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rosalinrabbit · 18 days ago

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Dealer

Blue Banisters Tracklist

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of illegal activity and trafficking and generally creepy behavior, arguing, boss/employee relationship, implied age gap, smut, sex, slight BDSM vibes, dom!Hotch x sub!Reader, spanking, degradation, praise, slight choking, oral sex, penetrative sex.

Summary: You’ve been working at the BAU for nearly two years ever since you crossed Aaron Hotchner’s path while working undercover. When you’re asked to go undercover again to solve a case, you take a huge risk and disobey Hotch. Unfortunately for you, he thinks you need to be punished.

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: I may not have time for kinktober but I do have time for a lil halloween themed aaron fanfic

You are in charge of your own media consumption. Please read responsibly.

Do not translate or re-upload any of my work. Works are only cross-posted on AO3.

You met Aaron Hotchner in the middle of a particularly cold November. A ridiculous coincidence, really. You’d heard of him, even sent in a recent application to work for his team, though had some doubts you’d ever hear back. The BAU was a tough, tight-knit group. And even though you were working a case, you wondered if this might make the entirely wrong impression.

You worked for the FBI, in the Human Trafficking division. You’d been undercover for a little over two months, posing as a young grad student with a shady second job at a club. You weren’t a stripper, but you were dressed in a black latex bunny girl suit, complete with faux sleeve cuffs, a ribbon tied in a bow at your hip, a collar, a set of ears, and a fluffy white tail. Your job description, according to your boss, was a waitress. And you weren’t the only undercover agent at the club.

It had been a strange hotbed of criminal activity. Clearly enough so that the FBI had to show up for one reason or another. The outfit was too tight to conceal a proper weapon, all you had on you was a wire and a knife. You had to rely a lot on the others staking out the club, and you noticed one of them had just gotten distracted despite one of your targets acting quite shifty in the corner. This particular target you despised the most. You could tell something was very off about him, and as you were fed details of the case and studied the frequent customers at the bar, you were quite sure it was him. The guy wasn’t a seller, but you were quite sure he was buying. The girls he bought never showed up again.

That was when you noticed Aaron Hotchner enter the club with two other members of the BAU. Your eyes flickered between them and your target. They weren’t looking at him. They made the same mistake you initially made, focusing on the wrong guy. You’d spent enough time working the case to know, but your superior had never mentioned the BAU involving themselves in this particular case.

Taking a deep breath and plastering on your customer service smile, you walked over to Agent Hotchner holding the tray of champagne glasses.

“First time here?” You asked, tilting your head to the side as you offered them drinks.

One of the other agents, a very muscular-looking black man, answered for the three of them. “Yeah, mind if we ask you a few questions?”

You smiled. “Of course. How may I assist you?” You batted your lashes, unwilling to give up your ruse even in the presence of other federal agents. You’d worked too hard for this.

“Are there any men that frequent this club, ones that you and the other workers know to stay away from?”

“Most of the repeat customers are, surprisingly, not too bad. But there’s a few lingering around that the workers know to be careful of.” You watched your target from the corner of your eye, making sure not to look too long to tip anyone off. You watched him eye a girl who’s friend had just left to go to the bathroom. “I can point out a few, but I think you can usually tell just by looking at them,” you shrugged, putting a hand on your barely concealed hip. You carefully caught the eye of the man you were speaking to and pointedly glanced to the corner where the most suspicious regulars tended to gather.

“That’s all, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

You smiled at the three of them, watching closely as they moved toward the wrong man. Just your luck, your target stood up at the same time as the other guy did, and they both went in opposite directions.

Attempting to casually wade through the busy crowd, you couldn’t seem to catch the eye of your undercover partner, but you saw the target talk to the girl sitting alone before luring her towards the back. Quickly, you managed to pass the tray to another worker before looking back, catching agent Hotchner staring at you. You wished there was a way to signal that you could use his help, but you didn’t know him. Instead, you mouthed the words “wrong guy” to him across the crowded floor, music blaring in your ears as you quickly turned and tried to quietly follow the man through the back of the club.

That night, you had managed to not only get a recording of the man talking to your “boss” about their second business, but also witnessed him inject the girl in the backroom with a tranquilizer. After finally retrieving your handcuffs and pistol from your partner, you both managed to tackle and arrest the two men, and requested backup to gather evidence at the club and pick up the handcuffed men.

It must have been a ridiculous sight, you in a bunny girl costume with your gun now holstered to your hip once more, holding the handcuffed arms of a criminal behind his back in a cold dark alley. When you finally got them loaded into the cars, you turned to see Aaron Hotchner watching you.

“Hello again,” you greeted a bit nervously, no longer playing a character and now just an FBI agent standing in hardly any clothes in front of a higher-ranking agent. “I’m Agent y/l/n, FBI, Human Trafficking division,” you held your hand out.

He shook it. “Agent Aaron Hotchner. Unit Chief of the BAU. You tried to warn me back there,” he commented, taking off his own jacket and coming closer to offer it to you. You gave him an unsure look, and he returned it with an insistent one.

“Thank you, sir. And yes, but it’s hard to do much of that in a busy nightclub,” you shrugged, putting the jacket over yourself and finally getting both relief from the cold and from the embarrassment of showing so much leg and cleavage in front of the man you really wanted to work under. For! Work for. Although, he was quite tall. And quite handsome.

“Still. You did a good job. It seemed like you caught something we didn’t. How could you tell we were looking into the wrong guy?”

“I’ve been working on this case for over two months. At first, I had the same assumption. But something from the profile was missing. I watched them both, and eventually came to the conclusion that I got it wrong the first time.”

“What I’m really asking is how you knew who we were going in there for.”

“Oh, I just watched you. I knew when you came in. He was the first guy your gaze really stuck on.”

His expression showed the slightest hint of amusement. “Are you interested in a job?”

You smiled. “Very much so.”

“Send me your resume.”

“It’s already submitted for the open position, sir.”

He nodded, giving you a strange look.

“I expect I’ll see you again soon, then,” and he started to walk away.

“Wait, your jacket!”

“You can return it later. At your interview.”

That night was almost two years ago. The two of you had been a nearly inseparable pair ever since. You knew how to read him across a room, and he knew how to read you. You figured that was why he always had you with him.

Just two months in, he told you he might be leaving the BAU after getting suspended for two weeks. His wife didn’t want him to work anymore. Said that his job isn’t who he is, just what he does.

You seemed to shock him by looking at him like you always did when the two of you spoke. As if the entire thing was obvious.

“I don’t think she can possibly understand how much we care about what we do. How what we do is who we are, and we know not everyone can do it. You’re one of the best, Hotch. You can be a good father and a good agent. Unfortunately, whether you can be a good husband and a good agent? That is an opinion left up to your wife. Her definition is what really matters, not yours.”

You’d stood up from the chair across from his desk then, trying to hide the distress at the possibility of rarely seeing and never working with him again.

“I.. The team” you quickly corrected yourself, “doesn’t want you to leave. But I think what matters the most is what you want, Hotch. You only get one life. This is your career. This is the path you chose.” You took a deep breath. “Don’t let her choose for you, but you can choose her. We would all understand.”

He stayed. And your relationship had slowly taken a much more tense and strange turn. You were in-sync. Knew each other too well. Your heart skipped a beat when he looked at you. You both noticed the lingering looks, but never said a thing about it. You did everything you always do, together. Especially since his divorce. You shared rooms, meals, notes, just about everything. Your leg was always slightly pressed against his when sitting next to him. His arm was often placed behind you when the two of you were walking somewhere in an unknown environment. Close. You were close.

Yet your relationship had never crossed the line. The meals were usually take out, the rooms had two beds, the time spent together was all under the guise of “work.” Just work.

And nearly two years since that first fateful night that you met Aaron Hotchner, you were back in the stupid bunny suit.

It was all Derek’s fault, you were convinced. It was his idea, and Emily, Penelope, and Derek all thought it would be funny to put you back in the costume that started it all.

You had to go undercover at a club during a Halloween party. This unsub was a freak, and everyone dressed in costumes certainly didn’t ease your nerves about the whole thing.

Crossing your arms with a huff as you exited the bathroom at the local precinct, you glared at Derek who had picked out the costume. Spencer turned around from whatever he was working on and nearly spit out his water and started coughing.

“Is this necessary? I can’t even carry a gun on me…”

“You wore it undercover before. Come on, Bunny!” You frowned at the use of your nickname. The one you got from the night you first met Derek, Hotch, and Rossi. “I thought you’d be comfortable in a familiar outfit,” he teased. “Besides, we need you to fit the victimology. Young attractive girls having fun at parties.” While this would certainly be considered harassment in any other unit with any other team, you adored Derek. You couldn’t help but smirk a little bit at his comment.

“You’re such a jerk,” you said unseriously. “Besides, I was pretending to be a worker back then. I couldn’t say no to my boss. You, however, aren’t my boss.”

It was then that Emily and Hotch came into the room, and Emily’s jaw dropped.

“Why do you look so hot!” she exclaimed, dramatically setting the files down on the table in front of her.

“This is the outfit Derek picked for me,” you sighed. “Look familiar?” You did a dramatic turn in front of them, trying to keep your eyes off of Hotch in embarrassment.

“I could never forget,” Hotch shook his head, clearly amused, but he looked tense. You narrowed your eyes at him a bit.

“I’ll wear it for old times sake, and because I know you guys will actually cover me.”

Derek, Hotch, and Emily went with you to the club. You were in Chicago, and Derek warned you that the parties could get a bit wild. Sitting in the back of the SUV, you couldn’t help but ask. “So, where’s your costumes?”

“Men in Black,” Hotch replied as though it were obvious.

Derek turned to look at you in the back, and pulled a cat ears headband out of nowhere, putting it on his head.

“We match.”

You all entered the club separately, and it wasn’t long until you were trying to fend people off left and right. It was getting difficult, as well. You hadn’t been in a relationship in a long time, and the lack of attention was getting to you. Well, at the very least, this evening showed you that you could still pull off the bunny suit.

You were being hit on by a very attractive older man, and nearly giving in to his flirting, until something caught your eye. Someone that matched the description of the unsub. You snapped back into reality. Watching the man closely as he moved through the crowd. You apologized to the older man before moving to follow, also trying to find where Hotch and Derek might be, but you couldn’t see them. Despite your heart pounding in your chest, you managed to strike up a conversation with the unsub at the bar. You played the innocent young girl as much as possible, while trying to not seem too conveniently naive. Your goal was now to try and get him out of the club, away from other people. He was more than likely carrying a gun on him, and you knew whatever you were doing was dangerous.

Yet as he asked you if you wanted to go somewhere quieter, feigning that he couldn’t hear what you were saying, you agreed, hoping to appeal to his ego and not raise any alarm. You turned back to the busy club, eyes desperately searching for someone familiar, and you found him. He was up on the second floor, looking right at you. This time, he recognized the look you were giving him, his grip on the railing tightened and he shook his head, discouraging whatever the hell you thought you were about to do. And you didn’t listen.

“You knew better than to go off and do that,” he scolded harshly, his anger seeping off of him and you felt yourself flinch. It was later that night. After the unsub attacked you in an alley not far from the club, you had managed to take him down without any assistance before Hotch and Derek made it to where you were. This was made much easier by the alcohol you had encouraged him to drink while speaking with him at the bar…

“And what the hell did you think you were doing, flirting ON THE JOB?” his voice rose and filled the hotel room the two of you shared.

“With the unsub?” You asked incredulously. “You asked me to go undercover! I got the guy! We had evidence, he’s in custody! Why are we arguing over this? It doesn’t even matter.”

This had been going on for five minutes already, starting since he shut the door to your shared hotel room. You hadn’t even changed out of the stupid costume as you sat perched on the corner of your bed with your arms crossed. The only part you had taken off were the stupid ears, now left on the nightstand.

“Not with the unsub, you were talking to someone else before. I saw you. What were you thinking?!”

“I don’t know, maybe that I haven’t been on so much as a date since I started working for the BAU? I got the job done, I don’t know why you’re so mad because I talked to someone who was interested in me for less than a minute!”

“You can’t take going undercover as an opportunity to inflate your ego because you’re lonely.”

You stood up then, in complete shock at the words coming out of his mouth. You didn’t even look him in the eye.

“That was low,” you murmured, suddenly moving around the room to throw your belongings back into your bag.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Leaving.”

“Y/n, wait. Listen to me-”

“No!” you stopped him as he tried to approach you. “Just because you think you know me doesn’t mean you get to throw it in my face. That’s fucking low. I have given up so much for this job, so much for you.”

“I never asked you to give up anything for me.” You zipped your bag and looked up at him. “And I don’t think I know you. I do know you. And if you want me to stop, tell me and I will, but I don’t think you’ll need to.”

“What do you think you’re-“ the end of your sentence broke off in a small yelp as he approached you and quickly had you bent over his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed, delivering a harsh slap to your ass.

You let out a moan at the sensation, unable to bite it back because of how much he had surprised you.

“Are you familiar with the color system?”

You were reeling from shock, but nodded your head.

“Words, y/n. I need you to understand how to use it if you want to.”

“Red means stop, yellow means slow down, green is all good.”

“Yes. Color?”

“Green,” you responded readily.

He kept talking, and kept spanking your ass harshly as he did so.

“Do you have any idea,” slap “how many times I’ve thought about doing this to you?” slap “Even the first god damn time I saw you in this ridiculous outfit,” slap “looking like such a little whore,” slap “I wanted to bend you over my lap just like this. You certainly misbehave enough to deserve it.”

Your legs were squeezing together as you let out broken moans at the sensation of his large hand spanking you over and over, you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second when he suddenly grabbed your face and made you look at him, craning your neck from where you were placed on his lap.

“Is this what you wanted?” You nodded, looking into his eyes. “Say it.”

“Yes, sir,” you managed.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Get on your knees.”

He released you and you slid off of him and onto the floor, kneeling in front of where he sat on the edge of the bed.

You bit your lip as you tried not to squirm on the floor, waiting for him to unbuckle his belt. He paused before doing so to look at you. Another look asking if you were really okay with this. You smiled at him, nodding, and he swiftly took his length out, causing you to nearly whimper at the size and the look of it. He was rock hard, and the tip was oozing precum.

Slowly, you leaned in and licked his cock tentatively, before he grabbed your hair and pushed you down on his length eliciting a muffled moan from you as you fought not to choke. He started thrusting into your mouth slowly, and at the sound of his groans you nearly lost it. His voice was already like a drug for you, hearing it in such an erotic state was driving you crazy. So much so that you tried to sneak your hand down and rub against your throbbing clit, desperate for any kind of friction. You only got away with it for a few moments before he noticed, taking his free hand and pulling your arm away.

“What kind of girl gets so drenched just from sucking off her boss’s dick? Hm?”

He pulled you off of his cock just for a moment, and instead of answering, you just whimpered, pressing your thighs together, and he brought you back down to his cock. He started fucking your mouth again, and you kept moving your hips, grinding into nothing as you desperately sought relief.

“Are you really that desperate?” He pulled you off again, and you nodded pathetically, spit dripping from your mouth and eyes glazed over.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you nodded again. “Please.”

“Are you gonna be a good girl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On the bed.”

You scrambled off the floor to do as you were told, hurrying over to the closest bed which just so happened to be the one you had claimed during your stay, but he stopped you.

“No,” his voice was quick and firm. “I want you on my bed.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly at his words, making you slightly curious about just how deep his instinct to claim you as “his” went. Happily, you followed his request and quickly found yourself on the other side of the room. Rather than sit and face the wall, you were feeling a little bold, and got on all fours with your ass prominently on display.

“What a well-behaved bunny,” he mused as he took off his clothes, leaving you twitching and desperate for him, with your neck craning to the side as your cheek was against the duvet. You quietly stared as he unbuttoned his shirt, and quickly got restless when he began to reveal more of his skin.

It felt like forever until he was on the bed behind you, his cock sheathed in a condom and pressing against your still-clothed ass.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Do you want to let me use you? Or do you just want to cum?” He asked, his voice in a deep tone and his large hand reaching to caress your neck, gently grabbing your hair between his fingers and guiding your head up to look at him. It felt like an interrogation the way he questioned you, but it drastically increased the tension, and only made you want him more, and he shifted you slightly so your back was now against his chest, firmly in his hold.

“Mm, both.”

He chuckled from behind you. One of his hands was now gripping your breast which was barely hidden. The bodice of the costume relied on flimsy see-through straps to stay up, and he was quick to tear them off, making no more than a quick snapping sound before they were thrown somewhere on the floor. You felt him begin to press kisses to the side of your neck as he pulled the top of the fabric down, revealing your breasts and hungrily kneading them with one hand. With the other, his hand was traveling down your hip and across the front of your thighs before he hooked the fabric that covered your soaked entrance with his finger and moved it to the side. You gasped at the feeling of his hand moving directly against your clit, still impatient to cum even though it was well worth the wait.

“Damn, you’re perfect.” The praise has you reeling as you rocked against him slightly. He lowered you back to where you had been, on all fours, and you could feel himself lining his cock up with your entrance behind you. “Ready, bunny?”

You nodded, and he easily entered you in a single thrust, no doubt thanks to how absurdly wet you had become. Despite the ease of entrance, the stretch felt brutal, it had you gasping and clutching the bedding under you.

He felt so big, and you hadn’t been fucked in a while.

“Oh god,” you whimpered. “Sir, you’re so big.”

He let out a groan that had you clenching around his length, and pushing your hips back against him. His thick fingers found your hips and gripped them tightly as he pulled out almost to the tip and slammed back into you. You hadn’t realized how gentle he had started out until he began to pound into you at full force, each thrust making your legs tremble as his length hit the deepest spots inside of you.

Given that you had already been so worked up from sucking him off, and were still riding the end of an adrenaline high from your work in the field earlier that night, your orgasm was rapidly approaching, only encouraged by the way Aaron had gently caressed any part of your body he could reach with one hand while the other still had a white hot grip on your hips.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to mess with the big bad wolves, bunny?” He murmured in your ear, aware of just how close you were and he knew exactly how to push you over the edge. Your eyes rolled back when his large hand found its way to your neck, squeezing gently but enough for you to feel it. Your legs shook uncontrollably as that coil inside you snapped and you let out a broken cry at the intensity of the orgasm washing over you. His movements only faltered slightly, otherwise unaffected by the way your walls had suffocated his cock.

You didn’t have the time or awareness to register just how quickly his movements were, as he pulled out of you, unzipped the back of your costume, quickly tore it entirely off your body, and flipped you over to face him. Your face flushed as you tried to catch your breath.

“Ooh, look at you,” he groaned. “Perfect little bunny.” Despite his mockingly sweet tone, he shoved himself back into you roughly, earning a cry from your lips as your oversensitive pussy took him in once more. The pleasure he was giving you was so intense, doubled by your years-long crush for the man who was giving it to you. You were so sensitive it felt almost cruel, but you didn’t want him to stop. His hand explored your body, gripping your bare hips and squeezing your breasts, putting his hands everywhere he’d never been able to before.

“Please,” you breathed out after a particularly sharp thrust, reaching for one of his hands but struggling to get your bearings enough to get a hold of it.

“Please what, bunny?”

The only response you could give was a drawn-out moan, but at your struggle, he placed a hand in your searching one, and you immediately brought it right to your throat.

“You want me to squeeze or just hold?”

“Hold,” you murmured, blushing that he stopped to check, the moment becoming more tender than either of you had intended. He kept a firm hold around your neck without choking you, just keeping you in place. Showing his power over you.

“You’re such a dirty bunny,” he murmured, resuming his sharp thrusts as you bit your lip to muffle the whines coming from your throat. You could feel how intensely you were pulsing around him, the sight of him over you with his hand around your neck causing your eyes to roll back as he fucked you into oblivion, slowly devolving to a blubbering and begging mess.

“Fuck, please! Please pleaseplease- sir-“ you slurred, hardly aware of anything except him as his cock brushed against every sensitive spot inside of you. While his thrusts had been deep and controlled and measured, your begging seemed to cause his pace to falter.

“Pretty Bunny,” he groaned, “cum again for me, make a mess on my dick.”

Your nails dug into his arms as you let out a cry, an odd deep feeling of relief settling over you as you came again with him buried inside of you, feeling as though all your nerves were on fire. His thrusts were starting to grow more erratic as he stared down at you, watching you as you sunk deeper into bliss, becoming less and less aware of what was around you.

“Eyes on me, Bunny,” he panted, hand squeezing your throat gently for a moment just to get your attention. Your eyes opened, locking onto his as soon as you comprehended what he had asked, staring up at him “Fuck, your eyes are so pretty.” Even in your blissed-out state, you hadn’t expected such a genuine compliment, staring at him in wonder as his movements slowed.

“Please, wanna feel you cum in me,” you whined, rocking your hips against him as he moved his hand from your throat to tightly grip your hip, trying to pull you further into him as he slammed into you, letting out a deep groan as he came, spilling into the condom while sheathed inside of you. You couldn’t help but moan at the feeling of him throbbing, and winced when he slowly began to pull out of you before disposing of the condom and laying next to you, pulling you into his arms. The two of you stayed like that for a long moment after you wiggled your way further into his grasp and laid your head next to his chest.

“You’re really warm,” you sighed happily, trying to escape the chilly air of the room. He laughed, a sound you rarely heard from him.

“I was jealous,” he murmured above you. Your mind was still hazy, body feeling heavy but tingly with pleasure.

“Huh?” You managed to question through the fog, eyes opening to look at him.

“When I saw you talking to that guy. I was jealous.”

“Is that why you got so mad?” You teased.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said, I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“No, but I won’t mind getting reprimanded more often…”

“Greedy,” he smiled.

You sighed happily. “We really came full circle, didn’t we?”

He nodded. “Took us long enough. Derek has been telling me I need to ask you out since we met at that party two years ago.”

"The bunny girl outfit never fails," you murmured, smiling at him.

"On you? Never."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #rorabbit

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literatooru · 1 month ago

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𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞

pairing: gn!reader x atsumu miya

note: repost from my old blog 𐚁

When Atsumu walks in, his eyes instantly land on you, and the first thing he thinks is “woah… pretty”. He stares for a second—until he realizes what he’s doing and shakes his head to clear his mind. He doesn’t want to come off as a creep, but he can’t stop his eyes from straying back to you. And when he hears your voice when you talk to your coworker? Whew.

He tries his best to behave normally while waiting in line, he really does. He simply fails miserably at it. And it’s not like his usual behavior is what one would consider ‘normal’, being the drama king he is.

Atsumu purses his lips, deep in thought. He’s wondering what the best approach would be. Maybe flash one of his winning smiles at you? Nah, too basic. Or maybe he should make the face. You know the one, eyebrow slightly cocked, head tilted to the side a little, narrowed eyes. Maybe he’d even bite his lip. No, nope. He just remembered someone told him that was a 'fuckboy face'.

Before he even realizes it, you’re staring directly into his eyes. He hesitates, taken aback. They’re so pretty, especially up close. There’s just something about them. Atsumu’s sure they’ll pop up in his dreams once or twice. At least he hopes so.

“Welcome! What can I get you today?” you say, sounding just a little bit tired.

He likes it, in a way. The fact that you don’t hide behind a cheery persona that's obviously fake. Well, technically you should —customer service and all that—, but you still sound nice enough that he doesn’t mind. He likes the sincerity in your voice.

And when you blink up at him, he realizes he’s staring. Again.

Atsumu clears his throat, plastering a bright smile on his face and leaning forward a little, resting his hands on the counter. That just makes him take a closer look at your eyes and — oh, boy. He thinks he might be in love.

“Hi, um… I’d like a Macchiato — medium size, please, and a… Turkey Pesto Panini,” he orders.

You hum, typing on the register and taking an empty medium cup from the small tower of them in front of you.

“Will that be all?” you ask, Sharpie in hand.

“Actually, if you could add your phone number to that, please,” he adds, then smiles innocently. “And thank you.”

Your brow creases lightly, although the amused smile on your lips reassures him that you’re not actually mad.

“You think you’re so smooth, don’t you?” you cock an eyebrow, resting a hand on your hip.

“That’s cuz I am.” He gives a playful shrug, smiling a little brighter at you.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not on the menu, sir.”

Atsumu feels butterflies in his stomach when you call him that. It sounds so good, so sweet… even though you’re looking at him like you want him to leave already. But it’s just that — ugh, your voice. Is he in heaven? He must be.

“Hmm, pity,” he mumbles, pressing his index finger against his lips.

“What’s your name?”

He perks up. Are you flirting with him? Is that what’s— oh. He notices you readying the Sharpie to write his name on the plastic cup. Right. But Atsumu still thinks it’s not too late to shoot his shot.

“You can call me yours.”

You give him a deadpan look.

“Seriously. That’s the best you could come up with?” You grimace a little, lowering the cup.

Atsumu deflates visibly, blowing a puff of air through his lips.

“Hey, c'mon. A guy is trying.”

You raise your eyebrows, almost laughing at his honesty. You can’t deny it, he’s cute. Like, really cute. And he doesn’t seem like a complete jerk, even if his pick up lines certainly aren’t the best.

“Kudos for your effort. I’ll admit your jacket’s pretty cool, though,” you concede, if only to give him something.

Also, you can’t deny you like the way his eyes seem to light up a little after your words.

“Ya like it? It’s made of boyfriend material.” He winks.

Scratch that, his pick up lines suck. But he does manage to make you chuckle with that one, even if the reason is that it’s extremely ridiculous and silly. And Atsumu cheers up a little; he likes the sound of your laugh, and —yup, he’s definitely in heaven.

“Name,” you demand, pursing your lips.

Atsumu’s only thought is that he really wants to kiss you. But he knows a lost battle when he sees one, and he can’t afford to humiliate himself further. Osamu would never let him hear the end of it if he saw how badly he’s being rejected. He cringes at the thought, thanking god he decided to go alone.

“Atsumu,” he sighs in defeat.

“Great. What type of milk would you like for your drink?”

Atsumu wheezes almost inaudibly, averting his gaze as he presses his lips into a thin line. Because it’s a real struggle for him to keep his comments about ‘milk’ to himself. He figures it’s not the best thing to joke about if he hopes to have the slightest chance with you.

“Whole,” he stammers. “No, wait, 'm lactose intolerant. Uh, lactose free.” He grimaces.

“Will that be all?”

And now it’s Atsumu’s turn to purse his lips, thinking. And what he thinks is ‘screw it’.

“I don’t suppose I could add a date to that? You, me, and a delicious home cooked meal. I’m an excellent cook, you won’t regret it. Sounds good, huh?”

He’s lying, of course. He’d ask his brother for help, or maybe buy some take out and pretend he made it himself. It works in movies, surely he can do the same.

“No can do.” You shake your head softly, hiding the fact that you’re fighting a smile by looking down as you scribble his name on the cup. It seems to take you more time than he’d expect. “I could add another drink, though, if you’d like.”

“Okay, how about a Cinnamon Dolce Latte. Make it a large,” he murmurs, resting his elbow on the counter and placing his chin on the palm of his hand. You move to grab a large cup, pausing for a second when he speaks again. “That one’s for you, by the way. On me.”

And Atsumu feels giddy when you actually flash a smile his way. A real smile. You cock your head to the side, peering at him with curiosity.

“How’d you know?”

“I’m just good at reading people, I guess,” he shrugs nonchalantly, his suave demeanor faltering as you simply blink at him, entirely unimpressed. “Alright, fine, I heard you earlier saying you wanted one, I just- what’s- how much is it?”

Your gaze flickers briefly to the register, adding the large Cinnamon Dolce Latte to his tab. You suppress a smile by chewing on your lip, and Atsumu wishes you’d stop doing that because god, he really, really wants to kiss you right now.

“That’ll be $15.55, please,” you inform, swiping his Starbucks card. You take the money he’s offering you —Atsumu makes sure to brush his hand against yours, and you almost scoff because he wasn’t even subtle about it, he might as well just grab your whole hand and declare his undying love to you on the spot—, and you count the change and give it to him with a kind smile. “Here’s your change. Thank you. Your order will be given to you—”

“Be honest, though,” he interrupts you, leaning closer to you. You can feel your face feeling a little warmer at his proximity, but Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice. He aquints his eyes at you. “Didn’t it work? Like, not even a little bit?” he asks, pinching the air between his forefinger and thumb.

“Sir, you’re holding up the line,” is all you say.

Atsumu groans, throwing his head back in frustration. He actually stomps a little when he walks away, too busy throwing a tantrum that he can’t see nor hear you giggling at the counter. He also doesn’t hear when you ask your coworker to switch places with you so you can make his order.

He stuffs his change inside his wallet, folding his arms across his chest. Waiting for his drink, he stops himself from allowing his eyes to wander back to you. He can’t help it, you’re just… gorgeous. And, to be completely frank, he’s also gorgeous, and he thinks you’d make a great match.

He breathes out softly when you call out his name, biting the inside of his cheek as he walks over to retrieve his order. Muttering a low ‘thanks’, he takes his bagged panini and drink with slumped shoulders, walking out the store with gloomy attitude.

He takes a sip of his drink, coughing a little when he accidentally burns himself. He scowls at the cup — almost like he thinks it’s its fault rather than his. And his eyes widen in disbelief, because right under his name, there’s a phone number and a short note, which reads ‘I get off at 6 :)’

And he hoots in delight with a jump, and his bagged panini falls to the floor —although he picks it up hastily— because you even put a smiley face and everything. And he can’t help but notice that your handwriting is also really pretty, and it fits you. And Atsumu chuckles.

He pulls his phone out, searching for his brother’s contact. Yeah, yeah, Atsumu doesn’t know Osamu’s phone number by heart, but that’s what the contacts app is for, right?

“Samu, I need your help.”

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elliesmainhoe · 11 months ago

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Ellie Williams Headcanons : RichOlderWoman!Ellie

I got this as an ask but Tumblr ate it 😱 so here you go anon.

Okay Okay. So, first things first, from day one Ellie was always adamant when saying that you were NEVER her sugar baby.

you were just her controversially young girlfriend who she liked to spoil and have perched on her lap during boring business meetings.

speaking of SPOLING-

she regularly takes you on trips to expensive high end malls which exclusively house designer brands and WILL buy you anything you look at as long as you hold her hand while you both walk around.

but CEO Ellie Williams is a busy woman, and doesn't always have a long enough interval between meetings to keep you company.

in those cases she simply kisses you cheek and forehead before handing you a small black card and saying "give me a show of everything you buy when I get home, hm?"

arthritis may be fast approaching but those hips do not slow

(jk she's only in her late thirties, and you know for a fact the extent of working out she does keeps her joints in check)

in fact she gives the best strap game. the experience and the variety of expensive toys and the regular gym routine = 🤩

always her arm candy

every once in a while after lovingly gazing at you for a little too long, looking at your soft supple thighs, pink lipstick coated lips and shiny hair cascading beautifully from your head. she feels insecure?

it's an odd feeling.

an unfamiliar feeling.

but Ellie is mature, it's one thing you admire about herand she knows that a problem won't be resolved unless she talks to you.

so she does, and as soon as the voices of concern fall from her lips, you soon put those thoughts to rest <333

she does the same to you!!

it was a normal day, you woke up to a cup of coffee on your bed side, a small pastry from your favorite bakery, a credit card and a note which read:

"Good Morning my love, I completely forgot about the early morning meeting I had today. I got you some pastries as an apology, I'm sorry we can't go shopping today like we planned, but here's my card and the driver can take you to the mall.

Love you pretty girl, Ellie x"

•••••••

it was a while later when Joel, your driver, pulled up outside the office building, you thanked him swiftly and walked quickly towards the automatic doors of 'Williams Enterprises Headquarters', expensive jimmy choo heels clicking against the concrete entrance. The security guard, Bob, nodded his head in greeting and you returned the gesture with a smile.

The receptionist was... different. the usual blonde haired girl was replaced by a middle aged woman with greying hair, deep set wrinkles imbedded in pale skin. "Hi what can I do for you today?" a high squeaky voice came from her mouth. a tone of voice you knew from years of retail work and customer service, you winced instinctively.

"Hi, I'm here to see Miss Williams." you reply, fingers tightening on the strap of the mulberry purse Ellie had gifted you for your 2nd anniversary a few months passed.

"hmmm. I don't see you on the schedule, do you have an appointment?" she smiled, the fakeness clear and tone of voice irritated.

"oh, uhm no. I'm her girlfriend" silence. the fake smile plastered on the woman's face falling, as she looked over behind her to a colleague who nodded in confirmation of the story you had given her.

"sorry if this is intrusive kid, but aren't you a little young." she spoke, and chewed a piece of him you hadn't noticed before rather obnoxiously. "I mean I can tell you're..." her eyes scanned your frame "reaping the benefits."

"I mean, god I can't blame you" she continued " if I had the looks and youth I once did I would happily suck off anyone for chanel. Now tell me doll, how much surgery has Mrs. Williams paid for you to have done, surely those tits aren't real?"

you quickly brushed past her, ignoring the intrusive questions and stepped into the elevator, pressing the floor Ellie's office resided on.

the site of you immediately brought a smile onto your girlfriend's previously pinched and visibly frustrated face. "Hi pretty girl,", she pushed out her chair from behind her desk, patting her thigh for you to sit on. "Hi Els." the frown you couldn't quite erase from your features furrowed your brows in a way Ellie couldn't ignore.

"What happened baby? you upset with me for leaving earlier?" she asked softly, adjusting you on her lap and kissing your temple. "nah it's not that- I just-" your hands instinctively began playing with Ellie's fingers, twisting the ring on her index finger slowly. "the new lady, in reception. she said something-" you sighed. "and I just can't shake it."

"do you think that, I'm a burden? that the fact I'm so young means I'm leeching off you? I don't want to do that Ells. I like dresses and bags and makeup and you give that to me because you can, but I just- if you ever don't want to buy me stuff, please tell me Ells, I don't want to take and take and take when you don't want me to."

a soft chuckle shook Ellie's chest "pretty girl, look at me. The reason I work is to spoil you, the reason I go to these bullshit meetings with these stuckup assholes is to give you and me a life where money is no object. I love you sweet girl" she kissed your plush lips, the tension seemingly draining out of your body at the touch.

"now, which receptionist said that?"

•••••••••

A/N: cute little hc and drabble to get me back into the swing of things.

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yandereunsolved · 3 months ago

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Yandere Aegon with barkeep reader—you aren't getting paid enough for this.

Yandere Aegon always escaped to Fleabottom to indulge in pleasures and escape painful memories. The weight of the crown on his head nearly snapped his neck every time he was forced to wear it. Yet here, in Dragon Breaths Tavern, he was simply another stranger within the crowd of thousands. He always chose to conceal his appearance, but his voice was always what gave him away.

He has a favorite barkeep: you.

You always listen to his ramblings. You make sure he has somewhere to sleep when he is far too intoxicated to escape back to the castle. You're irritable and snap at people. It's hot. You never let anyone get away with anything in the bar, not even him.

Mhm.

He'd whine your name in the middle of the night when his mind was far too gone to care about the possible consequence.

Yandere Aegon is incredibly talkative while drunk. His depression, or known at that time as just an incurable sadness, was on full display. He'd ask for your strongest drink and order so many that he forgot his name and title. It was almost endearing. He'd babble on about what made him sad, and you'd listen attentively.

You didn't have to worry much about people realizing he was the king. The ones that did disappeared. They were murdered, most likely.

You may have no formal education, but that doesn't make you completely inept.

You could see the unhinged glint in his violet irises. You could tell he was getting attached. You just couldn't do much about it. You need the job, and he never forgets to give you a hefty tip for your service.

Yandere Aegon has propositioned you on multiple occasions. Most of the time he's plastered, a handful he's not. He always gives you a sly smile and some fleeting touches. You scolding him only makes him want you more. He's hard more than he's drunk.

Whether you agreed to it or not, the only difference is time. If you love him, then you get your freedom just a bit longer. If you're stubborn about your love, then he'll make sure there are chains around your hands, ankles, and most importantly, heart.

Yandere Aegon makes you take a job in the castle. You become the cupbearer. It's a job that doesn't bring much excitement, unless you count pompous nobles talking through their asses 'excitement'. You make a good amount of coin. Your social status rises faster than a dragon taking to air.

Your own room. A room near Aegon's.

It is as if he purposefully thinned the walls, much to your displeasure. You can hear the moans from whores and Aegon alike during the hours when everyone is given rest. It's an endless torture that slips into your dreams, making them wetter than you've ever dreamt before.

Yandere Aegon has many people thinking it is inappropriate to have a commoner suddenly peak the king's interest so blatantly. You are no longer the dirt on the bottom of the nobility's shoe. You are almost equal, if not greater, due to the protection you are afforded by the ruler.

Rumors aren't needed. They will say their peace to your face. They don't fluff it up with their frivolously sacchariferous words. Those who dare are crude and ruthless.

The next day they'll end up with their heads on pikes outside the castle.

Yandere Aegon wants you as a second spouse. He fucks other whores, but only because he can't have you all day and night. He'll stop after the both of you get married. He knows it's a pipdream. He's the king, though.

Who is going to stop him?

It's not going to be Alicent or Otto.

He's not letting Aemond fucking touch you. Asshole tried to char him once. He got out with multiple scars, but he is able to walk and is still quite a looker. Aemond won't steal you. He'll the gut the fucker before it comes to that.

Yandere Aegon just needs alcohol and you. It's the only two things that're keeping him securely tethered to this world. Your specialty is alcohol. It's a match made in the heavens.

tags: ( @kawaiicoffeedream ) & ( @littybeech )

#yandere #yandere x reader #hotd #hotd x reader #yandere hotd #yandere hotd x reader #house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #yandere asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #yandere aegon ii targaryen #yandere aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen

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clairdelunelove · 1 year ago

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badges of honor

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (sticker drabble!)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, protective!ghost

synopsis: ghost doesn't understand the appeal of receiving stickers, a tangible reward, after the completion of successful missions. never thought it was necessary for his efforts. however, his mindset changes when he finds out you're the one handing them out–

a.n. just a silly lil blurb that floated around in my mind for some time! decided I'd write it and I'm thinking about writing something similar for könig too! hope you're all well! and if you wish to show more support here's my kofi! <3

holding onto the belief that ghost would stubbornly swallow his pride and allow you to decorate him in cutesy unnecessary stickers.

it starts with price’s recommendation of implementing a routine of handing out stickers after successful missions. he insists it’s a great way to dial into intrinsic motivation. to keep the task force motivated to dedicate their best into every operation. a way to recognize positive behavior. a byproduct of hoping for the most favorable outcome in war where the only images are bloodshed, conflict, and hostility. it’s a stark difference. “who knows,” price’s shoulders lift into a casual shrug as he addresses the fierce group settled around him, “it might just help you lads.” it’s a harmless and cost-efficient idea to justify the boxes of tangible reinforcements that are shipped to the base. literal cartons of sticker books that range from the traditional ‘great work!’ to ‘prized soldier!’ and the notion seems childish (disguised to be more of a scheme, in all honesty). that is, until the pieces of sticky, illustrated adhesives start working– boosting the soldiers’ determination for the taste of victory– because you’re the one handing out the affordable versions of chest candy. they adore saccharine treats. and over time, so does ghost.

ghost who initially loathes the new process that price endorses. he’s good at his job. knows he’s an expert in clandestine tradecraft. doesn’t need a miniature label tapped on his chest to recognize that no one does a better service in infiltrations or sabotages in risky environments than he does. he’s in and out like a gust of wind. well, more similar to a grim reaper that takes and punishes whoever he deems fit. a brutish force not to be reckoned with. and he reasons that this little sticker ceremony ultimately wastes time. precious alone time that ghost exploits to catch up on some well-deserved rest or exercise. because training after an intense mission totally makes sense to the lieutenant. yet, he’ll doggedly line up with the rest of the task force and await getting crowned with the bane of his existence. doesn’t wish to stir the pot with price and sit through being lectured. so he stays. and he’s a bit taken aback when he catches a glimpse of you handing out the stickers; a beaming smile on your lips while you press an overly exaggerated thumbs-up design onto the front of a soldier’s vest.

ghost who rasps, “I’ll pass,” before your fingers can pin the sticker onto him. unaware that his voice would come out grainy from the weeklong mission and, involuntarily, blunt. brash. the complete opposite of how he wished to sound towards you. notices the surprise in your eyes due to the acidity of his voice and how you instinctively shrink from him. he shifts, straight away, and hastily tries to take back his tone of voice. to right his wrongs. to atone for his mistake. however, your nervous movement is swiftly replaced with your usual upbeat nature as you plaster on a grin and dramatically bring the back of your hand to your forehead to mimic a fall, “woe is me.” you exhale pointedly while mentioning, “whatever shall I do with all these stickers then?” and ghost understands that it’s so typical of you to hide your hurt with witticism. you’re too considerate. too bright. a touch of color to his monochrome soul. venturing a step closer to you, he lightly scoffs at your melodramatic behavior and remarks, “woe is most definitely not you. now get up, pup.” and before you can comprehend, his gloved hand wraps around your wrist to gently pry it away from your face. “changed my mind,” he murmurs while indicating to the book of stickers that you casted aside, “pick one f’ me, will ya.”

ghost who refuses to comment on your shaky fingers to save you from embarrassment. it’s endearing that despite the layers of heavy clothing, you’re still hesitant to touch any part of him. “you’re all set,” you quickly chirp before stepping back to admire your handiwork. or so you tell yourself that excuse. in reality, you’re teetering on the edge of becoming distracted by the heat that he radiates. and he savors how your gaze dances across his masked face but evades his intense eyes. the most profound part of him that reduces you to stumbling on your words like a drunk. intoxicated by him. it’s like he’s drinking you in and allowing himself a selfish taste of your beauty. a thought that causes you to heavily gulp. to take your mind off of the blatant yearning, you teasingly raise the sticker book up to him, “how about I add another one? this one has glitter—” “that’ll do,” ghost interjects and turns to leave. his immediate answer and retreat brings about a genuine laugh from your lips. it’s music to his ears. wagering a glance to his chest, he notes the sticker you chose for him. cursive letters twisting into ‘you’re a star!’ followed by a smiling gold star draws his attention. you don’t spot it but as he leaves, his gloved fingers reach up to smooth the sticker over his vest. to pat it down so it stays a while longer.

ghost who attempts to convince himself that his disinterest toward the small slips of adhesive paper is still the truth. they’re just for show, right? no one really pays attention to how some of the stickers varied in size. they’re all mature adults. and it was completely unrelated how there’s regular bickering amongst various recruits that compared their hard-earned rewards. doesn’t admit that his chest visibly swells with pride whenever the other soldiers point out that ghost always receives the biggest sticker. purposefully taunts them by stating, “get better then, yeah?” he also fails to acknowledge that you’ve coerced and conditioned him to accept them like a pavlov experiment. after all, your unwillingness to comment on how he noticeably leans over so you can put stickers wherever you wished must mean that it doesn’t happen. and in the scenario where it could perhaps occur, you shouldn’t blame him because ghost was certain no one else had the willpower to brush you away. you with gentle fingers and an angelic voice. singing him a siren song whenever you mutter, “for your excellent work, lieutenant,” as you smooth on another ridiculous sticker. his heart stutters in his chest when he feels how your hand tentatively flattens against his chest. the broad muscle causing you to hum appreciatively before gracing him with a coy smile. an interaction that replays in his mind whenever he’s awake and follows him to sleep.

ghost who clenches his fist so tightly that his blunt nails bite into his own palm when he overhears a lowly recruit outrightly insult the implemented routine. hears them utter (when you’re out of earshot of course because goodness forbid that they have courage) ‘bullshit’ and how you were ‘off your rocker for putting up with this waste of time.’ and ghost isn’t usually responsive in situations like this. he’s got a covert operation to focus on in about 15 minutes. a level-headed person was far more intimidating and efficient during classified matters. now, however, his heavy boots thud against the floorboards when he stalks toward the recruit. an abrupt wave of darkness and unabridged horror before the recruit is face-to-face with ghost. “problem?” he asks challenges, voice dead and devoid of sympathy. his head slowly tilts and the action creates a dismal shadow over the eye sockets of his mask. ominous and menacing. everything that ghost is infamous for. knows he’s won when the recruit’s apology is nasally and on the verge of crying but their reaction isn’t his personal interest. what he does undertake as his responsibility, though, is when he’s called into price’s office for a debrief. he pockets some of the miscellaneous sticker books that sit on the superior’s desk. wordlessly hands them to you when you’re both briefly passing each other in the hallway. and while you profusely thank him for the additional sets (vaguely wondering what caused the change in his behavior), you playfully press a sticker above the lower portion of his mask– right where his lips are. somewhere new. you leave him rooted to the spot, the sweet gesture sending him into a stupor, and call over your shoulder, “compensation for the stickers!” he watches as you hurriedly dart away before he can react but there’s no need. he unabashedly smuggles more stickers from price’s office in hopes of reaping a similar repayment again.

ghost who reasons that stickers aren’t that bad if you’re the one giving them out. he organizes himself with the rest of the force, a brooding figure that patiently waits in the back of the line. favors being the last one because you’re able to utter more than a few words of encouragement to him. if he’s lucky then you converse and excitedly share your day with him– like you currently are. “want me all to yourself, do you?” you heartily tease him upon noticing that he’s consistently been last in line for the third time in a row. he shifts on his feet, makes a show of looking around at his fellow team members that are filtering out of the room, and deliberately concedes, “‘suppose so.” his frank answer is followed by a flustered roll of your eyes but it’s the genuineness that causes your heart to flip. you force yourself to concentrate on the task at hand– giving out prizes. unsteady fingers lifting at the sticker page, you skim the options before spotting a perfect one. your teeth catch the edge of your bottom lip as you can’t help but question, “you say that to everyone, simon?” his real name on your glossy lips. a prayer that he desires to hear being chanted over and over as he holds you in his arms. the gaze he wraps you in is burning. tempting. exhilarating. you push yourself up on your toes to reach out and place a sticker on his cheek. on the hard shell of his skull mask that you’ve learned will ultimately end in halfhearted chiding because the adhesive is difficult to remove off of it. ghost catches a glimpse of the sticker that you’ve picked. the bolded words of ‘#1 lieutenant’ flashes at him. and the sticker is like a brand you’ve adorned him in. an embellishment that he proudly displays and wears because it’s what you’ve given him. he hums, dark and inquiring, when he leans to graze his masked lips against your inner wrist. his eyes are heady and half-lidded. clouded with a violent craving for you– always you. visibly strains to make contact with your exposed skin by tilting his head to place another chaste kiss on your hand while murmuring, “just to the sweet ‘n pretty ones that I fancy.”

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #call of duty x reader #call of duty #simon riley imagine #cod x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley drabble #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

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joelscruff · 1 year ago

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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART SEVEN

previous chapters | welp. it's here. this one is a DOOZY, and i'm so sorry. i never expected it to get this long but oh well!!! go grab a snack and get settled cause this one is kinda wild. love u guys sm. i proofread this very quickly so i apologize if there's any mistakes!! and here's my kofi if you'd like to leave a tip 💕 chapter summary: the pressure is building in more ways than one. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), innocent/inexperienced reader, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, mentions of religion, catholic guilt, sexting, n00ds, oral (m receiving), lap-sitting, thigh riding, alcohol, lemme know if i missed any! word count: 15.6k ao3

You're beginning to learn that Joel runs hot and cold.

There have been moments with him, intimate and special and warm, moments that make you feel light on your feet and send butterflies wilding through your stomach. Moments where he's open and present and wants all his attention to be on you, on your body, your pleasure. His touch sets you alight, his words send tingles down your spine.

And then weekdays happen and you start second guessing yourself all over again.

On Sunday you'd attended church with your parents, another attempt at appeasing your mother in lieu of all the lies and deceit. You've only gone to a select few services since you came home, something you know they've been silently judging you for and just waiting to hold above your head. Admittedly you'd been afraid of bumping into people you knew, having to switch on your teenage persona of Good Catholic Girl™ and lie through your teeth about how good it feels to be back home again. Luckily in the few services you'd attended, you'd only run into some elderly family friends, managing to avoid anyone you went to high school with.

Your luck had to run out at some point, though. This service you'd been accosted by none other than Bethany, one of your childhood friends who you'd practically left in the dust when you'd gone away for college. Her friendship was always full of judgement, perfection, and not to mention heaps of Catholic guilt. She'd taken one look at you, appraising you up and down as if assessing you for imperfections, then pulled you into a tight hug.

"It's so good see you," she'd said when she'd pulled back, a wide - and borderline frightening - grin plastered on her face, "My momma told me you were back, thought I woulda heard from you by now!"

Your mother, standing beside you in your pew, had furrowed her brow at this, clearly confused. You hadn't understood her reaction completely until Bethany had headed off to go say hi to someone else.

"I thought you had lunch with her and Alice the other week," she'd murmured softly to you under her breath, giving you an accusatory look, "Said you'd be helping them out over the summer. That's what you told me, anyway."

Fuck.

"O-oh, right," you'd had no idea what else to say other than that, biting down on your lip and staring straight ahead as the service began. She hadn't said anything else about it, but you'd sat in discomfort and anxiety for the next hour.

In a panic, you'd found Bethany after the service and quickly asked if she needed any extra help at Sunday School, to which she'd responded with enthusiasm - a little too much - that they always needed extra hands on Thursdays to help with lesson planning. You'd jumped at the chance, telling her you'd be there.

That night you'd texted Joel. You hadn't heard from him all day despite it being a weekend, and part of you had been hoping you might go over and see him once your parents were asleep.

guess who's volunteering at church now? this idiot.

You'd expected words of comfort, maybe a joke, at least something that would make you feel better about the situation. However, his response to yours had been brief, short, simple:

Rough. Get some sleep x

This trend of short responses has only continued throughout the rest of the week. He's distant when you text him, responds with a few words at best, short and simple and almost like an entirely different person. It's hard to believe it's the same man who whispers good girl in your ear and tells you how well you're doing, how wet you are, how pretty you look. His texts are some ghostly version of him, constantly fading in and out, barely showing interest or desire - that is, if he texts you at all.

It makes your skin itch, sends your insecurities into a tailspin. Why does this always seem to happen? You can't make heads or tails of it - you know he's busy, know that his job takes a lot out of him, and yet you can't help but feel that there's something more he's not telling you. He'd told you on his back deck all about how he wasn't very happy at his job, how he'd prefer to be retired by now, living life on his own terms - so why can't he just do that? It's clearly taking a toll on him, and while part of you feels empathetic and yearns to comfort him, another part feels angry, irritated.

You'd gone to your friends with these concerns, hoping for some sort of answer or solution to the problem. Instead, they'd been more sympathetic to Joel's plight than yours.

you gotta remember you're not in a relationship with him babe

right!! men are v simple creatures. they see things black & white. ur his fuck buddy and he prob doesn't rly want it to go beyond that.

now THAT'S going too far. she's more than his fuck buddy definitely. he wouldn't have told her his whole life story last weekend if that were true.

telling her he had a fucked up childhood isn't necessarily his whole life story. most guys had shitty childhoods lbr

but he opened up!!!!! fuck buddies don't do that.

exactly

i wish you guys were here :(

i'm honestly 5 secs away from booking a flight to texas bestie. gotta use my dad's frequent flier miles somehow.

"My friend Tasha is coming to visit this weekend," you tell your mom on Wednesday evening with a smile, turning your phone toward her to show the Airbnb you'll be staying at, "We're gonna stay at this little bungalow, have a girls' weekend."

Her brow furrows, "Why can't Tasha stay here?"

Because Tasha would terrify you, you want to say, because Tasha doesn't wear pants unless absolutely necessary. Instead you just smile again and say, "I think a change of scenery would be good for me, it'll be like a mini vacation. Plus there's a hot tub."

"Now that's something we need," she turns back to her book with a shake of her head, "I swear, your father is more interested in buying that boat we'll never use instead of something new for the backyard." You hadn't been asking for her permission, but her indifference sends a wave of relief through you; you've still been trying to be on your absolute best behavior lately to make up for the lies.

You head out to the backyard and seat yourself in a lounge chair by the pool, unlocking your phone again and swiping to your last conversation with Joel from last night.

hope you had a good day :)

I'm sure yours was better. Sleep well x

Curt and to the point, not at all what you'd wanted him to reply with. You recall one of your first phone conversations, the one where you'd been experiencing the same lack of interest in his texts, what he'd said to you: Don't think for one second that I don't think about you. But how can you not? How are you supposed to feel desired when he's being like this?

can you call me tonight?

You try not to wait too long before biting the bullet, not wanting to talk yourself out of it, but you do stare at the message with your finger hovering over the send button for longer than you really need to. The sound of the back door sliding open forces you to send it, locking your phone again as your mother walks over and seats herself beside you in another chair.

"It's nice to see you wearing that again," she says with a nod to your chest, referring to your crucifix - after wearing it again last weekend you'd thought that keeping it on might please her. "You're starting to really settle in here again, aren't you?"

You try not to grimace, "Yeah, it's nice being home."

She leans back in her chair, letting the suns rays hit her for a little bit without speaking. You sit there waiting for her to say something else, discomfort flooding through you. You're reminded of how easy it was to sit with Joel in his backyard last weekend, how little pressure there was to put up any kind of front - sitting here with your mother is the exact opposite.

"So, you lied to me," she finally says, voice quiet.

Your eyes widen and you sit up a bit, turning to her with panic already rising in your throat, "Wh-what do you mean?"

She doesn't turn to look at you, continuing to stare at the sky, eyes covered by her comically large sunglasses, "You know what I mean."

You sit there, staring at her with a mix of confusion and fear. There's no way she knows about Joel, how could she know? Who would have told her? You wonder if perhaps one of her neighborhood friends saw you leaving his house, saw you in his car... but the guise of lessons is your cover now, so how would any of that point to your relationship?

Some relationship, you can't help but think to yourself, based entirely on sex and only communication on the weekends.

"Bethany and Alice," your mom finally states, and you feel the panic in the pit of your stomach loosen immediately - oh.

"Mom," you say immediately, shaking your head, "I-I know. I'm sorry. I know I told you we met up but..." you bite your lip, trying to come up with some kind of excuse but coming up empty.

Instead, you do something that surprises you entirely - you tell the truth. Or at least... half of it.

"I really feel like my friendship with them has passed," you admit with a frown, "I'm... I'm different than I was when I left, you know that, don't you? I'm sure you've noticed."

She's still not looking at you but you catch her nodding slowly, thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry I lied but... I didn't want to disappoint you. And I didn't want you to worry about me being alone all the time. I'm actually rarely ever alone at college so it's been nice to have some time to myself," you smile, thinking of the girls in your group chat constantly waiting for new updates, "Having lunch with two people I haven't talked to in years just... didn't seem appealing to me. I have different friends now, you know? I'm older, people outgrow each other."

"Friends like Tasha," your mom states, bitterness in her voice, "Tasha who you don't even want me to meet."

You make a face, "Mom..."

She puts her hands up in defeat, shaking her head, "It's fine. You can do what you want and so can she," the words are drenched in judgement, "But you should remember that there are rules for staying here, young lady. And honesty is one of those rules."

You take a deep breath, swinging your legs around the edge of the chair and placing your arms on your knees, your face in your hands. You're so close to snapping back at her, making a comment that'll surely start an argument, but you shove it back down as best you can, counting to ten in your head.

"I'm sorry," you finally say through gritted teeth, "It won't happen again."

"It better not." She stands up then, disappears from the chair as quickly as she'd settled in it. You watch as she walks to the back door again, reaches for the handle.

Your mouth can't stop itself.

"Have you told Dad about my guitar lessons yet?"

She freezes, turns and stares at you for a moment without saying anything, then opens the door and heads back inside, slamming it behind her.

Checkmate.

I will when I get home.

Your anxiety is through the roof as you pace back and forth in your bedroom after darkness has fallen, freshly showered and pampered and already out of distractions. Without really thinking much about it, you pull Joel's flannel from under your mattress and wrap it around your shoulders, breathing him in as you sit on your bed and try your best not to keep checking your phone. When it finally vibrates you're not even embarrassed when you pick up on the first ring.

"Hey," you murmur, settling into your sheets and closing your eyes, "Is everything okay?"

"With me?" he asks, voice tired and gruff, "Thought it'd be the other way around."

Your brow furrows, "What do you mean?"

"Thought you'd wanna talk about this church volunteerin' stuff," he's moving around as he talks - you hear the sound of a cupboard banging and the clang of a glass against a countertop.

You don't speak for a moment, listening to the sound of liquid being poured into a cup and Joel taking a swig. There's no sound of the tap - you'd be willing to bet that it's not water he's drinking.

"No, I..." you frown, "I was worried about you."

You hear him take another sip, swallowing loudly and then placing the cup back down with a clink. More pouring. You swear you hear the faint sound of a chuckle before he takes another swig.

"Well that's silly," he states, and you suddenly notice there's a strange difference in his voice, a heaviness you're not used to.

"Are you drunk?"

He chuckles again but there's no humor in it, "Nowhere near as drunk as I'd like to be."

You frown, readjusting yourself against the pillows. You hear him take another sip, "Did something happen?"

He sighs then, deep and tired. You hear him put the glass back down on the counter, "No, babygirl, nothin' happened," hearing him say your pet name makes you feel a little better, the anxiety ebbing away a bit, "It's just that my job is the bane of my fuckin' existence."

He sounds genuinely exhausted, words tinged with resentment. You pull his flannel tighter around yourself, breathe him in, pretend you're in the same room as him, "Talk to me," you say softly, "Tell me what's wrong."

He doesn't reply for a moment - you can make out some footsteps on the other end, the creak of his stairs as he goes up to his bedroom, "No, darlin', it's nothin'. Shouldn't be talkin' about this with you."

"Hey, if something's bothering you, I wanna hear about it. I wanna make it better... if I can."

You hear him settle onto his bed, a satisfied little noise emanating from his throat that makes you smile, "That's the thing, babygirl. You can't. This is just the way life works. You do shit you hate and then you die, plain and simple."

"Joel," you admonish quietly - it's the first time you've said his name aloud since last weekend, it feels right on your lips, safe. He sighs but doesn't say anything else, breath evening out in your ear. "What is it? Really? I've been worrying about it all week."

"Oh honey," he murmurs softly. "Shouldn't be worryin' about me, there are more important things."

"Not to me," you admit, closing your eyes and shaking your head even though he can't see you, "First I thought maybe you were just busy, but-"

"Busy," he scoffs, "Right, yeah, busy. That's my middle name at this point. Fuckin' busy."

He really doesn't sound like himself - you know you still don't know him very well at this point, could be wrong about so many things, but part of you just knows that this isn't Joel. You know his softness, his safety, his kind eyes and crooked smile. This version of him sounds so sad; you can't help but wish you were in his bed right now, able to hold him close and run your fingers through his grey curls. You want him to open up to you.

"You don't wanna hear this shit, angel, you don't," he continues, voice gentler this time, "I know you're thinkin' somethin' is wrong, thinkin' somethin' in particular happened to make me feel like this, but the truth is..." he sighs again, deliberates for a moment and then simply states, "Truth is I'm just bein' stupid."

"You're not stupid," you say immediately, and he chuckles.

"God, you're so sweet, babygirl," he murmurs softly, "It's nice to hear your voice."

Your feel your skin heat up at the words, crossing your legs together unconsciously, "It's nice to hear yours too," you whisper with a smile, "I've missed you this week. Every time you've texted me it's felt like it's not really you."

"I'm sorry, baby," you can hear the sincerity in his voice buried underneath the tiredness and alcohol, "I'm just... I'm a mess." You hear him shuffle a bit in bed, like he's turning onto his side, "Work is always puttin' me in a shitty mood lately and I just...I don't want you to see this side of me."

"But why?"

Another sigh, then-

"'Cause I don't want you to look at me differently."

You bring the sleeve of his flannel to your lips, "I could never look at you differently, Joel," you whisper, "Promise."

He's quiet for a moment and you hope you haven't upset him, hope he's just thinking about what to say. You mean your words; it really would take a lot for you to look at him differently. You know you probably shouldn't feel that way considering you've known him less than a month, that the feeling should scare you... but it doesn't.

"I'm tired, angel," he finally says, voice sad and distant, "I'm too old to be doin' this job."

You wait for him to speak again, listening as he takes a shaky breath on the other end of the line, almost like he hasn't told anyone this. And maybe he hasn't.

"But it's hard to admit that to myself," he continues, "And even harder to admit it to you of all people. I don't want you to see some washed up, tired, old geezer, ya know?" he says it with humor but you can tell that he means it, "I mean I used to... god, I used to be able to do shifts like this no problem. Be up at five and home by midnight and able to do it all over again the next day. Now it's like I'm runnin' on a half empty tank of gas. Got no joy in this job anymore and my back is killin' me and-" he cuts himself off suddenly, "And I need to shut the fuck up before I scare you away."

"You're not gonna scare me away," you whisper, and you mean it, "I'm not going anywhere."

He laughs softly to himself; you're not sure if he believes you, but you're choosing to hope that he does, "Ya know, I didn't even wanna tell you my age when we were first together? I wasn't gonna tell you, I really wasn't. But then you were so sweet and vulnerable and honest with me-"

You scoff, "Yeah, lying about knowing how to play guitar, that's certainly honesty."

"That's not what I mean and you know it," he chastises - you can hear the sudden smile in his voice, "No, darlin'... when you told me you hadn't done anythin' before. That's when I knew I had to tell you, 'cause it wouldn't have been right otherwise," he makes an odd noise in his throat and then corrects, "Not that any of this is really right, but..."

"It feels right," you say softly, staring down at the plaid lines on the flannel shirt shrouding your body, reminding you of what it means - that you're his.

"It does," he agrees, voice rough and low, "Right and wrong in all the right ways, huh babygirl?"

You nod to yourself, unable to help the grin that spreads across your face, "Exactly."

The both of you are silent for a few moments but just like last weekend, it isn't uncomfortable or awkward. It's calming and safe, just listening to each other's breathing. You can tell he's tired, can hear it in his slow exhales; again, you can't help but wish you were lying beside him. And you can't help but wonder if a more sober Joel would have even said any of this to you, would have just kept it to himself and continued to deal with it in silence, not bothering to tell anyone how he's been feeling. It breaks your heart a little bit.

"It'll be okay," you whisper gently, soothingly, "It won't be like this forever, Joel."

He sighs, deep and sleepy, "You really are an angel," he murmurs, "So sweet and lovely, babygirl. Love hearin' you say my name like that."

His words send warmth throughout your body - no one has ever spoken to you the way Joel speaks to you, makes you feel the way he makes you feel. You close your eyes and bury your face in the sleeve of his flannel, listen as his breathing gets slow again.

"You should get some sleep," you whisper, even though you really don't want to end the call - but Joel is tired and you want him to feel better, "Text me tomorrow, okay? Even if you're grumpy."

He almost laughs but he's so close to sleep that it comes out slurred and low, "Okay, baby, I will. Promise."

"Goodnight, J-"

"Wait wait wait," he suddenly sounds a bit more alert, rousing himself from sleep, "You didn't tell me 'bout this church thing. You okay with it?"

You giggle at his sudden concern, "It's nothing, really. Just helping an old friend out with lesson plans for Sunday School. Not very exciting."

"Fun," his voice is sleepy and low again, "What're you gonna wear?"

You have to bite down on your lip to stifle another laugh, shaking your head even though he can't see you, "Go to bed, you perv."

He chuckles, "Okay, okay. Goodnight, angel."

"Goodnight, Joel."

You're about to end the call when you hear him murmur one final thing, so soft you're surprised you can even make it out - but you do:

"Hope I dream about you."

You fall asleep with a smile glued to your lips.

You end up wearing the same outfit you'd worn to Joel's last Saturday, though you leave the stockings at home; you doubt the women at church will be offended by your bare legs. You fasten your crucifix around your neck and make sure your mom gets a good look at you before you leave the house; you haven't spoken since yesterday afternoon but you still want her to see you're putting in some effort, as surface level as it may be.

She's in the living room when you come down the stairs, and her expression can't help but turn to one of surprise when she looks up from her book to see you standing there in your Sunday best.

"I'm going to the church," you explain softly, "Gonna help out Bethany with the lesson plan for Sunday School."

She assesses you up and down, eyes fixing on your crucifix for a moment before trailing back down to her book. She doesn't say a word.

Silent treatment. Typical.

Fifteen minutes later you find yourself being greeted by Bethany, blonde hair flowing down her dress as she stands outside the church with a bright smile plastered on her face. You recognize the forced expression immediately, one that you yourself have become an expert in feigning, though for different reasons. You haven't seen her in years but you still know her well enough to tell when she's less than thrilled about something - this time that "something" is you being there.

"I'm so excited you're here!" she tells you, voice shrill as she immediately takes a step forward to envelop you in a haphazard hug that feels neither excited nor genuine.

You should have known it would be like this. When you'd left for college a few years ago you'd promised to keep in touch with both Alice and Bethany, the only "solid" friends you'd managed to keep throughout all the studying, the tutoring, the church services, the extracurriculars, volunteering, etc. It's a miracle in itself that your friendship had even lasted through high school, if you're being honest. You'd begun to distance yourself from them a bit in those final years as you started to lose your faith while theirs only seemed to grow stronger. Leaving for college had been the last nail in the coffin.

"Me too!" you lie, feigning a similar smile as you both pull back from each other.

Though her grin is unrelenting, you can see the distance in her eyes, the sourness and disdain for your presence extremely evident. She doesn't like you. There's an awkward few seconds of silence where she assesses you up and down again, like she had at the service on Sunday.

Why did you even say yes to me coming here? You want to ask as you stand in front of her awkwardly, not really knowing what to say. If you didn't want me here you could have just said there wasn't anything for me to do. But you already know why you'd still been invited despite her obvious disdain for you - keeping up appearances means everything to these people; actually being honest about her feelings would have been disastrous for her reputation.

"Was sure you'd forgotten all about me," she finally says with an edge of malice still shrouded through her smile, "Haven't heard from you in what? Three years? And then you just show up outta the blue, huh?"

You grimace, "Uh, yeah, sorry about that. There was... I mean, I've just had a lot going on, I guess." You kick your feet awkwardly; this is not the conversation you want to be having right now.

"A lot goin' on, huh?" she echoes, eyes still scanning you up and down, "Right. Busy with college?"

You nod quickly, "Yeah, it's been kinda crazy."

She raises an eyebrow, "What are you studyin' again?"

"English Lit."

She snorts then, shaking her head and taking a step back, "Right. Reading. Sure sounds crazy."

Your brow furrows, "It's more than that."

"Oh, I'm sure it is," she puts her hands up in defense, fake laughing and smacking her lips together, "Just find it funny that an English Lit degree takes up so much of your time." She's being pretty bold with the sarcasm but you suppose she has a right to be angry, though you'd never assumed she'd be this pissed about you cutting her off, "Anyway, we should get inside, they're waitin' for us."

"Bethany," you take a step toward her, softening your expression, "I'm really sorry."

She just shakes her head again and turns away from you to reach for the handle on the front door, forced smile finally fading into a natural frown, "Forget it."

Great start.

You don't talk much after that, not after you're led into a side room off the chapel where a few other women are sitting in a circle with binders in their laps. Bethany simply gestures for you sit down in an empty chair and the meeting begins. Everyone immediately begins their rapport, discussing their plans and reading quotes aloud from their binders while you just kind of sit there unsure of what to do or say. A few of the women give you a tentative smile or two, but the way Bethany periodically glares at you is enough to keep them from actually speaking to you directly. You're okay with it though; as awkward as this is, you'd rather sit in silence than have to pretend. Still, if you'd known it would be like this you never would have come - it's not like your mother appreciates it anyway.

Your phone vibrates at one point, a text from Tasha confirming her flight information with lots of !!!!!!'s that make you smile. As if sensing your sudden mood shift, Bethany puts her hands up with another grin that doesn't reach her eyes.

"We keep phones in our purses" she says sweetly, "So we don't get distracted."

You nod and slip it back inside your bag, a gesture that's more of a peace offering than anything else; it seems to appease her.

It's strange being inside this part of the church again after so long. You'd attended your own Sunday School lessons here, prepped for choir and readings, learned your scripture. It certainly doesn't feel as safe or inviting as it once did, though you have to admit that there was always an undercurrent of pressure, of judgement - an energy that still remains today. Bethany watches you closely, quietly assessing you as you nod along to everyone's suggestions and ideas and try to keep up your long-time façade of obedience. You push down the new parts of you that long to take back a bit of control, maybe say something shocking or suggest something ridiculous just to see how they'd react.

You've been sitting in silence for about forty five minutes when Bethany announces its time for a quick phone break. Like clockwork everyone in the room pulls out their devices and starts checking for missed calls from their kids, their husbands. You pull yours out and your eyebrows go up in surprise when you see a text from Joel on your lockscreen:

How's your day going angel?

He didn't forget his promise. A smile plays at your lips as you start typing out your reply, but it quickly fades when you feel Bethany's eyes on you, watching.

"I'm, uh-" you stand up, smoothing out the creases in your dress and gripping your phone tightly, "I'm gonna take a bathroom break."

The bathroom is the same as you remember it, high ceilings and white walls, your footsteps echoing loudly as you walk over to the sinks and lean your back against the countertop. You continue typing out your reply to Joel:

well all the church ladies are giving me the silent treatment til i'm worthy of being here again lol. but jokes on them cause my mom is also giving me the silent treatment so i have training! anyway i miss you. wanna hug you. hope you're feeling a bit better today 💕

You turn around and face the mirror while you wait for his reply. You're still smiling - it's impossible not to when you're thinking about Joel, but this smile is bright and genuine, unlike the forced grins you've been sharing with Bethany for the past hour. God, you can't remember the last time anything made you feel as free and happy as Joel makes you, like nothing else really matters. Your phone buzzes and you tear your eyes away from the mirror to read his reply:

Aw baby I'm sorry. I wanna hug you too. Wanna do a bit more than hug if I'm being honest, but you know that already.

You bring your other hand up to your mouth, smiling even wider into it as his typing bubble pops up again only seconds later:

And I'm sorry about last night. If I said anything stupid please forget it ever happened. Me and alcohol don't mix that well sometimes. I'm alright, don't worry about me x

But I do worry, you want to say, I want to make you feel better. But how can you do that from a church bathroom, miles away from wherever he is right now? You're suddenly reminded of something he'd told you a few weeks ago, something you hadn't quite understood in the moment - You can text me whenever you want, tell me all about what you're doin', brighten up my workday. Maybe send me some pictures.

Oh.

You look at yourself in the mirror again and carefully place your phone down on the edge of the sink. Your hand slowly comes up to push aside the collar of your dress, pull the stretchy material past your shoulder and down your arm. You do the same to the other side, slipping out of your sleeves and tugging down the high neckline of your dress to expose your bare chest to the mirror, putting your cleavage on display. You bite your lip, willing yourself to see what Joel sees, a pretty girl in a pretty dress, bra straps clinging to her skin and a crucifix hanging from her throat. Filthy.

You grab your phone and turn it toward the mirror, opening up your camera app and moving it close enough so he can see only your torso, sleeves hanging limp at your sides while your other arm comes up to squeeze your breasts together a bit, accentuating your cleavage even more. You snap a pic and send it to him before you can talk yourself out of it.

He replies seconds later:

Fuck

A grin spreads across your face and you make quick work of slipping your bra straps down your shoulders as well, just as another text from him comes in:

Send me another baby. Please.

Already one step ahead of you, you think to yourself as your cheeks warm and you pull down the cups of your bra, your breasts spilling out into the cool air of the bathroom. You squeeze them together again, nipples hardening tightly as you take another picture and send it along with a coy message:

better?

He must be staring at his phone, waiting for it, because his typing bubble appears instantaneously. You can't help but feel a sense of pride at the power you're holding right now, a change of pace from your usual naivety.

Oh babygirl. This is just what I needed.

i know :)

You glance at the bathroom door and then at the time - you still have a few minutes before the meeting starts up again and your mind is already racing with what you can do with those few minutes. With barely any hesitation you tug your dress up over your thighs, pulling your panties to the side and aiming your phone underneath. You frown when you pull your phone back up to find that it's dark and blurry.

"Hold on," you whisper to no one, then carefully lift your leg and place your heel on the countertop for support, pulling your dress up again and aiming your phone a little better. You pull back your panties and aren't surprised in the slightest to feel that they're suddenly damp.

This picture comes out much better. Your pussy is bare and a little wet, clit poking out past your lips, panties pulled against your inner thigh. You already know it's gonna make him crazy as you hit send.

Jesus Christ

He's already typing something else when you receive it and you can't help but giggle, covering your mouth and trying to picture where he is right now, what he's doing. Is he in a bathroom too? On a break? Or is he in the middle of a job, surrounded by other people? The latter thought makes you even wetter somehow.

Fuck you have such a pretty pussy baby.

thank you mr. miller :)

Will you hold her open a little for me? Show me that sweet little hole?

Who are you to deny such a request? With heat radiating all over your body you bring your phone down again and scissor your lips apart, exposing the innermost part of yourself to your phone camera. You can feel your own slick on the tips of your fingers, and when you push yourself open you feel a bit of your wetness dribble down onto your palm. Fuck. This is hotter than you'd expected it would be. You'd thought it would be a good way to make him feel better, get him through his work day like he'd said; you never thought you'd enjoy it this much.

Oh sweetheart. Look at that.

You feel another rush of pride as you take your leg down from the counter and tug your dress back down, rubbing your thighs together and doing everything in your power not to touch yourself again even though you want to. A quiet whimper unconsciously tears itself past your lips at his follow-up message:

Who's that perfect pussy belong to babygirl?

You've never typed a message back so fast in your life.

you. it's yours mr. miller.

That's right. Good girl.

Your skin is on fire, body tingling in all the right places. You smooth a hand down your bare chest, cup one of your breasts, gently squeeze. It's impossible for your eyes not to roll back a bit when you imagine Joel's hand on you instead, big and firm and callused and perfect. Your pussy throbs in your underwear and another whimper slips past your lips.

i'm really wet now :(

I know angel. Come over tonight and I'll take care of it, Ok?

Your heart leaps at the invitation, even more wetness pooling in your panties at the thought of what Joel might want to do tonight, if there's another “lesson” he has in mind.

yes please

Eyeing the time again, you bite your lip in disappointment when you realize you should probably be getting back. You wait until Joel has finished typing his final response, a message that makes your skin burn with anticipation:

Don't touch yourself til you see me. Keep that soft little pussy hidden, baby. Promise me.

i promise x

Just as you hit send you suddenly hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps down the hall, quickly approaching the bathroom. Your eyes widen in the mirror, gaze snapping to your bare breasts, sleeves still hanging loosely at your sides. In a panic you hurriedly attempt to stuff yourself back into your bra before you have company – but you're not that lucky.

The bathroom door bangs open and you freeze with one arm halfway through your sleeve, breasts still completely exposed in the mirror as you turn on the spot to see none other than Bethany standing there, frozen in place.

“I-” she looks flabbergasted, expression one of pure horror as she takes a step back from you and grips the knob of the door like she could rip it off at any moment. Your free arm that isn't trapped in a sleeve comes up to cover yourself as best you can, but you know she's already seen everything.

“I'm- I was just-” You're similarly taken aback and at a complete loss for words, unsure how the fuck you can explain what exactly she's just walked in on.

Her eyes fall to the phone in your hand, like she's putting the pieces together, then she shakily takes another step back and leaves without saying another word, the click of her heels echoing back at you loudly until the door finishes closing behind her.

Shit.

You don't have time to stand around thinking up an excuse; you do briefly consider escaping through one of the windows to avoid facing her, but you know it would just delay the inevitable. Instead you hastily finish pulling your dress back on and stare at yourself in the mirror for one final moment.

Your smile is gone. So is the light in your eyes. You suddenly begin to feel that familiar sense of guilt creeping in, the shame, the sin. You blink a few times and find that there are tears welling up in your eyes, a lump in your throat. A tiny voice in the back of your mind, one you've been attempting to mute for years, whispers to you: What have you done?

Bethany doesn't speak to or look at you for the rest of the meeting. It's not much of a change from before you'd gone to the bathroom, but there's something new in her silence now, something you can see in her eyes as she stares down at her binder while the other women talk. Fear. You've known her for most of your life, can sense certain mood changes from a mile away; you've frightened her. And somehow that just adds even more to the guilt building in your stomach.

You'll apologize to her after the meeting, it's all you can do. You genuinely feel horrible that she'd walked in on something so private, seen something she never intended or desired to ever see. You wonder if there's anything you can use to pass off as an excuse; maybe you spilled something on your dress and were cleaning it off? Maybe it was too tight and you needed a breather? Anything is better than the alternative – the truth – but you somehow doubt she'll believe anything you say at this point. That bridge was broken the second you left for college; there's no repairing it now.

The meeting ends with a few pleasantries exchanged and several comments about picking kids up from school, getting home to cook something for dinner, normal things that remind you how abnormal your own situation is in comparison. Half an hour ago you'd felt on top of the world, in control, had power in the tips of your fingers. Now you just feel small again, inconsequential.

You wait until the other ladies have left before taking a step toward Bethany, ready to unload your apologies and beg for forgiveness. She surprises you by speaking first.

"I'd think twice before wearing that again,” she hisses at you, venomous and pointed. Your eyes widen.

"Excuse me?"

"I said,” her words are slow and full of bitter intention, eyes glaring daggers at you, “I'd think twice before wearing that again" she gestures to the crucifix around your neck and you unconsciously reach up to take it between your fingers, glancing down at it before looking back up to meet her angry gaze.

“I'm...” you feel overwhelmed, tears pricking in your eyes again at the sudden burst of rage being directed at you, “I don't...”

"You might not understand this,” she practically spits through her teeth, “but that symbol actually means something to the people here."

"I know what it means.” It comes out as barely a whisper, voice shaky as she takes an intimidating step toward you with nothing but malice in her expression.

"So that's why you've got your breasts out in a public bathroom? A church bathroom?”

“Bethany, I-”

“You're not welcome here anymore, understand?” her voice is full of finality, “You can come to church with your parents-” The mention of your parents sends your anxiety into a tailspin, heart beating frantically in your chest as she continues to step closer and closer toward you, “And you can pretend you're their good little girl. But I know the truth. And it's not welcome in my Sunday School ever again. Got it?”

My Sunday school. The superiority complex is strong and you know deep down that this is all completely rooted in her own fears, her own desires, her pride, but none of that seems to matter when she's staring you down like this, holding you captive with her hostile words.

"Got it,” you whisper, nodding shakily.

"Good. Now go home and take," she points toward the crucifix, the tip of her finger close enough to faintly brush against the shape of it, “that,” she suddenly prods it, giving you one final sneer, “off.”

It takes you twenty minutes to leave the parking lot after that, tears blurring your vision as you cry in your car and try not to let the shame completely envelop you.

Going to Joel's that night carries none of the anticipation you'd felt earlier this afternoon; instead you feel nothing but shame as you steal your mother's house key from its dish in the hallway, closing the front door behind you as softly as you can and hurrying out into the night. There's no excitement or rush like the last time you'd done this. You feel like you could cry at any moment as you approach Joel's house, climbing his front steps with a heavy weight on your shoulders that wasn't there before, that hasn't been there in weeks.

The door opens before you can even turn the knob – he must have been watching from his window, waiting for you in anticipation for tonight's “lesson”. Your stomach lurches.

“There's my little Sunday School girl,” he murmurs, taking your hand and tugging you gently inside.

“Please don't call me that,” you say quietly, head down.

He shuts the door behind you and takes your hands in his – you can feel his eyes on you but you're unsure of the look on his face, what expression is on it. Does he sense there's something wrong? Or is he waiting for you to jump his bones?

“Hey,” his voice is soft, concerned, “Hey, look at me, sweetheart.”

You shake your head, still staring at the floor.

“What happened, babygirl?” he murmurs, one of his hands releasing yours to come up and stroke your cheek gently, thumb grazing the wetness beneath your eyes, “Why're you cryin', darlin'? C'mere.” His finger travels down to your chin, pushes your face up to look at him.

His expression is worried, brow furrowed and forehead creased, a frown playing at his lips. You feel your heartbeat slow, the weight on your shoulders decreasing just a little bit as safety settles in your bones. He cares.

“I had a horrible day,” you whisper, feeling tears trickle down into the corners of your mouth, “I know you want to...want to...” you shake your head, “Whatever we were gonna do. But I don't think I can tonight, Joel. I don't feel good.”

“Oh, babygirl,” he breathes, releasing your chin and immediately wrapping you up in his embrace, arms tightening around you as he pulls you against his chest, “We don't have to do anythin', don't even worry about that.”

You bury your face in his chest, breathe him in. His flannel underneath your mattress is nothing compared to the real thing, the real smell of him overtaking your senses and filling you with a true feeling of warmth and safety. His arms are so big – he's so big – and without meaning to you find yourself going completely limp in his arms, bones turning to jelly. It's like finally breathing in the fresh air after holding your breath underwater, a natural reaction to finally being where you belong.

He doesn't question your body's response, almost seems to understand completely as he pulls you up from the floor and adjusts you slightly to cradle you in his arms, carrying you past the living room, past the kitchen, up the stairs and to his bedroom. You just close your eyes and bury your face in his shirt, inhale the scent of sawdust and sweat and cedar and Joel.

He tips you gently onto his bed, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before settling in beside you without saying anything. You feel his arm wrap around you, tug you in closer beside him as he noses your hair and lets you just exist.

Minutes pass before you finally break the comfortable silence, voice quiet and small - “I feel so ashamed.”

You feel his brow furrow in your hair and you turn around to face him, bringing your arm up around his torso and pressing your hand firmly against his back. He looks at you with confusion, concern.

You tell him everything. About Bethany, your friendship with her and Alice before you left for college, the way you'd already begun to lose your faith even then. You tell him about your mom, about the silent treatment and her reaction to the white lie, the lie that's practically nothing in the grand scheme of deceit you've been weaving these past few weeks. You talk about church and Sunday School and all the guilt you'd felt in that little room growing up, how being there again felt wrong and uncomfortable. You tell him how free you'd felt in the bathroom with your camera, the power you'd felt, reclaimed, and how all of it had been snatched away from you the second Bethany had entered. How she'd destroyed any semblance of confidence you'd been able to find today, how she'd shamed you for the crucifix that you don't even want to be wearing. It's the most you've ever told him, the most you've ever talked to him about anything.

And he listens.

He doesn't seem put out by your venting, annoyed or irritated or ready to send you home at any minute. He just nods, frowns at the right moments, strokes your arm and your cheek, kisses your forehead when you start to cry. Wipes the tears away when you apologize for crying. He stays with you and remains present and attentive, lets you talk and talk until you start to apologize for how much you've been talking.

“I know this isn't even what you signed up for,” you blubber, shaking your head and bringing your hands up to cover your face, “I'm sorry I keep bringing so much- so many complications into your life.”

“Shh,” he soothes, placing his large hands on yours and pulling them away from your tired eyes, leaning in to brush his nose against yours, “Stop apologizin', baby. Stop. You've got nothin' to be sorry for.”

You suddenly sit up in bed, leaning back against the headboard and bringing a hand up to touch the crucifix still clasped around your neck. You hadn't taken it off like she'd told you to do; you'd felt like doing so would have made you weak, would have been like giving up, even though you'd never wanted to even wear it again in the first place.

“Why does this little thing have so much fucking power over me?” you ask aloud, not directed at Joel but more-so to yourself, “My whole life, no one has ever seen me, they've just seen this.” You shake your head, squeezing the tiny cross in your hand. “And wearing it again has just brought all that shit back, it's done absolutely nothing good. Wore it for my mom and she still gives me the silent treatment. Wore it for Bethany and she still treats me like garbage, tells me to take it off. It's just a fucking necklace.”

Joel sits up beside you, places a warm hand on your thigh and peers at you with those soft brown eyes, lulling you back into a sense of calm, of serenity.

“Give it to me,” he says quietly.

Your brow furrows in confusion. You stare at him for a moment, then watch as he carefully brings his hands up to graze his callused fingertips against your neck, brushing the chain.

“I'll take it off your hands for a bit,” he murmurs, “Outta sight, outta mind. And if you want it back, I'll have it ready for you. How's that sound?”

You nod slowly to yourself, feeling your eyes begin to sting again at his words, “...Good. Th-that sounds good.”

Without saying anything else you hear the sound of the clasp being undone, feel the chain slip away from your skin as Joel takes it from you. You turn your head to watch as he fists it in his palm for a moment, gaze thoughtful and faraway as he traces the shape of the cross with his thumb. A few seconds later he opens his bedside table and carefully places it inside, then shuts the drawer.

And just like that, the weight is gone.

You take a shower in his bathroom again, wanting to wash this day off you and start over, clean slate. You could have had one when you got home from the meeting earlier but you'd instead opted to just lay in bed feeling sorry for yourself for much longer than you'd needed to. Now you close your eyes and let the hot water envelop you, wash yourself with Joel's body wash and allow yourself to become his again, picturing him laying in his bed in the other room, waiting for you. This is what matters. This moment. Right now.

You enter his bedroom wrapped in one of his towels, drops of water still spilling down your skin onto the hardwood floor. He's sitting up in bed, shirtless with his legs hidden under the covers. He's seemingly deep in thought as he stares at his phone screen, brows scrunched together. You watch as he pulls the phone away from himself, eyes squinting and lips parting a bit, then pulls it back, like he can't see what he's looking at properly. You realize that's probably the case.

“You need glasses,” you say with a soft giggle, and his expression relaxes when he sees you standing there, phone going back on his nightstand.

“I have glasses,” he admits sheepishly, giving you a tender smile, “Just hate wearin' 'em.”

“Of course,” you roll your eyes and take a few steps forward, still gripping the towel around yourself. His eyes fall to the parts of you that are bare, revelling in the way the lamplight reflects on your wet skin. You feel tingles erupt through your senses under his gaze.

“Are you naked?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head, “Wearin' pants, don't worry.”

You stand there for a moment, staring. He just stares back, eyebrows going up a bit while he waits for you to say something else. When you don't, he tilts his head slightly, appraising you.

“Do you want me to be naked, babygirl?”

You're answering before you even really know what you want, "Yes."

Without needing to be told twice he reaches under the covers with both hands and shimmies his way out of his pajama bottoms, staying hidden under the sheets as he tosses them out onto the floor. You bite your lip, still just standing there staring at him without moving. You're still dripping everywhere, a little puddle of water forming at your feet the longer you stay frozen.

He raises his finger and playfully curls it toward himself with a smile, "C'mere, baby," he murmurs, "Be naked with me."

You don't need telling twice either.

The towel drops from your body, landing in the puddle of water on the floor - easy cleanup. You feel heat radiating through every inch of your bare skin as you walk toward the bed, avoiding Joel's eyes and quickly slipping in beside him. You really don't know what you're doing - you'd said when you got here that you didn't want to do anything, not tonight, and it's still true. But part of you just aches to be close to Joel, to feel his warm heat, his rough skin, be connected to him somehow. It's what you've wanted all week.

You inch in beside him, back against the headboard, your bare thigh touching his lightly beneath the sheets, and you find yourself tensing up unconsciously. He clocks your reaction immediately.

"You don't gotta be nervous, angel," he tells you softly, soothingly.

You swallow and take a deep breath, "It's hard not to be," you whisper, though there's no reason to, "I'm just... I'm so..."

"What?" he asks, brown eyes seeking yours in the dim light. His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb swiping beneath your eye again like he's checking for more tears - luckily you're feeling much better in that department.

You sigh, shrugging slightly, "I don't know what I'm doing," your eyes fall down to the duvet, knowing that if you pulled it back you'd see your bodies touching underneath, his rough and tan skin pressed against yours, soft and untouched, "I mean, I don't even know why I came tonight. I knew I didn't- that I didn't want to-" you sigh again in frustration, unable to find the right words, "I just... I missed you," your eyes travel back up to meet his, "I just wanted to be near you."

His expression softens, still stroking your cheek as he peers into your eyes, "You feel safe with me, don't you?" You nod. "You know I won't do anythin' you don't want me to do, right?" Another nod. "So it's okay to just relax when you're with me."

You grimace, "How can I relax when we're naked in bed together?"

He chuckles, dropping his hand from your face and shuffling down into the bed a bit, away from the headboard, "Okay, time for another lesson."

You feel your heart sink again, worried that he's not understanding - probably because you can't explain it right - but he smiles reassuringly at you and curls his finger slightly, urging you to follow him downwards. With a quiet inhale you slowly inch away from the headboard and further down into the bed, beneath the duvet. You both stop moving when your heads hit the pillows, laying down fully beside each other.

"Gettin' naked doesn't always mean there has to be sex," he says softly, and you watch as he very slowly brings his hand down beneath the duvet; you know where it's going before it touches you, but you still shiver when you feel his fingers brush lightly against your bare arm, "Us bein' naked in bed together doesn't mean anythin' has to happen."

"But earlier today I said..." you trail off, shaking your head, "I promised that-"

"Earlier is earlier," he brushes your arm again, tender and comforting, "Circumstances change, your day got shitty. Mine was no better. It happens."

His hand travels downward, toward the skin of your hip. He curls his palm around your bare flesh and gently massages it, thumb stroking the edge of your tummy. It's intimate and new, but somehow it feels more safe and comforting than sexual, like he's simply doing something casual, normal.

"Sometimes you just wanna lay in bed with someone" he murmurs, still touching you tenderly, "No expectations, no pressure. No nothin'. Sure, it's fun to touch each other and be together like that, but if you just wanna sleep..." his fingertips brush your back gently, then press firmly into your skin as he pulls you a bit closer toward him, "If you just wanna lay here with me, that's okay too."

You're not sure what to think, staring at him with a million different thoughts flooding your mind. Your interpretation of what men want has always been a bit of a grey area, but you've heard enough from both your family and your friends to know that most of them are just after one thing. You'd heard it from your parents your whole life who always warned about non-Christian boys and their sinful thoughts, then from the girls at college who dealt with disrespect and catcalls, men who turned on them in an instant the second they realized they weren't getting any.

Joel isn't like that. Sure, he wants sex - that's been obvious since day one, when he'd invited you inside his house within minutes of meeting you. He'd only had one thing on his mind, just like your parents had always said. But he hadn't thrown a fit when you'd said no, and up until this point he's made it abundantly clear that the ball is in your court, that it's up to you what happens between the two of you.

"I know all this stuff can be scary," he continues softly when you don't reply, "I know you're embarrassed about bein' so inexperienced, but you don't need to be. I'm here to make it easier for you; I want you to be comfortable."

He nudges forward a bit and slowly begins to wrap his arms around you, warm and inviting. You let him, body going loose and comfortable in his grasp as you feel your eyes close; safe. You feel so safe.

"You're so warm," is all you can think to say, loving the way it feels to have his broad and hairy chest pressed up against your bare breasts, his big and strong arms winding around your smaller form.

He chuckles softly and you feel him press a gentle kiss to your cheek, beard scratching your skin in your favorite way. You bring your arms up and hug him back beneath the blankets, feeling your naked thighs press firmly against his. You're aware of his cock - it's hard not to be, not when it's pressed gently against the base of your tummy, soft against your skin - but he doesn't rub himself against you or do anything to initiate more than this, more than just being together like he'd said.

He really means it, you know he does.

"I can't wait to have sex with you," you hear yourself whisper in his ear; it sounds dirty but you don't mean it to be, "I just...I'm really glad it's gonna be you."

And I'm pretty sure I'm falling for you.

You wake up the next morning to a firm and solid presence at your back, bare and warm and comfy. You're surprised you're awake before Joel's alarm, wondering what exactly woke you up in the first place - and then you feel it. Something wet and sticky against your lower back, something pulsing and twitching every so often against your skin.

Good morning.

He hadn't pressed his cock against you like this last night when you were cuddling, hadn't asked you to touch it or even acknowledged its presence. But sleeping Joel is an entirely different person, his big arms wrapped around you tightly, one splayed across your belly while the other holds your right breast, cups it like it's meant to fit there. He holds you in place firmly, breath at your neck, nose in your hair.

You're not sure how much time you have left before his alarm goes off. The sun is only barely starting to come up outside the window, so it could start ringing at any time now. All you know is that the sensation of having him so close to you like this, his most intimate part so close to yours, so wet and warm, it's making you all wet and warm. Your skin almost feels itchy, especially at your neck where his warm breath leaves a damp spot beneath your ear, a spot you're suddenly longing for him to kiss, to lick.

"Joel," you breathe, unable to wait any longer, scared that at any moment he'll have to leave the bed and start getting ready for work.

No response.

"Joel," you repeat, a bit louder this time, and with his name you carefully grind back against him a little bit, the wet head of his cock trailing back and forth against your warm skin. He makes a grumbling noise in his chest, pulls you in a bit closer, "Joel, wake up," you moan, painfully aware of the shape of his balls against your ass, big and heavy and suddenly the hottest thing you've ever felt in your life.

"What?" he groans, rousing from sleep, "What is it?"

It's all the confirmation of awareness you need to suddenly turn in the sheets, bring the duvet down to expose your naked bodies to the both of you. His eyes are bleary and tired as he watches you from beneath heavy eyelids, sees where your gaze has settled.

His cock lays long and thick and loose against his tummy, round tip drooling precum into the hair smattered above his belly button. God, he's so big. Your lips part, saliva filling your mouth like it had the last time you saw it, like somehow your body knows exactly what the next step is.

"I wanna put my mouth on it," you whisper, pushing your hair back behind your ears and turning your gaze back to Joel's face, "Please."

His eyebrows go up in surprise, eyelashes fluttering with sleep. He's probably wondering where this is coming from, how the girl in his bed right now is the same one who just wanted to be held last night, but he doesn't seem to be complaining. He nods quickly, stretches his arms above his head and tries to rouse himself even more from sleep.

"Of course you can, baby," he mutters huskily, voice deep and dripping with arousal, "Go ahead."

"Tell me if I'm doing something wrong," you murmur softly, and before you can even fully process what you're doing or question if you'll even be good at it, your lips are pressing against the warm heat of his wet tip.

He hisses immediately and you pull back, frightened for a moment that you've already fucked up somehow. He shakes his head quickly at you, "No, no, you're good baby, that's good," one of his hands comes down to settle against the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair, "Give it a kiss, just like that."

And you do. Time is already not on your side - you feel like there's a countdown clock hanging over your head as you press another kiss in the same spot, his precum sticky on your lips. You'd thought it might be gross, had heard lots about blowjobs from your friends and how unpleasant they can be, but when your tongue darts out to carefully prod against where he's leaking, you find that it doesn't bother you that much at all.

"Tastes funny," you murmur softly, peppering a few more kisses around the wide head and then down to his shaft, thumbing the prominent vein on the underside as you do it.

"Kinda gross, huh?" you hear him say softly above you, a strained edge to his voice that makes you smile against him.

"I think I like it, actually," you admit softly, tongue darting out once again to slowly lap up a bead at the tip. You're not lying; there's something masculine and sexy and inherently Joel about it, something you hadn't been expecting.

"That's good, sweetheart," he murmurs, stroking the back of your head gently, "That's so good, angel." You don't know whether he means your opinion on the taste or simply a reaction to the things you're doing with your tongue, but either way you keep going, hoping that the alarm doesn't interrupt you.

You wrap your lips around the tip carefully, pulling it into your mouth and sucking it gently - very gently. He makes a breathless sound above you and you can't help but bring your gaze up to his face, your eyes meeting his as you swallow him down.

"That's it, that's a good girl," he breathes, thumbing a strand of hair at your temple and pushing it behind your ear, eyes dark, "Look at you."

You swirl your tongue around the tip, still making sure to keep eye contact with him as you carefully slip more of him inside your mouth. He's so big, there's absolutely no way you'll be able to fit all of him inside, at least not without some practice. He doesn't seem to mind that you can only take a little bit of him, his thumb coming downward to stroke gently at the corner of your mouth. He wipes away a bit of drool pooling there, brows furrowing.

"You're doin' so good, angel," he whispers, nodding slowly to you in reassurance as you very slowly begin to lift your head up and down, up and down, eyes going hazy, "Takin' that cock so well."

His words spur you on, encourage you to take a little bit more. You've got about half of him in your mouth and you already know you won't be able to take anymore, the spongey tip pushing dangerously close to your gag reflex. You absolutely do not want to choke, don't want to ruin this in any way. You want him to feel good. Feel better.

"Oh, honey," he groans softly when you begin to palm his balls, rolling them gently and feeling their fullness, round and heavy, "This mouth," he touches the corner of your lips again, a bit harder this time, trails his fingers downward to grip your chin, "Made to have my cock in there, huh?" his eyes are boring into yours, pupils blown wide, "You like havin' your mouth full like that, babygirl?"

You nod and whimper around his length, speeding up a little bit and never breaking eye contact with him, obsessed with watching his eyes get darker and darker, filling more and more with lust as he watches you pleasure him.

"Yeah, you do," he murmurs, voice soothing again like last night, calm and safe, "What a good girl you are, wakin' me up to suck my cock. Couldn't wait, could ya, baby?" you shake your head and the head of his cock slips past your throat a little too far, so much that you have to pull off him quickly to be sure you don't gag, "Aw, baby, that's okay," he reassures you gently, "It's a lot, I know."

Your eyes are hooded and your jaw is already starting to ache - you're not used to doing something like this and he knows it, strokes your cheek gently as he takes his cock in his hand and carefully pushes the tip against your lips.

"You just kiss it, baby," he whispers, dark and deep, "Kiss that cock 'til I come, okay?"

You do as you're told, lips parting slightly as he rubs the head of his cock against your lips and strokes himself a few more times, bringing himself close to the edge. He's so gorgeous like this, so rugged and almost animalistic as his chest heaves, groans escaping his mouth as he watches your lips. His hand is still in your hair, grip getting tighter and tighter as you lean down a bit so he can gently fuck the tip of his cock back into your mouth. Your eyes close involuntarily and you can feel your pussy throbbing against the mattress with every thrust, lips tight around him.

"Ah, fuck," he grits out suddenly, then pulls his cock away from your mouth and releases all over his chest and stomach, thighs tensing up as you watch his eyes practically roll back into his head. Your eyes are wide and attentive, locked onto the white ropes of come that spurt against his bare skin. You find yourself wondering what it would feel like at the back of your throat instead, on your tongue, what it would taste like...

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joel's alarm going off, loud and obnoxious. Before he can pull himself up to turn it off, you lean over to the nightstand and do it yourself, swiping it off and turning back to his blissed out form. He lies there panting for a moment, eyes closed. You can't help but smile, feeling pride swell in your chest again at the knowledge that you made him feel like this.

"Don't go back to sleep," you whisper softly, "You gotta go to work."

He groans then, but opens his eyes and gives you a crooked smile and a wink, expression still sleepy and satisfied, "Who needs an alarm clock when I got you, huh?" He gestures with his finger for you to move closer and you do, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips, "Mornin', darlin'," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Morning," you whisper back, and you revel in the smile on his face when you pull away, "Sorry for jumping your bones so early."

He just shakes his head with a wide smile, "Never apologize for jumpin' my bones, baby." His eyes fall to your naked body, settling on your pussy, still wet and aching against the sheets, "Aw, sweetheart, lemme take care of that for you."

You shake your head, pointing to his phone, "We don't have time, you gotta get to work and I gotta get home before my parents wake up," you slip out of bed and reach down to pick up the clothes you'd stripped yourself of last night before your shower. He starts to protest but you put your hand up with a soft laugh, "It's okay, Joel. I wanted to do this for you, start your day out right. Give you a chance at a good day."

He peers up at you from the bed, face smooshed into the pillow as he watches you get dressed, "Doesn't seem fair."

You just roll your eyes, pulling on your panties and shorts and pointing to his phone again, "Really, we need to hurry," you bite your lip as you slip your t-shirt over your head, "I have keys this time but I still don't wanna risk it."

"Okay, okay," he grumbles softly, "I'm goin'."

He slips out of bed and stretches, tilting his body back and forth. You both hear the way his bones crack, the noise that emits from his throat when he bends his back a certain way. You watch his expression change, going from content and sated to embarrassed and grumpy in seconds.

"And just like that, the illusion is gone," he mutters to himself, limping away from the bed and toward the door without so much as a side glance to you, clearly upset by the sudden reminder of his age. You frown, watching him go and feeling an ache in your chest that makes a home there for the rest of the morning.

He'd made you breakfast last time, so it's only fair that you make something for him today. Unfortunately cooking has never been your forte, so about fifteen minutes later you're waving a dish rag at the fire alarm while the sausages you'd managed to burn are smoking in the sink. Joel comes running down the stairs after his shower with a look of concern on his face, only for it to fade into one of amusement when he sees the situation.

"Now why am I teachin' you guitar when you clearly don't know how to even use a stove?"

"Oh, shut up," you can't even pretend to be mad at him, grin spreading across your face as you shake your head and breathe a sigh of relief when the alarm stops going off, "Help me clean this up."

You end up making toast instead.

"You know, we've still got about ten minutes," he says across from you at the table as you eat, peering down at his watch quickly.

"Yeah, 'cause I fail as a cook," you mutter, making a face at your slice of toast, "I was gonna do eggs too, you know."

"Let's not reach for the stars too quickly now," he says with a sly smile, putting his hand up quickly when you prepare to retort, "Anyway, that's not what I meant."

"What did you-" you look up from your toast and see him beckoning you toward him again like he had last night, finger curling toward himself with a sly smile on his face.

You look at the clock on the oven, biting your lip.

"It'll take five minutes tops," he says, and you raise your eyebrow at him.

"Really?" you challenge, "Five minutes?"

"Five minutes."

That, you'd like to see. Dropping your toast back onto the plate, you stand up and walk to the other side of the table, unsure what exactly he wants you to do. He spreads his legs a bit, points to his thigh.

"Sit here, babygirl," he says, voice low and hypnotic, "Wanna show you somethin' new."

Yes please.

You situate yourself on his lap, one leg going between his thighs while the other dangles carefully off the other side of the chair. He pulls you down, big hands coming up to palm your hips and hold you there firmly. You swallow tightly, unsure exactly what he has in mind.

"You know what feels really good?" he murmurs, thumbs slowly stroking the bare skin between your shirt and your shorts.

"What?" you whisper, peering down into his eyes with intrigue.

"This," he says softly, then very slowly begins to move your hips, dragging you carefully back and forth along his thigh. Your eyebrows shoot up, lips parting as you feel the ache in your core immediately return, the pressure of his thigh and the movement of his hands setting your nerves alight.

He looks down at his own handiwork, watches as he moves you back and forth, back and forth, rocking you over and over again until you're whimpering in his lap, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders. He just smiles up at you, doesn't stop his movements.

"Yeah, that feels good, doesn't it?" he breathes, watching your expression closely, "Feels good to finally have somethin' touchin' that pussy, huh baby?"

You moan at his words, hands slipping from his shoulders to wrap around him as you lean forward to bury your face in his neck. He just starts to move you faster, chuckling softly to himself when your hips buck against him. It's amazing how such a simple action can feel so fucking good, the constant stimulation against your clit through layers of material making you writhe and whimper.

He removes one of his hands from your hips and slips it inside the leg of your shorts, fingertips tickling your inner thigh gently. You grapple onto him even tighter, hugging him like a koala as his thumb slowly begins to stroke you through the wet spot of your panties.

"Couldn't stop thinkin' about this pussy yesterday," he murmurs, thumb rubbing your clit over and over in little circles, "Those pictures were so filthy, baby."

You moan against his shoulder, gripping him tighter as his thumb begins to pick up speed. He presses a kiss to your neck, wet and hot; it makes your eyes roll back.

"And this little hole," he murmurs in your ear, suddenly adding a finger inside your shorts to circle your entrance slowly, "Kept thinkin' about this tiny little hole, all open for me."

God, when he talks like that you can't even fucking think, brain running on autopilot as he pulls you impossibly closer and lets you bare down on his thigh, his finger and thumb trapped under your weight, pressed firmly against your core.

"Who's gonna fill up that hole, babygirl?" he whispers in your ear, soft and secret, "Huh? Who's that hole belong to?"

"You," you whimper into his shoulder, eyes shut tight as he strokes his finger up and down through the fabric, adding even more pressure to the overwhelming sensations you're already feeling "It's yours, Mr. Miller."

"And what's gonna go inside it, sweetheart?"

"Hnhng," you can't speak, inhaling shakily as Joel's other hand presses harder against your hip and continues to guide you, fucking you back and forth against his thigh. He just watches you, eyes dark, lips parted, brow furrowed.

"Words, babygirl," he reminds you softly, "Use your words. What's gonna go inside that tight little hole? Huh? Tell me."

"Y-your cock."

"That's right," he murmurs, the tip of his finger prodding inside you gently, taking the damp material of your panties with it, "Gonna fill you up so deep with my cock, honey. You're gonna feel it right here," he moves his hand up and places it at the base of your belly, pushes against it softly, "Gonna be so big inside you, sweet girl."

Oh fuck.

"I want it so bad," you groan, wrapping your arms even tighter around him, "I need it Mr. Miller."

"You do need it," he agrees softly as he kisses the top of your head, bringing his hand back down from your belly to guide you again, moving you back and forth "Need to be fucked so bad, don't you baby? Til you can't even think straight."

You nod frantically, continuing to grind yourself down against his thigh over and over and over, "Please," you whimper, almost a squeak, "Please, Mr. Miller."

"Shh," he soothes, pulling you in closer and moving your hips against him, looking at you with those big brown eyes full of lust and safety, "I will, babygirl. Soon. I'll fuck you so good, honey. I promise." Your body hitches in his lap as you near the edge, eyes going wide and mouth popping open as your orgasm starts to hit you, "Yeah? You like thinkin' about that, huh? Me fuckin' this soaked little pussy into my mattress? Fillin' you up so deep you can feel me in your stomach?"

You can't hold on anymore, eyes shutting tight and high pitched whimpers flowing past your lips as you start to come. He pins you against his thigh, holds you there tight and firm as your pussy pulses and throbs through his pants. You lean forward to bury your face in his neck as you ride it out, feel his hand press against your back.

"Oh, good girl, that's it, baby," he murmurs, kissing your temple gently and stroking your back in little circles, "Come all over my lap, sweetheart. Show me how wet she can get, there you go. Good girl."

After a moment of catching your breath and willing yourself to pull your face away from his neck, you both bring your attention to the clock on the stove - five minutes have passed.

"Told ya," he murmurs, pulling you into one more hug, hitching his chin over your shoulder and rubbing your back gently as your head lolls against him.

You're too blissed out to tease him back.

The arrivals gate isn't as busy as you'd expected, thankfully. You lean against your car a few hours later, still reeling from your morning with Joel as you wait for Tasha to show up. You'd told him about your weekend plans before you'd left, insisting that despite spending time with Tasha you'd still be attending your Saturday lesson.

"Can't wait," he'd murmured to you, low and deep in your ear after giving you one final kiss at the door, "Got somethin' real special planned, babygirl."

You'd practically melted down his front steps.

"THERE'S MY FAVORITE SLUT!!" you suddenly hear someone shout, and you look up to see Tasha at the sliding doors, bags dropping to the ground as she sprints at you head on and collides with you seconds later, wrapping her arms around you tightly.

She's just the same as she was the last time you saw her, high spirited and excitable and sweet, practically vibrating in your arms with joy. Only she could rock a bright purple cowboy hat and sweatpants, not to mention the lime green flip flops.

"Oh my god," you gasp in her ear, hugging her back and spinning on the spot, "You're insane."

"I'M EXCITED!" she squeals, pulling away from you and clapping her hands together, "We're going out tonight!!! Together!!! For the first time ever!" She brings her hands up and places one on either side of your face, lips turning down into a pout, "My baby bird is leaving the nest," she sighs dreamily, shaking her head, "I never thought this day would come."

"Please get in the car," you laugh, popping the trunk and gesturing to her bags, "before I change my mind and send you back."

You give Tasha the complete run-down on Joel as you get ready at the Airbnb, updating her on everything that's happened since you'd last checked in. It feels so good to actually talk about it, not text or simply mull it over and over in your head. She gasps at all the right spots, makes ridiculous faces in the mirror as she curls her hair, nearly drops the curling iron on the floor when you tell her about this morning.

"AND YOU LIKED HOW IT TASTED?" she practically screams, running out of the room and then running back in like she has no idea what to do with herself, "Oh my god, you are down bad. Jesus Christ," she makes a face, "Sorry, I mean- uh, fuck."

"Tasha," you roll your eyes, "You can say Jesus Christ."

"I can?" her eyes widen and she sighs in relief, picking up the curling iron from the floor, "Thank god."

You're going clubbing tonight for the very first time; a night of dancing and cocktails and flirting and living out all the college dreams you still have yet to experience. You're a bit tentative about the flirting part though, a concept that floors Tasha immediately.

"You can't go clubbing and not flirt," she says with faux shock, spinning in front of you as she assesses her dress in the mirror, "It's the best part!"

"I have a-" you cut yourself off, making a face at your reflection.

"You do not have a boyfriend," Tasha says immediately, "There has been no definition, babe. You need to keep reminding yourself of that."

"But it's not just fucking," you argue with a grimace, "I mean, it's not even fucking at all, we still haven't taken that step yet."

"I know, I just don't want you to get your heart hurt, honey," she frowns, leaning toward the mirror and applying some lipstick, "Boys are mean."

"Well, Joel's not a boy," you say quietly, fingering the hem of your own dress, a short and cute pink number that Tasha had brought specifically for you to wear, "He's a man."

"Mmhm, so you keep telling me," she raises an eyebrow, "I think I need to see this man for myself. Give you my honest opinion, see if he's really this gorgeous, perfect hunk you make him out to be."

You bite your lip, trying not to smile as you think back to this morning, how he'd looked in the early morning light, naked and sleepy and beautiful. And all yours.

"He is," you murmur softly.

You're supposed to be going clubbing, supposed to be out dancing and drinking cocktails and living out all your college dreams for once in your life. But where are you instead?

"O'Neil's!!" Tasha says excitedly, pointing to the red neon sign outside the bar you've just arrived at, throwing you a shit-eating grin that just makes you playfully roll your eyes.

You never should have told her the name of the bar Joel frequents, because she's now made it her mission to find him, get a good look at him and judge for herself if he's really all you're making him out to be. It's your own fault, you suppose, considering that you don't have any pictures of him or any frame of reference to articulate exactly the way he looks. For Tasha he's shrouded in mystery, but not for much longer.

Your ears are already ringing when you get inside the bar, the chatter and buzz of other people's conversations flooding your thoughts. You're not used to being out like this, being around drunk people or high people or literally anyone whose ideal night out is spending time at a bar. It's nerve-wracking and you instantly feel like a fish out of water, gripping onto Tasha's arm after showing your ID to a man who ogled both of you way more than he needed to.

"So this is where he hangs out," Tasha says, assessing her surroundings and leading you towards the bar where most people seem to be gathered, "Quaint. Little divey. Definitely not for our crowd but hey, we're learning new things tonight." She taps the counter and tilts her head toward the bartender with a smile, "Watcha got on tap?"

You wrinkle your nose, "I thought we'd be having cocktails."

"Oh we will at the club, don't you worry. But if we want the authentic dive bar experience, beer is necessary," the bartender lists the options and Tasha orders, though you barely hear what either of them are saying over the loud music and conversations. Your eyes scan the bar for any sign of Joel, but people are packed so tightly in here that it's hard to really see anybody, faces and bodies melding together.

The bartender hands Tasha the drinks and she throws him a wink, "Thank you, darling."

You envy how easily she navigates a situation like this, so natural and graceful despite her surroundings that are anything but. She hands your beer to you with a smile and holds hers up in front of her, tilting it toward yours until they clink.

"To you finally coming out with me," she toasts with a grin, "It's about damn time."

You smile back and take a sip, trying your hardest not to wince at the bitter flavor. It's not like you've never tried alcohol before, you just already know that you hate beer.

"Delicious," you lie, and Tasha just laughs and gestures toward a suddenly empty booth in the corner of the room.

"Let's sit there while we suss him out," she mutters to you, pulling you along with her and slipping inside, "Now, what's he look like? You've been pretty vague about those details." She waggles her eyebrows, "Be honest, is he bald?"

You almost spit out your second sip, shaking your head furiously, "No, he's not bald. Full head of hair."

She puts her hands up in defense, "Hey, it's not that crazy to assume!"

You just shake your head and laugh, turning back toward the bar and the people and trying to get a gage on where he might be. You know he usually comes here with his contracting crew, but what the hell does a contracting crew even look like?

"Help me out, gimme a description!" Tasha says eagerly, wiggling in her seat a bit and following your gaze, "He has facial hair, right?"

"Yes, it's kinda messy and scruffy," you bite your lip, squinting a bit as if that'll help you.

"And what's his hair color?"

You don't look at her as you reply, "Um.. grey."

Tasha's hand slaps down on the table and you jump, eyes going wide as you turn back to her, "What?"

"Grey? Girl, how old is he?" she doesn't sound angry or judgmental - she sounds intrigued. And almost... impressed? You gnaw on your lip, scrunching your eyebrows together as you look back toward the crowd of people.

"Um... he's..." you stop short, freezing when your eyes land on a familiar shirt near the bar, a red and black plaid button down that you'd seen only hours ago, "There! He's there!" You point at him quickly, ducking your head a bit and motioning for Tasha to lean in closer to get a good look.

"Oh... my god," she breathes, and you feel a rush of pride at her response, unable to stop the grin from plastering itself to your face as you peer at him.

There's something different about him that you can't place - maybe it's just because you haven't seen him in a public place like this, aren't used to what he looks like when it's not just the two of you. You try to put your finger on it, and while you're doing so he does something that makes your heart positively swell in your chest.

He smiles. That beautiful crooked smile that pulled you in the day you met him, set your skin on fire and brought you to the point of no return. Those crinkly eyes, the grey in his beard, the softness of his eyes, they send that familiar feeling of safety rushing through your bones. And you realize there's nothing different about him at all. That's your Joel, sitting on a bar stool after a long day of work, nursing a glass of whisky and chatting about his day. He's the same Joel who you'd woken up with this morning, just in a different setting.

You're so distracted by his rugged beauty out in the open like this - overwhelmed by his charm and his smile - that it takes you a few seconds to see who exactly he's smiling at.

You feel your heart in your throat.

There's a woman sitting beside him. Not just beside him, but so close their stools are touching, so close her legs - long and lean and beautiful - are brushing his. It's not subtle the way her ankle moves against his calf, up and down, up and down. She's wearing jean shorts and a halter top, skin dark and gorgeous and exposed in all the right places, beautiful brown braids cascading down her back and shoulders. You can't see her face but you already know she could be a model. She probably is.

No. No, something isn't right.

Maybe it's not him.

Time feels like it's frozen, like everyone in the bar has stopped moving except the two of them, like a giant spotlight is shining directly on where they sit, where they touch, where they smile at each other. Because it is him. It's him in all his gorgeous Joel glory, peering into the eyes of a woman who isn't you, a woman who's probably more his type, closer to his age, a woman who's somehow making him smile like that when she shouldn't. That's how he smiles at you. That's your smile.

A woman who's now leaning in for a kiss.

No. Please no.

A woman who he kisses back.

This isn't happening. This isn't real. This is just some sick and twisted nightmare you're about to wake up from at any second.

His hand comes up to cup her face.

"I'm gonna throw up," is all you manage to gasp out to Tasha as you yank yourself from the booth and sprint out of the bar, hand splaying across your belly as you bend over and release the contents of your stomach all over the sidewalk.

You feel Tasha's hand on your back, pulling your hair behind your ears. She's saying something but you don't understand it, ears continuing to ring despite being outside in the cool air, away from the loud music and chatty conversations, away from them.

"Oh honey," you finally hear her say, soft and kind as she rubs circles into your back, a comforting action that brings no comfort to you, not now, not after what you've just seen. "I'm so sorry."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #fic: feelings on fire #*

2K notes · View notes

matryosika · 2 years ago

Text

Hyung Line: Love Languages and Sex

Wordcount: 5,467 words.

Genre: Smut, partly head canons and scenarios.

Includes: SKZ Hyung Line members, female reader, brief discussion about food in Minho's scenario, curse words and dirty dialogues. Smut warnings below.

Author's note: Long time no see! I just randomly thought about this yesterday, and I had a couple of scenario/drabbles I wanted to write about regarding this topic so here they are. I thought about uploading them individually, but I don't know. I'm currently working in the second part of this, so yeah. Thought I would just put this out there for now. I hope you guys like it! Please remember that english isn't my first language and this is not proof-read so I apologize for any mistake in advance.

If you like this, please consider supporting me by reblogging, leaving a comment or sending me an ask. If you wish to support my work further, please consider buying me a coffee! ☕

Smut warnings (varies from scenario to scenario): Masturbation (f. receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, praises, use of petnames, established relationship, foot massage (for Minho's part), public sex (for Changbin's scenario), body cumshot (for Hyunjin's scenario), vaginal penetrative sex, unprotected sex, implied creampie (for Changbin's scenario).

Chan: Acts of Service and Words of Affirmation

“One more?”

When you told Chan you were feeling stressed, you didn't exactly expect him to try and cheer you up like this —face buried in your sweet, throbbing cunt, and hands intertwined with yours. You have been going at it for hours on end, with no signs of Chan ever wanting to stop —not even after your third orgasm.

“Channie…” You want to tell him it's his turn, that you also want to make him feel good. That you need to help him releasing the tension between his legs, make him come just as much as he has made you tonight.

But you can’t even begin to deliver a coherent sentence, or at least not when his nose is applying the perfect amount of pressure to your clit while his tongue laps messily on your slit, his spit and your own wetness creating a sticky, awkward sensation that reminds you of all the time Chan had spent working on your cunt in the past hour or two.

“Mhm?” He knows you’re too fucked out you can’t even speak, but the devilish grin plastered on his face tells you that he wants to listen to you. Or at least your babbles. “What is it, baby?”

“Chan,” you latch your hands onto his dark locks, pulling them harshly and earning a hiss from him. “Chan, please!”

You don't have to tell him exactly what you want for him to know. The way you grind your hips against his face sells you out —Chan knows you need more than just his mouth, and he is more than happy to comply.

If you ask for it, of course.

“Greedy,” he laughs under his breath, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your cunt. “Come one more time for me, and I’ll consider giving you what you want”.

A fair exchange, you think. But when the ravages of over-stimulation start hitting you painfully than before, you highly doubt you can fulfill his plea.

“I can’t,” you gasp with shortness of breath, hands leaving Chan’s to clinge at the bedsheets underneath you. “Chan, fuck, wait!”

The last thing you want is for Chan to stop, but the words fall from your lips faster than you can process them. So he withdraws from your pussy and stares at you with half-lidded eyes, swollen lips and chin glistening with your arousal.

“No! Don’t- don’t stop, I’m sorry”.

You’re not making any sense, and he loves it.

“Am I hurting you?”

You shake your head eagerly, swallowing hard while you take advantage of the break to take a breath. “No, it’s just- I’m- I want to please you”.

Chan smiles.

“I have to take care of you first,” he mumbles, lips attached to flesh of your inner thighs. “Want to make you come enough until your mind is completely empty”.

“But I-”

“Tonight isn’t about me, okay?” he drags his words lazily, humming and slightly whimpering them when he rubs his nose yet again against your clit. “I need to make sure you’re not feeling stressed anymore”.

You plop down onto the bed again, hands gripping his curls while unconsciously bringing him closer to your core.

“See, I know you can come one more time,” Chan whispers against your pussy, two of his fingers spreading your folds while he coats them with your previous arousal, “you’re always good to me like that”.

You buck your hips when he unexpectedly thrusts his middle and ring finger inside you, walls welcoming and clenching around them so tightly Chan almosts come right in his pants.

“3 orgasms are not enough for someone like you, hm?” he fucks you delicately, enjoying the wet sounds your cunt makes every time he sinks his fingers inside you, “you still want more”.

You cover your face in shyness, only letting out small whimpers and moans every time he curls his fingers.

“Don’t,” his available hand, which he has underneath your right thigh and the curve of your ass, reaches out to pull both your arms, causing you to uncover your face, “I want to see you when I’m talking to you”.

He grabs both your wrists with his available hand, while the other works wonders on your cunt. From where you lay, the sight is heavenly —you can catch a glimpse of his flexed shoulders and back, along with his bare face and messy, dark curls. You could reach your fourth orgasm just by that alone, but Chan has other plans in mind.

“You’re so sweet,” he’s practically groaning his words, licking remains of your orgasms from his lips, “I don’t ever want to go a day without tasting you, ever”.

You moan at his words, heart racing faster than it was before. He has always had a way with words —ever since you two met, he has always known exactly what to say to have you at his feet, mercilessly.

“Channie,” you cry out loud, head falling back as your back arches in pleasure. “Chan!”

“Come on,” he drags his swollen lips against your hip bone and the side of your tummy, inhaling deeply the scent of your skin while the room is filled with wet, lewd noises, “I can feel you’re close, I know you can take one more”.

There’s no point in trying to hold back, so you start letting yourself go.

“All day I’ve been thinking about your sweet cunt,” the more he talks, the rougher he fucks you with his fingers and the closer you get to your release, “you’re all I fucking need. I don’t want anything else but you”.

You melt with love, tears threating to spill from the corners of your eyes. There’s something enticing about the contrast between his words and his touch, how he can say the sweetest, purest and loving things while his fingers keep on fucking your pussy with no tenderness, exactly how you like it.

“I just want to show you off to everyone,” Chan continues, feeling the wetness around his fingers starting to increase, word by word. “Want to tell everyone how pretty you look like this, how proud I am to have you with me”.

“F-fuck,” you’re coming, he can tell. The way your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your hips spasm against his hand sells you out.

“That’s it,” he moans, the raspiness of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Give it to me, I know you can”.

He continues fucking your cunt through your orgasm, not daring to stop even when drops of your arousal wet his hand and bed.

“Stay still, baby,” with his available arm, he holds you down and pins you against the bed, preventing you from closing your legs or get away from his touch, “make a mess, I want to lick it clean”.

Minho: Acts of Service and Physical Touch

Minho is naturally a giver.

Sure, he does love being on the receiving end from time to time, but really nothing gratifies him more than taking care of you, in every way you should be taken care of.

Whether it’s taking a chore off your hands when you’re exhausted, running an errand to save you time on a busy day, or picking up take out and medicine when you’re feeling down, one of Minho’s ways to show you love it’s by performing acts of services.

Hence that, you’re not surprised to come home tonight with a full home-cooked dinner, with dessert and all.

“Hope you’re starving,” your boyfriend welcomes you, still wearing an apron on top of his work outfit. Black, formal pants and a white shirt with rolled sleeves, “It’s your favorite, by the way”.

Earlier today, he called you to ask you for a quick grocery shopping list, in case you had some things missing from your fridge. Apparently, he was going to be released early from work, so he had some spare time before meeting you at your place and he could stop by for the things you needed..

“My head is all over the place,” you admitted, hands brushing through your hair in frustration, “I’m sorry Min, I completely forgot to leave the grocery list you told me. And I’m not even sure what’s missing- probably the whole fucking fridge is empty”.

He could tell how busy and exhausted you had been over the past few weeks, so he came up with a plan.

“I can come to your place and do the list myself,” he proposed by the phone. “Then I’ll go to the supermarket and pick the food and stuff you need, yeah? I’ll return to your place at night, and we can unwind together. Is that okay?”

You thanked him, probably a million times, before hanging up and going through with your day.

When he sits at the table with you, you finally get a taste of the dish. As expected, is more than just delicious. It’s a whole fucking experience, especially because it was made just for you.

You two eat together and help each other cleaning the kitchen afterwards. When you're done, with a comfy outfit and while having another glass of red wine, Minho suggests he does a massage on you because you look tense.

“What a nice, elegant sex proposal,” you laugh, extending your legs on top of his while you are sitting in the couch.

“I never said anything about sex,” Minho tiltes his head, the tip of his digits grazing against your skin. “So who’s proposing that to who?”

“You know, I could use a massage,” you leave the glass of wine on top of the coffee table, and let your body slowly slide into the couch. “I’m not sure about the sex part. I don’t know if I could ride you with how fucking sore my legs are, but I can make it up to you during the weekend”.

Minho laughs, a genuine, heart-warming laugh.

“We don’t have to fuck tonight,” his hands and digits trail an immaginary path from your feet, to your ankles, to your knees and inner thighs. The touch is enough to get you wet, and you curse him mentally for that, “but I still want to make you come, at least once”.

Sometimes, you really can't begin to comprehend how Minho is all that. Attractive, smart, hard-working and just… perfect in every aspect, including sex.

“I’m so embarrassed,” you admit, moaning softly when his hands start working on the soles of your feet. It’s certainly not a massage massage, but rather a compilation of soft and lustful touches, “I really want to make things up to you but I’m a mess right now, there’s a lot going on at work and-”

“Hey,” he interrupts you, caressing the sides of your feet while working on them. “I’m not complaining nor asking for anything in return, am I?”

He isn’t.

And he is also not the type to expect some sort of payment for a favor.

Minho loves like that¸ without expecting absolutely nothing in return except for your satisfacion.

“But-”

“Am I?”

“No,” you softly reply, more as a whimper than an actual response. He is still massaging your feet and ankles, slowly growing harder at the series of moans and hisses you’re letting out.

“Why don’t you tell me where you keep your vibrator?” You love how it’s a casual question, how you no longer grow timid when he asks stuff like that. You are a couple, and he knows way more about you and your private life than anyone else. “Let’s put it to use tonight, hm?”

“Nightstand, second drawer,” you immediately sigh, losing the warmth of his body when he stands up from the couch to go to said location —the nightstand, second drawer.

He comes back not even 2 minutes later, holding the hot pink item to his hand. He sits right next to you, inviting you to spread your legs for him while he pushes your underwear and pijama shorts to the side.

A proud smile peeps out of the corners of his lips, knowing he did absolutely nothing but you’re still dripping wet, underwear and clothes sticking to your folds.

“You weren’t sure about the sex part?” he hums in content, caressing your slit with the tip of the toy. “Honey, you’re body is begging for me to fuck it”.

You arch your back unexpectedly when he turns on the toy, digging it further against your clit. He motions for you to take care of the toy, guiding your wrist to it in order to have both of his hands free and available to caress you, grope you and kiss you as he pleases.

“It’s really good,” you moan, masturbating for him while his hands reach out to your breasts, massaging them and pinching your nipples. “It’s not as good as your cock, but it does the task. I should get a better toy”.

Minho laughs against your skin, tongue latched to one of your hardened buds. His right hand wanders along the side of your body, caressing your waist, hips and thighs as much as he wants.

“You know nothing compares to me,” Minho whimpers against your skin, his hips grinding ever so slightly against your spread thighs. “But it’s cute that you’re still willing to try and find something that could compete against me”.

You bury your right hand onto his dark hair, pulling him closer to you, if possible, while your left hand holds the wand against your cunt.

The more he touches you and kisses you, the closer you get to your orgasm. And pathetically close, at that, since you’ve only been doing this for roughly 3 minutes.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed your body these days,” Minho groans, peppering kisses on your chest and neck while his hand sneaks between your ass and the couch. He squeezes and gropes it harshly, making you move your hips a bit up to give him better access. “Just want to cover it all with my kisses, lick it and touch it how you like it”.

Minho buries his face on your neck, and starts kissing your skin sloppily while his right hand is still groping your body. He doesn’t care about being messy —in fact, that’s exactly what he is going for tonight.

“Don’t stop,” you babble, grinding your hips against the toy while Minho’s lips and hands are all over you. “Don’t stop, Min, please, don’t-”

When you’re just a second away from your arousal, Minho places his hand on top of yours and presses the vibrator against your clit more, forcing you to orgasm faster. “Don’t worry,” he groans near your ear, face still buried in the crook of your neck, “I won’t stop until you’re satisfied”.

Changbin: Words of Affirmation and Gifts

“What do you think?”

Changbin has to take a full minute in order to arrange his own thoughts. If he had to say what he actually thinks of that dress, he would earn a couple of disgusted faces from the rest of the people at the boutique.

“Good,” it’s all he manages to say, slyly leaning forward to hide his bulge, “let me pay for it and let’s go home”.

“I’m still not done, though,” there’s a bunch of clothes you wish to try, and you know that doesn’t impatient Changbin –he is a great shopping partner. But judged by his lustful gaze, you think he has changed his plans, “I’ll be quick, I promise”.

He isn’t mad, nor wants to rush you, but Changbin wonders how long it’s going to take for him to lose his sanity before he gets to fuck you in the very same dress you just tried on. It hugs your body just right, allowing you to show just the right amount of skin to drive him crazy.

“Shit, I don’t know about this one,” you murmur from inside, just a long curtain separating you from Changbin, who is currently sitting at a small couch placed strategically in front of the fitting rooms, “I don’t think this is my size”.

Before he could ponder the situation, the pros and cons of demanding a small, modeling catwalk from you, he asks you to show the dress to him.

“It’s too tight,” you complain, struggling to zip it up, “one wrong move and I- I’m going to flash everyone in here”.

“Let me see it,” he asks again, impatiently looking forward to watching the curtain slide back, revealing you.

“I don’t- I look weird,” the dress is not your style, nor it’s something you would wear out on any occasion. You thought it would be fun to try it on, see if you could get out of your comfort zone, but it escalated too quick. “It’s too much, it barely covers anything”.

It’s not intentional, but you’re practically edging Changbin with your words. The longer you drag it out, the whiner he gets.

“Alright, alright,” you finally exhale, your hand pushing the curtain separating you from his gaze out of the way, “but don’t fucking say anything”.

Even if he wanted to say something, he can’t even speak. His throat is dry, aching just as much as the throbbing pressure between his legs that demands for his whole attention.

After some excruciating, awkward moments in silence, you speak again.

“Okay, say something,” the lack of words from him is making you feel unsteady, because he is just staring right at you quietly. You can’t possibly now what’s going on in his mind. “I told you it doesn’t fit and it is too damn expensive, and the fabric is -”.

“Get that one too,” it’s not a question, nor an advice –it’s an order.

“It’s too exp-”

“I don’t care,” the pent up tension is making it seem as if he’s angry, but you know he isn’t –he is just too damn horny, and needy, and desperate to get home and fuck you in every position possible.

“Alright,” you nod, feeling your heart skipping a beat when Changbin’s intimidating gaze falls up on you, basically begging for you to be done. “I’ll just… take it off and we can- go home, yeah?”

You go back to the fitting room with a wet sensation between your legs, feeling your folds sticking to your underwear while you relentlessly try to take the dress off. It had been hard to put it on, but you underestimated how difficult it was going to be to take it off on your own.

“Bin?” you ask, “is someone there who… could help me?”

Changbin looks around, but there’s no one other than him. Not even the lady who manages the changing room and checks which clothes people are trying on is there.

“There’s no one here,” the dark-haired replies, standing from the couch with more confidence now that he knows no one can spot the bulge in his pants, “what do you need?”

You shyly push the curtains to the side yet again, revealing the now messy dress after your failed attempt to take it off. “Can you help me?”

You turn around, putting the back zipper on display for him. It’s rather an easy task, he just needs to pull it down.

But how easy can it be when all he can pay attention to is your ass, and how good it looks underneath that tight dress? The clothes are so tight he can catch a glimpse of the silhouette of your underwear, buried in the flesh of your arse.

“Please?”

He doesn’t helps you unziping it and, instead, pushes you inside the fitting room again, closing the curtain behind him as he is sure the area is completely empty, except for the two of you.

“I can’t,” he breathes, turning you around so that your hands lay on his chest. “I don’t want you to take it off”.

“I have to if you want to buy it for me, silly,” you’re teasing him, acting oblivious to his sudden reaction. “Quick, don’t want anyone to catch us together in here”.

“I want to fuck you while you’re wearing it,” he confesses, his lips so close to yours you can actually feel his breath caressing your chin. “I want to fuck you right here, so you can see how pretty you look”.

You would be lying if you said you’re not turned on, not even in the slightest. But your hardened nipples and wet underwear speak louder than you can.

“Please,” he begs, hands moving slowly from your waist to your ass, groping it while pulling you closer to him. “Please let me fuck you”.

The more he pulls you towards him, the more you can feel his throbbing, hard cock against your body. You are probably going to regret your decision, but you still give in.

You need him more than he does.

“If someone catches us…”

“They won’t,” Changbin groans, lifting your dress up with one hand while the other unbuckles his pants with a swift motion, “just keep your pretty mouth shut and I’ll take care of the rest, yeah?”

It seems like he isn't asking for a lot, but he is. How can you possibly keep your mouth shut when his raw cock is about to stretch your pussy?

He turns you around, your palms resting on the wall for support while his nimble hands place you in the perfect position for him: back arched, ass up and legs open. Really, how can you possibly keep your mouth shut when the tip of his thick cock slides against your slit?

He knows time is running out, so he doesn’t waste it –he sinks his hips against yours delicately, only to pick up the pace when he feels you getting used to his cock.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he groans against your shoulders, leaving wet, sloppy pecks that soon turn into love bites. “You’re just- too pretty- can’t keep my hands off of you”.

You moan at his words, sounds that are quickly muffled by one of his hands against your mouth.

“So- fucking beautiful,” his words come out choppy, but he manages to keep the volume of his voice down, unlike you. “You're just too good to be real and mine”.

The sound of your muffled whines, Changbin’s soft groans, skin hitting skin and the wetness of your cunt around his cock is what fills the whole fitting room. You’re wondering if someone can hear you two, but you really don’t care anymore.

“You’re so tight,” he can’t get himself to stop. The urge to praise you and compliment you is the exactly the same as coming inside you, he is really desperate for both and judged by the way you squeeze his dick everytime he speaks, he knows you like it too. “Perfectly made for my cock”.

The rougher he pounds himself inside you, the more you lose balance and control of your own body. Your cheek is against the wall, your weak arms barely doing anything to support your body, but his grip around you is what keeps you stable.

“I’m going to fill you up, yeah?” he is not that far from his arousal, and neither are you. “I want to show you how much I love you”.

You nod eagerly against his palm, drooling all over it. One of your hands leave the wall to rub your clit, the new stimulation provided pushing you to the edge.

“Come with me, pretty,” he pants, barely speaking with shortness of breath. “Give it to me, let me know how much you love the way I fuck you”.

His words have never failed to make you lose it. Not even once.

Hyunjin: Physical Touch and Gifts

You’re his muse.

You have been since the day he met you, since the very first time he laid his eyes on you.

Whether it’s for a poem, a drawing, a painting or a sculpture, you’re exactly where he finds his inspiration at. Hyunjin would rather die than looking at someone else, would rather stop making art before immortalizing another body that isn’t yours.

And besides being his muse, you’re also his lover. His partner, his accomplice, his everything. He trusts you more than he trusts himself, cares about you more than anything else. He wants to share all of himself with you, from his anger and sadness to the things he can’t say out loud, his filthy desires that he knows only you understand.

To be honest, you share a lot of the same. Especially your preferences, like and dislikes.

“Isn’t it pretty?”

A set of laced lingerie, your favorite color.

“What’s the occasion?” you ask him perplexed, carefully folding the wrap around it.

“Saw it on my way back to your apartment,” he is standing right in front of you, smiling softly at your excitement. “I thought you were going to like it, so I just couldn’t not buy it for you. It’s too pretty for you not to have it”.

Hyunjin is like that, always.

If he sees something he thinks you’d like, or if there’s something he wants you to have, he buys it and gives it to you as a gift. There doesn’t need to be a special occasion for Hyunjin to shower you with gifts —whether it’s a painting of yourself, a small hand-made bracelet, a new coffee mug or a whole expensive set of lingerie, Hyunjin always makes sure to get to your apartment with his hands full.

“I love it,” you reassure him, your fingertips tracing the lace of the underwear. “I’m going to try it on for you”.

He smiles widely, his eyes turning into crescent moons when his muse promises such a thing —he’ll get to see it on you, on your naked skin that always tempts him into touching it.

You come back faster than he expected you, only wearing the set of lingerie and nothing more.

“Oh,” it’s all he manages to say, his body freezing in its place.

“It looks good, hm?”

Hyunjin makes a mental note to go back to that place and buy all sets of lingerie available just to gift them to you, as soon as possible.

“You’re a fucking goddess”.

His compliment gets you shy, but you still walk towards him as he is sitting on the edge of your bed. Right next to him you spot some of his arts supplies –a sketch notebook and some other utensils.

“You want to draw me?” you ask him with a smile and the warmest tone of voice. Like pure honey and sugar.

“I wanted to,” Hyunjin murmured, looking up to you, “but I’ve changed my mind”.

“Why so?”

The position you two are at is perfect for Hyunjin to embrace your body –you’re standing right in front of him, between his spread legs. His mouth is at the level of your torso, and his hands can explore your whole body easily.

“I just want to admire you,” he sighed, leaving a single, quick kiss on your tummy. “Kiss you and touch you, remind myself that you’re all mine”.

You giggle softly while latching his fingers to his hair, something that earns you a subtle moan from him.

“You know I’m yours,” you sigh when his mouth and tongue becomes bold, licking and nibbling at your flesh while his hands caress the sides of your body, “don’t need to remind yourself something you already know”.

“Sometimes I can’t believe it,” Hyunjin whispers, grazing his plump lips against the lace fabric of your underwear, “that you belong to me”.

You arch your back slightly when his tongue licks a trail from your pubis towards your chest, the trace of his saliva looking better than any texture or color Hyunjin could paint, ever.

“I do,” every time it gets harder to hold your sighs and moans, his skilled mouth making you feel impatient for his touch, even when he is all over you. “I belong to you. I’ve been yours ever since the day I met you”.

He inhales deeply the scent of your skin, the way the tip of his nose brushes against you sending shivers down your spine.

“Let me mark you,” Hyunjin whispers, doe eyes staring up, right at you. “Don’t need that sketchbook when I have your body like this”.

He guides his lips to the side of your hips, nibbling at the skin and sucking somewhat harshly, only stopping to soothe the skin with soft kisses and kitten licks.

“You’re going to cover me all in love bites?”

“If you allow me to,” Hyunjin smiles, admiring the print of his teeth against your skin. “I want everyone to know you’re all mine, in every way possible”.

He guides his hands from your ass to your lower back as he stands up, pressing his body against yours.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper, hooking your arms against his neck. Your touch makes him shiver, but he conceals it well. “Please?”

You don’t have to tell him twice before he is already laying with you on his bed, taking his clothes off on the way.

“Can you leave this on?” he asks you when you’re about to unhook the top part of the underwear. The idea of getting to fuck you in something he gifted you is riling him up, so he prays for you to agree. “Want to come all over it, so everytime you wear it you can remember me”.

You just smile and nod, impatient to feel him deep inside you.

“You’re so warm,” Hyunjin hisses when his fingers push the lace underwear to the side, revealing how ruined they already are. “So fucking slippery”.

“I’m always like this when I’m with you,” you admit, “especially when you have your hands all over me. It drives me insane”.

You’re both more than ready for each other, as usual. It’s a magical thing, how it only takes you a few words, touches and gazes to receive each other’s body.

“Relax for me,” he whispers when the tip of his cock stretches your entrance, “like that”.

He holds your hand and you squeeze it hard as he enters you, sinking it into the mattress right next to your head.

“Shit,” a gasp escapes your lips when he bottoms out. And, slowly, he pulls away only to repeat the same movements of his hips against yours, “so- good”.

Hyunjin leans down to kiss your forehead, and then your cheek. He then finds your lips, and synchronizes the brushes of his tongue with the thrusts of his hips.

“Faster,” you plea when he releases your lips to let out a quiet whimper, pressing his forehead against yours while his body moves on their own. “Fuck me faster, Hyunjin”.

And so he does. All to satisfy you.

Every time he bottoms out, his pubis brushes against your clit and gives you the much needed stimulation to reach your climax, so you’re getting closer every time he slams himself inside you.

Hyunjin notices it, by the way your walls clench around him, so he continues steady with his movements. He hasn’t let go of your hand and he doesn’t plan to –he loves feeling you squeeze it, telling him with your touch what you can’t put into words.

“Hyune-”

“I know,” he groans quietly with shortness of breath, “let yourself go, I’m right here”.

Your orgasm hits you right when your gazes meet, and Hyunjin can feel it from how wet and slippery you’ve become, and how hard it is to maintain a steady pace when your hips are practically begging for his release.

“Come on,” he encourages you, not wanting to pull out before fucking you through your high, “give it to me”.

You arch your back and let go of his hand to hook both of your arms around his neck, violently trembling against his body while trying to get away from the stimulation he is providing you with.

But only after you’re done he does so, with a swift movement he pulls away from you and strokes his cock two or three times before coming all over your body, the set of lingerie getting paint with his orgasm.

And as he jerks of the remain of his high on top of you, Hyunjin realizes no painting he has ever gifted you has done you any justice.

#stray kids smut #skz smut #kpop smut #bangchan smut #minho smut #hyunjin smut #changbin smut

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jolalibrary · 5 months ago

Text

met you once, saw you thrice

lucien flores x f!reader

summary: the first time, he kissed you. the second time, you found yourselves in a bathroom. the third time, well, the third time.

warnings: 18+ smut, fingering aka hands go inside underwear under a tree. not-friends to not-lovers. tension. lots of references to past debauchery. slight mention of lucien's sobriety. lots of plot for some sexy rewards. wc: 5.3k an: this is my submission to summer lovin', brought to you by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery and @amanitacowboy. i got Lucien, and this gorgeous moodboard. im a touch nervous about this man as i usually need the source material to write, so be kind. huge thanks to @pedgito for hand holding and to my circle for lifting me when i kept falling.

You shouldn’t be here.

That’s what you think, hovering under the white canopy away from the sun, surrounded by expensive bottles of champagne chilling in silver buckets, their labels catching the flickering candlelight strategically placed around the sprawling garden.

Another bead falls down your glass, the ice in your drink melting. Thick rolls of condensation drip over your knuckles, along your hand, and down your wrist. Each one falls like rain, landing on the flowy skirt of your summer dress.

It's a new purchase, far too expensive, the label tucked inside, hidden away—pressing and cutting into your skin when you move—doing so each time you nod and over-pronounce a hello to those draped in designers and silk, while the grill sizzles and steams as more is added to it.

You shouldn’t be here because you don’t belong.

Not an actor, not someone on stage; not a writer or a producer. Not the girlfriend of one either. Just a friend of a friend—one ditched, left to ferment with the salad wilting in the warm temperatures as Smith flits between flirting with a waiter and the one he really wants.

You’re not sure why you let him convince you to come. Even as you take another sip, glancing at the time on your wrist, the free food and drink are slowly becoming less worth it. Assessing through sideward glances where the hand needs to be before you can dismiss the worries of being a bad friend and hail a cab.

Not that Smith would notice.

To him, you had completed your role, and earned your accolade in his eyes—the role of not allowing him to come to this alone. It would be criminal to do that. To let him arrive at a house tucked into acres, with Dom Perignon on tap and a grill larger than your kitchen.

You know you should be grateful Smith hadn’t traded you for his new friends. The ones who walk red carpets and call him Smithy. You suppose you should also be thankful he brings you so you can take home stories that make you not hate that you live in a studio apartment and work a 9 to 5.

It’s hard not to be bitter right now. On your own. Exhaling and staring around, wearing that plastered-on half-smile perfected from shitty customer service jobs.

Bringing your glass back to your lips, doing one last sweep before you sneak out, fighting the scent of split open apricots and pungent flowery perfume, you see him. Spot him. The crowd practically parting for him to come into view, creating a gap that would make a romantic swoon.

But, you’re no romantic—more thrillers and mysteries on your nightstand than meet cutes and midnight kisses. If anything, you’re more a cynic, a twisted-up, poisoned hater of hand-holding and Sunday mornings.

Especially when it comes to him.

Lucien Flores.

His name echoes around your skull in the same way it did when it was first introduced to you. Dropped to you, honeyed and elongated as though by stretching it out, you’d fall under some spell as he seated himself beside you—a deck of cards in hand.

Tipping the glass, your mouth fills with lemonade, holding his gaze—willing to do so until your eyes burn, until it feels impossible. All stubborn to a fault. Obstinate and arrogant.

You’re saved as a group moves in between the two of you—breaking it for you.

And you decide, rather quickly, it’s time to move—hoping the sight of your back will be enough for him not to press further.

You’re not counting—but he waits an hour.

Crosses the garden, where the tables have moved into standing groups around various points of the green. Some have stood to mingle, to mill around with their flutes and their tales of marriage, honours, and complaints once the grilling finished and the bubbles got to some of the louder women. Others begin the garden games, the ones which had no rules but also had some, as though the aim was to confuse rather than create fun.

Smith had returned between the salad being offered and the grilled steaks. A leaf between his fingers, he whispered he was going back to his tennis match. A twinkle in his eye, a kiss to your forehead, a promise there but one that never really seals itself or makes itself solid. Just confirms that your use was done—You don’t have to wait for me, pumpkin.

A nickname which had once made you smile and now just makes your heart lurch when you let go of his hand and watch him vanish into the house.

One person who hasn’t vanished is Lucien. It surprises you that he’s waited so long to make his approach. Almost as surprising as it is to see him, having heard rumours he’d landed a role in a movie—something British, remote, taking him overseas.

But he’s here. All brown eyes that attempt to drown you, pull you under—dig into you. You feel you should be used to them; they’ve been fixed on you for so long. Soaking you in deep chocolate, thick enough to make it feel like it’s hard to move, to fight it—akin to sludge, mud—as he begins to smirk as he nears.

And maybe he remembers too.

Able to recall a time similar to this. Not the first, but the second. When instead of barbecues and setting suns, it had been wine, cheese and a much later evening. Card games having caused outrage, shrieked words from a woman who should have been cut off a while ago, having caused you to slip out, escape to the first-floor bathroom. Finding he followed.

Don’t think about him—

The opposite sprouts so easily, you have to wonder what soil lives in your mind.

Because, of course, you had thought about it, about him. More than you should. Heat gliding up your neck now, making you shift your shoulders as the straps of your dress cut in, as you do. You think about how his lips felt on the juncture of your neck when you sit in conference calls, and how his hips had dipped before you felt his hardening cock slide over your covered ass. At night, you think about how it feels to have his thick fingers sliding open the button and zip of your pantsuit, how they’d slid inside your new lace undies and collected your slick to enjoy a taste.

The more you stopped yourself, the worse it became. Craving him when the moon was at its highest, hand delving between your thighs as you tried to replicate all the places he touched. Wanting, needing—desperately desiring until you arched from your sheets, sprinkled in sweat as you hissed his name out between gritted teeth.

That’s all you allow.

No second-glances passing newspaper stands when he makes the front page, no secret Google searches when you were frustrated and impossibly lonely. Knowing, and comprehending, that if you did, it would only lead to further disappointment. It would land you somewhere close to remembered disinterest, like those times when you’d found yourself sat across from charm and wit—making you disassociate when your palm rested on white linen with a candle flickering in the middle as you hoped, prayed, internally begged for a comment on how nice you’d looked.

Not again.

Never again.

So, you placed him where you suspected he had placed you. Out of sight, out of mind. Yours a box, right at the back of your mind—the lid sliding free when you needed release, and only then. It marked in thick Sharpie: a good time, even better cock, but comes with baggage.

It’s why you stand as he takes the final steps to you, your hand retrieving your glass, only to find it empty, drained, with only the little bits of fruit and a smidge of ice at the bottom. But his hands were not.

Extending one to you, one that looked close to the one you’d been enjoying—all mint leaves and lemon slices swimming in lemonade.

“What are the chances?”

You snort, taking a sip. “You’ve used that line.”

“Have I?”

“The last time.”

It’s his turn to snort. Staring. Looking you up and down in a soft drag that makes your stomach flip and your skin prickle with heat.

“Next you’ll tell me your name, tell me that you’re a movie star and that you’ve not seen me around.”

For a second, he gives you a silent stare, eyes speaking volumes that you couldn’t hear as he chews his tongue, and flicks his eyes from your chest back to your face once, twice. “Does it make you nervous when I stare?”

Swallowing, wrapping a hand around your middle, you smile—cold, wickedly. “No.”

“S’that why you won’t look at me?”

You eye him, as he does you. Despising that he looks good—that it’s another silk shirt, slightly unbuttoned, similar gold chains hanging from his neck. Hating that he looks so broad, that you remember how it feels to have them spreading your legs, how his chest feels pressed to your back with his cock in your pussy.

Loathing that right now, as you will a quip, a response, your thigh remembers how his palm felt on it as he held it and speared into you. How much of a mess he made of you, that you’d come so hard you’d seen galaxies and not just stars.

“Never known you to be this qui—”

Scowling at him through your eyebrows, you slide your lips into your cheek and straighten your spine. “Do I still look nervous?”

Your pulse quickens as he takes another step closer. His aftershave smothers you. It’s wooden and earthy this time, it flooding your senses as blood hammers in your ears. Every muscle in your frame going taught, tight—so close to snapping that you expect with one breath you’d play a tune like a harp.

Scoffing, a roll of his eyes and he’s taking a long drink of his water—a pebble of it remaining on his lower lip, it commanding to be stared at, to be wiped, to be noticed and applauded like the rest of him as he replies no.

You’re quick not to react, to let pride flood your expression. Something warning you against it, telling you not to—especially when he places his bottle down. The sound echoes out in the quietness of the moment.

“You do look fucking miserable though.”

There it is. Expecting it, the doorway to show itself so he can use a line to cheer you up, to have you smiling, as though he’s a gift. His cock might be, not that you’ll admit it—not even if he begged, if he pleaded.

“Maybe that’s because this asshole keeps staring at me.”

“You think I’m an asshole?”

Eyes narrowing, head tilting to the side as you shrug. “I don’t think you’re not an asshole.”

Rolling his lips, pursing them, before they flatten into a line—hand stroking the hair along his chin, his jaw, he bathes in it, your insult. Let it simmer, cook, before clearing his throat. “Is that why you gave me a fake number?”

Your mouth falls open. Your eyes quickly widen—all cards gone, knocking the air out of your lungs as your heart slams into your stomach for different reasons as he sneers, and shakes his head.

“Enjoy your drink.”

“I—I…”

But, he’s already turned his back.

While a perfectly good exit window had cracked itself open for you, you don’t take it.

Even if it would have allowed you to bid the ache in the arch of your foot goodbye, slide out with the people moving into the house to avoid the chill and those making their own escape.

But, guilt gnawed, chewed. It there ruminating when you catch sight of his silk shirt between other guests. When the scent of his aftershave lingered in the air when you stepped inside to catch your breath from having to re-explain what it is you do to the same people you had done hours ago.

You know he’s presenting a chance to leave, yet your hand grabs another glass bottle of water, the lemon slice bobbing around as you venture down the lit path no one else seems to be trekking.

The one you know he escaped down earlier, seeing it after you’d heard some of them talking about him—the man who doesn’t settle, the one who’s clean but not really clean, the one who has talent and charm, and they wonder in their hushed voices if his cock is really as big as it’s rumoured.

It took all you had to bite back that it is, wanting to point out you’d discovered it in one of their new bathrooms only three months ago.

You pause when you reach the end of the path as it morphs into perfectly manicured grass. Feet sliding from your shoes as you grab the straps, wondering what you’re doing—cursing yourself as your chest heaves and presses roughly against the too-expensive fabric as you question all life choices.

Because you wouldn’t survive him.

A man too big for you, who wouldn’t fit in your world. There’d be no farmers markets and Chinese takeout boxes in bed; no quaint coffee shops and sharing of woes of the day. It would be unbalanced, wrong, awkward, in the same way, it would be if you let him step into your shoebox of an apartment and battle feeling smaller than you do when you’re alone.

Adventure, you think.

He’d said that the first time—when his fingers had wrapped around your wrist and tugged you further into someone's hedge you didn’t know. All green leaves and the scent of flowers sticking to your skin as his mouth pressed to yours. He’d repeated it in the bathroom, your palm flush to the white tiles above the sink—clawing at grout as he hissed it in your ear, filling you, making your mouth contort around a moan of his name as he dragged his cock in and out of your puffy, needy hole.

You suppose adventures are fleeting, not ever after.

Something momentary, nothing serious.

You wonder if he’s actually an adventure or if he just thinks he is. Whether he struggles to leave the fun of who he plays or whether it bleeds into him—a patchwork personality of who he’s had to morph into. It gives him the tools to be an escape, becoming a pause from the mundane, but nothing that stretches itself out passed an evening into the daytime.

When you spot him, your adventure has his phone in hand—spinning it, round and around. Lit cigarette between his lips, the tip burning, paper crisping.

“You seem like trouble.”

Lucien doesn’t turn, but he hears your announcement.

The phone pauses in its 180—it catching the light flickering in the tree above, making the leaves and branches more ominous than they do surrounded by the vivid oranges and reds of the sunset, all fiery intensity. As though the horizon itself had caught fire from the tension, the sun sinking slowly into it, leaving a trail of molten gold and crimson streaks.

“Trouble?” he asks, deep, guttural—caked in smoke and disbelief.

“Trouble.”

Taking another step closer, you stop close to his side. Handing him the bottle, feeling him take it as drop your shoes and stare in the same direction he is—taking in the shades as they deepen before the sun bids the day goodbye.

“That realisation come before or after you came on my cock?”

Nostrils flaring, you regret finding him almost instantly. Shame blooming, filling you from stomach to throat. “A-after.”

He makes a noise, and leaves you in the cold of his mood. To the point, you question again what it is you’re doing. Why you fucking care. Because you don’t. Not really. There’s nothing to know, to latch to—no feelings that could become anything more than a crush.

Incompatible, you think. Incompatible. Incompatible. Incompatible—

“You brought me water.”

His head turns, takes you in—and sweeps you in the familiar brown from earlier. And this time, you let it hang on your shoulders like a sweater. Let it warm you, and bring you comfort. Allow it to smother the shame and force it to seep away as he blows out rings of smoke.

It quickens in its retreat when he pushes off from the trunk, pocketing his phone—it stretching the pocket of his dark jeans as you will yourself not to stare at the bulge already there.

“I did.” It’s matter of fact, no further questions—head dipping, a tightness forming as you shake your head and exhale. “I… I just don’t think your sobriety is a joke.”

You feel his gaze snap to you as the words hang—stringing themselves together like twinkling lights. Unwilling again to meet him, wondering if he was thinking about it, that first time. When a sentence was said in response to a casual joke as the two of you hid out of view. It was made by someone you didn't know, at a party where people pretended to be friends when really they were trying to belittle one another, and Smith pretended he wasn’t in love with the older man he’s vying for.

His cigarette is almost out when you look at him, the lit end illuminating his face in some ways, and casted shadows in others. But, you could see his eyes searing—likely able to even in the darkest night. It etches into you as he takes another drag, as your nose tries to capture the scent of it, it so him, a thing which comes to you when you’re close from your own hand, blotched by it.

“Do you have a collection of silk shirts or something?”

Smirking, blowing a smoke ring between the two of you. “Do you not like my shirts?”

Breathing, you fight saying I do. Not enjoying that you think of how they feel between your thighs when he'd spread you with his thumb when his tongue had licked from clit to hole and made you sob.

“They’re okay.”

“Liar.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes. “Says you.”

“She miss me?” Stuffing the cigarette under his shoe, leaning the water against the base of the tree as his chains catch the light as he straightens. “Bet she’s missed me.”

“She?”

His lips curl, eyes flicking down to the place your thighs meet, before he hauls them back up.

And it’s instant, the way heat floods your cheek, pussy fluttering around nothing—remembering.

The noise is first, recalling whispering sweet nothings as he slid inside you in one thrust. Next is the feel of him, the stretch, how impossible it had felt as he kept going, and going, until those fingers, thick and dexterous slid over your swollen nerves. Then, there’s the aftershave, the same as he’s wearing tonight. How it mixed with smoke and liquor, and roses and expensive hand soap—

“D-don’t flatter yourself.”

But you swallow, give it away. Shaky on two legs as you try to look unfazed.

Because you’re pulsing between your legs, starving, aching. Trying to blink back memories of his tongue, of his thigh, or his crooked smile in the mirror as he repeated your name, over and over, like it held weight—like it lived on his tongue and in his mind—

“Parched, are you?”

“Parched?” you hiss. “Who the fuck even are you? Who the fuck says parched—”

Snorting harshly, leaning in his stance as he shrugs, “Oh, you know who I am. I’m baby, baby, right there, baby, I’m gonna come, Luci—”

In a step, your chest is flush with his—hands steadying you on your hips as your palm flattens to his words. You’re aware of him smirking, gloating, right against your skin; feeling the wiry hair around his mouth scratching at you, the same one that left your skin raw and irritated from lapping up the taste of you both before sending you back out to smile.

Lowering your hand, you become conscious of how close you are and how his fingers spread out, holding you tighter, keeping you pinned against him as you descend into his web all over again. Embers spreading out, electricity pulsing out from where his fingers touch you over your dress, as your body recognises, identifies.

“I’m trying not to be an asshole.”

“Is that what you’re doing…”

His hand reaches up, stroking your cheek, thumb caressing your lower lip as you take in a deep breath. “Tell me you don’t want me to make you come.”

You should. But, you don’t.

Instead, you close your mouth around his thumb, swirling the tip of it with your tongue as he grunts, right in the back of his throat before he slips it out with a pop. A second brews, and then another before his mouth crashes to yours, all impatient, hungry—rough. Lips parting for him as you feel him lick into your mouth, tasting cigarettes and lemon, at the same time as your back meets bark.

And you’re desperate, yearning.

Tugging him close, palms sliding over silk as you make a note that it’s softer than the faux-paint-splattered one. More velvety, smooth. Hooking your hands around the back of his neck as you pull him closer, practically feeling each breath as coolness slides up your leg, the heel of his hand gliding behind as he bunches the fabric in his hand, his jean-covered thigh coming up between yours as you hiss into his mouth at the contact. Lost in it, in him.

In how intoxicating he is, how wrong it is, clawing at him to come closer, to touch you, whining as he teases you by rocking his knee and slides his palm to cup your breast through your dress. Thumb expertly hardening your nipple, tongue lathing over a spot on your neck that has you keening.

You forget, for a moment, blissfully allow yourself to until he’s pulling at it—tugging at the label as you try to pull his face up.

“Shit, Lucien, no.”

He grunts. Not mockingly, but not full of surprise either. “Planning on returning this?”

Clenching your teeth, you take a breath—needing air to fill your brain to help you think. To ignore the way your lips are swollen and your underwear is already soaked and pressing to his thick thigh.

“Yes.”

“You look too fuckin’ good in this dress to return it.”

“Well unless you’re going to buy it, I have no other choice—”

“I’ll buy it.”

“No you fucking won’t.”

Because it would be wrong.

More than an exchange of your body, more than a mutual appreciation and hunger and need. It would be a gift. A something more. A thing that would fester in your closet and make you hope when you see it, make you dream when your finger slides over the fabric.

“Lucien.”

His fingers drop it, let it hang—the tag. Both your embarrassment and the price of it, just there, as his lips slide down your jaw.

“You won’t want to return it. You’ll want to see it hung in your closet—bury your fingers in your underwear as you stare at it, thinking of this.” Teeth grazing over your pulse, tongue swirling a signature you suspect is his own. “You’ll think of me when you stick that toy in your pussy, wishing it was me, turn it on right between your perfect fucking thighs and—”

You blame his fingers ghosting over your upper thigh for what you let escape, let slip free. “Already think of you.”

Pausing, his shoulders bow—somehow becoming even broader before his head comes up from his place buried in your neck. You see it, words, kindness—a bunch of things he could likely reel off that would make you ruin the wet patch on your gusset even wider.

But he ingests them, consumes them like they never existed. A different offered kindness, you suppose—as though he knows, can see, and begins to understand.

“Be rude of me not to say hi to her then.”

“Why do you…”

His thumb hooks into one side of your underwear, dragging it from its place. Aware of it, the way he’s gentle in shifting the fabric down, handing you the bunched-up dress with a pointed stare, before he’s teasing your lace from between your slick, soaked core. Tugging it down your thighs, eyes not breaking from yours, exhaling as he licks his lips at the sight of you bare to him in the middle of someone's fucking garden.

“Lift?”

And you do, without question. Taking a deep inhale in, closing your eyes, hand covering your face as you lift one foot, then the other.

Finding him staring when you look down. Ogling. Admiring you like what is there between your thighs is some art piece, an exhibit, a thing he’d queue for—as he pockets your panties.

“I’m keeping these.”

“Lucien…”

His hand urging yours to take the balled-up fabric of your dress as he rises, places kisses on your outer thighs, dragging his face slowly up your frame—breath fanning out, somehow feeling it under your layers.

“I’m. Keeping. Them.”

You swallow, silently surrendering. Back of your head flat against the tree as his hands nudge your thighs to part.

“Gorgeous.” He whispers. “You’re so gorgeous—prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

A protest readying, but stolen as one of his thick fingers slides over and through your folds. Knowing you, understanding you. Standing as he drags your slick to your desperate, swollen clit, swirling it, massaging it as you hiccup his name and forget all about his compliment and chase his lips instead. Instead, your hips move on instinct, desiring—determined to find more friction even as he just slowly draws a circle.

You know he’s grinning. Cockily. Frame pressing to you as you feel his hard cock against your thigh—hips keeping you pinned. Fixed.

“You want my fingers? Let me give you my fingers, baby.”

Nodding, fingers tangling in his curls you say it, more in a whisper, something close to a whine: yes, please, yes—

Aware of the heaviness in the air, how thick it feels, even in the breeze. In the same way, you’re aware of the way he breathes good girl. It makes you shudder, yearn, more so when he slides his fingers down from your clit and works two into you.

You gasp. Almost crying out. Unable to stop yourself when he curls them inside of you, bearing down on him, squeezing him, hand releasing your dress as your fingers grip his forearm.

“Want me to stop?”

Shaking your head, no, no, no—

“Good,” he breathes, kissing the side of your mouth. “She’s the best pussy I’ve ever had my fingers in.”

You almost hiss your bet that he says that to all the girls. But, your teeth grit. Not wanting him to stop. Not as your head tilts, eyes opening to see the navy blue smothering burnt orange, blurring the afternoon into the night through your lashes. Shh, he coaxes, as your nails dig into the bark, as he finds that spot inside of you that makes you dizzy, makes you pant. He works it, makes you roll your hips and his palm catches your clit in teased movements—

“Feel so good clenching down on me.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, and buries it right into your neck as he nips, as he grazes his teeth over your skin. “You tell me one thing but she’s giving you away, baby. Telling me all your secrets.”

Your hand tightens around the fabric in your palm, mouth falling open, paused around words that won’t appear—

“Said you’d tried to make your fingers feel like mine. But they just, wouldn’t, do.”

Each word is punctuated by his fingers fucking into you, crooked, making you messier, wetter, hearing the evidence of it, all filthy, obscene. Enough to get you barred from one of these events again.

Good you almost think, until his mouth slants over yours. Then, it’s bad. Very bad. Each flick of his wrist, and curve of his fingers solidifies it. How bad it would be to lose this, to lose him. The man who has your vision spotting, darkening in the corners.

“Fuck me, Lucien. Please—”

“Not tonight.”

Blinking, hearing it over and over: not tonight, not tonight, not tonight. Your body is lit, more electric than skin and muscle. Thrumming, vibrating bone against blood as he drags his moistened lips against your cheek.

“That’s it. Give it to me, can feel you squeezin’. I know you’re close, baby. So, soak my fingers, want you to stain them, make—”

You come somewhere amid his sentence—right when he kisses you properly. When he presses his vulgar words to your mouth and curls his fingers to meet that spot that has you arching, tensing and chasing. It’s maddening, and everything else before that. Hitting you, and exploding out—something like liquid fire erupting through you as you bear down on his fingers. Each cry and whine muffled by his mouth, by his tongue licking past your teeth and his hips being flush to yours. Pinning.

Because he doesn’t slow or stop even as you tremble. Not doing so until you’re gasping, frayed, all shaking nerves and splintered edges. Lucien swallows each heaved and hissed version of his name until you’re nudging him with your forehead, face scrunching, fingers pushing on his forearm until he retracts.

And, like it does in the movies, your dress falls back down into place. Creased, likely ruined. But nonetheless perfect to anyone who may glance.

Not that you care. Not as you chase normal breaths, as you blink and he comes back into vision, all ridiculously handsome and wide, brown eyes.

Because he’s watching you, seeing his lips curl into his cheek, fingers being brought to his mouth before he wraps his tongue around them. Licks and sucks you clean from them—

It makes you breathe heavier. Want more.

Even on shaky legs, you take a step closer to be flush to him. Arms sliding around his neck, finding your mouth glues back to his as though it should be there. Tasting yourself now, discerning it from the other things he’s enjoyed tonight.

“You do make me nervous when you stare.”

He gives a short laugh, hand on the back of your neck, tugging you back so he can stare into your soul. Something there. Something hurt that has healed all wrong, left things poisoned and rotten as you.

“You know I’m too fucked to be anyone’s anything, right?”

You smile, fingers teasing the hair on the back of his neck. Swallowing, seeing it shift back—the usualness of the two of you.

“See, this is where I think you’re an asshole.”

“For being honest?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head—lips ghosting over his. “Because I think you’re a liar. I think you’d kill to be something, never mind an anything.”

Smirking, but you suspect he stops it from being a smile. Offering silence, instead of a lie—a thing that’ll hurt and sting.

“You going to keep the dress?”

Shrugging, offering a roll of your eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

“You think I could have your number now?”

Biting your lip, you tug on a particular curl. Hearing a dull yelp, watch him narrow his eyes. “I think you can have an email address and take it from there.”

Snorting, he tilts his head back as the both of you hear a commotion from the other end of the garden. Private time likely ending, his name called out in confusion by the same high-pitched voices you’re sure were comparing his inch size earlier.

“I fucking hate these things.”

“Yet you come to them every time,” you reply.

And then his head moves; stares at your side profile as you pretend not to notice. “So do you.”

So you do, you think.

hope you enjoyed! this was so much fun, and also so scary. but i did it, wahayyy. now, i should admit, i may have fallen for him...

npt's [added from the liked post]: @yorksgirl @maggiemayhemnj @janaispunk @sawymredfox @angiewatson

@survivingandenduring @saradika @purplerain04

#SummerLovin24 #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #lucien flores fanfic #lucien flores smut #lucien flores x y/n #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #the uninvited #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character smut #lucien flores #pedro pascal fanfic

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rocknrollwhcre · 2 months ago

Text

Love Can Burn Like A Cigarette

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F! Reader (18+)

Content Warning: strong language and profanity, emotional manipulation and toxic relationship dynamics, physical altercation (slapping, shoving), depictions of verbal arguments and intense emotional distress, themes of infidelity and jealousy

Summary: Things aren’t looking good between you and Eddie…

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics !!! Not that anyone will remember, but I originally wrote and posted this fic back in 2022. I ended up deleting my work and blog for personal reasons, but I’ve decided to rewrite it and post it again. :)

You barge into the backroom of Scoops with Robin trailing close behind, her footsteps quickening to match your angry stride. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, but one look at your flushed face convinces her otherwise. She watches you with concern as you yank off your sweat-soaked shirt, tossing it aside with a huff. The sticky uniform you're required to wear stares back at you from a hook, and you mutter under your breath, wishing you could burn it.

Robin, always the practical one, moves to the mini fridge, fishing out a cold bottle of water. She places it gently on the small, cluttered table between the staff lockers. "Here," she says softly, her eyes never leaving your face. She drops into one of the worn-out chairs and pats the seat next to her, giving you that familiar look that says, I’m here. Talk to me.

You take the offer, sinking into the chair with a long sigh before gulping down half the bottle in one go. The cold water is a relief, cooling you from the inside out. You finally feel the tightness in your chest start to ease.

Robin tilts her head, her brows knitting together with worry. “Okay, so what’s going on? And why do you look like you just ran a marathon?”

“Eddie Munson,” you spit out the name like it’s poison.

Robin’s face scrunches up in disgust. “Ugh. Gross. I swear, if you and Eddie—”

You shake your head, a dry laugh escaping your lips. “No, nothing like that. I’m all hot and sweaty because we got into this huge argument. I refused to get into his van, and he just smirks and says, ‘Fine, walk to work then.’ Can you believe that? Complete asshole.”

Robin’s eyes widen. “Are you serious? You’re like, miles away from here! You could’ve passed out from heatstroke or something.”

You snort. “Well, according to Mr. I-Failed-Senior-Year-Twice, it’s ‘just a short walk.’ The guy’s idea of distance is as bad as his grades.”

Robin chuckles, shaking her head. “Honestly, how do you even put up with him?”

You shrug, feeling a mix of frustration and something else—something like the smallest hint of amusement. “I ask myself that every day.”

Just then, Steve pokes his head through the small service window, trying to look casual, but you know he’s been eavesdropping the whole time. His eyes shift between you and Robin, but he settles his gaze on you with a pointed look. “Eddie’s here. Wants to talk to you,” he says, his voice heavy with the kind of sarcasm that only comes from dealing with Eddie Munson on a regular basis.

You exchange a knowing glance with Robin, who raises an eyebrow. “But, hey, at least he knows when he’s wrong and can apologize,” you suggest, half-convincing yourself as you grab your ridiculous sailor hat. Robin gives you a doubtful look, but you ignore it, adjusting the hat with a small breath to steady your nerves. Maybe this time will be different, you think, as you head out to the front, hoping for an apology but bracing yourself just in case.

Eddie is waiting by the counter, leaning against it with that trademark smug grin plastered across his face. His hair is a wild mess, and he looks far too pleased with himself.

“Hey, princess. How was the walk?” he asks, his tone teasing as his eyes gleam with amusement.

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, it was great, actually. I’ve heard getting some sun is good for you—something about vitamin D,” you shoot back, your voice laced with sarcasm.

“Glad to hear it,” Eddie replies, barely missing a beat. “Because you’re gonna need another dose. My van’s busted, had to leave it at the garage for repairs.” He picks up one of the flimsy menus from the counter and flips through it like he actually cares what's on it.

You narrow your eyes. “Uh, don’t you mean we have to walk home?”

He looks up with a lazy grin. “No, I mean you have to walk. Funny thing, I bumped into Roxy on my way here, and she very graciously offered to give me a ride home. You remember Roxy, right?”

How could you forget? The mere mention of her name sets your teeth on edge. Roxy, the redheaded bitch who’s been circling Eddie like a vulture ever since you two got together three years ago. She’s got that classic bad-girl look down: leather jackets, tight skirts with ripped fishnets, blood-red nails, and enough black eyeliner to intimidate a raccoon. The kind of girl who fits right into Eddie’s metalhead world. You feel your eye twitch involuntarily, the familiar surge of irritation bubbling up inside you.

You force a smile, though it feels like it might crack at any second. “Is that all you came here for, Eddie?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

Eddie's smirk widens, and you can tell by the glint in his eyes that he knows he’s gotten under your skin. “Actually, since I’m here, how about a small cookies 'n' cream shake and—”

“Oh, would you look at that! We’re all out of ice cream,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with fake cheerfulness. Before he can say another word, you grab him by the arm and start steering him toward the door. “Come back later!”

Eddie doesn’t resist; he’s too busy laughing, clearly enjoying how riled up he’s made you. His laughter echoes down the mall as he disappears up the stairs, probably to waste more of his time somewhere else. You let out an exasperated huff, your patience wearing thin.

Robin, still perched on a stool behind the counter, looks bewildered as she munches on a cookie. “Who’s Roxy?” she asks, her mouth half-full.

“Only the hottest girl The Hideout has ever seen,” Steve chimes in, leaning against the counter and taking a long sip of his shake. His casual tone is enough to make your blood boil, and without thinking, you land a solid punch on his arm.

“Ow! What was that for?” Steve yelps, rubbing his arm and giving you an offended look.

“Get back to work,” you snap, snatching his shake right out of his hand and dumping it into the trash without a second thought. Steve stares at the garbage can, then at you, his mouth agape, but you’re already turning away, too annoyed to care.

—

It’s been five days since the argument, and neither of you has made the first move to apologize. In fact, each day has become a new game of seeing who can push the other's buttons harder, and today, Eddie was clearly in the lead.

You’re wiping down the sticky tables, the sweet smell of melted ice cream lingering in the air, when Eddie strolls in with Roxanne by his side. Roxy’s eyes are all over him, like he’s the only guy in the room, but Eddie seems oblivious to it—or maybe he’s just pretending to be. They make their way to the counter, and Roxy leans over to obnoxiously ring the bell, the sound grating on your nerves.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get some decent service around here?” Eddie calls out, his gaze locked onto you with a teasing smirk.

Robin and Steve are out getting lunch, leaving you alone to man the counter. Lucky you. You toss the rag onto the table and head over to the register. “What do you want, Eddie?”

He leans against the counter, his smirk deepening. “Now, is that any way to greet a paying customer?” he taunts, clearly reveling in the way your eyes flick daggers at Roxy, who’s practically glued to his side.

You let out a sharp breath, summoning your best fake smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. “What can I get you today?” you say through clenched teeth.

Eddie clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Come on, I’m pretty sure you guys have a slogan for greeting customers. Let’s hear it.”

Roxanne lets out a soft, condescending laugh, her lips curling into a smirk.

You bite back a retort, forcing yourself to keep up the act. “Would you like to sail the ocean of flavors? I’ll be your captain today. What can I get you?” The words come out stiff and robotic, practically dragged out of you, but Eddie’s grin only widens.

“Good girl,” Eddie murmurs, low enough that only you can hear, his voice a mix of teasing and something else that sends heat rushing to your cheeks. You can feel your face flushing, but you keep your expression neutral. “Anyway, I’ll have that cookies ‘n’ cream shake. What about you, Rox?”

Roxy leans in closer to him, practically pressing herself against his arm as she gives you a once-over. “I’ll just share with you. Don’t want to eat too much and mess up my figure,” she says, her gaze sliding over you with a smirk that makes your blood boil.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to leap over the counter and throttle her, but you clench your jaw and turn away, focusing on making the damn shake. Your hands move on autopilot, scooping the ice cream, blending it up, and pouring it into the cup, all while you imagine various scenarios where you tell them both exactly where they can shove this order. With forced calm, you place the shake on the counter in front of them and watch as they saunter off to a booth. Eddie's eyes keep darting over to you, but you pretend not to notice, burying yourself in the never-ending list of chores to stay busy and keep from glaring daggers at him.

Just as you start wiping down the counter for the third time, you glance up and catch Roxy reaching over to brush a crumb from Eddie’s lip with her thumb, her touch lingering longer than necessary. Before you can react, the bell above the door jingles, and Steve and Robin come back, a takeout bag swinging in Robin’s hand. She takes one look at Roxy playing at doting girlfriend and makes a loud gagging noise.

Roxy rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. You decide it’s the perfect time for your lunch break. Tossing your apron aside, you head for the door, but just as you pass their booth, you feel something hard underfoot—Roxy’s boot. You stumble forward and crash to your knees, the sharp pain shooting up your legs.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” you shout, springing up with fury boiling over. Without thinking, you lunge at Roxy, ready to grab a fistful of that perfect red hair and let loose, but Steve grabs you around the waist, pulling you back.

Eddie jumps up, positioning himself between you and Roxy, his hands wrapping around your fists, trying to contain you. “Babe! Just chill out, it was an accident! You’re making a scene!” he says, his tone somewhere between pleading and annoyed.

“Oh, fuck you, Eddie!” you snap, struggling against Steve’s hold. “You’re the one making scenes, showing up here with that slut!”

“Hey!” Eddie's eyes flash with anger. “She’s my friend, and I’m not going to stand here and let you disrespect her like that!”

You scoff, feeling the sting of betrayal sharp in your chest. “Yeah, a ‘friend’ who’s been trying to screw you for years, Eddie! Open your eyes! You know what? Just go. Get the hell out of here.”

“Fine, we will. Come on, Roxy.” Eddie’s voice is cold, his face hard as stone as he turns his back on you, motioning for Roxy to follow.

You watch, stunned, as he actually starts to leave with her. The disbelief sinks in like a weight in your stomach. You wrench yourself free from Steve’s grip, not wanting anyone to see the tears starting to burn your eyes. Without another word, you storm to the back of the store, your heart pounding with a mix of anger and hurt.

—

Night falls, and it's finally time to close up shop. The last of the customers trickle out, their footsteps echoing through the quieting mall as they make their way to the exits. You, Steve, and Robin work together to pull down the metal gate, the clattering sound signaling the end of another long day.

“How about you join us tonight?” Robin suggests, a hopeful smile on her face as she nudges you. “Steve and I rented a stack of horror movies. We’re having a movie night.”

“Yeah! We can order a ton of pizza, make popcorn, the whole shebang,” Steve adds, clearly trying to sweeten the deal. “Come on, it'll be fun. What do you say?”

Before you can answer, you catch a glimpse of Eddie sitting by the fountain alone, his head down, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his knee. For a moment, you consider ignoring him, letting things stay the way they are, but something inside you pushes you to try and be the bigger person. You turn back to Robin and Steve. “Give me a second?” you ask.

They exchange a look but nod, standing by the gate as you take a deep breath and head toward Eddie. Just as you’re about to reach him, Roxy appears out of nowhere and slides onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss right on his lips. Your stomach twists into knots.

“Oh my god, Eddie, what are you doing?” you exclaim, your heart pounding in your chest as you step forward, disbelief and hurt surging through you.

Eddie's eyes go wide, and he quickly pushes Roxy away, but she just smirks, satisfied with her little display. “Oh no, baby, we’ve been caught,” she says in a mocking sing-song voice, her eyes glittering with mischief.

“What? No!” Eddie stammers, panic flooding his expression. “Babe, it’s not what it looks like!” His hands reach out toward you, desperate to explain, but you slap them away, the sting of betrayal sharper than anything he could say.

“I hope you have a happy life together!” you shout, your voice breaking as you reach for the necklace around your neck—the one Eddie made for you, his favorite guitar pick hanging from it. You rip it off in one swift motion and throw it at him, the small piece of him that you once cherished now clattering to the ground between you. “We’re fucking done!”

“Baby, please, don’t do this!” Eddie's voice cracks, and he reaches out, grabbing your arm in a last-ditch effort to stop you. His eyes are desperate, pleading, but you’re beyond reason now. Without thinking, you use your free hand to deliver a sharp slap across his face. The sound echoes in the near-empty mall, startling even you.

You yank your arm free, turning away as the sting of your slap leaves a red mark on his cheek. Steve and Robin are at your side instantly, and as you storm off with them, you don't look back. But you can hear the ragged breath Eddie takes, his shoulders trembling as he stands there, one hand cradling his stinging cheek, his eyes wet with tears that spill down his face. He's crying, but you don’t let yourself turn around. Not this time.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader angst #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x afab!reader #eddie munson angst #angst #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #joseph quinn #joe quinn #eddie munson x you

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milksnake-tea · 11 months ago

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hello! congrats on your 1k followers, u deserve it! may i request for dan feng + fluff prompt 9 … maybe smt similar to ur dan feng fic? vidyadhara!reader?

this ask might be late and u don’t need to do the suggestions but i’d like to say that your writing always makes my day, keep it up! 💗 and again, congrats!

thank u!!

❀ ˎˊ- prompts: It's raining outside, and when you see them completely drenched, you immediately offer them shelter. ❀ ˎˊ- 1k followers event ❀ ˎˊ- character: dan feng ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: none !! ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: AIYEEE THIS WAS SO CUTE GOT ME KICKING MY FEET AND ALL <33 also thanks for the congrats !! sorry this was so late lol, i hope the fic makes up for it! also context, dan feng and reader are friends here, but reader is a different reader from under the lotus leaves <3

Rarely does the Luofu see rain.

As an artificial planet, a man-made home that basked in the light of an artificial sun, the weather was very closely monitored and controlled. For a sudden storm to arrive either meant that someone higher up was having an off day, or the A.I. had decided that perhaps the Luofu was a tad bit dehydrated.

Still, it doesn't make it any less irritating to you, a civilian who wasn't informed of this sudden decision.

You clicked your tongue in annoyance. Of course it had to rain on your day off. You'd planned to have a nice, easy day outside of just strolling through Aurum Alley, but that plan was now out the window.

Oh, well. Nothing you could about it now.

Gripping your grocery bag closer to you, you held your free hand towards the sky. Water swirled around you in a mystical dance, the rain droplets stilling as if frozen in time. Soon enough, an invisible umbrella formed above your head, your hand keeping there in place.

It was times like these that you were grateful for your cloudhymm abilities. You stepped out into the drizzle, perfectly dry amongst the crowd.

As you neared your home, you faltered when you saw an unexpected figure taking shelter under one of the many overhangs.

"Feng'er?"

The man in question flinched upon hearing your voice. Immediately, he turned away, embarrassed to be found in such a disheveled state.

"I... I'm fine," he stuttered. "Just... caught off guard."

You sighed, taking in the sight in front of you. Dan Feng's robes, so pristine and regal, were plastered against his body, soaked beyond what you'd thought was possible. His hair plastered against his skin as he wrung out what he could.

"Feng'er, with all due respect," you stepped closer, "you look anything but fine."

Dan Feng glared at you from the corner of his eye, but you weren't intimidated. You worked in customer service, after all.

You held out a hand. "Come here, my house is nearby. You'll get sick if you stay drenched like that."

Fire swirled in his eyes as he looked at you, wavering between pride and safety. Amongst the pouring rain, that turquoise hue glowed like flames, an ironic contrast to his abilities.

Eventually, his desire to get out of the rain triumphed over his pride. He reluctantly took your hand. You pulled him under your makeshift umbrella, your hand held high above the both of you as you led him to your home.

The walk there was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain and the curses of those caught within it. Left with nothing but your thoughts, your eyes began to wander. Soon, they landed on the hair of the High Elder, still wet and glossy despite Dan Feng's efforts to dry it.

"Hey, Feng'er," you spoke out into the silence, "can I ask something?"

Dan Feng contemplated it for a moment. "You may."

"You also wield cloudhymm. Why not use it to dry yourself off instead of, well..." You didn't need to go on.

The tips of Dan Feng's ears lit up in red. He quickly averted his gaze, but your eyes were quick enough to catch the pink dusting his cheeks.

"I..." He coughed into his fist. "Yingxing, he claimed that I couldn't go a day in my life without using magic."

"Ah." You couldn't help a snicker sneaking out, but you were quick to disguise it as a cough. "Is that right?"

"Yes," Dan Feng sighed in exasperation, crossing his arms. You smiled. His ears seemed to burn brighter now.

"To think you'd take the words of a short-lived so seriously," you mused. "Your stubbornness will be the death of you."

"Better to die than to let that arrogant mortal insult me so carelessly."

"Right, right, of course," you nodded. "We can't let the dignity of the High Elder be tarnished."

You felt a hard blow to your back, not hard enough to hurt you but certainly enough to make you stumble. Looking behind you, you saw Dan Feng's tail dart out of sight.

"Feng'er."

Dan Feng closed his eyes, evidently choosing to block you out. You rolled your eyes.

"Try that again and I'm leaving you next time."

Your friend chuckled.

"No, you love me too much to abandon me."

You kicked him into a puddle.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #dan feng #dan feng x reader #dan heng #dan heng x reader #imbibitor lunae #imbibitor lunae x reader #x reader #reader insert #y/n #archives 🏵️#event 🏵️

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moonsaver · 9 months ago

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Hey, what do you think about Jealous Sunday? Maybe we're the assistant, so it makes us have to talk to a lot of people. Feel free to ignore :D

Cute!

I imagine Sunday actually gets jealous an average amount, it's just most of the time he can't pay much attentiom to it due to the fact he has so many things to attend to. So he just has to ignore it for the most part.

So.. whenever he sees a certain repeated customer getting all chummy with his s/o who works as his assistant.. he's not happy at all. Of course, there's still a tight smile plastered on his face.

However, since you're his asisstant, he first thinks about shifting your schedule around, so perhaps you won't have to face that customer again, and he'll take the responsibility of.. shooing them away. Yes, that's better.

However, if that doesn't work.. he's grumpy. He's unbelievably grumpy when both of you are alone.

And generally, since asisstant s/o reader talks to a lot of people, Sunday gets envious – he wants to be able to spend his time talking to you like that, laughing and smoothly shifting from topic to topic. He knows it's just a part of your job, but he wishes he was the one you were talking to so delightfully. Even your customer service voice is something Sunday likes. He doesn't like that you have to be the one doing so much talking. Granted, he's more affiliated with working in the shadows of things, and his sister is a star, there's no one else left to do the talking but you. He doesn't like it one bit but can't quite change it. You look so happy too. It makes him doubt himself a bit.

He sulks, sulks and sulks so much. His wings are almost completely folded or droop, lips pressed into a thin line. It's cute. Please help him get rid of this prodding feeling in his chest.

You can easily do that by peppering his face in kisses, and whispering to him what you really think from time to time, exchange chits with him, and reassure him. He loves when you tell him your thoughts, and it helps clear the air too.

If you bring it up sometime in the future, he sighs, a hand coming up to massage his forehead, as he feels embarrassment creep up on him. He just can't help it. Please allow him to worry, to get jealous, to seek your affection. He's just a sucker for your attention, even if he can't quite say that part out loud.

#moonink #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr sunday #honkai star rail sunday #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x you #hsr sunday x reader #hsr sunday x y/n #hsr sunday x you #sunday x reader #sunday hsr #sunday x you #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #hsr x y/n #hsr x gender neutral reader

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love-note-musings · 5 months ago

Text

˙✧˖°📷 ⋆｡˚꩜ toby x reader // creepypasta oneshot

request: HelloI May i request a oneshot where toby pins the reader against a wall and maybe threatens her but she lowkey can't focus BC she's thinking how pretty he is? The reader has a love hate relationship with him. Sorry if it's confusing.

word count: 3.6k

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──────

As the last costumer of the day left, your shoulders dropped as the tension ebbed out of your body, dropping the “customer service smile” you had plastered on for the last couple of hours. A lengthy sigh left your mouth and you shook out the tired feeling from your muscles and with a swift lock of the doors, you began your nightly routine of cleaning for close.

Working the night shift wasn’t so bad, you had thought, it was generally pretty uninteresting, living in a small town and all, the clientele were the same, jobs were casual, it wasn’t that horrible. Having worked at this quaint restaurant for a couple of years, you knew the ins-and-outs pretty well and you operated most of the tasks you needed to on autopilot. However, the job was one thing, and daily living was another. Of course the pay was less than what you needed to live on realistically, what with housing, insurance, and feeding yourself. You still didn’t mind the nightshift, you found it rather relaxing.

Wiping down tables, sweeping floors and mopping, cleaning out cappuccino machines, all of it went by as fewer cars passed on the road. You could hear the breeze start of as a small gust here and there until it picked up into a violent wind that rattled the building. Soon, you figured it would begin storming, with big raindrops pelting down and you surely wanted to be in your own home underneath thick blankets before then.

Unlocking the back entrance, you began dragging the heavy trash-bags out in the back of the parking lot, the last thing you’d need to complete before heading home for the day. You could feel how the cold nipped at your skin and willed your legs to go faster.

The city was always quiet, it was still except for the symphonies trees played nearby in the forest, clanging against each other from the wind. There were stories of course, about people going in and never coming back, but there were lots of people who did come back, more so than the latter, so the locals knew it as folktales. In reality, it was just another ordinary small town, with small-towned people, small-towned restaurants, and small-towned ideas. Forest or not, it was also another small-town ideal.

Swinging the bag into the bin, you closed it with a sharp bang just as the back door to the restaurant flew with a clang. The weather was worsening overhead with dark clouds hiding the moon and the wind was threatening to take you away with it. Your feet carried you back inside as fast as they could, one pounding after another. //

// He crashed into the back door with a thud as his legs gave out, one arm trying to hoist himself up and another trying to stop his wound from exuding any more blood. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, but the exhaustion was creeping up his body, the lights had looked like crystallized diamonds hanging off of his eyelids, and he stumbled into them with reckless abandon before collapsing on tiled floor… somewhere. Vision swimming, legs crumpled underneath him, he sat there, body trembling and nauseated, trying to grasp onto his abdomen in an attempt to convince his body to let him back up, to keep moving. It wasn’t even that bad of a wound despite its length, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t work with, but there he was, slipping on himself in the back of some beat-up building. The lights slightly flickered every few seconds, the buzzing of electrical appliances seemingly rang through his ears in tenfold, there was nothing in his stomach but his body forced him to empty it anyway, spilling out nothing onto the black and white tiles besides the gagging noises coming from him. He couldn’t stop the movement from racking his body once again as he dragged himself forward.

There was a scream, a crash maybe, all he saw was a figure with their arms raised high, ready to pounce on him, everything else was foggy besides the lights. Big, bright lights. Groggily, he looked up with lidded eyes, mouth slightly agape, nostrils flaring, trying to allow more oxygen into his lungs. He yelled at his brain to move faster and to process the situation, finding nothing once again but some static sound that filled it. Their mouth moved, and the sound flowed back into his ears, slowly, and then all at once.

“I said—“ they cleared their throat “do you need me to call the authorities?” There was an umbrella raised threateningly in their hands, knuckles already turned white. It looked like their breath was caught in their throat and their body shaked. He slowly registered the information piece-by-piece, stringing together some semblance of thought.

Slowly, he forced his head to move side to side, shaking ‘no’.

“Are you hurt?” They asked authoritatively, despite the tremble in their knees.

Again, another rather slow nod, another no. Hurt was subjective, after all.

Sighing, they lowered the umbrella just a little more to their side. “What do you need? Are you in trouble?”

He ended up coughing violently, his head was spinning and he was mentally whacked. “b.. bath- can I use your b..athroom.”

They stood off to the side and pointed towards it, watching his movements as he tried to force himself to stand upright. He managed to get up to his knees before crashing over again.

“I’m going to help move you there, okay?” they said as they set the umbrella down against the wall and moved closer towards him. He nodded once and they hooked an arm underneath his and guided him to the bathroom.

They turned on the light inside, indicated him to ‘be careful’ and that ‘there was a first aid kit under the sink’, before leaving him alone with a soft close of the door.

Toby gazed at himself in the mirror, bracing his weight against the sink before shakily turning the knob and splashing himself with cool water. How many days had it been since he had first left? He couldn’t even recall how long he’d been out, but it was long enough for his body to put the brake lights on his activities and start naming demands. And one of the demands was water. He earnestly started to drink the water from the faucet, cupping his hand and bringing it up to his lips over and over again.//

// Meanwhile, an exasperated worker decided to flick back on the lights to the dining room and begin preparing a small meal to share with the guy who just stumbled into their restaurant. They didn’t really know what his deal was, nor did they care to know, they just wanted to give him something to eat before sending him back out into the storm. If he wouldn’t talk then maybe he’d eat and be able to go back home or something like that. Whatever the case was, it wasn’t your responsibility to know, but you’d also be damned for not trying to help him out just a little bit.

It took awhile, but the bathroom door finally clicked open and close again. Toby stumbled along the hallway and followed the light into the dining room. There were bandages wrapped around his abdomen and minor scratches on his legs and arms. His body was exhausted and his mind was more or less alert.

“Hey,” when you saw him feebly inch his way, you quickly went over and offered a hand, to which he shaked it off. Regardless, you told him where he could sit in the dining room, a little booth by the kitchen door, and watched to make sure he settled himself well. You made a note of how determined he was despite his body practically shutting down, and he hadn’t tried to stop himself yet. Even as he fell into the booth, you watched as his body relaxed and his eyes stayed vigilant, always looking this way and that, carefully observing. It was fascinating. But again, it wasn’t your business.

You placed a plate in front of him with leftover food from the fridge and a pastry you had been saving to take home. “You have a drink preference? I can get you water.” He shook his head and you got him a glass of water anyway, of which he eyed a bit oddly, sipping little by little. When he saw the food, however, you noticed that he immediately went for the pastry.

He was…strange, at the very least, that’s what you gathered as you watched him from the kitchen picking at his food and glancing around every couple minutes to double and triple check his surroundings. If you had to admit to yourself, you just wanted to go home, and by now it was raining, evident by the sound of raindrops pattering onto the rooftop. You were tired too, having worked all day, cleaning up and waiting on people, and now doing it all over again for a second time. Thankfully tomorrow you’d have a day off.

When he drank all of the water in the glass, you went over to refill it. “My name’s Y/n, what’s yours?” You asked with as much normalcy as possible, hand settling on your waist as you stepped back to watch his expression.

“Toby.” He muttered, before eating more and ignoring you.

“It’s nice to meet you, Toby.”

Sometime while you were re-cleaning the kitchen, you heard the bells on the door open with a clamor and close. Shrugging, you supposed he would have left, and you didn’t expect anything more from him. But now that you were thinking about it, it was kind of weird for someone to stumble in from the back of the building, but lots of things happened out in the forest. People go out with their friends, some people like hunting deer, who knows? Some kid could have just gotten mixed up with the wrong people and left out there. You don’t consider it much, but you sealed it away in the back of your mind as a little note for later as you left the restaurant and headed home. Personally, you had never experienced anything bad out there. //

// It became more common for ‘Toby’ to show up after closing hours. Every few days or so, he’d show up looking tired and miserable, he’d ask to use your bathroom and then lug himself out to the dining room while you gave him the leftovers. You didn’t push him to talk about himself and settled for short conversations about the weather, or asking if he needed you to call anyone this week. Whenever you asked if he needed anything, he’d say no and continue eating solemnly, playing with his food and acting almost disinterested with it.

“What’s your favorite food?” You asked while chewing a piece of bread from the pantry.

Toby shrugged, “I don’t really have one.”

“There has to be something that you like at least? Can’t you think of something? I can try to make sure we keep some of it here.”

He pondered for a moment, putting his fork down. You never questioned his sudden movements or verbal outbursts at all, figuring it’d be best not to pester him with questions since he obviously couldn’t control it, other people probably bothered him enough. Toby answered you quietly, “I liked that pastry you first gave me, I..I don’t remember when that was.”

“Hmm.. okay. I can get it for you next time.”

And the next time you did, and the time after that, until you were sure that he was sick of it every time you served it to him. But he never said anything and accepted it without a word.

Perhaps you could say that the two of you had come to a mutual understanding, maybe a friendship, and you wouldn’t admit it to yourself that you looked forward to your short and awkward meetings. You didn’t know much about each other, but you felt comfortable despite his out-of-the-normal appearance and habits. It was non-judge mental, as far as anyone else was concerned, nothing happened here after-hours anyway.

You found yourself tracing his facial features in your mind, promising them to memory and making mock-paintings in your mind. He had pretty eyelashes, his skin was pale and light, he had deep scarring on the side of his mouth, that’s why you assumed he wore the mask in public, you couldn’t be sure though, and you could be less sure about the googles attached to his jeans. The only thing is that you’d wish he’d eat more since it was obvious his health wasn’t the greatest. Whenever you saw him, he was almost always exhausted and almost ready to pass out. Although, besides the first time you met, you didn’t see him with any more wounds, so you supposed it was just some off-handed accident and nothing intentional.

Yeah, you politely admitted to yourself that you were quite fond of your new and odd friend. Perhaps attracted, whatever attraction meant. You found him nice to be around. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to feel the same. It had been a long time since you’ve had a proper friend. . .

Rock songs played from the radio atop the refrigerator, melodies soft and sweet, they played from collections of the classics and you loved it. During your shifts you’d lose yourself in the tune, pretending that you existed inside music videos and getting lost in a world where the waiters and waitresses were the main characters. You had asked Toby a while ago if he liked the station you left the radio on, hoping it was to his tastes. He had replied affirmatively, and you had kept the radio on that station every time he visited.

“Come on, get up.” you instructed, coming around the bar and onto the dining room floor.

“What?” He asked, nonetheless getting up from the barstool and following you along.

“You like this song, I like this song, let’s dance.”

“But I don’t know how—“ Toby insisted as you took his hands anyway.

You scoffed with a fool’s smile, “Neither do I.”

At first you dragged him along around the dining room floor, navigating between the tables and chairs, tapping to the beat. He was awkward and didn’t know how to move his legs, flinging this way and that, but eventually he fell into your pattern and moved along. You both laughed, rocking your bodies to the beat hand in hand. Swaying left and right and once or twice trying spin each other. At one point, Toby almost toppled over into a couple of chairs, but you grabbed on tight to his hands and didn’t let go. A silly little smile spread across your faces and the two of you turned giggly as a new song started playing and the dance continued.

It was true—the two of you really didn’t know how to dance, and if anyone were to look into the windows they’d see two people who were wildly uncoordinated. You felt like you owned the world and that your body was perfectly aligned to the songs, you saw Toby and how he finally looked relaxed, mouthing along to the lyrics and shaking his arms around freely with his eyes closed. When you started screaming out the lyrics yourself, belting out notes pitches too high or low, he didn’t hesitate in joining you, resulting in one grand cacophonous harmony.

When Toby left later that night, it hit him in the face. Realization, fear, all of those types of things that crept up his back and settled into the crock of his neck before lodging itself into thought. That feeling, it settled inside of him and wouldn’t leave, it overwhelmed him and gnawed away at his stomach lining. Toby was never still, and it was more apparent now as the anxiety rose up his cheeks. He gulped, drank from the water bottle you had given him, slipped his hatchets into his belt loops and disappeared back into the forest. He always left his hatchets hidden behind your restaurant whenever he visited you. Just so you’d never see them with all the dents and stains that’d scare you away and leave him alone again. Toby really hated being alone sometimes.

And Toby also knew who he was. It was evident by those same stains. It haunted him. He would never be able to sleep without seeing all of the things he’s witnessed, that he’s done. While knowing who you also were, he knew that you wouldn’t need him, that you’d need to help other people that got lost at night, who just need a helping hand. He’d hope you’d be able to help a lot more people than just him. You’d need to forget him, or at least you would, eventually. //

// The night was quieter than normal. There was no radio playing, there were no cars passing by on the road, and there was no rain or wind, clear skies all day and all night. In short, it was boring. You were propped up by your elbow as you leaned over the bar countertop, idly skimming through the contents in some magazine left here by another customer. Only one customer remained, a pleasant old man who stopped by during the weekdays to watch the news on the television here. With a yawn and a tip, he left too, and you weren’t bothered to immediately lock the door after his departure. It had been a slow day.

He was behind the restaurant, hunched behind some garbage cans and waiting to hear the last car pull out from the parking lot. Everything was still and he was seeing the place for the first time with orange-tinted lenses. He shook and shivered, bones rattling, and he couldn’t stop his arms from jerking even as he held himself together tighter. The last customer was gone. Now he just had to wait for you to come outside. Rocking back and forth to calm himself, he toyed with the fraying strings on the edge of his sleeves, occupying his mind and trying to distract himself from the bloodstains forming on his shirt and pants, not to mention the uncleaned hatchets that hung by his side. It wasn’t until a rather loud clang that he was snapped out of his trance.

Shooting up from his hiding spot, he made his way over to you without even a trickle of a sound.

All of a sudden you were shoved back towards the building, the air was knocked out of your chest from the force and you stumbled back. Toby had one hand blocking your exit, and another raised high above your head with a hatchet threatening to crack your skull open.

He stared at you, questioning himself, looking at you and then the hatchet and then you - you were terrified, and trembling, and god he wanted to disappear right at that moment, to drop everything and cling onto you. And he knew it wasn’t going to happen, but still his arms wobbled and there was a hitch in his throat. One hand slowly went to his mouth to stop the whimperings from escaping and the other slowly lowered his weapon until it fell onto the pavement.

How could he be so stupid? He caved for the niceties, any inking of kindness and he instantly folded his hand. It wasn’t the terror in your eyes that had stopped him, it was just you. The way it felt to be so close again, how his body responded by going weak, he wanted to stay like that for a long time, he wanted to stay by you for as long as you’d let him. But he couldn’t do that, could he? Trust is a delicate thing. He knew that lesson well.

You stood there with your back pressed painfully against the wall, your heart was beating frantically against your chest, your muscles were tense, your eyes were glued on Toby as he lost his resolve and crumbled down onto the ground in a heap with his head in his hands. Sobs wracked his body up and down and he heaved. Kneeling down next to him, you grabbed the hatchet and threw it as far as you could, considering for a moment if you should comfort him or not before placing a hand tentatively on his back, rubbing circles once he responded to your touch. The goggles on his face were fogging up, and you carefully found the clasp underneath a topple of tangled brown hair, letting it fall onto the ground as you wiped the tears falling down his cheeks with your hand and slipped off his facial mask.

His eyes did not meet yours, leaning over and making himself seem small. He sobbed until there were no more tears left, and even then his chest just heaved wildly as he struggled to find an even breathing pace. Kneeling closer, you wrapped your arms tighter around him, embracing, whispering in a soothing voice.

Toby wrapped his arms around your waist, slowly at first before completely enveloping you, resting his head into your lap. You felt nice, and comfortable, safe. He hung onto you for dear life.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──────

originally posted on quotev/citrusyfruits, reposted with permission

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