torso. They come to rest between his thighs.

Astarion’s cock stands ready at attention, jumping in tandem with his heartbeat. Saliva pools thick on her tongue and she slips the nightgown down and off her arms. She's left naked before him, not having time to fully dress before his unexpected visit. Tav hears him groan as he looks her over.

A surprised gasp falls from her mouth as he cups her sex. She feels him drag two fingers through the arousal that has already gathered between her folds, and watches as he brings those same fingers to his mouth. A bolt of desire pulls behind her navel as she watches his slick-soaked fingers slip between his lips. He suckles around them, moaning his approval.

With a wet pop, Astarion pulls the two digits from his mouth and places them against her cunt again. They're saturated with his spittle, softly prodding at her entrance.

“A-ah!” Tav gasps as his fingers sink in. It's only two, but Gods how she's struggling to take them. They glide in and out, Astarion occasionally curling his fingers to pass along the spongy spot inside her that turns her vision white.

It's not long before he's pulling his fingers out and lining himself up along her entrance. Astarion spits into his hand, giving himself a few languid strokes. The weight of his cock slaps down heavily as he drags his length through her slickened folds once, twice, before he's finally slipping into her.

Screwing his eyes shut, Astarion lets out a guttural groan as he feels his tip pop through her tense entrance, her warmth enveloping him as he seats himself a bit further before halting. Her walls spasm wildly around his shaft; it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to sink the rest of himself down into her inviting wet heat.

Tav sighs as she finally adjusts, body relaxing around him. She hadn't necessarily forgotten that taking Astarion is no small feat, though she did forget how it feels to actually do so.

“You can move,” she tells him meekly.

He doesn't respond with words; a simple nod of his head is all Tav gets before he's leaning over her, hips slipping further and further toward the backs of her thighs. Wrapping his arms around her thighs, Astarion pulls her into him, pelvis meeting her backside. He growls, cock twitching as his tip brushes against her cervix.

Tav shudders under him as he pulls out, feeling the dragging of his length within her cunt, only for him to push back in with added force. Her body jerks upward from the power of his thrust. An audible string of whimpers falls freely from her lips as he does it again, and again, and again.

Astarion catches Tav’s hands as she tries reaching for him, pushing them back toward the bedsheets. Confused by his gesture, Tav tries again, only for Astarion to once more shove her hands off of him.

Stunned, Tav looks at his face. Sweat is beginning to gather along his brow, though he keeps perfect composure. There is no lust nor passion to his expression. He looks… removed. Distant. Aloof.

Just… having sex.

“Astarion?” Tav asks, concerned. “I can't touch you?”

He scoffs above her, grunting as he slams his hips again into hers. “Touch is a rather intimate thing,” he says, sarcasm saturating his tone. “Intimacy isn't welcome when you're just having sex.”

“Stop,” Tav demands, hands pressing against his stomach. Astarion immediately ceases his movements. “This is too cold, Astarion,” she says quietly. “This isn't us.”

Above her, Astarion sucks in a large breath. “It is when it's devoid of emotion,” he clarifies, patience wearing thin. “That's what you wanted, isn't it?” He tilts his head, craning his neck to look down upon her. “Just a quick romp?”

“I-”

Venom seeps from his pores as he quickly adds, “If you were ever curious as to how I treat my harlots, well, now you know. It's rather different from our last time, eh? I wonder why that is?” Astarion feigns an inquisitive glance, placing a finger to the side of his mouth as his lips form into a pout.

“Astarion, I-”

Tav tries desperately to interject, but is disrupted again by Astarion snapping his fingers. “Oh, I know! It's because I made love to you!” he sneers, lips curling over his fangs as he leans closer to her face. “You were never a conquest to me!” he growls. “Never one night it's best to forget.”

Astarion exhales, eyes falling closed in an effort to regain his composure. “If you insist on me treating you like a whore in a brothel, fine,” he says, “I'll do it. But know it's not done willingly.”

Tav remains silent, words failing her. Her body trembles as the full weight of his confession echoes throughout her mind. Pulling in ragged breaths, she questions, “Would you make love to me again? If I asked?”

Astarion huffs out a laugh, his expression softening. “I would raze an entire city for you,” he confirms. “You need only ask.”

A sense of despair enshrouds her as she stares into his ruby red eyes. He still loves her, Tav realizes. As much as, if not more than, the day she left him. Her head pounds; she needs to stop this from going forward. The voice in her head is begging her not to continue, to not risk reopening the wound she's spent the last six months delicately stitching back together.

Their last night together replays in her thoughts. She recalls the all-encompassing feeling of want that radiated off Astarion, that night. He carried her into a world of pleasure she never dreamed possible, all while singing praises deeply into her ear as he rocked in and out of her core. They joined as one, body and soul. Or so Tav thought, until the following morning.

Astarion looks at her now with that same compassion in eyes. He means what he says; he would destroy anyone and anything should she ask it of him. He's already destroyed himself, all in a vow to protect her.

Choking back a sob, she accepts final defeat in the battle her heart fought so desperately since he first came through her window. “Make love to me then, Astarion,” Tav tells him, pleadingly. “The way you used to.”

The flame of the single candle in the room dances in his eyes. The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Oh, my sweet,” he purrs, “There's nothing I'd like more,” Astarion brushes her cheek with the back of a palm. His arousal has flagged, still situated within Tav’s warmth, though it stirs back to life as he captures her lips in a hungry kiss.

Tav groans as she feels Astarion's length swell within her walls, noises swallowed by his mouth over hers. When he grows stiff enough, Astarion gives shallow thrusts between her legs. It isn't long until he's back to full virility, rolling his hips into hers in a steady rhythm.

She cries out as he breaks the kiss, one last deep thrust before he's pulling out of her. Pushing her legs back, knees almost hitting her chest, Astarion slips back into place between her thighs. Tav’s knees are being held up by his shoulders as he bends forward, sliding his cock back into her slickened cunt with ease.

Astarion groans as his cock slides down, down, down until his tip nudges the end of her tunnel. Tav gasps as he settles himself impossibly deeper, hips giving a soft push that leaves her womb pulsing. She claws at Astarion’s back when he pulls his hips up slightly, only to crash into her again.

Astarion rests his forehead against Tav’s. He drops his hips repeatedly into her center, eyes locked with hers as he does. The air pushed from her lungs from each of his thrusts passes over his face and he greedily sucks it in. Her face is flushed shades of red and pink as blood rushes through her veins, singing her desire loudly in his ears.

Nails sink into the tender scars on his back and Astarion hisses. With half open eyelids, Tav struggles to keep his gaze, pleasure threatened to overwhelm her. But when she finally does, she sees it. There, in his eyes, is him. The man she fell in love with.

Astarion's eyes are soft, round, pleading. The eyes of the man she gave herself to repeatedly all those months ago.

Each night she spent being devoured by his mouth, pulling the very essence of her body into his, she felt it - the sanctity of her oath dangling in the balance. Should she have stuck to her teachings, Astarion would’ve been staked through the heart at first discovery of his true nature. And yet, night after night, she willingly succumbed to the lustful desires that only her blood could provide him.

She moans as he angles his hips sharply on the next downstroke, the head of his cock brushing deliciously up against her spot. The rhythmic fluttering of her tunnel over his shaft pulls a throaty groan from Astarion, who quickly buries his face into the nape of her neck as the sensation wracks through his body. His arms envelop her torso, using her as leverage to increase the pace of her thrusts.

Tav feels her arousal leaking down the cleft of her ass, carved out from her with each plunge of his cock into her cunt. The tip of him rams against her spot repeatedly and she shakes in his arms, pleasure coiling tightly in her belly with not much left to hold onto. “Astarion,” she pants against his ear, mindlessly mouthing at his lobe. “Gods, Astarion…”

He groans again against her neck, skin muffling most of it. The sounds of their joint arousal fill the room, and Astarion pulls his lips back in anticipation of his impending climax. The smoldering fire in his belly has erupted into hellfire, threatening to consume all and any in its path if not quelled soon.

Fangs press into the delicate skin of her neck and Tav shivers, hands flying into his hair and grasping, pulling. “Do not bite me, Astarion,” Tav says, panicked.

Humming his disapproval, Astarion reluctantly pulls his head away from her neck. He rests his forehead against hers again. “Where do you want me, Tavaria?” The question comes quietly, unguarded. Strained.

Tavaria.

The sound of her full name on his tongue sends pulses of desire through her belly. He's close, Tav realizes. Astarion pants against her face as his thrusts grow more uneven. Moving a hand to his jaw, Tav holds his cheek, rubbing his chin with her thumb. “However you want,” comes her reply.

Astarion shudders, a moan slipping past his lips, eyes rolling to the back of his skull momentarily. He blinks back into focus, chest heaving as his breathing becomes labored. He's barely lifting hips into Tav, instead giving short stuttering thrusts that have his tip kissing her cervical os.

“Tav, please,” he begs. “Tell me.”

Silver strands of hair stick to his sweat-soaked forehead. Brushing them out of the way with a hand, she plants a kiss between his brow. “Inside,” she coos. “It's okay.”

Carnal desire flares behind Astarion's eyes. He grunts, raw and guttural as he dips his head back into the crook of her neck. He feels his cock begin to swell, a telltale sign that his release is imminent.

Tav whimpers as Astarion rams over her pleasure point again and again, the fattened head of his cock dragging along her walls. It doesn't take much longer before she's screaming out her completion below him, nails digging into the skin of his marred back.

Astarion roars out his own climax above her, balls pulling up tightly as fangs sink into the pillow next to her. He floods her channel with his seed, tiny rolls of his hips pulling groans from his chest as he rides out the wave. Tav’s walls are more than willing to massage the rest of his spend from his balls and into her greedy womb.

They lay together panting, post-coital haze in full effect. It isn't until Astarion shifts to pull out his softening member that Tav feels it - his spend dribbling from her entrance and onto the nightgown under her. He's the first to leave the bed, shaking his head while running a hand through tousled locks. Tav watches him disappear into her washroom as she slowly sits herself up onto her elbows.

The sound of water running into the tub can be heard and Astarion reappears in the doorway. He returns to the bed, Tav gasping as he scoops her up into his arms and carries her toward the washroom.

“What are you doing, Astarion?” she asks, mind still clouded by her peak. She loops her hands around his neck, lolling her head against his shoulder.

A chuckle rumbles from his chest as he kisses the top of her head. “Taking care of you,” he answers, bringing them both across the threshold of the washroom.

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

Tav awakens the next morning alone, tucked snuggly in her bed. The events of the night are hazy as she slowly regains consciousness. She doesn't recall when or how she fell asleep. Peeling off the covers and giving herself a quick look over, she realizes she's dressed in her nightgown again. The ties are neatly in place, eerily similar to how she had them before.

Looking around her room, there's no evidence that Astarion had been present. The papers she swore fell to the floor are all stacked neatly on her dresser. The candle has been hushed out, and her windows closed.

Was it a dream? she ponders, heart rate rising as her confusion grows.

Her eyes scan the room frantically in an attempt to find a single piece out of place. Finally, she finds the answer she is searching for laying atop her vanity. Rising out of bed, Tav walks over to find a single rose laid across the top of the desk. He was here, Tav notes to herself, bringing the rose to her face. She inhales its sweet scent, dread filling her heart as the heavy weight of last night begins to actualize.

No, it was very real. And it’s only just beginning.

#astarion #ascended astarion #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion smut #astarion ancunin #fanfiction #astarion angst #astarion x tav #astarion romance #astarion x female tav #my writing #bg3 fanfiction

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steviewashere · 1 month

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I'd Like For You and I To Go Romancing

Rating: Teen and Up CW: None apply Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst With a Happy Ending, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Sex, Self-Sacrificing Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Love Confessions, Lover Boy Steve Harrington, Sad Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart For @steddieangstyaugust Day 21 Prompt: "Please." Title taken from "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" by Queen.

💕——————💕 “Please.”

It’s said to him so quietly, Eddie almost doesn’t hear it. The same way he can’t really see, can’t make out the shapes in the room despite the one light through the window. Maybe it’s the panic in him, while he’s trying to fight his way through tears as he pulls his clothes back on. But the word whispered at his back makes him take pause.

A desperate little word. He wants it to mean something.

Eddie swallows. Quickly, he goes back to shimmying his jeans back on. Hits his rings on the belt buckle currently hanging loose from the loops of his pants.

It’s not that he wants to go, but it’s that he should. He’ll give some lame excuse later. Something about Wayne needing him back home—despite it being late at night, despite the fact that everybody knows Wayne works the nightshifts. He’ll say it’s because he gets anxious sleeping in other people’s beds. That he even wets the bed sometimes, even if he stopped doing that more than a decade ago. Gets nightmares so violent and lurching, he’s afraid he’ll hurt somebody. He could say that he actually hates sleeping with another person in his bed.

Despite everything in him screaming that he needs it. Because he’s a lonely, lonely person. And always wanted somebody there, needed them so close they could almost climb inside his ribs.

But he fastens the buckle of his belt and continues on with finding his t-shirt.

“Please,” whispered again, so singular, yet so drawn out, and so heartbreaking. The word pierces through Eddie’s back, kills his heart on impact, and exits his chest in one clean pass. It makes him stop searching again. “Don’t go. You don’t have to go.”

Oh, but I do, Eddie thinks, because if I let this go on any longer than it already has, I’ll have to admit how much I love you. And if I admit it and you say nothing in response, I’ll implode right on the spot. I’m saving myself. I’m saving you.

He sniffs. Grabs a random t-shirt from the bedroom floor and begins to pull it over his heavy head of curls. It’s not his shirt, he comes to find, but isn’t surprised. It’s loose on his chest, but tight on his biceps. The shirt is lightly worn. Smells like amber, like cinnamon and vanilla. Not his cologne. Not like cigarettes or marijuana or citrus-bergamot from his Irish Spring. Eddie plucks at the fabric, pulls it farther away from the skin of his chest, where his heart—resuscitated—tries to kiss the shirt with every beat.

If he doesn’t get out of here, he’ll do something stupid like break down into tears. If he doesn’t get out of here, he won’t save face. And if he doesn’t get out of here, he can’t move on.

A pleading, “Eds, please,” hits him. “Please don’t go. Don’t do this to me, too. Please, baby, come on.” Then, the bed behind him shifts. And there’s warmth on his back. A gentle brush of lips to his neck.

Steve wasn’t as sleepy as Eddie thought. Go figure.

“I…I gotta go, Steve,” Eddie states quietly, “I checked my watch. Gotta be home for Wayne, y’know?” He remains as still as he possibly can. Because Steve can read him, he’s come to find. He’ll know that Eddie’s lying if he shifts from foot-to-foot even an inch.

“He’s not home right now,” Steve immediately points out, “it’s dark out. And it’s a weekday, he’s working.”

Eddie swallows again. “I just have to go, Steve.” He doesn’t face him, doesn’t think he could. Doesn’t move, also doesn’t think he could. Just hopes, beyond all else, that Steve will just accept that and go back to bed and forget this night ever happened. That he ever touched Eddie that way. That he ever let himself get involved with a person like Eddie—not because he’s a freak and not because he’s in a different tax bracket, not that he’s above Steve, not that he’s below Steve…because he’s just him.

He hears Steve heave a deep breath.

Then, soft and tiny, “I was going to make you breakfast,” Steve says, “but this doesn’t have to…we can forget this happened if that’s what you want to do.”

“I…Steve”—

“It’ll be hard for me to let go, but I can try.” That makes Eddie turn to Steve. To see him. His limp, sweaty hair and the fact he’s only wearing boxers. The downcast eyes and twisting, nervous hands in front of him. “You’re not the first, so I’ll be fine.”

Eddie’s stomach churns and his palms sweat and he swears that his heart is the loudest thing in this room—screeching and beating and crashing straight out of him. But he brings himself to meet Steve’s volume, to ask, “What do you want, Steve?”

“I want you to stay,” Steve immediately responds, “I want you to stay in bed with me. And…and I’ll wake up first and maybe I’ll find out that you drool in your sleep and then I’ll brush back a stray strand of your hair and I want to get up and make you breakfast and then you’ll be over the moon when I hand you a cup of coffee and it’s made the exact way you love it and then we can…we can…you can…”

He blinks. Blinks again. Harder the third time. “You can…?” Eddie prompts.

“You can find somebody worth loving out of me,” Steve timidly answers, “because I already love you.”

Unable to hold himself back anymore, he takes the few steps forward to put him face to face with Steve. And, in a moment of bravery, holds Steve’s head between his hands and kisses him. Soft and exploratory. Then, passionate and disbelieving. And another, for good measure, that’s in the shape of all the words he wants to say.

“You want that with me,” Eddie states, though it sounds more like a question. Steve nods anyway. “With me. Wow. I…I wish I was better at this part, at saying the good shit. But I do love you, Steve. I’ve been in love with you since we started this whole thing between us but I…I’ve never had something like this and it terrifies me the way you’ve nestled your way into my brain.” He runs his thumbs under Steve’s eyes, catching tears he won’t acknowledge, because he’s sure he’d start crying, too.

“Do you still have to go?” Steve asks quietly, small in a way that’s unlike him. “I don’t want to keep you here if you don’t want to be”—

“I’ll stay, Steve. I’m sorry that I…I’ll stay, I promise. Let me just—let me get dressed down again and I’ll make all this up to you, swear it.” He’s jittering out of his skin; he wants to run laps through the whole house, wants to climb the walls, scream if he has to. But, in a way that’s unlike him, he continues to cradle Steve’s face in his palms and with languid, thoughtful movements, he kisses Steve between his eyebrows, under his eyes, the tip of his nose, and again on his mouth. “I’ll stay as long as you want me,” Eddie promises, “you won’t have to worry about somebody leaving ever again.”

Steve smiles sticky sweet and soft like a stack of pancakes. “Good,” he whispers, “because I never want to let you go.”

💕——————💕

#steddieangstyaugust #stranger things #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #friends to lovers #angst with a happy ending

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loviingpedri · 2 months

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💋 me thru the phone - joão félix

prompt: it’s hard doing long distance.

warnings: grammar issues, one suggestive comment

click to help palestine

credits to owners for all images

the moon reflected in the window as the trees are shaking from the wind. raindrops covering the glass, slowly falling down.

staring at the picture frame of you and your boyfriend on the nightstand, you sighed.

long distance was very difficult. joão was in portugal for a little vacation, while you were in spain for work and university. joão was in and out of your apartment, meaning there was barely any contact or conversation.

he tried his best. he was the sweetest boyfriend you could ever ask for. you smelled the fresh pastel tulips in the glass vase. lost in your thoughts, and about to pick up a book, a sudden noise shocked you.

ring ring

a smile formed on your face as a picture of joão holding floki in front of a sunset on a mountain, next to him was you. a memory appearing of how your lips felt against his cheek. a scent of ocean, wood, and citrus flowing through the air.

swiping to answer his call, you were met with a smiley, tan, and dark brown eyed guy.

“hey.” he says on his white couch.

“hey, how are you?” pulling your (his) hoodie over your head to get comfortable, he could tell something was on your mind.

“i’m doing pretty good. did you get the flowers i sent?”

“yeah, i did. they’re really beautiful.” flipping your camera to show him. he admired the pink tulips, reminding him of you.

“i noticed your hoodie. wonder where you got it from,” noticing his smirk, you tried to hide your face in the camera. “is something going on? you don’t seem very talkative.”

you don’t wanna admit it, but he was right. usually, you would explain in detail on how your day was. quiet on you either meant you were mad at him, or just weren’t having a good day.

“i’m okay. not really feeling talkative today.” you gave him a small smile of reassurance. he wiggled in response, not buying the response. he shrugged it off instead of trying to push it on you.

“you look good. i’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.” honestly, that small comment made you want to lay flat on your stomach, kicking your feet in the air with a soft pink rising on your cheek.

“thanks. how’s your vacation going?” trying to control your heart rate, you decided to change the topic.

he smiled as you were fixing your hair, trying to noticeably look good for him. “it’s chill, not very eventful. sometimes i think about how i should’ve stayed with you though.”

“you know i would’ve never let you do that. you needed a break.

“yeah, i know. its been awhile. i really miss you.”

with a little sarcastic hair flip, “i’m so glad you miss me,” his laughter made butterflies fly in your stomach. “but really, i miss you too. especially when you would make hot chocolate during rainy nights. i crave it literally almost every day.”

“is that the only thing you crave?” he winked at you. your smile dropped at first in shock, but you two were dying in laughter.

“ew joão, that’s so gross.” you said in between laughter.

“if i had the opportunity to climb through the phone and kiss you, i would take it.”

“and people say romance is dead.”

rolling his eyes, you saw a glimpse of an open suitcase. it was filled with clothes neatly folded and ready for a trip. you furrowed your eyebrows.

noticing your face, “what’s wrong? did something happen?”

“are you going somewhere? i thought you weren’t leaving for another 3 weeks.”

laughing it off, which you did not find it funny (cause where is he going 🤨🤨🤨), he noticed you were being serious. you did not take the hint at all.

“y/n, don’t be sour. i’m going to fly over there tomorrow morning.” your mouth flew open. he didn’t even mention it.

“what? when did you book the ticket? you didn’t tell me anything.”

“calm down, i started packing this morning. i honestly couldn’t wait to see you anymore. i just booked the tickets literally 5 minutes ago.”

“i should probably clean the apartment a little bit then.” scrambling out of bed, ready to spot every dust speckle.

“don’t worry about it. i’m just ready to see you.”

“you should sleep early then for your flight. i’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

nodding his head, “kisses?” you rolled your eyes. he think it’s so funny how you kissed the camera one time before hanging up. now, he wants you to do it every phone call.

blowing a kiss at the camera before quickly hanging up in embarrassment, you could see his cheeky smile. you laid in your bed, thinking about what just happened. you were kicking your feet, ready to see him.

#football x reader #football fanfic #football imagine #fc barca #fc barcelona #spotify #joao felix x you #joao felix x y/n #joao felix x reader #joao felix fanfic #joao felix imagine #joao felix #Spotify

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soobadnoonecanstopher · 15 days

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Rat Bastard, Part 3

Pairing: You x Kyungsoo

Rating: M (Mature)

Word Count: 7300

Warnings: There were too many beds, Enemies to Lovers, lol slow burn, ust

Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

The delicious food in your belly, regardless of who cooked it, had turned you into a completely different person.

Suddenly the storm raging outside wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to you. You were alive, right? You were safe and you weren’t being eaten alive by man-eating spiders. Sure, you weren’t sitting on a beach enjoying a pina colada, but there was a tall, handsome man in this bunker kitchen with a blender, whipping up some mixed drinks that involved fresh fruit, something sweet and something sour, something red and orange, lots of ice, and even more rum. Javier looked up from his blender and sent you the smallest, secret and obviously flirtatious wink.

What? You gasped.

You had been staring, a bit lost in your own mind as whatever blood that had been in your brain was otherwise occupied with digesting your dinner, and you have to admit, you hadn’t at all expected it.

You’d been watching him work some magic with a…thing, a smashing thing, something involving the peels from the citrus he had been squeezing. Your cocktail lexicon was lacking. You hadn’t at all expected the wink and it felt so quick and sneaky that you felt a warmth creep up your cheeks that you covered with both of your hands as you looked away from him, glancing around yourself for witnesses. This wasn’t allowed, right? Was this kind of behavior typical for the Sinking Sands Resort?

A single pair of large, dark brown eyes watched you and those eyelids blinked slowly without the owner actually saying or doing anything. There wasn’t a scoff or an eye roll. He just watched you. He just knew it happened.

You could not name this feeling that filled up your stomach.

He had seen the wink. Maybe it was shame. It was uncomfortable. He had witnessed a man paying attention to you. That was not the issue, but he had seen your blushing reaction to the wink. He witnessed you caving so easily, a little attention from a man, from any man, and you were a melting, blushing mess. What must he think? That you weren’t the strong independent woman that the year 2024 demanded of you? That you were probably the type to sign away your checking and savings accounts to the first man could make you orgasm on the first try? That if someone saw you, but really, really saw you for who you were, deep down inside where your secret fantasies played, you might just cry about it in the shower in between all the fake arguments that you would have won if you only said that back then.

What was it called? The horrors of being known. And by Doh Kyungsoo of all people. The last thing you needed was that man knowing how desperate you felt for any bit of human affection. Your fingertips still ached from where you’d lightly touched the backs of his hands and drifted up his smooth forearms, sinking your fingertips into the firm muscles you felt there, as you used, probably the only chance you’d ever have to really stare at his lips while he was blindfolded.

What if he used it against you?

The blender whirled to life and soon Javier was serving up an icy blended cocktail, complete with a sweet cherry on top and a paper umbrella. He placed the whole pretty concoction in front of you with a friendly smile and you waited until his hands were free and clear of the entire drink before you reached for it, feeling quite silly for going out of your way to avoid touching his hands. While he was conventionally handsome, you had some reservations about openly flirting with the man who was technically at work. What if he got in trouble for being too friendly with the Shifting Sands guests.

The drink was delicious and very heavy on the alcohol. Javier was not the one paying for those fancy liquor bottles.

“How’s that?” Javier asked while wiping the counter top and wiggling his eyebrows up on his handsome face.

You bit your lip and nodded once, just one up and down. Tilting your head to the side, you tucked your hair behind your ear so anyone who might want to could get a good look at the smooth perfection of your neck. The top you wore was pretty low cut and while it gave the illusion of casual wear, it actually took an incredible amount of self awareness to keep it positioned in the most flattering place on your neckline. You then smiled your softest, sweetest smile, letting him know that it was just to your liking with a very dainty sip of the drink. You were aiming for cute. You sipped with too much conviction and the sip backfired. You felt the burn of the strong alcohol hit the back of your throat and instantly that burning made you want to cough. Ohhh, it burned.

There was no way to cough in a ladylike way. You held your breath instead and you could feel your eyes watering from the effort.

“I’ll make you something Mr. Doh. Are you a sweet, strong, or bitter kind of man?”

If ever a man was bitter…

“I’ll have the same thing,” Kyungsoo said with a shrug. You didn’t dare look in his direction for fear that he was observing you too closely again. Gathering dirt, most likely. You could make out his relaxed posture out of your peripheral vision. Elbow on the counter, his other arm draped across his thigh.

That arm moved though, and you caught a motion of him tucking his hair behind his ear; his hair that wasn’t even long enough to tuck, his hair that fell, black and straight just below his eyebrow and yet he pretended to tuck it and he then adopted a similar come hither posture with his shoulders sagged, his head tilted to the side and oh god. He was mocking you now. You were looking at him as he did it and his teasing eyes drifted to yours once, sending you the fakest, and most dramatic wink you’d ever received from anyone.

You’d stab him in the night time.

“Let’s see if I can make it without squeezing lemon in my eye again,” Javier giggled and lifted his index finger to rub over his eyelid — the winking eye —the fucking flirtatious winking eye that sent sweet and secretive suggestive signals at you earlier and you suddenly realized wasn’t a wink at all — ohhhh. Ohhh no. You were a fool. Worse, you were a fool with a witness. The shock brought the cough out of you. It was a loud, full-bodied, very un-maidenlike cough. You sounded burly. Like a 5 pack a day smoker.

Beside you, a loud snort of laughter broke through your coughing and in your peripheral vision, you could see him actually shaking as he openly laughed at you.

“Be careful with that lemon, Javier. Someone might think you were flirting with them, right, Princess?” Kyungsoo had angled his torso toward you — a better position for making fun of you as he sought your confession of what you’d just thought was taking place between you and this poor man behind the counter who was literally just trying to do his job, not the guests. Kyungsoo’s eyebrows wagged suggestively and his grin was wide and all too knowing.

You could feel the warmth of embarrassment on your face just below the surface of your skin.

You swallowed the burning alcohol in your mouth and did your best to steady the expression on your face.

You lifted your chin and you rolled your eyes, and then openly glared at the man, simply unable to come up with a single response that would save your ego. You might have even let out a threatening growl in his direction.

No, Javier hadn’t been flirting with you. No, there were no other men here who were eligible and interested in you. You’d learned earlier that Mr. Chen was a married man and devoted father of two little girls. Jun and Roxy had been an item for quite some time. Javier was more enamored with impressing the aloof Chef Doh, and well, Kyungsoo — he was winding down with his laughter but that didn’t mean he was about to stop torturing you anytime soon.

There was nothing and no one for you here. The rain outside had been steadily falling for quite some time now and you suddenly longed for an escape. The sound of the wind had died down a while ago and you longed to feel the coolness of the refreshing raindrops on your face. Maybe while you were out there a tornado would carry you far away from this jerk.

“I’m going to have a look outside. I want to go for a walk. I am going outside. Is there a way to go out?”

Kyungsoo was still watching you, his very own drink in hand and his mean words at your expense ever freely flowing from his stupid mouth.

“You sound like a dog that is slowly learning how to talk,” he muttered under his breath.

You inhaled a deep calming breath.

He’d picked up a big yellow lemon and was holding it up in front of his face like it was a ball he was about to throw. A teasing, shit-eating grin was plastered across his face.

If you could just smack him, only once. You’d make it a really good one.

His lips pursed and his voice lifted higher and sweeter.

“Does my Princess wanna go play with the ball outside?” He said it, but the second it was out he seemed to freeze in place.

“You —,” you gasped, fully caught off-guard by the usually cruel nickname said in that way — said with his falsely sweet voice and with all of his fake affection attached to it. You felt betrayed by your subconscious to be having a surge of this uninvited feeling simply because instead of with his usual disgust, he addressed you with — with — as if you were his Princess — the butterflies were quick to flutter up inside of you but you were just as quick with another swift gulp of this drink to shove them deep down inside your belly where they needed to stay.

My Princess

Pl—Please…it was laughable if it wasn't so damned impossible.

My Princess

As if —

You breathed in and out through several exasperated scoffs, each one more convincing than the last.

“You —” you swallowed the drink angrily, “sound like an ass—”

“Mr. Doh,” Sara’s voice called out, interrupting the bottom barrel scraping level insult you were about to hurl his way, which no doubt would have only escalated whatever was going on between the two of you right now. You were sure you could see remnants of that same teasing smile still lingering on his lips. His cheeks were much pinker than you remembered before. Maybe he was a lightweight and was feeling the effects of this strong drink already. Whatever bullshit he was shilling out, he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. It did take a few moments for him to register that he was being called and actually respond to it.

“Could you come this way, please?” She asked a few breaths after she was sure she had his attention. Her smile was soft and inviting and in her hands she carried a single sheet of paper.

Your curiosity about where he was going popped like a bubble when a fresh drink landed right beside your empty glass on the counter. This one looked different. You looked up into Javier’s face and he was smiling at you with a small nod of his head toward the drink.

“This one might be a little stronger,” he grinned.

“Let me guess, your job is to get us both hammered so we spill our deepest darkest secrets all over this stainless steel countertop.” You reached for the drink. You had been joking but Javier wasn’t playing it off with jovial laughter as you’d expected him to.

In fact, he didn’t really say anything. He was just reaching for ingredients to make another drink.

Eventually though, after you’d given in to the silence and started sipping on what you liked the taste of right away — it reminded you of iced tea in color and tasted sweet and refreshing — he started to talk.

“So what is the deal with you two, anyway?” He asked first. You had a mouthful of alcohol. Your already finished half of the glass and paired with the first drink you had you were beginning to feel the familiar warm dizziness of the liquor buzzing around inside of you.

“How much alcohol is in this?”

“Lots,” he confessed, “We have a bet. I think you two are exes. Nasty breakup. Maybe one of you cheated, he’s a chef so I’m gonna say it was him. You know, job with long nights and questionable ethics. Plus something about you gives ‘good woman’ vibes.”

“Oh my god, no. We never dated, he is the devil,” you giggled. It wasn’t particularly funny but it felt funny; his dramatic story of a whirlwind romance and the kind of breakup that not only split the pair but caused an earthquake between the group of friends, forcing them to pick sides.

“But, you do like him.” It wasn’t a question, “and he likes you.”

“He does not. He hates me.”

“He likes you. And you didn’t deny it, so you like him.” His declaration sounded so sure you wondered what the hell kind of strong alcohol he had been taking swigs of when you weren’t looking.

“It doesn’t matter. We would probably end up killing each other before anything else happened between us.”

Javier pondered your words for only a few moments. “So what do you like about him?”

You felt weirdly comfortable and safe in this conversation. With Claire or with anyone else who knew you both mutually, you were extra guarded. You hated everything about Doh Kyungsoo. You never wanted to see his face ever again. You wanted to live in a world where he did not exist. But with Javier, with the quiet corner you both were hidden away in, with the alcohol in your blood, you could feel your caution beginning to slip.

“Why does anybody like anybody?” You shrugged in a sad way. You knew it didn't matter what you thought about him, the seeds had already been sewn with so much poison, nothing would ever grow. “He’s nice to look at. He’s nice to listen to when he isn’t calling me mean names, his voice sounds nice. He —” you lifted the black straw to your lips and drained the last bits of the tasty drink, “has a strong back. My grandma always said a man ought to have a strong back.”

“A strong back?”

“Yeah, like sturdy. Like a mountain. A redwood tree. Like an old, solid wood picnic table without a single crack even after generations of all of the grandchildren dancing on it at the same time. That rat bastard.” You inhaled slowly and deeply and exhaled through your lips with your eyelids sagging just a little bit.

“Jesus.” He whispered under his breath, “that’s possibly the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in all of my years of working here.”

“I just called him a rat bastard,” you giggled and Javier laughed openly.

“Yeah you did. I’ve never been insulted with that much passion. Maybe you’ll get to test out the strength of his back soon.” He lifted his eyebrows as if he just said something that made any sense to you. You just stared at him, shaking your head after a few of his suggestive wiggles.

“If you still want to go outside there’s a small covered patio right out that door,” Javier lifted a bottle opener to point toward a big gray metal door at the back of the room, “I think the storm should be calmer now, but will probably pick back up again in about an hour. Should be safe for now but you should really come back inside if the wind gets bad again. I’ll send you another drink and maybe some company in a little while.”

Oh, was he getting rid of you now? You spun on the chair you were seated on and plopped your feet down on the tile floor, making you way toward that door, grabbing the thing and giving it a big push with all of your might.

It swung open easily enough and the outside air was fresh and chilly. There were no lights out here but the occasional lightning flashes gave your eyes a little bit of a chance to adjust to the darkness. The space was small, with a concrete bench built into the wall and the cover of this patio extended just enough for you to be able to sit down without getting splashed with the falling rain too much.

You were exactly the right amount of drunk. The rain falling sounded loud enough for your senses to cloud over and you leaned your head back against the cool concrete enjoying the way the noisy rain echoed off of that tin roof and reverberated inside of the center of your skull.

The wind still had some power. Occasionally a strong gust would bring a wave of rain your way and your bare legs would take the brunt of it. You didn’t care much, even though you knew you shouldn’t stay out here for too long in these shorts. It was just a little cold. You were sober enough to know what you should and should not do in a hurricane.

The sound of the door opening pulled your eyes back open and you looked through the space that opened up. It was Sara and she came bearing gifts.

“Javier said you were out here,” she said with a sweet smile and you scooched over just a little so she could sit down beside you on the side that wasn’t getting as much rain. She handed you a fresh drink and sat beside you, warming your cool bare arm with her warmth. She had an excited smile and what looked like a sparkle in her eyes. The moment her hands were empty she was gripping your arm. She was squealing lightly, a whispered and excited noise that came from the center of her chest and then she was shaking you in excitement.

“He likes you. Doh Kyungsoo,” she squealed right into your ear, “Oh my God. I could die.”

“He,” she was pulling your arm in big dramatic movements, she was shaking your whole body harder, ”likes,” saying each word one at a time, “you.”

You looked into this poor delusional woman’s face the moment the shaking stopped.

“Sara, he just called me a dog in there,” you said flatly. “Not a puppy or even a doggie. A dog. That’s one step up from bitch.” Her smiles dropped and you could see the worry on her face.

“What? Why? What exactly did he say?” Finally she was asking the real questions. No matter how much of a crazy jerk he was he wouldn’t say something like that to someone he liked. She had it all wrong.

“I said I wanted to come outside,” you lifted your hands to show the outside you were now partaking in, “and he said ‘does my little princess want to come outside and play with a ball’ and then he’s like ‘you know, like a dog? Because you are a dog.’ He didn't imply it. He said it.” You dropped your voice as low as you could go with your lady voice when you did the impression of him. You figured it was a pretty good likeness. You had his accent down and everything.

You reached for the drink and took a long pull through the straw.

Sara was silent, but she no longer sported the worried look. She now looked quite pleased actually.

“He calls you ‘my little Princess’ and you refuse to believe that he likes you?”

“No, you didn’t hear how he said it. He’s so mean about it. He says it like an insult like I’m a spoiled brat. He uses it sarcastically.” This drink was just as strong as the last one, the ice tea one.

“Why on earth do you think he likes me? He totally hates me.”

“He just told me.”

You looked into her face to gauge her truthfulness. She was a little fuzzy around the edges.

“He didn’t,” you said, “he’s very sarcastic when he talks. If you don't know to look for it you might misunderstand.” You’d deny it forever. You’d deny it to save yourself from the pain of giving into it and then being crushed by his overwhelming hatred the second he showed up. “Look, tell me exactly what he said and say it in the exact same tone he said it in. And what you said first, I’ll need the full context.”

“So we do these interviews periodically throughout the retreat, to gauge how well the singles are getting along with each other. As you saw earlier, I took him aside to talk. Basic things like is there anything he needs to make his stay more comfortable. He said he doesn’t expect much given the current circumstances so he’s just happy to have a dry place to sleep and warm food to eat. He doesn't want to be a bother, which I felt was very kind of him.”

“Then to kind of ease into the topic of possible love interests, I pointed out that he didn’t seem to fare too badly while cooking blindfolded. Not a single burn or a cut and he said,” She cleared her throat and lifted her chin, “‘I had the best assistant. She did really well in there.’” She had a very pleased look on her face. You on the other hand stared at her with a more doubtful expression.

“That’s it? Even I know how well I did in there. I did everything for him, of course I was the best assistant. He’s probably never experienced that kind of support while cooking, Jesus, I literally held each of his hands inside of my hands when he was cutting up that fucking fish. I had to hug him for that, you know.”

Sara was smiling and nodding, not understanding your point. It wasn’t romantic of him to say you were a good pair of eyes, it was literally just a fact.

“And how did that feel?” Sara whispered as she leaned in closer, “hugging him?” Her excitement level was too high, “did he smell nice?” She was enjoying this way too much, “did his back feel strong?” You could see it even in your inebriated state. You pushed a shoulder against hers in protest, bringing a giggle from her chest. You didn't answer her silly questions, even if the memory of the smell of his back was still ingrained inside of your nose. Even if he had a warmth to him that you longed to touch again, you refused to say any of this outloud.

“What was your very first impression of him like?” Her next question was calmly asked. She had settled down with the shaking and squealing and over the top ridiculous excitement when none was warranted and she looked into your face now, just a friend asking another friend about a guy.

“Umm,” you looked out at the falling rain, ignoring the way the wind picked up a little bit and whipped waves of rain onto your leg, up higher on your thigh now that it had started getting a little wild, “I actually saw him from a distance at first. My friend Claire was hosting a dinner and he was sitting at the end of this really long table and wow, what a face. Just, some people get to walk around looking that handsome and nobody says anything?” You were giggling when you met Sara’s eyes and you noticed your drink was mostly empty already. These things went down so easily. The once perfect level of drunk you had was beginning to tip over the edge toward downright tipsy. You hoped to God you had enough self control tonight to slow down. This team obviously wasn’t about to slow down on offering you the alcohol, this was part of their plan.

“And, I mean, our friends, our mutual friends, they even tried to set us up once but,” you frowned dramatically and looked away from her expecting eyes, “I mean, he hates me of course. It didn’t work out. It would never work, we are both just…” You let your words trail off with a long dramatic sigh.

“He said he couldn’t stop looking at you,” Sara’s voice filled in the silence after your sigh, “that his first impression of you,” she inhaled a breath and her hand wrapped back around your arm as her eyebrows lifted in wonder, “was that you were so pretty he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”

Impossible. She was lying to you to get you to confess something incriminating. You looked down at the third very strong drink these people had fed you and you could feel it then, just how very drunk you had become in such a short amount of time. Your memory slipped back to what she had asked you.

‘Did his back feel strong?’

This was part of it. This was part of the game they were playing to get you both to grow closer to each other. To get you to admit to things. You had told Javier earlier about your feelings for Kyungsoo and now Sara knew this information. She was using your own words to push you into him, telling you exactly what he had said about you just as — you gasped suddenly with your eyes widening — just as Javier was probably telling Kyungsoo right now exactly what you had said about him.

No. No, he shouldn’t know that. He couldn't know that.

You stood up and your legs were wobbly.

“No, Sara. He is a bastard and I am a dog, remember? We hate each other and there is no getting past hate.”

You hadn’t heard the sound of the door opening.

“I hate that man.”

The wind had been too loud. The rain had been falling in stinging waves against your skin. The storm had been raging too wildly for you to have heard anything else.

You fought through the terrible feeling of your entire back being soaked and you fought the lies they tried to get you to fall for, just so you could believe it all, believe that there was even a glimmer of attraction and affection from him and then they would all giggle and laugh when he broke your heart and rejected you again.

“He’s always only been a bastard and a jerk. If it wasn’t for this storm, I would be on the first plane far away from him the second I saw his face in that room earlier. You couldn't pay me enough money to stay here with him.”

They didn’t know. They didn't know what it felt like to have been rejected by him. They didn't know how much it hurt for him to put you in your place, again and again.

“I would be so much happier if I never met him.”

You had already said so many terrible things by the time you saw his eyes — dark, cold and angry. He was standing in the doorway listening to your long speech about how much you despised everything about him and how desperate you were to get away from him.

Oh no. Oh no, all of that had been — had been too harsh of you — You were only trying to stop all of the games but he heard it all.

He was moving through the doorway and there was a loud bang as the wind took the heavy metal door and slammed it closed.

His eyes were on fire. The words that left his lips were full of carefully controlled emotion.

”You’ve never even met me. You don't fucking know me,” he wasn’t yelling, he was growling at you.

“But you sure like to act like you do. You don't know shit. So you can step down off your high fucking horse. Quit pretending like you’re somehow a victim of my terrible personality and look in the fucking mirror for once because one of us an asshole and it sure as hell isn’t me.”

He wasn’t raging and speaking loud or irrationally and that somehow made it worse. That didn’t change the way his low voice delivered his message to you with the same amount of vitriol. If anything, his clear delivery made his words hit you even harder. He was very angry and he was upset with you. You felt every bit of his anger deep inside of your belly, it made your stomach burn and clench.

You lifted both of your hands in front of you in some stupid attempt to respond to him with body language.

This wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to have heard any of that.

You felt as if your entire face might be burning up. You felt shame in this.

All other times you’d fought with him, the right and the wrong had been crystal clear. He was wrong and you had been right. He was the bad guy and you were the good guy. But now, this time, and with the look of actual hurt you could see deep inside of his brown eyes you felt something different.

“Kyungsoo, wait. That’s not what I meant.” You managed to get the words out. You weren’t sure why you felt so desperate to set the record straight with him but it was probably what you knew deep down inside.

He was right. You were the asshole here. H-Had it always been you?

“I’ll just — step inside so you two can talk,” Sara had stood up and moved to the door, far away from the upset that was filling most of this back patio up with an uncomfortable atmosphere that you could almost not breathe within.

But you were trapped here, with him and his anger and his hurt feelings and — and — but, wait a minute. Why exactly were his feelings hurt? Because you called him a bastard? That wasn’t new. Because you proclaimed your desire to escape him? He frequently did the same.

Why did it matter to him what you thought?

You were insignificant to his life.

The door closed behind her and you were standing as far away from the man as you could. Most of your entire back was soaked with rain. You could feel the cold from the harsh wind beginning to prickle your skin and make you shake just a little bit.

Kyungsoo had stood to face you for a while but when you didn’t immediately offer any explanation like ‘it’s Opposite Day today! You say the opposite of how you really feel because it's fun. Isn’t this fun?’ he moved to sit down on the concrete bench and he stared ahead looking at the rainstorm but not actually seeing it.

After a few deep breaths you reached down deep and pulled out some words for him.

“They’re playing a g-game with us. There is-sa game happening right now.” You sounded drunk. This might work against you. His eyes moved from blank staring into the blackness of that rainstorm to blank staring at you. His arms were crossed over his chest and he still looked very mad.

“That man in there,” you lifted a finger to point toward Javier and you made a fist, moving it downward to pantomime the smashing motions he was making with the smashing thing back then when he was doing his smashing. You motioned three times and then quickly realized your hand, moving up and down like this resembled an obscene gesture. Oh god. Did you just do the hand gesture for jerking off?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, quickly moving both of your hands behind your back. “That man,” you motioned with your chin instead, “is gathering information. He is a spy. They all are.”

Kyungsoo’s eyebrows had flattened out but he was still looking at you with that same blank expression. So far, so good. You would get him to see the truth.

“What did he tell you about me? Did he tell you something like—” you lifted your face, looking up and to the left toward the ceiling of this patio, making a quick decision about what sorts of your secrets Javier might have told Kyungsoo. It was tricky because you weren’t about to offer up the exact same secrets.

You couldn't get the secrets out. Instead you made a “mmm mmm” sound in the place of the words you might have told Javier about how handsome you found him, or about how nice his voice sounded as he whispered instructions to you as you both were cooking earlier. What if he said the thing, the strong back thing?

“Is your question to me, Did that man,” Kyungsoo lifted his hand and quickly jerked off the air three times, “tell me mmm mmm mmm something?”

You nodded your head, thankful that he was so good at solving puzzles. He understood.

But he wasn’t answering. He just sat up straighter, his eyes opened wider and he repeated the question you had asked him.

“Did that man tell me mmm mmm mmm something?”

“Yeah,” you nodded again, stepping just a little bit closer to where he sat. You were getting colder now.

“What the fuck does that mean?” His eyes were even wider now. “What does that mean? Are you having a stroke?”

You could hear genuine frustration in his voice. He was lifting his hands toward you. You’d misjudged his puzzle solving skills.

You closed your eyes and took another step, reaching his knee with your knee, you reached out and touched his outstretched hand. Maybe this might help with your words.

“Okay, so earlier, S-Sara,” it was difficult to grasp tight to her name but after a few tries you got it, “S-Sara told me that you,” you lifted your finger and reached out toward his face, landing your index finger right in the middle of his soft bottom lip. You pressed down and his lips parted with the softest gasp for air, “she said that you told her, and she told me, that you told her,” he lifted a hand and wrapped it around your hand, pulling your finger down from poking his lip as you figured this puzzle out. You looked down at the picture of his hand holding yours. “She said you thought I was pretty.” His lips were still parted and his warm hand was still wrapped around yours, holding you still, keeping you from blowing away in this wind.

“She told me you said that. That was a lie, right? They’re playing games with us.”

His lips were closed and his eyes were still watching your face. It didn’t seem like he was any closer to working out an answer to this puzzle.

“What lies did they tell you I said about you?”

Something flew by, something bigger than a leaf, maybe a small tree branch. You heard it hit the column that supported this patio and the sound of it made you jump as you spun around to see what it was.

“We should go in. It’s getting worse out here. And you seem extremely drunk.” When Kyungsoo finally responded to you, he didn’t answer any of your questions.

”Did Javier say anything about a mountain, or a p-picnic table?”

Kyungsoo stood up when you were distracted by the branch. He had spun on his heels and had walked away from you, leaving you half drenched and so close to the edge of this patio that the next swift gust could have easily thrown you off the platform down into the mud.

“Because they are lying.” You grasped for it. You leaned into it. You grasped and you leaned only where you expected to feel the strong sturdy column from this patio you felt none, and when you leaned you leaned against nothing at all and you felt the world leaving your body. You felt the falling. The falling scared you enough to let out a cry of fear. There was no floor beneath your feet, you were only falling down, how far did this step drop down onto the wet earth below?

You closed your eyes and braced for the impact. It would probably hurt. It might even break something. You’d ruin your outfit at the very least. You closed your eyes and you felt someone there. Someone warm and sturdy with smooth arms that circled around your waist, pulling you back from the edge with such strength and force you knew it had to be him. It had to be someone with a strong back who could support you and keep you from falling down.

You grasped at him, pulling yourself up with tight fists clenched around the white cotton of his shirt and when you opened your eyes the world had righted itself again. There was no more falling and no more panic. Your feet were planted firmly on this patio floor, situated directly in between his feet, your arms around his shoulders and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist and the rain that fell onto both of your heads dripped through his hair, pulling wet strands of black hair down in front of his eyes, obscuring most of his vision except for what he was looking at right in front of him, which was your face, which he looked all over without speaking. Those eyes touched over every one of your features and with each second that passed of it the more you began to feel the warmth returning to and soon overwhelming your skin.

You’d never be this close to him before this. You’d never wanted to be, before this. You let your eyes drift from the up close view of his lips to take in the view of his face. You allowed the smallest gasp to leave your chest. There was a thumping inside of you that seemed to originate from somewhere inside of him. Water ran down his face and you pulled your lips in, tasting rain water on your tongue.

“Inside. Now.” His command growled against your parted lips and you tasted the light fragrance of alcohol on his breath. The grip of his arms around your waist did not loosen despite the urgency you heard in his words.

Your hands should not have been moving but they were. The back of his shoulders and that plain white t-shirt was soaked through and the rain continued to fall over the both of you. When your hand traveled up the back of his shoulders and rested over the back of his neck you felt the incredible tension within his muscles there. He was solid and stiff and your hands should not have moved any more but you had a very flimsy grasp of your own self control

From the back of his neck you moved again, touching lightly around the front of him, fingertips trailing over his Adam’s apple and up to touch his pretty face.

The tension you felt within his arms changed when you let your fingertips trail over to his soft cheeks and when you touched the soft plump bottom lip you felt the clench of his jaw, the exhale of air through his nose and the tightening of his arms around your waist. His eyes were closed and that same thumping echoed throughout your chest.

“What did Javier tell you I said?” Your whispered question was stunted through the difficulty you had with breathing.

“That you thought I was someone with strong back muscles. I guess you need someone to help you move furniture. I don’t fucking know.”

You let out a laugh and his eyes opened to watch your face. He said it with a straight face but there was something just under his words that sounded like humor. The more time you spent with him, the more you actually began to pick up on the fact that most of the shit he said was a joke in disguise. Most of it. Sometimes he was just being mean. But this one was actually funny. You threw your head back with the laugh and his eyes danced around your entire face as you wound back down.

“You better not call me to help you move. We aren’t close enough for that.”

The real irony was this man saying something like that while still holding you tight up against his entire body like this. You were pretty sure he brought you back up to a normal body temperature by lending you the heat directly from his skin.

“Did you really tell Sara that?” You couldn’t bring yourself to say the words. There was a change in his posture when you asked it though.

You felt his arms loosen. You felt one arm leave you entirely and he reached around in front of himself to grab ahold of your hand, the same wandering one which had been touching his lips tonight and he wrapped his fingers around your hand, encasing it within his warmth and he pulled it down.

You felt the absence of his heat first, then the wobbliness of your legs returned to you, reminding you of just how drunk and cold you actually were.

“You’re soaking wet,” his words followed a quick glance down the length of you and even in this darkness you could make out the traveling of his pupils. You knew the fabric of this top and the too-short shorts would have clung to the shape of you — outlining the swell of your hips, the cinch of your waist, your soft breasts — giving his imagination too much to work with in the unlikely instance that he would be so inclined to have any sorts of imaginations about you, you’d given him the material for such impossible impossibilities.

It didn’t matter.

It would never happen. He was turning away from you, taking his warmth and body heat and muscles covered in transparent thin white cotton on top and flimsy black fabric that when the lighting flash just right gave you the outline of what you both knew was occurring between your hips and his hips when they’d been pressed up tightly against each other.

He was leaving and the big metal door slammed shut and before you could even shout out from behind him, calling him a coward for avoiding your question — and before you could even tell him how absolutely full of shit he was, the door opened back up and Sara was at your side with soft, dry, warm towels and a crowd of fussing and fretting Shitty Sands Resort staff members were all blabbering on about how lucky you were that you didn’t actually fall off that patio onto the jagged rocks and cactus (!!) below and how heroic and magnanimous Doh Kyungsoo was to have saved your pathetic and insignificant life.

He spun the tale to a crowd of very impressed ooh-ers and ahh-ers and you were far too drunk to add anything more than to throw out the random accusation that the entire group of them were dirty spies and the occasional request to go back outside which was shut down instantly by every single voice in the room.

Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

#exo fanfiction #kyungsoo #exo smut #exo fic #kyungsoo fic #exo story

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lockewrites · 1 year

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Reader giving Halsin a massage

Reader (gender not specified) x Halsin || Semi-NSFW (suggestive) || 1332 words AO3

POST-GAME SPOILERS FOR HALSIN

From @thecaptainsassistant (it won't let me properly tag you D:) - Hi, I saw you posted recently about HalsinxReader oneshots and was wondering if you'd be willing to write one with a human femReader ranger giving Halsin a back-rub (can be any degree of citrus rating you like). Have a lovely day!

You find yourself watching him without meaning to, your eyes often idly drifting to his form whenever he’s near and his attention is not yours to claim. A book had been keeping you company for some time as you sought quiet from the bustle of refugees attempting to reclaim some semblance of stability in Thaniel’s realm, but Halsin rarely stops for breath. Constantly hurrying from place to place, ensuring all were taken care of; exhausting to watch, let alone experience, but it warms your heart all the same… as well as casts worry in your mind.

Hunched over his desk, his hand moves fiercely back and forth as he pens his thoughts and plans, always anticipating the next step, the possible consequences, whose skills would suit the task best. The quill against the scroll echoes in the room, and you can’t help but shake your head. He simply never stops.

The book closes with a soft thump, and you place it on the end table before approaching Halsin. As you near, his posture shifts, straightening and turning slightly to glance at you from the corner of his gaze. Even with the weight of this new responsibility, the distractions and obligations, he never loses sight of you.

“What is it, my heart?” he asks, the scratching of the quill finally halting.

You rest your backside against the edge of his desk and look down at him, one of the few times you don’t need to crane your neck to meet his hazel eyes. Reaching out, your fingers cup his jaw, your palm on his chin as your thumb trails across his lips. Gaze taking him in, you note the shadows beneath his eyes, the tinge of pink in his sclera, and a new heaviness in the rise and fall of his breaths.

“You need to rest,” you say, voice quiet yet firm.

“I will,” he replies as he presses a fleeting kiss against your thumb.

“Now,” you insist, gripping his chin gently, as if to punctuate the word.

Halsin smiles, but it’s not enough to hide the weariness that holds him. He places the quill in the inkpot as his other hand rests on your thigh; you know the movement well, an attempt at distracting you from your concerns. Not a promise of intimacy, as that would draw him away from his duties, but an intimate enough gesture he knows has an effect on you. You can’t think of your worry for him if you’re too focused on his touch, what those fingers have done, what those fingers could do.

Your eyes flicker to his hand before returning to his gaze; your expression is wholly unimpressed.

“I will be finished shortly,” he promises.

He’s an honest man and would typically never dare make such false utterances toward you, but the integrity is pliant when it comes to his own well-being. It’s a lie he’s told you numerous times, and after the first few, you learned it’s never ‘shortly.’

You’re not without your own techniques, however. Pushing off the desk, you step behind him, your hand sliding down his neck and resting just beneath his collarbones as the other joins it; your arms around him, his warmth spilling into your chest as you embrace him from behind.

His muscles shift beneath you as he leans back and places his hands over yours, the tautness in his movements noticeable even through your clothing.

You slip your hands from his and move them to his shoulders, giving a tentative squeeze before kneading the hard flesh under your fingers.

An involuntary groan escapes him, his head falling forward in an instant.

“It’ll take me longer if you continue distracting me,” he warns, though the way his head sways ever-slightly as your fingers work at his stressed muscles betrays the insincerity in his words.

A smile plays on your lips, knowing he won’t deny you much longer. Halsin had always been so pliant under your touch, though it wasn’t until more recently you had realized. Leaning down, your lips press against the back of his neck, the sun-kissed skin warm and filling your senses with hints of oak and herbs; you breathe him in, the scent having become your home after all you’d been through.

Your hands continue massaging away his stress, earning you more poorly stifled moans. He’s losing this battle, and you both know it.

Halsin’s loose hair falls over your fingers as his head tips backward; he looks at you with that hazel gaze, his eyes holding a mix of adoration and exasperation.

With a smirk, you lower your face to his, claiming a kiss that he immediately melts into.

“Come on,” you insist after you pull away. “And I’ll finish what I started.”

He blinks at you a few times before sighing and pushing away from the desk.

Taking his hand, you lead him to the bed but stop him before he can sit. You undo the laces of his tunic, pushing the fabric to the floor and exposing his beautiful torso. After a greedy glance, you motion for him to lie down as you pull a bottle of oil from your nightstand.

“On your stomach.” Your voice is soft but commanding, and he obeys with a chuckle.

Once he’s settled, you climb onto the bed and straddle his thick waist, letting most of your weight rest against him.

“Not often I’m the one face down on the bed,” Halsin remarks, and though you can’t see it, you hear the smile in his voice.

You hum and tilt your head, admiring him beneath you. “It’s quite a view,” you reply as you rub the oil between your fingers.

The smell of lavender and orchid fills the air as you press your fingers into his skin; it doesn’t take long to find knots, the weight of rebuilding Reithwin and caring for those brought over from Baldur’s Gate heavy on his broad shoulders. While the land healed and continues to do so, and Halsin and you escape the town on occasion and venture into the land’s wilderness, it’s not quite enough to free either of you, but especially Halsin, of the constant worries that come with such a responsibility.

He doesn’t speak, and other than his occasional relaxed hum that vibrates beneath your hands, the room is quiet. Peaceful and withdrawn enough that it feels as though you two are in your own world, and you adore these moments. Halsin is hesitant to express such sentiments, but you know he would have collapsed under the pressure he places upon himself if not for these escapes.

You pay no mind to the time past, only stopping once your fingers and arm risk giving out.

He peeks backward at you. “Finished already?” he teases as you shake out your arms.

There was once a time he’d have fought you on pampering him so, but it was a fight he soon conceded when he learned you would never give up and it makes you happy; not to mention, it provides an excuse for him to return the favor, though he rarely needs one as he’s always seeking ways to pleasure you, whether innocently or intimately.

His back arches in, the muscles rippling as he stretches under you. Your legs lift you upward as you move to get off him, and in a moment, he flips onto his back and grabs your hips, forcing you to stay in place. For such a large elf, you never cease to be amazed at how dexterously he moves.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Halsin asks, smirking and raising a brow.

Tilting your head, you return the smile. “I figured you’d want to get right to sleep after such an exhaustive massage.”

His eyebrows shift and furrow, his fingers sliding down across your thighs and sending immediate heat through you.

“First,” he begins, his eyes traveling up your body, only serving to fill your cheeks with warmth, “I must show my thanks properly.”

#halsin #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #halsin x tav #halsin x reader #reader x halsin #tav x halsin #halsin bg3 #bg3 halsin #baldur's gate #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #//I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG OMFG but it was so fun to write :3 #alxxiis actually wrote something #fic: treasures the night bestows

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strangerthingskinkmeme · 9 months

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PROMPT SUBMISSION

PROMPT: Billy has a micropenis, and he's REALLY self-conscious about it. Steve teases him about it every time he fucks him because he loves to see Billy cry. It gets him off. If Billy's good for him, once Steve's done, he flicks his tongue back and forth on that tiny dick to make Billy come. If Billy's not a good boy, Steve has threatened to out him in front of their friends, showing everybody his tiny cock. CHARACTERS: Steve/Billy TROPE/KINK TAGS: Micropenis, humiliation, crying, teasing, bullying RATING: Any including DDDNE

#Prompt #Steve Harrington #Billy Hargrove #Any Citrus Rating #Anon Prompt #Degradation/Humiliation #Dacryphilia/Crying #Teasing/Bullying #Micropenis

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yopossum · 29 days

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My first of two fics for @burntheedges and her Roll-a-Trope Writing Challenge! For this I picked Javi G and rolled the “stuck in an elevator” trope. Wheeeee!!!

To Make a Day for You

Main Masterlist

Pairing: Javi G x female reader

Rating: M

Warnings: 18+ only! Language, fluids, capitalism, working in service positions and hospitality

———————————————————————————

God, this shift was never ending.

You trudged to the elevators and punched the up arrow, dreading the nightmare that awaited you on the fourth floor.

We need a preliminary check-out hazard assessment prior to clean on the Bacchus Suite. Guests noted the presence of “some various fluids” on multiple surfaces and potential smoke damage.

Always the fucking Bacchus Suite. Why they named it that, added a full bar, and then carpeted the room, you’d never know. And now it was your job to see what the most recent rockstar oozed where.

You stepped into the first elevator that opened, nobody else waiting to join, and you were feeling grateful to have at least a few private moments of calm before the storm when a large bronzed hand bearing an expensive-looking watch reached into the gap between the closing doors.

“Excuse me, thank you so much,” exhaled a voice with a smooth Spanish accent. The voice was followed by a man, broad and tanned, looking harried and apologetic and extremely wealthy in a powder blue suit. He went to press the fourth floor button, and upon seeing it already lit, ran that large hand through the waves of glossy brown hair on his head and winced out a smile. His eyes were soft and warm, a rich deep cocoa, and they crinkled at the corners.

You were annoyed at his presence, but such was life. Especially in service positions.

“Of course, sir!” you chimed, feigning cheer the way all good hospitality workers must.

“I am sorry I have intruded on your ride. I am sure you must tire of interacting with guests. I will not insist on your attention...” The man glanced at your name tag, added your name to his apology. He smiled again, more easy, and bowed slightly, before stepping back against the wall and clasping his hands at his waist.

Ah, well. That was nice, at least. Usually riding the elevator with hotel guests resulted in a barrage of complaints and requests, generally almost none of which you were capable of addressing or responsible for, which was no concern of the guests or of management. Smile, nod, apologize, agree, lather, rinse, repeat.

This guest also smelled incredible, you noted as his scent drifted in the enclosed space. Citrus, vanilla, fresh and warm and masculine. Maybe you could cling to the sense memory in your nostrils as you faced down whatever horrors existed in the Bacchus Suite. Of course you’d forgotten your Vicks at home today. Swipe of it under the nose, a trick you’d learned from a mortician, one that had, unfortunately, proved very useful in luxury hotel housekeeping. You tried to will the guest’s cologne to somehow weave itself into your nose hairs.

———

As the elevator moved past floor 3, the lights flickered.

Huh.

As the digital display panel flashed, the elevator suddenly lurched to a stop, sending you toppling into the handrail. The guest’s hand flew to your upper arm to steady you, then quickly retreated.

“Are you okay? Were you hurt?” the man asked, eyes quickly scanning you for any obvious injuries.

Were you? No, you determined after a quick mental inventory. “I’m fine, thank you. Are you alright, sir?” You straightened up, brushed your uniform shirt down into place, slipping back into your customer service mask.

“I, too, am fine. I was simply startled.” He pursed his full lips thoughtfully. “I do not believe this is how elevators are meant to work, however.” He frowned up at the lights, now dimmer than before.

“Uh, no, not… not typically, no. I am sure it will be resolved soon. I apologize for the inconvenience, sir.” You leaned over to press the service button, which did nothing.

He waved his palm dismissively. “Please, no ‘sir.’ I am Javi. And I do not think elevator maintenance falls within your purview, no?” He grinned, turning to you. He had a dimple.

You chuckled. “It does not, sir. Javi. Still, on behalf of the hotel…”

“You do not need to speak on behalf of the hotel to me. No pasa nada - do not worry, please.” He placed his hand back on your arm, gave it a gentle squeeze before releasing. “I do not hold you accountable, my new friend, for the failures of either man or machine.”

“I appreciate that, very much,” you said softly. “Sorry, it’s unusual for guests to be so… understanding. They’re generally—,”

“—terrible assholes?” he finished, eyebrows raised and eyes glinting with a spark of mischief.

You laughed. “Technically I’m on the clock, so no comment.” He chuckled and winked knowingly. The two of you resumed your wordless standing for some time.

Eventually, the guest, Javi, slid his back down the elevator wall until he sat on the floor, luxurious fabric of his suit rumpled without a care, his long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. “You will join me, perhaps? While we wait for our knight in a shining toolbelt?”

You glanced down at him. “Join you on the ground, you mean?”

“Where else is there to go?” He had a point. You sat down.

“So, Javi. What brings you to the hotel? Business or pleasure?” You pulled your legs to your body to sit criss-cross, bracing your elbows on your knees and resting your chin on a fist.

Javi grinned. “Both, I hope, or perhaps neither. I wish to make a new film — that is what I do, I make movies — and if the studio will agree, then I will celebrate. If the studio does not agree, I suppose I will not be working or playing.”

He tilted his head back and folded his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and smiling in the direction of the ceiling. “Either way, it has been a worthwhile trip, I think.”

“Wow! So, you like to travel then?” you asked.

“Sí, but more than that, I enjoy meeting new people. Making friends. And I have done that today, and so, I consider my visit to be a success. Would you agree?” He looked over and cocked his head, eyes wide and bright, like a charming puppy.

Your face warmed. “I guess I would. I’d much rather make a friend than clean up another disgusting hotel room.” You shook your head, then remembered yourself. “Sorry. That’s my job, I know. I don’t want to be rude.” Thank god you’d forgotten your walkie in the break room. You could’ve called for help by this point, sure, but you also could’ve gotten yourself fired with the accidental press of a button.

Javi shushed you affectionately. “I will not hear these sorries. We are simply having a conversation, as friends do, are we not? You may be true to yourself with me. I would prefer it if you do.” He slid a thumb over his lower lip, then scratched at his stubbled jaw before sighing.

“When you are a man such as me, one who is associated with riches and fame and power, people do not speak to you plainly. They tell you, instead, what they think you would like to hear. What they believe may win them your favor. It is… rather difficult.” He hummed. “The more I am known, the less I am known. Does this make sense to you, what I am saying?”

“Yeah, it does.” You bit your lip and nodded. “It really does. That sounds really isolating. Lonely.”

“It can be, yes,” he confirmed quietly. “I love movies. Making films was my greatest dream, and I am very grateful for the chance to do it, and for the privileges I have had, though they did not come without their own challenges.”

He laced his fingers together and sat his hands on his thighs. “But part of what I love about movies is how they can connect people together. It is ironic, maybe, that making movies has resulted in fewer connections for me.”

“In that case, I’m glad the elevator got stuck, then. I’m enjoying the chance to connect with you, Javi,” you said declaratively.

With impeccable cosmic timing, all the lights of the elevator went dark, save for a thin emergency strip, glowing red along the edge of the floor.

———

Well. You thought for a moment. “Javi?”

His voice swam easily through the darkness. “Sí, I am here.” You focused on the red glow to try and make out the shape where he sat.

“I think this is the best day of work I’ve had in years,” you shrugged with a snort.

Javi barked a loud laugh along with you, then slid a few feet closer along the floor to sit immediately beside you in the darkness.

“May I ask you something, my friend?” His voice was softer, husking around the edges a bit.

“Of course,” you replied, feeling something small and fuzzy and wriggly in your chest. The smell of his cologne washed over you, more concentrated with his proximity, almost as if it was your skin that bore it and not his.

“Will you tell me about your favorite movie?”

You were surprised at his question for a fraction of a second, but he asked so earnestly, you knew that, for your new friend Javi, the topic that others would probably regard as small talk was instead a precious, intimate thing.

“Yes, but don’t laugh.”

“I would never, you must know this. I will tell you one of mine first — it is Paddington 2.” You could only see the vague shapes of his face in the low light but it was clear that he was serious, and it filled you with adoration for your gentle and unpredictable new friend.

“I haven’t actually seen it,” you admitted.

“Oh, we will change this. We will watch it together someday,” Javi said with an authoritative clap of his hands. “If we are not entombed inside this elevator, of course,” he added.

“It’s a big if,” you acknowledged. “But yeah, I’d like that.”

“So.” You felt Javi’s shoulder press against your own, flush together. “I am dying to hear. Which is your favorite?” He was practically buzzing with anticipation.

“Babe,” you muttered, tucking your face into your hands with embarrassment.

Vision having adjusted somewhat, Javi clocked the movement and turned his broad shoulders to face you, grabbing both your hands in his and pulling them down.

“Why would you feel shame for this?! It is an incredible story of defying expectations and overcoming oppressive structures. The pig is a marvel, is he not?” He shook your hands with emphasis and continued breathlessly. “He teaches the other animals and humans of the farm to love, to respect one another, to see the inherent value in each other. It is a tribute to empathy! An ode to the triumph of the spirit! Oh, you have chosen well, querida.” The white of his teeth gleamed in the shadows when Javi beamed at you.

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “Okay, THANK YOU. It’s so wonderful, right?! I’m so used to being teased about it, but I love it. Ugh, Farmer Hoggett is so…”

“Fuuuuuck. The song! Oh, I can feel my heart seize when I think of it. It is what I would want the next time I fall ill, somebody to sing that song for me. I suppose I could pay somebody to do so,” Javi mused, “but I think it would not have quite the same sentiment.”

“Javi, I promise that if we don’t die in this elevator, I will sing the song from Babe to you over the phone whenever you’re sick.” You turned his hands in yours, running your thumbs over his knuckles.

“And I will do the same for you. We must pinky swear it. Then our vow will be unbreakable.”

He hooked one pinky in the air between your bodies and waited for yours to join. You lifted your own and looped it with his, and Javi flexed his strong hand to squeeze the promise in extra tight.

“Good. It is agreed. Now, I am curious to know how a spirit that burns for such a piglet finds herself in such an establishment as this, cleaning up after unruly excess. Surely, it does not feed your soul.” Javi returned his hands to his own lap but tilted his head so it rested on your shoulder, his soft hair tickling against your cheek.

“Doesn’t feed my soul, no. Doesn’t feed my body very well, either. Pay is garbage, bills are always tight. My fridge has seen better days, for sure.” You huffed. “But, the hours are flexible. Sometimes I get tips. It’s whatever.”

“I wish for you to have more than ‘whatever’, querida,” intoned Javi, warm concern in his voice.

“Yeah, me too. Someday, hopefully.”

“Hmm.” Javi nuzzled slightly into your neck, and you wondered if he could feel your pulse pick up. “And if you were not working in this hotel, not burdened by your responsibilities, what would you like to be?”

“Besides a sheep-pig?” you smirked.

Javi patted your back with a giggle.

“I want to be a museum archivist,” you sighed. “I, uh, actually have two Masters degrees? History and Library & Information Science.”

“No! That is amazing!” Javi gasped at your side, lifting his head to gape at you.

“Thanks. It is… a lot of debt. And most archival positions require you to do a bunch of internships for experience just to get a foot in the door. Degree is a necessity but it doesn’t really mean anything in terms of getting a job. I couldn’t afford to pay back my loans and pay my bills while volunteering my time, and no paying jobs were willing to take a chance on me fresh out of school.” You laughed humorlessly. “Probably should’ve thought of that before I got the degree. But, I needed to do something, and this job was something. I’m able to volunteer at the Natural History Museum a few days a week with my schedule doing whatever they’ll let me.”

Javi was nodding along with your words as he listened. “I see, I see. And how long have you been doing this job instead of what you love?”

“Ah,” you hemmed. “Six, no, seven years?”

“And you have made progress on your loan payments?”

“Not really. If I work for a nonprofit or public employer, I could have my loans forgiven after 10 years of employment, but I’d have to be able to get the job first, and prospects are bleak. I don’t have savings either. Paying $1800 a month for a shoebox doesn’t leave much left over.” You allowed yourself to lean into Javi, your head slanting on top of his shoulder.

“Shit.” Tentatively, he reached his arm around your body. “This is okay, querida? For me to offer you this comfort?”

“It is, Javi. Thank you.” You snuggled into him, let his warmth seep into you, and sat in silence for a while. Time stretched lazily around you both, like a comfortable cat.

“You know what’s crazy? And sad, now that I think about it,” you said eventually. “In the seven years I’ve worked here, nobody has ever asked me about anything besides hotel shit or housekeeping. Not my bosses, not my coworkers. Definitely not any of the guests.”

“Then that is an injustice to you and a loss for them. Thank you for sharing yourself in this way with me. I feel very fortunate to have met and learned more of you.” You smiled against Javi’s torso and he cupped his palm around the base of your neck, thumbing the space behind your ear.

Suddenly, the elevator jerked, the lights blaring back on. You and Javi shielded your eyes from the blinding change. You exchanged glances as the display lit up once again, and Javi clambered to his knees, reaching out to give a testing press to the round 4 button.

———

The elevator rumbled and began to ascend.

“Oh, wow,” you said. “I kind of forgot this might eventually happen. Lost track of time, I’m not allowed to have my phone on me during shifts and I don’t wear a watch.” You stood up and shook out your tingling limbs.

Javi stood as well, straightening his suit and fixing his cuffs. “It has been…” He looked at his watch and squinted at the face. “It has been three hours.”

“Oh my god! Shit, I’m going to get reamed for not having that room cleared.” Panic and frustration started to gnaw at the corners of your and Javi’s peaceful vignette.

“But it is the fault of their elevator that you are delayed,” he reasoned.

“They won’t care, trust me. God, I wish I didn’t need this job as bad as I do.” You closed your eyes and took a breath, steeling yourself as the elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the doors slid open. For a moment, Javi hesitated, then exited before you and reached a hand back. You took it and let him lead you out of your shared could-have-been sarcophagus.

Wary of the hallway’s security cameras and what additional trouble you might find yourself in if your supervisors spotted you bothering the guests, you stepped further away from Javi’s body than you would’ve liked to be.

“I have to go to the Bacchus Suite, like, immediately,” you groaned, toeing at the carpet.

Javi tutted. “I am staying in the Fortuna Suite. If I leave a message for you at reception, will you receive it?” His face was drawn, but hopeful.

“Yeah, I definitely will. I… I really would like it if you did, Jav.” Your cheeks felt hot and you glanced down at your feet, looking up when you heard a shuffling to find Javi now standing inches from you.

“Nothing could keep me from leaving you a message, then. I think, probably, I will take the stairs this time,” he huffed a quiet laugh, his brow scrunching, his breath warm on your face. He moved closer, letting the strong curve of his aquiline nose nestle against your own, and you felt his long dark lashes flutter against your cheekbone.

“I would like to kiss you, before we part, if you would agree to it.” His voice was low, reserved, but run through with a gentle current of hunger. His hand slid around the back of your neck once more, as in the dark elevator, and he let his thumb stroke along the hinge of your jaw as he looked at you deeply, rich vanilla eyes heady with longing.

Fuck the security cameras.

You answered Javi by pressing your mouth firmly to his, lips slotting together effortlessly. He brought his other hand to hold your face, and you gripped around his biceps, fingers barely circling them, as you breathed in tandem. He opened his mouth against you, and you slipped your tongue to his, kissing deeply and languidly, losing yourselves in each other’s taste.

The other elevator dinged and you pulled apart as the doors opened, a bellboy with a luggage cart rolling his eyes at you both before turning down the hall.

“I have to go, Jav.”

“Okay. I will leave a message.”

Javi stepped back to you and kissed you once more, chaste and quick, and you waved your fingers at him and turned to hurry towards the room you were meant to be cleaning. He watched you go, his face flushed and his heart swelling, and when you’d disappeared around the corner, he walked to the stairwell and opened the door.

———

You stopped at the supply closet for a cart, gloves, trash bags, cleaning supplies, and a UV light (shudder), taking a few seconds to steady yourself, remind yourself you were about to go clean up possible biohazards for minimum wage after you’d spent the past few hours shut in a dark elevator with the most remarkable man you’d ever met, who kissed you like he needed you as much as he needed air.

Locking the closet behind you, you approached the suite. You steeled your nerves, puffed up your chest, and held the keycard up to the door latch.

Bink. The light flashed green and you pushed down the handle, ready for the worst.

It was worse than the worst.

After the wall of stench, the first thing you noticed was what appeared to be blue paint trailing from the door to the lounge, where a pool of cerulean was soaked into the cushions of the sofa. The curtains had been ripped from the wall, massive holes in the drywall where the rod had been, a fine layer of white dust settled over the drapes, which were crumbled on the floor. Every mirror was shattered, some bearing signs of lipstick and/or blood on their jagged edges. The stocked bar was trashed, cracked bottles dripping across the counter, glasses full of cigarette butts and unidentified liquids, sticky liquor puddled and syrupy on every available surface. The one bed you could see from where you stood had no mattress on it. You did not see the mattress. You were afraid to look at the bathroom.

The phone was ringing.

You sidestepped the paint splotches and tiptoed around broken glass to lift the receiver. “Housekeeping,” you said, peppy as was possible amid the destruction.

“We’ve had a guest request immediate assistance.”

“Okayyy,” you paused, curious why they were interrupting you about it. “I can do it after I finish assessing here.”

“The guest asked for you by name, and he does not wish to wait. He is a very valuable client of the chain, so we’ll reassign another housekeeper to the Bacchus. You can go straight to the other suite.”

“Oh! Which, uh, suite is that?” you asked, hoping for a particular answer.

“Fortuna.” You grinned.

“Okay, I’ll go right now.”

They hung up without saying another word, and you left the cart in the room and left as quickly as you could, trying not to skip as you rounded the corner and headed to the Fortuna, which sat on the other side of the elevator bank.

———

When you arrived, a little short of breath, you knocked twice and waited, bouncing slightly on your toes. There was no response.

You knocked again, louder this time, realizing you didn’t know Javi’s last name to call out to him and have it sound vaguely professional.

“Javi,” you said against the door, knocking once more and pressing your ear against it to listen for footsteps. Nothing. You pulled the master keycard from your pocket and passed it in front of the lock.

Bink. The green lights flashed, and you opened the door cautiously.

“Javi?” you called, stepping inside, but the room appeared to be empty. You walked through the lounge and peered into the bedroom, into the en suite, out on the balcony. Nothing. The bed was messily made, as if it had been straightened after being slept in, and the shower stall was damp, but otherwise you saw no evidence of Javi or anybody else, save for the faint ghost of his cologne lingering in the air.

What the fuck?

Your heart was sinking when you glanced at the console table and saw an envelope bearing your name in an even script. Before you could feel confused or angry or worried or any other emotion, you grabbed for it, then plunked yourself in an overstuffed armchair and opened. A folded piece of paper from the hotel’s branded memo pad fell out.

Inside the folded paper was a check. Your check. Or, rather, a check for you. Filled out in the same handwriting as the envelope. Made out for $50,000. From the personal account of Mr. Javier Gutierrez.

You thought you might faint, or cry, or puke, or drop dead. Activities better suited for the Bacchus Suite.

You turned your attention, somehow, from the check to the paper, seeing your name across the top of the paper below the hotel logo.

Querida,

Quit.

Your Friend,

Javi

P.S. I am outside. I am driving a silver Porsche convertible. No pressure. But I will wait here. - Javi

P.P.S. This is my phone number. It is okay if you do not call. Or come out to meet me. I just want you to have it. - Javi

P.P.P.S. In case you have received this letter later than I expected and you have been delayed by your cleaning duties, I have written this twenty-seven minutes past the moment you left me at the elevators. I do not want you to rush or to worry. If you have not appeared or called by evening I will wait in the parking lot overnight, just in case. The attendants are very easily distracted, it will not be difficult to hide. - Javi

P.P.P.P.S. I did not write you this check in the hope that you will want to pursue a romance with me. I wish for you to follow your dreams, even if they do not include me in them. We are practically strangers, after all, and I would understand. The money is yours, whatever you choose. My hope that you will also choose me is an entirely separate thing. Most of all, I desire for you to be happy, archiving all sorts of things that must be archived. I am certain you’ll do it very well. - Javi

P.P.P.P.P.S. I would like to kiss you again. - Javi

———

Ten minutes after reading Javi’s note, you were strolling out of the employee lockers, sunglasses and cell phone in hand and uniform abandoned on a bench. You paused at the schedule posted on the wall, used the Sharpie tied to a nail in the wall to drag a thick black line through your name on the calendar. Without fanfare, you waltzed out the front doors and climbed into the vehicle waiting for you in the valet loop.

“Did you drive?”

“Nope. No car - I take the bus.”

“Ah, just as well. I have many. I am happy to share.”

You turned to face the man in the driver's seat, his handsome face haloed by the sun as he looked fondly at you.

“That’s lot of money, Javier Gutierrez” you tsked.

“It is no hardship. You.. you will accept it, though? And, if I am lucky, you will accept… me?”

You laughed. “Yes. Both. I accept both. Happily.”

His eyebrows curled upwards and his lips pouted in an expression of blissful disbelief. “This is fantastic news, querida. And you quit?”

“And I quit,” you confirmed, and leaned across the console to continue the kiss that had been interrupted at the elevators, savoring this moment at the cusp of something beautiful.

Javi shifted his head, sat up slightly, and you tugged gently on his plump lower lip with your teeth as he pulled back just enough to lock his eyes with yours. Tears glistened at his waterline and you felt your own begin to well. He pressed his forehead to yours, nudged his nose against yours, and rubbed his hands down your arms before giving you a solid pat on the back and whispering against your skin:

“That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

———

youtube

Tagging the sprintos who cheered me on!!

@whocaresstillthelouvre @jennaispunk @goodwithcheese @ace-turned-confused @timelordfreya @maggiemayhemnj @beefrobeefcal @tinytinymenace

#yopossum #rollatropechallenge #javi gutierrez #sweet javi g #stuck in an elevator #javi g x reader #javi g x you #javi g fanfiction #javi g fluff #javier gutierrez #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #ppcu #javi g x female reader

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duckprintspress · 11 months

Text

Fandom 101: The Origin of the Citrus Scale

A guest post by Aeryn Jemariel Knox. (@jemariel)

Ah, the citrus scale. It’s like a cryptid roaming the edges of modern fandom communities. Long-tenured veterans speak of it with affectionate mockery while newcomers google curiously. A relic from a bygone fandom era, the citrus scale saw a brief resurgence in 2018 during the Tumblr porn ban, suggested as a way to avoid the new bot censors trawling for posts with the NSFW tag—though never, I think, in seriousness.

That may have been jocular and short-lived, but it does point to the reasons why the citrus scale was created in the first place. Certain fandom activities have always had to fly under the radar to one degree or another. Whether you’re trying to evade legal action or simply avoid deletion based on explicit content, a certain level of obfuscation is sometimes worthwhile.

It’s not hard to find the generally agreed-upon definitions of the citrus scale’s levels. According to Fanlore, KnowYourMeme, and others, this is more or less the “official” citrus scale:

Orange: Light stuff, kissing, nothing below the waist or under the clothes.

Lime: Groping, implied sex without details, fade-to-black, no intercourse or intimate contact.

Lemon: Sex, in full detailed glory. Woo-hoo! Regardless of the actual acts performed, if you can tell who had an orgasm (or, perhaps, had an orgasm denied), how, and where, it’s a lemon.

Grapefruit: We’ll get into this later.

But these tidy categories are clear thanks to the benefit of hindsight. In the Wild West of the early internet, it was not so easy to pin down exactly what you might be getting into based on which term was used.

At its origin, the citrus scale wasn’t a scale at all. It has its roots in hentai (and was always more popular in anime fandoms), stemming from a specific early hentai film by the title of Cream Lemon (1984). Hentai being what it is, this led to certain subculture communities referring to any story with explicit sexual content as a “Lemon.” And for a while, that was the extent of it. Then came fanfiction.net purging explicit content (2002), Livejournal suffering Strikethru (2007), and other events that pushed burgeoning fandom communities out of their growing hubs and back into smaller, isolated communities centered on a single fandom or pairing. In the relatively sparse early ’00’s internet, anybody could spin up an Angelfire website, pass the link around to their friends, and get a reasonable amount of traffic. Websites devoted to the works of a single author or small group were common.

I mention this to describe the landscape in which fandom lexicons grew and evolved in the early-mid 2000s. Each pocket community had its own rules, lingo, and expectations; venturing outside of your home pocket could lead to some pretty major miscommunications.

“Lemon” was established early and its definition has hardly shifted. It means that the labeled content (art, fic, mood board, etc.) includes sex. Intercourse, bumping uglies, etc. However, some yaoi fandom niches used it specifically to mean gay sex of the male variety. In some communities, “lime” developed as a corresponding term for feminine gay sex, while other communities brought it up with the usage that eventually “stuck,” “not quite a lemon.” Given that lemon and lime often go hand in hand when discussing actual flavors, the fact that we had some divergent term evolution is not surprising. But coming in from a different pocket of fandom and seeing “lime,” thinking you’ll be reading semi-softcore sexual tension and instead being confronted with graphic sapphic antics? Bit of a shock, I’m sure.

A more dramatic example is the rating level of “Grapefruit,” which occupies two completely different ends of the scale. In some circles, grapefruit was defined as “less intense than lime,” G or PG-rated stories that were more soft or cute than sexy. In other circles, it was used to mean the exact opposite. Kinkier than kink, smuttier than smut, grapefruit art and fic was where you went to have your eyebrows singed off. Some communities were even more specific, using grapefruit for stories featuring non-consensual sex. This was where darkfic lived – in modern day parlance, your “Dead Dove, Do Not Eat” works. To say that this usage difference caused some disagreements would be putting it mildly.

Nobody really worried about orange. Orange just existed, not bothering anybody.

When these terms were coined, the internet was not an assumed aspect of everybody’s daily life the way it is today. There was no Tumblr, no Facebook, no social media to speak of. There were no large repositories of internet lore and knowledge such as Urban Dictionary or KnowYourMeme. It was a playground. And what do you do on a playground? You make friends! The citrus scale, like so many fandom tropes and concepts, was defined by groups of friends that created them ad hoc to meet their own needs at the time. No one could have predicted that it would become so much a fandom history that it’d be enshrined, nor that I would be writing a blog post about it two decades later. From the common source of lemon, people extrapolated what the rest of the scale might look like, and there was no authority to tell them they were wrong. (Except other fans. That hasn’t changed.)

In conclusion, it’s best not to take the citrus scale too seriously. At best, it’s a cheeky way to avoid censors who try to bar a community from engaging with explicit works, but it’s also varied to a fault and open to interpretation. If you and your community have come up with a use for it that suits your needs, then congratulations: you’re part of a fandom tradition stretching back to the roots of the internet. Just don’t try and tell anybody else that they’re wrong. You might start a flame war.

References:

Prokopetz: Orange and Grapefruit

She’s Got Plans: What is the Citrus Scale in Fanfiction?

Unwinnable: Lemon and Lime

Past Fandom 101 Posts:

Everything About A/B/O Dynamics You Wanted to Know (but were Afraid to Ask)

How to Diversify Your To-Be-Read Pile

Recognizing AI Generated Images, Danmei Edition

#duck prints press #guest blogger #fandom 101 #citrus scale

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plethora-of-imagines · 11 months

Text

The Consort's New Clothes

AN: In response to my own prompt in the BG3Kinktober23 collection.

Once again I have decided the Ascended Astarion can be soft- as a treat.

And since I have corrupted @how-masterful this is now both dedicated to her, and her birthday fic for the year (I couldn't come up with any other ideas, but I hope you still enjoy it!)

Prompt:

Assended Astarion cannot help but mark his pretty little Tav as all his. He needs to mark her with his bites, dress her up all pretty -or even better in his clothes-, and put a nice collar around her neck. Everything to make sure everyone knows she is his.

Word Count: 1616

Warnings: smut/lemon, clothing kink, sharing a bath, vampire bites, spawn!Tav, collars, soft yandere

Description:

Getting ready together with Astarion was a common occurrence these days. He wanted the two of you to always be presentable when you left your shared chambers. Of course trying to find a suitable wardrobe for the Ascendant Vampire's Consort has been proving difficult. At this rate you'll just have to wear his clothes with a raw bite mark to show you're his.

Warm water and the sweet scent of your lover enveloped you. Wet hair clinging to his bare chest as you shifted closer, shoving your nose against his neck. Inhaling the woodsy sunkissed citrus scent that he applied so generously that it had sunk into his very skin. The little energy you could manage to muster all used up, you once again went limp in his arms. Soaking in the heat the water provided as his hands shifted to better press you possessively into his chest. Tracing little circles around the scars from his constant feeding, and subsequent transforming bite. The same spot that he always bit you, right along the crook of your neck. Somewhere that if needed could be hidden with a high collared shirt. Fortunately you had found little need to hide the sign of your connection to Astarion recently.

The rumbling purr of vibrations that you felt against your temple roused you from your almost trance.

“What do you think of this one, little love?”

Humming pleasantly at the endearment you didn’t want to open your eyes. Wanting to remain forever in this blissful cocoon of comfort. But if he wanted to hear your opinion then you would take on the burden of opening your eyes.

The spawn standing before you in the bathroom was rightfully averting her eyes from your naked forms. Glancing down her body you took in the long flowing dress, a gaudy shade of red that almost looked more burnt orange. The slit was in an awkward position on the skirt that was more on the front of the skirt than the side, raising far too high as well.

Lazily you replied back your answer to Astarion, who waited patiently for your answer.

“If this is the first one that has shown enough promise to want my opinion I don’t believe that this designer is going to live long. I’m almost insulted.”

His gleeful laugh had you rushing to look up at him. To catch the pure smile on his face, adoringly gazing at the light in his eyes.

“Oh, trust me- there have been far worse! Now go change again,” he shooed the spawn out with his dexterous hand. Calling out after them, “and tell that fool to show us something worthwhile this time!”

“I’m sure that he saved better for later, Astartion. Or at least that he will have one decent outfit.”

“Tav, you are just too sweet,” he cooed.

Tilting your chin up for a soft kiss. Lips hovering millimeters away from your own. Leaving you in anticipation until you let out a little whine. Only then did he reward you with the gentle press of his lips to your own. The creak of the door interrupted to your displeasure when it caused him to pull away. Cursing his paranoia that had led to the soft creaking of every door to your shared private chambers- so that any possible attack could be heard the moment it was attempted.

Huffing you looked back at the spawn again to see a much more appealing outfit. Ignoring the spawn’s lack of pants you looked over the stylish doublet. The shine of the clasps appealing to the part of you that enjoyed anything that glimmered. Frowning when you recognized it as obsidian.

“It’s better,” you admitted. “But I worry about the longevity of the clasps when made of obsidian.”

“Couldn’t even make a full outfit either,” Astarion growled.

The spawn trembled at his clear displeasure, terror filling their eyes as they feared being punished for the designer's faults. At your pout he took a deep breath, loosening the hands that had started to dig into your skin.

“I certainly paid them more than enough for these abominations. I expect better, I expect perfection.”

The sound of his teeth grinding together sent a chill through you.

“Next one,” you told the frozen spawn.

She gratefully obeyed your order. Almost tripping over her own feet to flee the room.

Holding Astarions face in your hands, gently rubbing his jaw. Loosening it from its tight, clenching position. Slowly his body relaxed- though his anger towards the doomed designer remained.

“How am I supposed to find a pretty outfit that shows off that everyone should be envious that you are mine from a mere glance alone, when all of these so-called designers are completely tasteless idiots! None of these outfits come close to helping to accent your beauty. I’ve looked at thirty four of his useless mockeries of clothing fit for an Ascendant Vampire’s consort, love. Thirty four!”

Starting to work himself back into his fury again with each word. Soothing him you pressed playful kisses to his jaw line, lightly nipping every time he started to clench. Once the anger receided again you guided his head to your neck. Lips pressing against the one spot that would remind him that you had a clear sign of ownership forever on your body.

“I might as well dress you in my own clothes and be done with it.”

Teasing nibbles against your neck solidified his improving mood.

Both of you turned together to look at the newest offering the spawn was dressed in.

“I actually like that one,” you quietly muttered.

“For tonight? That’s hardly good enough for tonight, when I plan to introduce you to all the new spawn I’ve created to serve us.”

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement with him. It wasn’t good enough for introductions where it needed to be clear that you were his most treasured spawn and consort. So you justified your words with a simple, “it's cute.”

“Well if my treasured spawn likes it...”

His words tickled your skin. Fanning a desire in you for anything he would offer to you. Shivering and trembling as his fangs moved to rest against your skin, against his bite marks. The anticipation had you on the edge.

“Please.”

“Tell the designer that this creation is acceptable. He can take the rest of them back with him. “

You could feel the scrape of his teeth against your tingling skin with each carefully said word. Feeling the spawn’s presence still there, waiting to be dismissed with almost as much anticipation as you held for him to sink his teeth into you.

“And tell him that the next batch he shows us better be suitable,” the threat dripped off of every perfectly pronounced letter. “Well? I do believe that you have a message to deliver.”

The second you heard the door click closed you caved.

“Astarion, please,” you begged.

He bit down.

Rising out of the water, soft bubbles sticking to your skin. Back arching as pleasure flooded into you. There was a high pitched ringing in your ears. Wait no- that was your continuous whines as the pleasure removed all thoughts from your head.

It was bliss.

His teeth left your skin, and any sense of strength you had left with them. Astarion had to hold you up. Otherwise you were likely to melt until your body was submerged under the water.

“Feel good, my treasure,” he teased.

“Feel so-,” you slurred words halted as your breath hitched. Astarion had filled you in one smooth thrust, “so good.”

He took his time. Slowly fucking you just how he liked to when you both had just started to stir from trance in bed. Sensual, tender, lovemaking. Guiding your slowly diminishing mind into the most delicious of submissive spaces. All conscious thought fled when he filled you with his seed. You didn’t need to think, he would take care of you while your mind was on sabbatical from reality.

Lifting you out of the water was easy for him even when you weren’t intertwined. But still connected by his softening cock in your body, it was simple to carry you out of the water. Feeling something soft being rubbed against your skin. The only thing you could truly focus on while being dried off was him. Your love, your everything.

In graceful motions- only graceful from practice- he dressed himself while keeping his cock warm in your cunt. If anyone were to stumble in on you they would assume that he had been dressed the whole time. Hair still dripping he roughly toweled it as dry as he could manage to get it. Damp but for the moment no longer dripping.

His soft undershirt- the one that he had been wearing earlier that still smelled strongly of him- was pulled over your head. With gentle hands he pulled you off of his cock, helping you stand on shaky legs. Too blissful to command your legs to hold your weight. Leaning against him as he put his cock away.

You felt content.

Something was secured around your neck. Firmly tightened, but not too tight so as to cause discomfort. The cool chill of a duplication spell washed over you, looking over to your doppelganger. Looking debauched, yet carefully cared for. Hair starting to curl as it dried, soft white shirt reaching just far enough to be decent. The smallest amount of Astarion's seed dripping out onto your thigh where it could just be glimpsed. A dark collar surrounding your neck, and making the bite mark stand out even stronger against your skin. Happiness warmed the still blood within your veins. The embroidery on the collar matched Astarion’s outfit. He had to have done it himself, it was beautifully done.

He dispelled the duplicate as he spoke, leading you towards the door to head towards your introduction to all the new spawn he had recently created.

“There we are, a very nicely fucked and dressed consort. You look beautiful, darling.”

You were and looked like you were his.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #ascended astarion

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paddockbunny · 1 year

Note

B + Touch + Pierre Gasly

On Deck

Summary : When your boyfriend Pierre has a little time off he whisks you away to a gorgeous hotel…then surprises you further by helping you fulfil one of your dreams. Rating : 18+ Pairing : Pierre Gasly x Reader Word Count : 2,800 ONE SHOT Trigger Warnings : 18+, NSFW, adult language, discussion of sex, intimate touching female, public sex Images : curated from Pintrest

List : List B. Prompt : Touch - our muses touching one another discreetly but intimately in a public setting.

Dating Pierre had many perks. From brands sending you free clothes to being invited to events like fashion shows and tennis matches. But your favourite perk of all was the complimentary holidays and hotel stays he was consistently offered. And while he had to turn many of them down because he was working, on the odd occasions he did accept, you were always his favourite room mate. So this unexpected trip to Sardinia in between races could most definitely be classed as a perk.

The pair of you arrived on the Tuesday to beautiful warm sunshine and every single last drop of tension melted away in both of your bodies. The oranges that lined the driveway to the stunning five star resort filled the air with a beautiful citrus aroma that you could get drunk off and you grasped your boyfriend’s hand tighter when you saw the welcome glasses of champagne awaiting you at the hotel entrance. Pierre loved watching you reactions to experiences only he had been able to give you. He got off somewhat knowing he could impress and dazzle you more than any man that had come before him. It thrilled him to see your eyes widen in awe or excitement rushing around your body at these new adventures he could provide you with. He was glad it was him making these memories with you. And you in turn always made sure to thank him, diligently, thoroughly and exactly how he liked.

For three days the pair of you spent your time rotating between sunbathing, eating and fucking. Pierre was in his element in all three and you were more than happy to do whatever it was he felt like doing just because you were happy to be with him.

On Friday, you awoke to an empty bed. Pierre’s voice was muffled outside on the balcony. You took the opportunity of being alone in the huge, comfortable hotel bed to stretch out like a cat. As your muscles pulled and twisted you felt the burn from your inner thighs. Last night’s energetic sex clearly still reverberating through your body. The smirk crept upon your lips without realising it the memory of your legs up around Pierre’s shoulders as he fucked you hard and deep. You were in your own little world when he re-entered the room and you heard his low rumbling laughter.

“What are you thinking about?” “You.” Your response was quick and his cocky eyebrow raise was met with an equally as confident smirk as your eyes travelled down his body. He was stood next to the bed clad only in his black tight boxers that left little to the imagination and your mouth practically watered thinking about him being in your mouth. You rolled on to your stomach and pulled yourself up on to your knees before crawling to close the space between you. You were still completely naked, the hotel sheets disregarded behind you, and Pierre took full advantage of his view. He didn’t hide the fact his eyes were roaming all over your body. He knew that you knew he enjoyed when you were so completely exposed to him. You watched him checking out your boobs first before those azure blue orbs fell lower and settled to his favourite place, between your legs. Your hands slowly caressing up his chest and around his neck was what brought him out of being transfixed. But what snapped him back into reality was you guiding his hand to where his eyes had just been. Your insinuation of morning sex couldn’t be any more obvious.

What you thought would be met with eager willingness was instead met with a frustrated sounding growl from your boyfriend. “Fuck. I want too, I really, really want too but I’ve just organised a surprise, baby.” He sighed. So that was what he was doing out on the balcony. “A surprise?” Your eyebrows met in the middle quizzically. “What kind of surprise?” He knew you weren’t a huge fan of surprises and were more of a preparer type person. You liked knowing what you were going to do, where you were going, what you were going to wear. Pierre smiled. His fingers ghosted over your delicate folds - a reminder his hand was intact exactly where you had let it too only moments before - as he slowly nodded.

“I’m not going to tell you what we’re doing. You just need a bikini.” You almost didn’t hear his words because your brain was completely distracted by the shudder that passed through you from the action of his fingers. And just because he liked to play with you, he raised his fingers to his mouth. He enclosed his mouth around them, no doubt tasting your wet slick excitement on them, and moaned deeply because he knew exactly how pent up it got you when he teased you.

“Where are we going?” You asked Pierre (threatening to go in a huff) for the fourth and final time as you got into the chauffeur driven Mercedes parked right in front of the hotel lobby. He had been tight lipped when you tried to coax his plans out of him right after he told you you needed a bikini. You tried hard to get the answer from him and even used dirty tactics by holding up two different styles in front of him - the first option was an impossibly tiny thong that l barely covered anything at all; while the second was an extreme high cut that left little to the imagination, it didn’t surprise you when he went for the first option - and when that didn’t work you pouted, lowered your chin so your eyes were as big as they got when you were about to blow him, and asked again. Nothing. The last attempt was when you got in the elevator and tried to trick him into admitting his plans but he wiggled his finger back and forth and told you; “Patience is a virtue, doll”

So there you sat in the back of the car, pretending you were cool with not knowing the plans while Pierre’s hand ran up and down your bare thigh. He pretended like he wasn’t deliberately trying to torture you by pushing the white cotton hem of your dress further up your thigh with each stroke, but you had his number. You deliberately ignored him and gazed out of the window. His grip got harder to make you look at him but you continued freezing him out.

“If you don’t look at me I’ll make the rest of this journey very uncomfortable for you.” He had leaned across the car and purred the line straight into your ear. His body press harshly against your side but you couldn’t ignore the fact his hand had slid up to cup your clothed core. Your mouth dropped open but your head rolled back and your eyes went straight to his. “Good girl.” Was amused that he got what he wanted. Proud of himself even. He sat back - his hand retreating - and playfully shook his head. He knew you were being bratty because he hadn’t told you what was going on and was smug that he still held onto his secret.

The car ride lasted only a short while. Fifteen or so minutes and you had began to twig around 20 seconds ago when the car pulled into the marina. “Did you?” It had been a bit of a dream of yours to go on a yacht one day. A proper yacht, a big one. You had been on small sail boats, catamarans, gondola’s and the motorboats they have in Lake Como but never an actual yacht. “Is this a good surprise?” He bit his bottom lip awaiting your response. It was the best surprise. You couldn’t believe he remembered you talking about going on the types of vessels you were passing by. You didn’t think he paid attention to thought all the Below Deck references you dropped whenever you were near the sea. “The best!” You exclaimed while practically leaping across the car and squishing your lips on to his. Pierre was a romantic at heart. He had an animalistic raw sexual energy sure but deep down, he was the biggest, sweetest sentimental teddy bear.

You finally pulled off your little white dress when Cassandra (your chief stew) disappeared to make the pair of you some cocktails to enjoy on the main deck aft while you sunbathed. Pierre, clad in his now signature orange swim trunks, was already laying out on the sun deck. Every toned muscle on full display. He had been watching you as you removed the practically see through white dress and toss it aside. You watched him swallow and rolled his eyes at your teeny tiny bikini - the one he himself had chosen for you to wear. “I’m going to have a semi all day now I’ve seen you in that.” He groaned into your ear when he pulled you down to join him once you took his outstretched hand. “I know you will.” You winked and playfully but your lip “Don’t pretend you didn’t know that when you chose this one. I did give you a choice.” He laughed because he knew he had stitched himself up. “At least give me something to day dream about while I sunbathe, babe.” His eyes lowered to your equally as small bikini top. He was a butt guy through and through but Pierre couldn’t resist your perfectly proportioned boobs either. You glanced quickly around making sure none of the crew would catch you (or prying eyes from another boat) and pulled down the cups of the black bikini quickly. You counted to five before covering yourself back up again and Pierre burst out laughing out of his enjoyment at your little flash.

You felt little beads of sweat form on your chest as you baked in the hot Italian sun. The salty sea air served as a delicious fan to cool your scorching skin. Your head fell to the side and you took in the visage of your unbelievable boyfriend. His skin was glistening with sweat. The scattering of hair on his chest gleamed with it like they were minuscule little crystals. His cut abs were mere fodder for the v shaped guidelines that disappeared below the stretchy band of his swim shorts. Your mouth watered. How could it not? You had been hot for him all day. From the moment you woke up with the dull ache between your thighs - and sore adductors being a reminder of how good the sex really was. You let an unsteady breath escape your throat as you continued down and drunk in the rest of him. He had one leg propped up, his muscly tanned thighs on full display, and you felt the desperation for him kick in. Swiftly you glanced around again and checked the pair of you were alone. Naughtiness consumed you. You felt possessed by your urges.

Leaning over him you kissed his lips gently. He wasn’t sleeping but hadn’t been expecting your action. Even if it was a welcome one all the same. Your body stayed where it was as your finger danced along the waistband containing what you craved. “Baby….” You purred as you kissed the spot under his ear you knew he liked “there’s no one here, they’re all below deck.” You weren’t sure if that was entirely true but you had seen enough reality tv to know they would disappear pretty quickly if they happened to stumble upon anything. Pierre lowered his sunglasses before asking; “Is my good girl feeling a little risqué?” His mother tongue delighting in the pronunciation of the last word. You nodded and you saw all of the dirty thoughts rushing around Pierre’s brain all at once. “Do you think you can stay quiet?” His hand wrapped itself around your wrist - the one resting on his lower tummy while your fingers played with his happy trail - and guided it away. It collided with the mattress of the sun deck behind you and the pressure Pierre applied made it hard for you to move. His body rolled half way on top of yours. “Well?” He asked wanting a vocal confirmation “do you think you can stay quiet?” Normally Pierre wanted to pull every single loud pant, moan, gasp and sigh from you before he made you scream so now he wanted the opposite it was overwhelmingly thrilling. “I can try.” His eyes narrowed “I promise.”

Your word was enough for him. His hand left your wrist and instead came to the valley between your boobs. His fingers trailed down with delicate lightness. You knew better than to let your eyes follow the direction of his hand. He liked eye contact above all else so you kept staring straight back at him. Your mouth opened and you fought back the sigh that was about to leave it when his fingers dipped past the black neoprene fabric that clothed you. “How long have you been this wet?” He as good as hissed at you. “Since I woke up thinking about the way you fucked me last night.” A shaky yet pleased laugh left your boyfriends own parted lips. His forefinger slipped up and down your throbbing folds and you instinctively opened your legs wider for him. He spread the product of your excitement over sensitive creases before he settled on the bundle of nerves that he was by now, best friends with. You couldn’t help but inhale deeply as he made quick work of circling your responsive bud and drawing more and more quick breaths from you. In a normal, less public, setting you would by now be heavy breathing, moaning his name and gripping hold of whatever your hand could find.

“Pierre….” You whimpered quietly, in a broken, breathy tone that was completely carnal. He stepped up the pace and your hands went to his neck, needing to hold on to something as he worked you closer and closer to your high. “You’re so beautiful when you’re this close.” His words caressed your lips before his tongue delved in. He knew you were close (he always knew) when your hips raised up off the daybed underneath you. Desperately seeking more friction, more pressure from his fingers - which of course he gave you without hesitation. “Fuck, Pierre…” the smallest of pleas left you as his mouth swallowed your words.

And then you had to remind yourself to open your eyes for him as he made you climax, hard and sudden. Your body tensed as the high aroused your soul. Shockwave after shockwave came in unrelenting waves like the ocean below the yacht. Pierre kept going, his pace only slightly slowing, to make sure you rode every last inch of the orgasm he graced you with and only when your thighs stopped shaking did he dip his fingers down to the wetness his actions had produced. You saw the pride and smugness overtake him as he felt what he had done to you.

Then without a single shred of warning his hand left your bikini bottoms and the elastic material snapped back against your skin. “Can I get you both another drink?” Cassandra’s Italian laced voice came from behind us. “We’re fine, thank you” Pierre answers for the both of you. You stayed exactly where you were, clinging to him almost, as he did so. A heat spread up upon your cheeks and you realised you were holding your breath. “She’s gone.” He said quickly before erupting into laughter

“Oh my God!” You yelped and buried your face in his neck. There was no option that to feel instantly mortified. The girl couldn’t have been older than you nor Pierre and she had innocently approached you both after you had been doing something so utterly obscene. “Did she see us? I was quiet wasn’t I?” “Shhh….Mon Amour” he kisses you gently “don’t worry, I’ll just tip them a little extra.” He winked when he pulled back and playfully you hit him on his chest for being so typically well, Pierre, about things. “I’ll tip them EVEN MORE if I can fuck you right here on the deck.” You knew he wasn’t joking but you laughed none the less. “Ok” Your words caught his attention “but first, let’s take a dip…” his reply came swiftly; “Fine, as long as it’s the skinny type”

#Pierre Gasly #Pierre Gasly imagine #pierre gasly imagines #pierre gasly fanfic #Pierre Gasly one shot #pierre gasly fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #Pierre Gasly x reader #Pierre Gasly x you #Pierre Gasly x y/n #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfiction

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oftenderweapons · 2 months

Text

Bourbon Bossa Nova | MYG | Pt.1

This story is part of the Blue Crush Collab

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (nicknamed Sunny)

Wordcount: 7k

Rating: 18+ (This part is pretty innocent, but Part 2 will feature mature content)

Genre: strangers to friends to lovers, composer!Yoongi x lifeguard!YN

Content warning: swearing, alcohol, allusions to sexual thoughts. Allusions to death, child abandonment and family loss.

Synopsis: when you start your summer at Honeycomb Cove, you're only expecting sunshine, waves and annoying teenage bravado as you work as a lifeguard. What you don't expect is Min Yoongi. He wasn't expecting you either. Soon your morning walks are your favourite part of the day, until you realise it's not really the walks, maybe it's always been him you are, after all, waiting for.

Shoutout to the incredible folks who helped me find courage to keep believing in this fic - and finally posting it. To Mars (@joheunsaram), To Bells (@youtifulhobi) to Yannie (@ressjeon), my power squad who believed in this fic (and in my writing skills) more than I did. Here's to me finally breaking my dry spell!!! And to some of my old and new supporters and cheerleaders @lelegzem0, @aanncchhuu, @blushingatyou and @percheee (other people are most definitely in this list but Tumblr is limiting my access to previous notes so I can't find you all) You folks are part of the reason I'm still rolling in the dust here on Tumblr

Part two out now!

Here's my masterlist, just in case you're new

Also: disclaimer! (very important, I should have put this first) I'm not Brazilian, and I have very little familiarity with Brazilian culture, but I really wanted to do a shoutout to this incredible country, its people, its art and its music. If you have any notes you would like to leave regarding Antonio's characters and Yoongi's attachment to Brazilian culture, you are the most welcome, both here in the comments and in my blog. I'd love to learn more 💜

Enjoy the fic!!!

May is a great thing. Flowers everywhere, the smell of sunscreen starting to spread in the air, orange dawns, hair getting frizzy with salty air and too much time in the water. Sand under your toes, loose linen garments, wearing a sports bra and a pair of shorts all the time, throwing an oversized sweater on when the night gets too cold, the smell of citrus and geranium to keep mosquitoes away.

Early summer is great. Way better than midsummer and August. May and mid-September had always been your favourite times of the year: the beginning felt like sparks starting to burst, and the end felt like the natural conclusion of things, that languid nostalgia sweeping in gently, like the soft wind ready to carry in autumn days and blow the leaves away.

The smell of rosemary and lavender and juniper accompanied you to the beach as you walked down one of the side alleys.

“Good morn’ Earl!”

The old man turned to greet you as he kept watering the hibiscus bushes before the sun became too blinding, burning the poor flowers. “Morning Sunny!”

“Remember your heart pill!”

“Sure! Already took it!” Earl shouted back, his voice bubbly and bright.

You waved at him as you kept walking, ready to meet your next friend. “Hello Rosa!”

“Hi Sunny!”

The old lady already had her cocker spaniel on a leash, ready for her morning walk. “When’s Mindy coming around this year?”

“Mid-July. And she’s taking her children too!” The woman looked ecstatic about her daughter visiting.

“That sounds amazing! I really have to rush, bye Rosa! And bye Lemon!”

“Lemon say bye!” Rosa told her dog, making her bark just in time before you started your jog.

Being a lifeguard was great. It was the life you had always dreamed of. You had always worked out to fit in the lifeguard guidelines requirements, and a good ninety percent of your decisions had been oriented to making sure that you could be a lifeguard from the second week of May to the first week of October — that is the entirety of tourist season. Once autumn arrived, you would resume working at the retirement home: it was only your second year with that working arrangement, and you weren’t sure it would work at first, but your grandmother being the godmother of the director of the elderly institute guaranteed you would always find a spot working there; plus, they were also constantly in need of an extra set of hands, especially if those hands came with a degree in nursing.

You’ve always known you wanted to work in elderly care just as much as you’ve always known you were made to be a lifeguard. Your parents were worried over the sort of sacrifices and strains that such an occupation would entail: all the caregiving, and the cleaning and the affection you spend on people you’re inevitably going to lose; yet it felt natural to you. Sure, some people can be antagonistic and diffident, in some cases you end up being more of a nanny than a nurse, but most of the time, it’s worth it. After two years in this field, the ups are definitely brighter than the darkest lows, and you’re under the strong impression that it will keep being so.

Back to the glorious morning in front of you, you took off your flip-flops as you reached the best place in the world: the golden beach of Honeycomb Cove. Smiling, you fixed your cap on top of your head and walked to your tower, depositing your stuff in the cabin before going for your morning run. As you were opening the umbrella, taking in the blue infinity of the ocean before you, you spotted an unfamiliar figure below, a big fisher hat on its head, a long-sleeved white shirt covering its arms, a stick in one hand while the other was pressed to his lower back in a fist.

“Hi, hello there!” you greeted, a wide smile for the small, old man walking on the shore before your tower. The bizarre figure lifted his head up, eyes squinted, his button nose curiously pointing about as he looked for the voice.

“Over here! Good morning, sir!” You waved energetically at him, the man frowning — not that you could notice that, because of the distance and the hat.

“Morning?” he greeted back in confusion before continuing his walk.

Yoongi was extremely confused when he heard the voice. His night had been too long for him not to suppose he was hearing voices. Maybe his time had finally come and that was the call of some deity summoning him to whatever comes after the struggles of the living.

What he didn’t expect was for the voice to call again, this time the source clearly identifiable. He squinted at the lifeguard tower and offered a small wave in greeting.

She — that had to be a she — seemed to be set alight in sunlight, the early morning light making her glow in something brighter than gold.

He had a precise image in his mind for a second, something his grandmother had told him when he was a child. Something like mythology, like Achilles’ halo of hair, or Helios who carries the chariot of the Sun.

He shook his head and continued walking, turning around only once he was several feet ahead and her long legs had carried her in the opposite direction, her wide strides amazing Yoongi, who could just stare at her golden, looped locks bouncing as she played with the back-and-forth of the tide, running along it.

For a second, Yoongi thought of The Girl from Ipanema, shortly before remembering all the controversies behind it, and how much his grandmother hated the song because of “the male gaze”. With chastised pupils, he let his gaze fall back to the fragments of seashells at his feet, the distant fall of her feet meeting the sound of the tide calling to his ears in a hypnotizing beat.

All the way back to his home, Yoongi let it ring and echo through all the empty halls of his brain, until he could finally — although artificially — recreate it in the calm of his home, and let it resonate through its corridors.

Yoongi would define himself quite a reserved man. He had his home — an old Victorian-style house in the more quiet and deserted part of the bay, too inhospitable for tourists, still linked to the naval history of the cove. He had renovated the house after his grandmother had left it to him, replacing the old wooden axes with new, not rotten ones, repainting the walls and repolishing the floors, installing soundproof panels on the room he had decided to turn into his studio.

It had only been a short while since he’d moved into the beach house; his college in San Francisco and his scholarship and research in New Orleans had sent him spiralling between opposites, diving deep into sounds he wasn’t entirely familiar with, and in a bout of homesickness and confusion, he’d decided to return to his true roots, to his true north.

Here he could daydream of green hills and golden beaches of a faraway place that he could only imagine through the saudade of an old immigrant. He could feel the beat of that city that was nothing but an overgrown village, the roaring of cars on dirt roads, and that open-armed man that seemed to be every man, every woman, every human being in that open-armed city — that all-forgiving man that seemed to welcome strangers, with their weary feet and guilty souls.

He knew the place that inhabited his wildest dreams, his most romanticised visions, no longer existed. It had been erased by decades of progress and politics and human greed. That place where all his bedtime stories took place was no longer, and maybe it had never been. Yet Yoongi longed to reach that all-forgiving stone man and feel, just feel how the rolling waves carried all the nostalgia and the sins and the tears of those lost souls that reached a new land hoping for fortune and maybe a brand new start.

He too was something in between worlds. Son of a woman adopted by a foreigner and a man lost in time, somewhere. And there was nothing more foreign to him than the woman who had raised him, the same woman who had given him the house he was living in. He had always been drifting in something somewhat estranged. His mother had been a nobody, abandoned before an orphanage, the only known facts were her name — Moonbae — and that she had been abandoned as the last of sixth children, her family too poor to afford her. As a twist of fate, she had then been adopted by an American anthropologist — Yoongi’s grandma — who had always respected her will to stay away from her past. Still, loss persecuted her, her loving, if a little taciturn adoptive father passing due to a mysterious disease somewhere in Guatemala.

It took several years for Beatrice and Moonbae to settle in the old colonial house in Honeycomb Cove; Trice had returned to her great-grandmother to assist the incredibly old lady to her last breath. Needless to say, she then inherited the house. The women lived sheltered, quiet lives until Moonbae got pregnant. A summer fling, that was all it was, the man a fleeting tourist who took a risk too many, fathering a son he would never take care of.

His absence was filled by someone who looked the exact opposite of the little moonbeam of a child, laying pale and tranquil in his cradle, lulled by strange, exotic songs that his grandmother had perfected for him.

Beatrice fell in love with a man who became everything to Yoongi — someone Moonbae never approved of, so much so that she decided to leave town when her son was maybe four years old. She never returned. Beatrice never looked for her either.

Antonio was eighteen years younger than Beatrice, his skin a rich cinnamon shade, his accent so thick that it took a while for Yoongi to decipher the heavy Brazilian cadence in the man’s English.

Yoongi preferred when Antonio spoke Brazilian Portuguese, anyways. By the time the boy was fourteen, he and his acquired grandfather easily conversed on the wooden patio, drinking lemonade, a guitar in the man’s arms. Antonio taught Yoongi everything, the boy so taciturn, so eager to listen, that the nationless musician let all his woes and nostalgia pour out. And maybe the man was no citizen, something in between an exile and a fugitive, but in that old house, he found a home, with Trice constantly refusing to marry him and loving him like a madwoman at the same time.

Yoongi doubted love like that could exist anymore. A love so strong that when she had passed, Antonio had magically drifted away together with her a few months after, disregarding his significantly younger age. What the not-so-old man would never say was that he passed in tranquillity, knowing that he had taught his spiritual child all he had to offer.

And just so, Yoongi won a scholarship, all because of the easy, wordless afternoons when Antonio taught him to play three instruments and speak that language that reminded Yoongi of his old cat, Sweeper, and the way he lazily rolled around in the sun.

Now he was just a young man graduated from a prestigious music academy in San Francisco, two of his compositions had been featured as soundtrack in a couple movies, and he was already producing for a small recording studio specialised in chamber music. He didn’t make much money out of it, to be true, but sometimes he managed to have an extra income with royalties, and he was currently composing his first mixtape — for which a studio had already contacted him, and the fact that Antonio had introduced him to some of the most influential artists in the San Francisco scene had quite definitely jump-started his career.

He was living a cool life, the kind of life he had always seen himself living. He worked at night and finished his day at seven am; then he would head out for a walk, when the sun was still gentle in summer and when it would be barely up in winter. And next, he would sleep. Wake up around five pm. Get some food ready and start all over again. He’d returned to Honeycomb Cove only six months prior, so he hadn’t yet entirely reconnected with his local social circle, plus most of his friends were still in college, which meant that it wasn’t that easy to arrange a get together. But to be true he was quite excited about Seokjin being back in town and spring break approaching. By summer come, they would all be a great team again and he would feel like he had all the time in the world.

His musings were interrupted by the doorbell. That had to be his pizza. It was almost eleven and Gerry, the old Italian man who owned the pizza place at the end of the street, always knew that Tuesday night meant late night pizza for Yoongi.

He grabbed the money — already perfectly calculated so he could pay for the pizza and leave a tip for the delivery boy, Pippo. But tonight it wasn't the delivery boy knocking at his door. As he opened it, he found a wondrous mass of blond curls right in front of his eyes. “Oh, hi!”

“Hey!” The voice sounded chirpy, familiar.

A sudden breeze pushed the stranger’s perfume past the doorway, the scent crashing over Yoongi like the surf. God she smells good, Yoongi thought, lips agape as he stared at the woman in his doorway. It was a mix of coconut and papaya, the scent overpowering the tasty smell of his pizza.

You put on your friendliest, warmest, brightest smile, then said: “We met on the beach right? You must be Min Yoongi. I'm _____. Gerry said you always dine alone and told me you could use some company.”

“I'm not a charity case,” Yoongi replied before realising how rude he'd just been.

“Well, that's a funny introduction, Not A Charity Case. Is that the name you chose to go by? Like Jenny From The Block?” You shook your head and looked away. “What told you it's not me who could use a friend. May I?” You asked, pointing at the door, asking if you could enter. “You can ask Gerry. He sent me. I've just arrived for the season and I could really use a friend. He told me you're a good person and you're always alone too.”

Yoongi was almost outraged by your insolence. Were you always so blunt? He was also confused: what kind of setup was this?!

You passed him the pizza and he lifted the lid, checking that it was actually his and that you weren't an imposter, or a serial killer.

'Take the golden retriever girl. She needs a smart friend. -G,’ read a note left inside the box.

“Yeah, I’m Yoongi,” he said, almost defeated. “Come on in, then.” If he found his house entirely stripped of anything worth money, he would sue Gerry.

“Oh. Thank you.” You flashed him a grin.

Yoongi's knees almost caved. What a smile. It was like… like staring at the sun. But in a good way. It was like a blue sky. Soothing. Serene. Cloudless, pacific.

You placed your own pizza box next to his on the counter while at the same time you looked around. “Wow, your house is so pretty. Your family lives here?”

Yoongi opened his pizza and grabbed a beer from the fridge. “I don't have a family anymore.”

You froze. “I'm sorry.” You were already failing at this. That's why your friends all had fake teeth and a medical record thicker than your cookbook. Not to mention the average age.

“It's okay. I got used to that. You should be the lifeguard, right? Wait, would you like some beer?”

You shook your head. “I'd like some water please.”

Of course you would, he realised. You had to be one of those health freaks. He could already anticipate how easily he could make you run from him with his suicidal diet.

He placed a glass beside your pizza box before sitting down and getting ready to dig in. “I still owe you the money. From the pizza.”

“I already paid for both. I thought that since I wasn't bringing you a housewarming present, I could at least buy you some food.” You took a slice and started eating up, humming and nodding at the taste. “I get why he works so much. This pizza is heaven.”

“Yeah. All the kids here grew up on sunshine and Gerry's pizza,” Yoongi mentioned casually. He liked that you talked with your mouth full. He did, too. Beatrice had never liked that.

“Are you from the neighbourhood?” He asked before wolfing down another slice.

“Kinda. I live a bit farther into the mainland. I used to come here on holiday when I was little. With my parents.” You took a sip of water as Yoongi learned one more thing about you.

“I thought so. I don’t really remember you from growing up, and me and my friends know all of the locals.” Yoongi studied your face, trying to dissect any detail that could make you familiar.

“I see. You’ve been raised here, I assume?”

“Yup.” The silence is heavy, but at least you can distract yourself with food. “So, lifeguard? That your dream job?” He said it sarcastically, almost evilly before he realised you were nodding eagerly and happily.

“My great-grandpa was a sailor. I've always wanted to live by the sea.” You munched on the crunchy crust, Yoongi blinking rapidly.

Making fun of you felt like shooting a dead body. There was no use — and no mercy — in doing that. “Shouldn't you be in college or something?”

“I took nursing school. And I'm old enough to be out of college.” Yoongi’s tone had really made that sound like an insult, but you tried your best not to assume the worst.

Yoongi tried to get on his better behaviour. You were a new person, you wouldn’t understand his sardonic tone. “I'm sorry,” he said, contrite.

“For what? Me being a certified nurse and a person in charge of other people's lives? I know I look stupid, no need to rub it in.” You arched an eyebrow, rather fed up with the weirdness of this exchange, of the man sitting before you. You stood up and closed the box of your pizza, still half uneaten. “Sorry I disturbed your night. Enjoy your meal—”

“Wait, no! Don't go, please.” He didn't know what suddenly convinced him to make you stay. “I was a dick, I'm sorry, let's start over.”

You hesitated for at least three seconds and then, despite your better judgement, you sat back. “I'm ____. But my friends call me Sunny. It's my middle name. Really. My parents thought it funny.”

It suited you so damn bad. Yoongi wanted to bask in your aura in a hammock with a slight breeze and a samba playing in the distance. “It's a really nice name. It really suits your appearance. And I mean that as a compliment.”

You breathed out the tiniest laugh.

“I'm Yoongi and that's the only name I have. We don't use middle names.” He relaxed once you opened your box once more.

“Where is it from?” You asked, recognising the name being foreign.

“My mom's name is Korean. She picked a Korean one for me too. Just to remind me we're not entirely American.” He was vaguely bitter about that. Maybe just indifferent, you told yourself. That must have been tough.

“That's interesting,” you mused, drinking some water. “How old are you?”

Your question was naive. Childlike. “I'm twenty-three. And you're…?”

“Twenty-four. Twenty-five in a couple weeks.” You smiled and he was once more lost in how radiant you looked.

Once you were finished eating, you rinsed your hands at the sink, helping him get rid of the boxes before shyly following him as he moved to the living room.

“Wow.”

“It's a bit overwhelming, I know.” He looked around, analysing the room through a stranger's eyes. “My grandma was an anthropologist, my grandpa too, though I never met him. She travelled a lot and always brought back fancy things.”

“What's this?” you asked, watching a strange fork of sorts.

Yoongi sat down and grabbed a bizarre little stick, no bigger than a pen, with a large ball at the end. He hit the fork, a soothing, metallic sound coming out of it and the box at its base, amplifying the cold dong. “It's a diapason. It gives a specific note. This one sounds like la. Or A, whatever notation you prefer. We use it to tune instruments like guitars.”

You nodded. “That's interesting. I like it.”

Yoongi chuckled. “It's very soothing, right? It resonates at a frequency that has positive effects on humans. My grandma used to play it when I needed to calm down as a baby.”

Thinking that the coarse man before you had been a baby felt baffling. “And it still relaxes you?”

“It does. But I think it's more of a reflex. I think they trained me. Like Pavlov's dog… Wait, was that Pavlov?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed with a giggle.

“Sometimes I think I was a strange experiment. That's what happens when you have two scientists in your home.” He shrugged with a funny grin on his face, his cheeks going puffy as he did so.

“It's okay. You lived through that. You're not doing bad for a lab rat. You could be having bald spots by now,” you joked, almost expecting him to get confused or disgusted. Instead he laughed.

His laugh was so soft. He actually looked soft, with his gums out, his cheeks puffed up, his nose curled up cutely. Yoongi was cute. Very much so.

“So, what do you do for a living?”

He blushed to his ears. “I'm a musician. And a producer.”

“Wow. That sounds cool! How does that work?” Your voice was filled with wonder, making Yoongi understand that after all it wasn't like you were dumb. You were just unashamed of not knowing things.

“I make songs. Spend too much time on the computer fixing songs for other people. And then spend a little bit of time with my instruments, going through riffs and melodies, finding little things that inspire me for longer songs or pieces.” Yoongi stopped himself from dumping all of his artistic worries over you.

“You studied at UCLA?” you asked, knowing that was the best place for a person like him.

“Actually, no. My grandfather got me into an academy in the city. I mean, my granny's boyfriend,” he corrected himself. Considering Antonio his grandpa had always come natural to him, but he'd never substituted himself for Trice's husband.

“It's so cute that she found a boyfriend. You mentioned your grandpa passed so I guess she met the guy after?” You posed the question gently, wording it accurately.

Yoongi nodded. “Yup. I was a toddler when they met.”

You hummed. “With all respect to your grandpa, I like when old people find a partner — or at least, someone meaningful to them. It brings a lot of joy and newness in their lives. Partnered old folks have a way less lonely life. And it seems they live longer too! I read a paper for a course back in college.”

Yoongi was pleased to receive confirmation of you being an old people's person. Hopefully you also hated kids so he could actually deem himself safe. “So you actually liked nursing school.”

You bobbed your head enthusiastically. “I’ve always liked the idea of working in a retirement home. Old people have so many stories and so little audience. I like staying with them, helping them write memories they can pass to their overly busy children and grandchildren. And they learn about technology, they play cards. They crochet! Isn't that amazing?!” you exclaimed with a radiant look on your face.

Yoongi realised you were a genuinely generous person. You reaching out to him wasn't just Gerry forcing you to Yoongi's place, but hopefully you needing a friend. It really seemed you could use a pal your age. “And how does that pair up with your lifeguard position?”

You shrugged. “I've always loved the beach. And splitting it with caregiving helps me from taking nursing too seriously. It helps me worry less about people… passing, you know.”

Yoongi nodded. He hadn’t thought about what it means taking care of someone day after day after day, and then suddenly they’re gone. He also thought about the different weights of a job: probably that was the same reason why it had taken him so long to work on his music while delivering piece after piece for commission. He had lost the passionate side of it.

“So, your granny's boyfriend got you into a music academy and then?”

Yoongi smiled, then he started telling you everything about that.

The two of you talked way deep in the night, the initial strangeness turning into easy chit-chat about school, life, family and work… It was almost one in the morning when you realised it was time for you to go. Once Yoongi noticed how long he’d been talking to you, he blushed and understood it was time to say goodnight, no matter how warm and welcome he felt at your side.

He accompanied you to the door, then stood on the porch, waving at you before wondering whether he should accompany you home. “You’re staying here in town, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just five minutes away from here. I have my bike.”

“You don’t want me to drive you?” He rubbed the back of his neck as he waited for your reply.

You shook your head. “I’m okay, don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

Yoongi realised the reason why he felt sad about you refusing was exclusively because he wouldn’t be able to spend more time with you. He was struggling to let go, after only a couple hours of chatting, and at least half of that being awkward acquainting with someone new.

And to further increase his struggles, he could almost hear Antonio scolding him for letting go of someone that made him feel good. “Will I see you tomorrow morning at the beach?”

You were ready to leave when you heard Yoongi’s question. It sounded vaguely insecure, as if he was testing the waters. “Come meet me at seven. I’ll be there.”

Yoongi nodded to himself. He should have asked for your number. Stupid social anxiety.

“Goodnight Yoongi!” You waved from the gate before leaving.

He stood there, arms crossed, shrinking inside his striped polo shirt, its long sleeve doing very little in keeping him warm. So unexpectedly his night had changed. He thought about the percussion riff he’d jotted down that morning around nine, laying in bed, sleepless. For all he knew, you could have possibly changed his life.

He would remember tonight forever.

The following day, Yoongi left his house at six forty-five. You had given him a when, but not an exact where. He was nervous. And he was somehow hoping that seeing you in broad daylight would somehow lessen your magic.

How wrong he was.

He waited for you at the feet of your tower, leaning against it nonchalantly while he almost ran to get there in time. Watching you arrive in sunglasses and a white sundress was definitely something. You looked like the kind of girl that could have starred in Dirty Dancing.

“Good morning, sir!” you greeted, waving.

“Stop treating me like an old man,” he complained, however you heard some irony in his voice.

“Not my fault you behave like one!” you bit back, amused and maybe a little cheeky. “Hello Yoongi,” you tried again, more calmly now that you were standing before him. “I’ll go get changed quickly so we can go on a walk.”

He nodded and looked at the horizon before him, his ears blushing at the thought that you were half naked just a few steps away. You looked so lean and fit and tall and he was… He was struggling not to let his mind run wild. After all you were just a prettily shaped woman. No more, and no less.

All the months that had passed since he’d last slept with someone weren’t a valid reason for him to think of you half naked.

“Let’s go!” you exclaimed, basically throwing yourself down the stairs and taking a few small jumps on your spot — like a golden retriever too excited about going out. You started with a jog, only to watch Yoongi’s panicked look.

You exploded with laughter. “See, I told you! You’re an old man!”

Yoongi hid his smile with a pout before catching up with a few quick steps. “Do you need to run or can you just walk?”

“I’ll walk in the water. Helps me burn more energy and work on my stamina,” you replied, entering the water to the point it reached your knees. “You can walk on the shore. Did you sleep well?”

He looked away.

“Oh, right. You work at night. So— Did you… produce?” You looked down, careful about not splashing him.

“Oh, yeah. The conversation with you was very inspirational,” he conceded. He hadn’t worked half as much in the last four weeks. Listening to the little riffs and chords hidden in your voice was like experimenting with a new genre. It was as if he was building a new theme for you. Something that signified your presence, but at the same time conveyed the fits and starts of meeting someone new, and getting to know them, and discovering something new about oneself from all the analogies and differences they could see with the other person. As much as he was composing about you, about the little bits he’d learned about you, he was in some way also composing about himself.

The process had been thrilling and once he’d finished the first, roughest draft, at dawn, the music felt so vibrant that it could properly and proudly accompany the rise of the sun. It was of course still only a draft, but the way you’d talked deep into the night, the way you’d circled around things until they’d come out right, had inspired him to give it all a try. It didn’t need to be perfect, it only needed to work. And work, in the end, it did. He only wished he had sampled a piece of your conversation — that joke about him being a lab rat… the laughs that followed. It would have been great for a skit.

“You know, I really wish I could listen to your music. I'm kind of curious about what such a quiet person considers noise worth listening to.” You looked at him. “After all, music is just very tidy noise right?”

He smiled. “Yeah, I would agree to that.” He looked at the seashells on the shore. “I'll make you a playlist. I'll include random stuff I like listening to.”

“Oh, I'd love that!” you replied enthusiastically. “We can make a playlist for our walks!”

Yoongi’s ears perked up at that: “walks”, plural, which meant you would do this again, soon. He was pleased at the way you had so casually hinted at creating a routine. He had someone to share music recommendations with. Someone who would maybe recommend pieces to him in return. He realised he was excited about this. So many new sensations, and none of that as unpleasant as he’d thought. He could get used tho this.

Once the two of you said goodbye, he realised he couldn't go to sleep. He was too excited about making a playlist and sharing it with you. Walking with you in the gentle morning sun. Hearing you laugh.

Yoongi understood: he was making a new friend.

Having walks with Yoongi became extraordinary. You started associating him with the tender colours of the shyest sunshine, and the sweet cotton scent of his shirts in the gentle morning breeze. The way his soft locks danced in the ocean air, tangling together, the way his cheeks turned into little ice cream scoops when he smiled at you as you greeted him good morning.

Likewise, Yoongi started adoring sunshine. You ended each of his nights, bringing him into the reign of soft morning light, introducing him to a brightness he'd always much preferred doing without. Truth was that his ears had become acquainted with your vintage summer bops, with the way your steps would automatically sync up with the beat of Pumped Up Kicks when the song started playing, and your little blonde baby curls would end up bouncing by the time the first chorus came around. Sometimes you looked like one of those strange horses trained to match the rhythm of music. Dressage, wasn't that?

And then, you loved his calm acoustic ballads, the relaxing guitar riffs that accompanied the rise of the sun.

Once your shared routine of morning walks was sufficiently cemented, you trained him, like a stray cat, to stick around some more after your walk, convincing him to join you for a morning snack. You always brought him iced coffee and a peach jam sandwich while you drank your aloe and matcha drink before indulging in an avocado toast. He liked your mornings as much as you did. You also probably liked each other too.

Your perfect sunny streak was tainted only by a mildly cloudy morning, during which Yoongi showed up at your tower anyway, an extra sweater on top of his long sleeved shirt. He knew you'd probably be cold.

The striped black number seemed to be big enough for you to fill it up comfortably. After all, you were half a head taller than him, and your arms were significantly longer. At least by three or four inches, he had to admit.

When you showed up, you looked drowsy, your hair was half low and you were carrying a different bag from usual. “Morning old man,” you called, placing your bag at the feet of the stairs.

“Morning, Sunny. Wait. Are those actually knitting devices in your bag? Wonder Woman ____ knits?”

“Shut up. Linda taught me. It's just something to share with the ladies at The Orchard,” you justified yourself. “We'll see if you still joke about that once you get your soft, handmade cosy sweater this winter.”

Yoongi blinked, suddenly realising his expression had been shifting to a pout. “Are you still going to be around this winter?”

You invited him upstairs, avoiding the question for now. Could you wait from September to May to see him again? Could you go so long without him?

As you picked up a half knitted torso from your bag, pressing it to his face, you realised you couldn't. You also realised you had made a naive mistake. You had thought you were domesticating a stray but in the meanwhile you had opened him your home, your heart. You had invested your time in him and that made him much more than a stray. You were giving him a forever home.

“Is this for me?” he asked innocently, gently, rubbing his face against the soft, airy fabric.

“It’s alpaca wool,” you commented drily. You already knew you would give up on your long-term dream sweater only to see him all fluffed up in the pastel mesh of colours. You smiled as he pressed it closer to his face.

“So soft,” he murmured, nuzzling up against the small piece of knitwork. The moment he opened his eyes, you realised his nose was just a tiny bit red from the chilly breeze coming from the sea, carrying a storm in its wake. His cheeks were rosy and puffy, his eyes big and dark. And his eyelashes, so dainty and insanely… flirtatious? He looked like he was seducing you for the slowest of seconds.

You looked away, cheeks aflame. “Let’s go. Before the rain comes.”

Yoongi startled at your tone, cloudy for the first time since that night when you’d known each other too little, and he’d been unforgivably too sarcastic. He followed you like a confused pet down the stairs, then grabbed his earpods and passed one to you.

You were especially thankful for the music now that your thoughts were too scattered for you to form sentences and make some conversation.

“It will rain in a bunch of minutes,” Yoongi commented. “There’s no use walking today.”

You ignored him. Would he leave if you agreed with his statement? Would he think walking was pointless, and therefore there was no reason for the two of you to spend any time together today? Too lost in trying to find a meaning to how sad you felt at the thought of being apart, you didn’t realise a raindrop had hit your nose.

The storm was coming.

An angry guitar riff came on, The Neighbourhood blaring from the earphone as Yoongi grabbed your hand. One drop followed the other, his hand around your wrist as he tugged at your arm, running fast, faster, to a speed that felt ridiculous considering how lazy he always was.

‘I’m going back to 505, if it’s a seven-hour flight or a forty-five-minute drive. In my imagination you’re waiting lying on your side, with your hands between your thighs, and a smile…’

You ran, faster, short of breath, the music carrying you across the sand. You didn’t even realise you were trusting Yoongi completely, even as he led you past your tower, even as he kept running while the downpour broke loose, even as The Beatles came on, singing about jars by the door and lonely people, even as the morning got so dark, the sky like a purple shiner after a rowdy pub fight.

You kept running, Yoongi panting as the two of you finally recognised the fence of his house, the tower barely visible behind the thick cover of rain and mist. “Come on!” he gasped out.

You kept running until you were under his porch. “What the hell, Yoongi! Why didn’t we stop at the tower!?” you scolded him, barely alive, barely breathing — how had he worn you out like this? He was way less trained than you, and yet he’d managed to run by your side, keeping your pace, ending up winded, sure, but in way better a state than you’d thought he would be.

He shook his head, bent in two, his hands gripping his knees. “I was distracted! I wasn’t thinking!”

You shook your head, too busy pulling oxygen into your lungs to fight him back. After a few breathless minutes, you sat down on the first step of the staircase. “You knew it would rain. Why did you come?”

Yoongi felt called out all of a sudden. “I— I thought you were expecting me to come. I don’t have your number so I couldn’t text you. Or call you.” He sat down beside you, his hands pressed in between his knees. “I didn’t want you to worry or think I had forgotten.” He took in a large breath. Somehow the little effort of a confession required way more air than the makeshift marathon under the storm — it was definitely shorter than a marathon. Probably not even a tenth of it. He just knew that was the longest and the fastest he’d ever run, but you were running, and you were so majestic and he just wanted to be part of it.

Yoongi paused, gathered his courage, then murmured, “I didn’t want you to feel lonely.”

You recognised the guitar strums immediately, the song changing once more. You looked at Yoongi, Hozier’s soft voice crooning at your ear. “What about you? Were you feeling lonely?”

He looked away, too shy, too old, too used-to-it to admit it. He had no right to feel lonely when you weren’t around. He had been alone for so long, but loneliness? It had been a stranger to him until he’d learnt your name. “I don’t—”

You pushed his hair off his face, your index finger casually following the handsome curve of his jawline. “Yoongi?”

He finally turned to look at you, once more innocent in the way he seemed to seduce you. He looked so pure and for the first time you felt so desperate to taint him. You needed him to look normal and mundane and you prayed for your crush to fade, for his sinless charms to be washed away so he would show his true colours, because no man should be allowed to be perfect the way he felt perfect to you.

“Yoongi,” you whispered, your heart tied up with pining.

‘Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.’

You hadn’t realised your eyes were closed until it was too late, the lyrics making you open them only to notice Yoongi leaning towards you, his lips protruding in the most imploring pout you had ever seen.

You were ruined.

You tugged the earpod off, almost throwing it to the ground before hollering a ‘see you ‘round’ and running off in the cold rain.

Yoongi, confused, afraid, sat on his porch as he watched you disappear.

Part 2 will be out now!!

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