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seouljazzbar · 6 months ago

Text

GO WITH IT

MARK LEE (이민형)

ABOUT 𓂃 ࣪˖ “have sex with me so I can finish writing this” inspired by this tweet or when mark offers to solve all your problems, it's much better to go with it

WARNING 𓂃 ࣪˖ language, mark is a bit of a slut, 18+ spiderman kiss (you’ll see lmao), allusions to fat cock mark… 😵‍💫, overstimulation, unprotected sex, mark’s name repeated like 78 times (no seriously, it’s up there), reader bent like a pretzel, orgasm denial, this author loves a comma, a pinch of softdom!mark, silly ending

PAIRING 𓂃 ࣪˖ bestfriend!mark x bestfriend!reader

WORD COUNT 𓂃 ࣪˖ 6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE 𓂃 ࣪˖ a little surprise drop for my favorite neo! i guess it's also a wee bit of a belated birthday gift to him :) i skimmed it for typos and stuff but i unfortunately did not edit it the way i should have, sorrryyyyy hope y'all enjoy! omg also reader's room is yu nabi's from the kdrama nevertheless hehehe

Nobody was busier than your best friend, Mark Lee. Between his job, his vibrant social life, and his weekly family dinners, you were lucky to be offered a slot in his schedule. It was always a yes to Mark Lee. Usually.

The last three times Mark had tried to make plans with you were all failed attempts, and the excuses varied each time. There was nothing shameful about the truth, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to tell him that your friendship was being thrown to the backburner while you sloppily attempted to get your life together. He knew all about your small business, taking commissions for art prints and ceramics, but he had no idea how much time and effort went into each piece. Besides, knowing Mark he would offer to help, and that wasn’t going to be of service to you in the slightest.

All you could do was rot in bed, hoping that something would spark your creative mind to no avail. Frustration was starting to take up every corner of your mind— from the nonstop orders that you couldn’t fulfill, to your supplier raising prices, to the fact that you hadn’t had a good date in two years. You were wound too tight to function, and any minute now you were going to start pulling your hair out in chunks.

The sound of the pin-pad at your door let you know that Mark was about to come barreling through. There were so many times that you’d be in strict creation mode, headphones in at full blast while Mark banged at the door pleading for you to answer; when it started to feel like a normal part of your routine, he just requested the code to let himself in. “Yo!”

Except, this time, none of that was necessary. Your headphones were stuffed in their case on the other side of the room, workstation completely untouched with your multiple projects stacked on top of each other. Despite the custom orders piling up over the last two weeks, you hadn’t had the artistic strength to move forward with any of them. The only thing you could do to buy yourself a little time was to post a message asking for patience and understanding while you navigate some vague emotional hardship. Realistically, though, it would only buy you another week or so before people would start to get angry.

“Hi.” Perched on a stool near the kitchen island, eyes locked on the cup of coffee you warmed up seventeen minutes ago, you were out of it.

Mark waved a few inches from your face, trying to get your full attention. “Hello? Earth to ___, are you okay?”

You snapped out of it, looking over at your best friend to see that he was dressed for a night on the town. “Sorry, got a lot on my mind right now.”

White, distressed tank top, loose plaid button-up undone, and his sexiest pair of black jeans. The way the meticulous curls fell around his face, looping around his forehead in a way that feigned boylike wonder. He looked oh so delicious, but you would never tell him that— his ego was big enough for the both of you. “Anything I could help with?”

A stifled chuckle barely reached his ears before you cleared your throat, turning toward him with renewed energy. “No, not really.”

Mark put his phone and keys down on the counter, taking a quick intermission to wash his hands before walking back over to you. He’d never been in your apartment in this way before— an unannounced hangout where you’re clearly just a stop along the way, being so underdressed in his presence. He’d seen you in a swimsuit before, but something about a big shirt and underwear felt far more intimate than the two strips of fabric. “This is like the third time you’ve curved me, if you hate me just say that.”

“Oh, you’re so fucking dramatic. I’m just busy.” You shoved at his shoulder, urging him to take a seat so you wouldn’t feel so awkward with him standing over you. He refused cooly, taking a look around your apartment to make sure you hadn’t been aimlessly rotting since the last time he stopped by.

“Even I'm not that busy. What’s going on?”

“I’ve just…” You sighed heavily, a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in. Talking about everything wrong in your life felt far too heavy, too much to divulge to a friend seemingly just doing a wellness check. “I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and I’ve got all these creative blocks that won’t go away and honestly I just need to be fucked like properly fucked to get my juices flowing again but all of the men worth giving it up to are in hiding.”

Mark stood there, mouth agape in disbelief. He did ask, after all. “Woah.”

“Yeah.” It felt embarrassing to hear laid out like that, but there weren’t too many secrets between you and Mark in the first place. Your sex lives weren’t off limits for discussion, and the two of you had plenty of chats that were NSFW in nature. But blurting out how badly you needed to be railed? That was a new one.

The silence spoke for itself, apparently. You didn’t want to chance a glance up at him, but you knew that you’d have to say something. Maybe something to cover your ass, let him know that you’re well aware how ‘TMI’ that was. Or even—

“I’ll fuck you.”

You nearly choked on air,“What?!” Now you had no choice but to look at him, scanning the twinkle in his eyes in search of sincerity.

“I’m really good, too.” He took a step towards you, eyes never leaving yours as his hands found home in his shirt pockets. This was a side of Mark you rarely got to see— charming, smooth, confident. There were times, namely on nights out, where you’d get a taste of it, watching him chat it up in some dark corner with the prettiest girl you’d ever laid eyes on. But this, being on the receiving end? Watching his eyes drink you in like sweet tea on a balmy Southern summer afternoon? It was enough to make your heart skip several beats.

“Mark—”

The smile he cracks at you makes you embarrassed for even considering it. “I’m just messing with you, geez,” Heat takes over your face as you try to hide it from him, palms rubbing at your cheeks as your heartbeat tries to find its resting rate. “Although, given that reaction, maybe I shouldn’t be.”

“Shouldn’t be what?”

“Messing with you. Joking, rather. I can definitely mess with you, if you want,” Running so hot and cold in such a short window of time has you shivering under his gaze, scared to make the wrong move and ruin what you’d beg him for. “Hm? Is that what you want?”

The air is thick with anticipation, nothing but the consistent drip from a ceiling leak as the soundtrack to your staring contest with Mark. He was so close to you in all of his Friday night glory, cologne a cloud around you as the heat from his chest permeated your personal space. You were certain that just one taste, just one night in the throes of passion with a curly haired Mark Lee would solve all of your problems. If you closed your eyes, you could picture it— sweaty bodies intertwined amidst the sweltering heat of your studio after dark, the fanning of his breath in your face as he rocks into you, his strong frame caging you into the bed so all you can focus on is Mark, Mark, Mark! His sighs and whines of pleasure flooding your senses so they’re all you can pay attention to, just his voice and his unrelenting pace as he— “___,” The sound of your name on his tongue snapped you out of your lustful haze. “Offer’s about to expire, baby.”

Mark slipped his jacket off without breaking away from you, dropping it carelessly on the floor while your attention wandered to his arms. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, crossing his arms against his chest as he awaited your answer. “You’re serious? This isn’t some cruel prank where if I say yes, you’ll tell me it was just a joke?”

“That’s not my idea of a prank, princess, where’s the fun in that?” Mark licked his lips, a faint smirk taking over. “Look, if you’re uncomfortable, we can pretend this never happened,” His fingers ghost along the side of your face, sweetly making their way to your lips. “But if it were up to me? I’d have you seven ways to Sunday all over this apartment.”

That was all you needed to lunge into a kiss with him, throwing him slightly off guard as you practically tossed yourself into his arms. But his lips were ready for you, steaming hot and sopping wet— just the way you like it. The smush of your lips together so suddenly garnered the sweetest moan from him, just enough to tease you of what’s to come. His arms wrapped around your torso like a claw machine, pulling you so flush against him as though he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers.

Your lips were still tingling as he pulled away to lap kisses against your neck, peppering anywhere his lips could reach. “M-Mark, hmngh.”

It was no secret that Mark had a bit of a reputation in the bedroom, but you never thought you’d witness it firsthand. His hands delved blindly to your legs, hoisting you around his waist so he could move you over to your bed. You almost had a mind to remind him of the three big steps up to your bedroom area, but he was far suaver than you gave him credit for— this wasn’t exactly his first rodeo.

He tossed you on the bed, the slight recoil exhilarating before he was all over you again. “If a proper fuck is what you want…” His kisses had shifted to your chest, lips and tongue sucking in the essence of your skin like he couldn’t bear not to. He was almost more excited than you were, his touch reaching anywhere and everywhere all at once, like he couldn’t get enough of exploring everything you had to offer. It was all starting to feel real as Mark made a move to lift up your shirt and the implication of your best friend seeing you naked caught up with you.

“Wait, wait. We’re gonna see each other naked.”

Mark, with the fabric of your shirt caught in his teeth, stared at you blankly. “Yeah…”

“Shouldn’t that be weird?”

He rolled his eyes playfully, squeezing at your hip with the hand closest to it. “Maybe, but how do you suggest we fuck then? Through my jeans?” He pulled your body swiftly down the mattress so you could feel how hard he was through your panties.

“Shut the fuck up, oh, my God.”

“I was trying to before you got all weird and jittery,” Mark made a move for your shirt again, and this time you didn’t fight him on it. The balmy air hit your pert nipples the second they were exposed, and Mark couldn’t stop the gruff noise that formed in his throat. “Just as pretty as I imagined.” You squirmed at the compliment, cheeks heating up at the sight of him drooling over you. “Like that? Hm? Are you my pretty girl?”

His lips wrapped around the peak of your breast, tongue swirling to the same pattern his thumb and forefinger followed on your other nipple. “Yes!” It was embarrassing, how fast you succumbed to his commands. He struck with confidence, maneuvering his way around your body like he’d done it before. “I’m your pretty girl.”

“So sexy saying that for me, baby,” Your legs part instinctually to make more room for him, and Mark took that as his sign to shift gears. “You know… sometimes, every now and then, I’d think about you. If I needed a little extra push towards ecstasy, you’d pop in my head. Think about the way you’d look if I got my hands on you. How you’d feel, how you’d taste,” His fingers prodded at the growing wet patch on your underwear. “Gonna let me see?”

Your back arched off the mattress, hands pulling him impossibly closer to you. “Mark, please stop asking, just do it.”

“Mm, say ‘please’ again.”

“Mark!”

His laugh would be even sexier if it weren’t at your expense. “Alright, fine.” Your panties stayed on as his tongue lapped at your folds through them, the flimsy cotton doing absolutely nothing to stop him from devouring you. You jerked at the feeling as his tongue licked a bold strip through your folds, your hands entangling themselves in his curly locs. “You’re so wet, holy shit.”

One quick motion moved your panties to the side, puffy wet lips on full display for his greedy eyes. His eyes sparkled at the sight, mouth watering at the mere thought of getting to taste you. “Smell so good, pretty girl.” He was so hungry and you were the only one who could satiate him. His tongue had a mind of its own, pressing flat against your folds without a second thought, “Taste even better.”

Mark’s grip on your thighs held you in place as he licked you clean, running his tongue against every nerve-ending he could feel for. He pulled them apart just enough to spread you out for him, just enough to be on full display for him. Your taste occupied every corner of his mind as he blacked out in pleasure, lapping up every drop your gushing pussy offered up.

He circled your clit until you saw stars, your squirming uncontrollable as his tongue darted inside of you. “You’re so good to me.”

Mark groaned between your thighs, in love with the praise you were showering him with. There was something about how natural and seamless it was for you to compliment him that turned him on even more, if that was possible. “I don't think I'll ever get enough of how you taste, Christ.”

His free hand slithered up your torso, sinking his thumb into your eager mouth while his continued working at your core. He wasn’t shy, either, licking boldly from your ass to your clit while shaking his tongue side to side. Slurping up every drop that dribbled out of your entrance, twisting his tongue as far inside of you as he could reach. You were dripping down his chin by the time he introduced his fingers, prodding at your glistening hole with just one to test the waters. He took the way you gripped onto his hair as his sign that you were more than enjoying it. “F-feels good, oh, God.”

“Mm, don’t be shy.”

Laving at your clit, he drank up the praises the way he was drinking you up. He only pulled away to fully discard your panties, diving back into center with renewed vigor. “Need more.” You didn’t want to push him any closer to you, scared you’d smother him, but he didn’t seem afraid to drown. He’d awoken something desperately greedy inside of you, and you were slipping further into a haze of pleasure with every passing moment. Two fingers pressed their way inside of you, pumping slowly to get you adjusted before the jerk of your hips told him to pick up the pace. You couldn’t hold still with the way he was devouring you, mouth and hands prying you open deliciously all for his enjoyment. He would die between your thighs if you let him, you’re sure of it.

You had to physically pull him off of you to get him to stop, orgasming bubbling inside of you in record time. “Want you inside of me already.” The entirety of the lower half of his face was a sticky mess of your arousal, from his nose to his chin completely covered in you. “Bro, you need to wipe… that.” Times like these, you were glad that you kept tissues on your nightstand.

“You cannot and will not call me ‘bro’ now that I know what you taste like. How insulting.”

It hadn’t dawned on you that Mark was still fully dressed, sans his plaid jacket-shirt that was curled in a sad pile on the floor. “Is that an order?”

He bit at his lip, eyes darkening as he drank in your bare figure sprawled beneath him. Your hands ran themselves up and down his arms, finally getting a chance to admire his body after all the focus was turned to you. Maybe it was the lighting, the way his hair fell over his eyes, or just the fact that he was the best kisser you’d had the pleasure of test driving— but he looked divine. Halo of light circling his head as he fumbled with his belt, biceps flexing as he lifted the tank top off of his lean frame. Suddenly, he wasn’t your friend anymore; he was something new entirely.

You were so lost in your own adoration of him that you hadn’t noticed he was undressed, pulling you directly underneath him as he kissed at your collarbones. “Where’d you go off to, huh?”

“It’s nothing,” you shook your head, snapping back to reality (which was so much better than whatever was going on in your will they-won’t they fantasy). “Thank you, for this.”

Mark didn’t respond with words, instead opting to kiss you softly, tenderly. Slowly, deeply, passionately kissing you as he lowered himself atop of you. He wasn’t in a rush anymore, pulling you into him like you were made of glass, grinding against your center like you had all the time in the world. Everything was so delicate, like he was savoring the moment for years to come. It scared you, if you were being honest. “Mark? You know you can still kiss me while you’re inside of me, yeah?”

He hummed in approval, connecting your mouths again in a slow, languid kiss, tongues slithering into each other's mouths and twisting messily. You could feel him lining up with your entrance, his hand wrapped around his girth to guide himself into you steadily. Chancing a look down, you tried to hide the way your eyes bulged out at the sheer size of him— he would never let you hear the end of it if you fawned over how huge he was. It took all of your willpower to remain still, your body welcomed him as though it had hundreds of times, the shape of him slotting inside of you like he was made to. His fingers tangled in your hair, angling your head so he could travel to your neck, groaning out his praise against your sticky skin. The absence of his lips on yours made you whine, hands wandering the expanse of his back just for confirmation that this was real. “Tell me how it feels.”

You couldn’t. Months of the worst dry spell you’d ever experienced coming to a head with Mark milking you for everything you had couldn’t be described. All you could do was moan, coiling around him even tighter as he started to rock his hips forward as though he was testing the waters. He was the only thing you could focus on— his scent, his taste, they way his nose pressed right against yours, the feeling of his fingers intertwining with yours against the mattress, the dionysian desire his hips were fulfilling. It was all just Mark, Mark, Mark. “Mark!” His teeth couldn’t resist nipping at your lip, pulling on it playfully before letting go to let his tongues soothe the area.

“I can’t help it, you’re so fun to play with.” He kissed you to make up for the quick dot of pain, relishing in the way you immediately kissed him back with just as much enthusiasm.

“I’m, I’m close.”

He spread your legs further apart to give himself more room to buck his hips, pressing at your thighs as he fucked into you faster. “Hold it.”

“Whyyyy?”

“You asked for the Mark Lee experience,” His thrusts grew pointed, almost exaggerated as his hips drove forward with precision, “and I’m gonna give it to you.”

You could feel yourself teetering dangerously close to the edge, stomach coiled tight and lungs working overtime. The mere thought of being denied your orgasm was getting you worked up— you hate not getting your way. Your legs wrapped around Mark’s waist, locking your ankles together for good measure. If he wanted to play games, you were down for it. “Harder.”

But instead of faster, Mark slowed to a complete stop, hands drifting down to your hips to pin them to the mattress. “Oh, baby, do you think I’m stupid?” He chuckled in your face, shaking his head as the laughter subsided. “That’s a sure fire way to get nothing.”

“Wait, no, please! I didn’t mean it.”

The damage had already been done. His patience with you was wearing thin, and he didn’t take kindly to disobedience. “Have you learned your lesson?” Each second that passed stole a piece of your orgasm away with it, that delicious ball of tension and heat simmering down to a cool pit of nothing the longer Mark held your hips down. Your heart stopped fluttering with urgency, slowing to its resting rate as you dealt with the consequences of trying to outsmart your best friend. “Speak up, baby.”

“Yes,” You hissed out, annoyed that your declaration of needing to be fucked was currently going unanswered. Who is he to deny you of the very thing he promised you? “I learned my lesson.”

It was exactly what he wanted to hear, “God, you’re so sexy when you behave yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, slapping his chest as he pulled away from you entirely. “What happened to ‘having me seven ways to Sunday all over this apartment’?”

It was Mark’s turn to roll his eyes, fingers running through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “Up against the wall.” You did as he said, spreading your hands against the wall as you felt him behind you, lining himself up with your sodden entrance. The inward arch felt unnatural at first, but you settled into it as you got comfortable in it. “Look up at me.” Mark was towering over you, quite literally. From this angle, all you had to do to see his face was look up and there he was with that devilish smile. His cock pressed into you as you watched him, the sheer thickness splitting you clean open for him, sucking him in like your pussy had been waiting for him. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

Maybe it was the taboo of sleeping with a friend, but your body was on fire. You felt your entire body heating up at the sudden change in his demeanor, switching your flirty best friend to a man absolutely starved. With your eyes screwed shut, you reached a hand out to hold onto his arm, fingers giving it a squeeze, head bumping the bare skin of his chest.

“Fuck.”

You were even wetter than you were while he had you pinned to the mattress, the feeling of being filled by him more electrifying after a brief intermission. He was all over you again and that was all that mattered, walls tightening around him with a vice-like grip that had both of you gasping for air.

“Shit,” he hiss, already lost in the sensation, “so good to me, ___, so fucking good.” He emphasized the last syllable with a gentle thrust that had your nails scratching at the wall. Your orgasm was building back up faster than you would’ve liked it to, considering you knew Mark wouldn’t let you cum so soon after denying you.

It hit you deeply, in all the right places at the right angle. Mark was that good from the start, and you couldn’t believe you’d been missing out on it. If you knew he was this goof, you would’ve ruined the friendship ages ago. “So fucking deep, Mark, keep going like that,” you moaned, just as caught up as he was.

He captured your lips in a searing kiss, fucking into you with much more vigor than before, gripping your ass with such force you half expected to see the dents after. You moaned all you had to say, all you had to feel into each other’s mouths. When his velvety tongue enveloped yours you could almost taste the remnants of your arousal and the chocolate muffin he ate right in between sweeping and mopping. The water was still running, hitting part of his back and your leg.

You couldn’t pull away from him even if you tried— he was a part of you now, molded into each other’s bodies until you became one. “Wanna keep fucking you forever,” he groaned, pouring his all into every touch. “Keep you on me forever.”

It threw you for a loop. Keep you forever? Mark was a lot more emotional than he let on, sure, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he meant it in ways other than platonic. You couldn’t even stop him to ask what he meant by that because he was so deep in your guts that you were starting to feel him in your throat.

“Don’t stop,” you cried out, biting your lip when he hit a certain spot inside you and kept hitting it over and over again— the taste of blood didn’t stop you. “Don’tstopdon’tsopdon’tstop-”

“Fuck,” he whisper, voice strained and raspy, smacking at your ass before gripping it and bringing you down to meet his increasingly harsh thrusts, the slap echoing throughout your studio apartment. “Wanna fuck you forever, baby.” One hand kept its vice grip on your hip while the other grasped at your neck, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him. “Gimme a kiss, pretty girl.” Your lips found his despite the blurring of your vision, a supple lock as he steadied rocking into your core. Kissing him upside down felt worlds away from the first kiss you shared with him, and yet you still couldn’t get enough of it. The hand on your hip slithered up to cup your breast, rolling your nipple as he pulled away from the kiss. “So obedient.”

All the shame had disappeared from your body, the satisfaction of finally being fucked numbing you to his quips completely. His name was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be set free, but the way his hips ricocheted off your ass made you short circuit. Your skin was hot to the touch, goosebumps littering the expanse of your body as your toes curled around the fabric of your duvet.

“Who knew you were such a dirty girl, hm?” Mark tutted. You hold back your moans, reveling in the sensation of his tip sliding up and down you dripping folds. Interrupting his own rhythm just to get a rise out of you, giving you no warning before shoving himself right back in.

“Bet this was your plan all along,” You ignore the fact that he technically initiated all of this, too blissed out to snap back at him cheekily. “Dripping all over my cock, fuck.” He’s thinking out loud, eyes locked at the way your pussy invites him in, grip unrelenting with each thrust. He drew his hips back again to repeat the same unforgiving tempo, laughing to himself at the way your thighs shake in anticipation.

“Wanted this for so long.” You whine, bashful about the confession rolling off your tongue so easily. Mark had always occupied a special part of your mind, but the barrier of your friendship with him always kept you from thinking of him in that way for too long. He’s hot, sure, and one of the most genuine guys you’d ever met— but risking that by dating him felt too stupid to risk.

Mark didn’t keep you waiting for too long, filling you to the brim with one stroke that had your toes curling. You gasp, a shiver running up your spine as he adopts a frenzied pace that nearly knocks you into the wall in front of you. “You’re so fucking warm.” He can’t help but moan out at the feeling, clutching onto your hips as he pistons in and out of you. Blunt fingers digging into your skin as you let your body fall forward. You felt so full.

“Mark, fuck.” you whine, probably a tad too loud considering how thin the walls feel at night but you couldn’t help it, with the way he held onto you and fucked you like he had never had good pussy in his life. “Faster.”

“Where’d your manners go? Say ‘please’.” He teased, testing your obedience despite knowing you’d obey him. There was just something about knowing he held your pleasure in the palm of his hands, knowing that you’d do anything he asked of you.

“Please, please, please Mark, need you so bad.” It sounded pathetic, and it only makes Markn screw his eyes shut as he fucks you harder. All control lost as he watches the drool drip from your mouth down the wall— he was really fucking your brains out.

Mark's rough groans were slowly morphing into needy moans, the sound causing even more slick to build up between your legs. “Taking my cock like such a good girl.” And you really were, considering you had nothing but the wall to grip onto, you let your body go wherever Mark led it. Each thrust sending you closer and closer to your climax, his dick hitting every single spot that you’re sure you’d see stars.

“I’m gonna cum, fuck.”

“You’re gonna cum? Mm, you can cum. Cum all over my dick, lemme see that pretty face.” You arched inward one last time for him, looking up at the man sending you to heaven and back on a loop. “There you go. Good fucking girl.” Mark smacked your ass sharply, holding onto your ass as he switched his rhythm to harsh, precise thrusts that were sure to throw you over the edge of pleasure. He kissed your forehead as the growing tension in the pit of your stomach snapped, your walls contracting around him in a tight frenzy that nearly triggered his own. He didn’t slow down, though. The clutching of pussy did absolutely nothing to deter him from fucking you with the same rigor, hips just as quick as they were before he finally let you cum.

“M-Mark, I don’...” The aftershocks of ecstasy silenced you in your tracks, the sparks of pleasure like electricity through your bloodstream. “Don’t stop.”

He laughed at the change of your tune, thumb flitting down to flick at your clit. “Baby needs more? Haven’t had enough yet?”

Even with him poking fun at your desperation, you were too drunk on his cock to care. All you could manage was a chorus of fuck me, fuck me, fuck me as Mark held you flush against him. “God, yes, fill me up like that.” Your arousal was dripping all over the inside of your thighs, the sticky slick glistening under the moonlight that peaked through your curtains.

“That’s right, I’m not fucking done with you yet, pretty girl.” This side of him was lethal. He was insatiable, obsessed with the way your body responded to him, greedy for the way you bent to his every whim. It was such a change of pace from the way he was kissing you in missionary, the way he treated you like a doll that he was afraid of hurting you. “Feel good?”

He was mocking you— of course, it was good. You didn’t have to tell him that for him to know; but feeding his ego was so addictive. The way he’d reward you for praising him was enough for you to fall for the trap every single time. “So, good, Mark, hngh.”

The smack of his hips against your ass bounced off the walls, echoing the depravity that you and Mark were oh so good at acting on. All of your senses on overdrive, the overstimulation pulling at you from every end, you weren’t sure if you could take it all for much longer. Drool slipped from your mouth onto Mark’s arm, the edges of your vision blurring as you could feel yourself bubbling over. “Gonna cum again?”

“‘m gonna cum again.”

He was drunk with the power of controlling you. “Hold it.”

“Mark, I can’t.” You were surprised you were even able to do it the first two times he commanded it, not used to having gratification delayed against your wishes.

“Gonna fill you up and then you can cum.” It only took a few more targeted thrusts before he was spilling his seed into you, an endless leak of evidence of what took place over the last hour or so. Even as his cock began to soften, he made sure to fuck you through it, massaging tight circles into your clit until your legs spasmed. The air was snatched from your lungs, eyes flittering shut in sweet relief. It was only two orgasms, but the build up had really taken it out of you. Mark flipped you over gently on your back, brushing the hair out of your face as you sleepily opened your eyes.

“Look at that. Take a look at the mess we made, baby.”

He gestured between your legs, a slippery canvas of cum smeared across your most intimate parts. “So much…” You couldn’t stop yourself from gathering some on your fingers, popping them into your mouth for a taste of the two of you mixed together.

Your brain was on fire, neurons alight with the molten sensation that was Mark Lee. Even though you took him up on the offer, you weren’t expecting him to completely change your world. A solid orgasm and a pat of the back, maybe. But now you were afraid that he was your new addiction that you’d never be able to feed.

You woke up in a fresh sleep shirt to the smell of toasted bagels and coffee. Mark balanced the plates and mugs the best he could as he tackled the steps leading up to your bedroom area. “Mornin’ sleepyhead.”

“What time is it?”

He shoved a mug of steaming coffee into your hands, kissing you on the forehead. “Don’t worry about that. You were exhausted, wanted to let you sleep.”

“Thank you.” The coffee was exactly to your liking, just what you needed after a night of fucking like rabbits. “So, should we talk about… it?”

Blush rose to his cheeks and there was no hiding it, his hair pulled back into a messy bun so his face was on full display. “I mean, only if you want to? I’m okay with proceeding however you want to.”

“You’d be fine staying friends? Never talking about it? Pretending that nothing’s changed?”

He shrugged, “if that’s what you wanted, then yeah.” His attention shifted to his breakfast, eyes zeroed in on his eggs and toast like it was a gourmet meal. “Just don’t wanna make you feel weird about it, you know?”

“Mark?” You placed your coffee and plate down on your bedside table, turning your full attention to him as he continued to avoid your gaze. “What did you mean by all the ‘keep you forever’ stuff then?”

He rushed to try to explain himself, scrambling his words into a whole lot of nothing. “It’s not, like, a big deal or anything. I just get possessive… in bed, sometimes. I’m not a weirdo or anything, I promise.”

None of that mattered to you anyway, your dreams of Mark that clouded your head all night giving you the push you needed to throw caution to the wind. Would it be the worst thing in the world to risk it all with him? One kiss, chaste and sweet, was enough to shut him up for just a moment. “So if I said we should try exploring further, maybe go on a date or something, you’d say yes?”

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, mouth falling agape as he searched your face for any signs that you were being facetious. “Y-yeah, yes. If that’s what you want.” He was so bad with his feelings, sometimes— but you were more than willing to be patient.

“Well, good, because that’s what I want.”

#mark lee smut #mark lee x reader #mark lee imagines #nct smut #nct x reader #seouljazzbar

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comicaurora · 5 months ago

Note

Hey, sorry if you’ve been asked this before, but I have ADHD and I’ve been following your comic for years and just now have started to write my own comic (partially because you really inspired me). But I’m really struggling with staying on the project even when it’s boring and getting myself to work on it in the first place. Do you have any tips on how to keep your brain invested or just to make yourself do the work at all?

I have excellent news, I literally just figured out something really important about this.

So when you're an ADHD kiddo or otherwise have difficulty staying on task in a structured environment where Task is the Priority, the main way people try to MAKE you stay on task is by removing your access to anything that is not The Task. No phone, no TV, no doodling, no going outside, etc. In practice, this just makes us miserable because it takes the boredom that's always simmering around a 2 or 3 and cranks it all the way up to 11. In the same way that you would have difficulty staying on task if you were in physical pain, this crushing existential monotony makes it very difficult to work. The work might get done simply because you have no other options, but it will not be done quickly or well, and it will take a while to recover from how much it hurt.

What I realized earlier this week is I caught myself doing this to myself. I had 42 pages of background colors to do, and I thought to myself "this sounds really tedious, but I suppose I have nothing better I can do." And I realized what I'd just thought, and got very alarmed.

Because back when I was an ADHD kiddo imprisoned by school scheduling and a million little factors that keep children immobile and restrained, I couldn't stop thinking about how big and exciting the world was, and how much I wanted to be anywhere but here. When I was feeling really crushed in I'd pick a random spot on the maps on my wall and just imagine being there instead of my bedroom. This was the impetus behind almost all of my creative energy. I've said it before - anything is a prison if you can't leave, and being in a prison makes it easy to imagine how amazing things could be outside of it. Aurora's initial worldbuilding was forged in the crucible of fifth grade misery. My enthusiasm for art and my creative drive are inextricable from my sense of wonder and yearning for excitement in the real world. Not escapism, but appreciation. Wonders unimaginable are out there, and I gain just as much joy seeking them out as I do conjuring them up in my head and sharing them with all of you.

So now that I'm a grown-up with actual freedom in every way I've been able to get, the idea that I was staying on task by making myself believe the world was small and not worth seeing was extremely alarming. It could keep me on task for an afternoon, but at the cost of slowly extinguishing the thing that made me want to make art in the first place - the hunger to experience and draw inspiration from all the myriad complexities in the world.

So what I've been doing is I've been purposefully and intentionally taking excursions whenever I catch myself thinking "I could take a break but it wouldn't be worth it, it's the same outdoors as always, I'll be uncomfy and unproductive and tired." Because that is never true. Every time I've put down the stylus and gone out, I've been renewed in one way or another, and when I come back to comfort fully recharged I get a lot of shit done. Because it is easier to work on anything if you remember why you wanted to make it in the first place, and it is self-defeating misery to just lock yourself in with it and tell yourself you're a bad person if you can't get it done.

I honestly don't know how widely applicable this is. I have worse wanderlust than anyone I know, so for me this has always been modeled as imprisonment vs freedom. I've also been extremely lucky to find myself in a profession that lets me set my own pace on literally everything I do. But I genuinely believe that when it comes to making art with ADHD, you need to give yourself freedom to move laterally, not just in the direction of obvious forward progress. We don't think linearly in any other part of our lives - art is no different.

#asks #writing stuff #art stuff

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helenanell · 9 months ago

Text

Contempt of Court || Challengers

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.)

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late.

(This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked.

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers.

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more.

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months.

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer.

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you.

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace.

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you.

Another thing to fail at.

Another thing to lose.

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition.

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree.

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it.

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent.

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it.

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away.

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights.

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained.

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly?

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.”

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?”

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully.

“Nike.”

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you:

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot.

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ”

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack.

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.”

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway.

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice.

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened.

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying.

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse.

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final.

You would never forget his answer:

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy. He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable.

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour.

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile.

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer.

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.”

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors.

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply.

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation.

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago.

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in.

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have.

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?”

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum:

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!”

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door.

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call.

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.”

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be.

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign.

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded.

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well.

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art.

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him.

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating.

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court.

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal.

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans.

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?”

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours.

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold.

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.”

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.”

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile.

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk.

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

You want to tear it off the wall.

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.”

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation.

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult.

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute.

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?”

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad.

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off.

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline.

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating.

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach.

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter.

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted.

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit.

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house.

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue.

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you.

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes.

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that.

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.”

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.”

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?”

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm.

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.”

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you.

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist.

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond.

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever.

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious.

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.”

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water.

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself.

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace.

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank.

“What are you doing?”

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars.

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin.

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water.

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt.

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water.

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge.

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do.

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.”

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism.

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air.

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you.

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own.

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet.

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches.

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines.

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear:

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.”

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him.

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight.

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight.

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him.

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene.

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided.

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap.

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.”

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art.

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real.

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes.

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water?

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands.

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.”

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.”

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin.

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him.

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?”

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten.

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.”

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you.

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver.

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his.

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall.

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin.

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first.

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up.

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away.

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts.

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly.

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?”

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up.

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him.

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond.

Not the night sky.

Just a pond.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell.

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete.

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes.

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this.

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality.

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good.

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side.

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief?

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember.

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond.

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says:

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly.

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away.

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.”

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal.

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows.

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut.

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone.

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside.

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart.

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself.

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement.

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move.

“That was the plan.”

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?”

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?”

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out.

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you.

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board.

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?”

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in.

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him.

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest.

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him.

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.”

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself.

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum.

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there.

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one.

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle.

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh.

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear.

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?”

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk.

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet.

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return.

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place.

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin.

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs.

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.”

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers:

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.”

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.”

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth.

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.”

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you.

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further.

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin.

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead.

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel.

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you.

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh.

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again.

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you.

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied.

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck.

“I think I got my answer.”

“Shut up.”

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier, his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions.

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you.

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.”

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers movie #art donaldson smut #mike faist #tashi duncan

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jaellyfishh · 2 months ago

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RIDE YOUR HIGH

paige x azzi

content: fluff, mostly smut

word count: 2.9K

notes: i started writing this on a whim. i haven’t written anything since 2014 or something, but currently wcbb is my hyperfixation and i love these two girls with all my heart! (this may probably have grammatical errors)

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

“Take care of the house, alright girls?”, Katie Fudd shouted by the main door of the house, before stepping outside hand in hand with her husband and closing it shut behind them.

“We will!”, Paige and Azzi harmoniously responded while putting away the last couple of Tupperware containers into their respective places beneath the kitchen counter and in the fridge, after the pair had their dinner.

Their summer had only just began two days ago and Paige and Azzi had planned to spend a short two weeks in Azzi’s hometown before indulging in their comprehensive itinerary together for the rest of the summer, which included a cruise trip. Azzi’s parents also had plans of their own, booking a hotel resort for four days after a year of non-stop working. At the same time, Jose and Jon had planned short summer trips with their respective friends in neighbouring towns. In an empty house, except for the pair, it was for certain everybody was itching for their much-needed time to unwind.

Paige noticed Azzi putting the last plastic container into the base cabinet and slowly made her way towards her back. The six-foot blonde gently snaked her hands around the younger girl’s waist, startling Azzi intially, before realising what was happening and relaxing into her girlfriend’s chest. Paige rested her chin on Azzi’s left shoulder, leaving slow, meaningful kisses on her neck and proceeding to hold her a fraction tighter. The both of them hummed simultaneously as Azzi turned her head slightly so that Paige was in her view.

“Hey, big head,” Azzi joked, a grin etched on her face. Paige halted her peppered pecks on the younger girl’s neck.

“Way to ruin the mood. And, for your information, we concluded the big head was you,” Paige scoffed, her eyebrows raised playfully as they both retracted their heads from each other, now fully in each other’s sight.

“Alright, alright. Agree to disagree,” Azzi rolled her eyes, the grin still on her face as she dismissed Paige’s protest.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Paige said incredulously before quickly squeezing Azzi’s ribs with an intention to torment the girl with tickles.

“Hey!” Azzi erupted into a fit of giggles, followed by Paige, as they now face each other and fight against their attacks in the quiet kitchen, arms displaying a semblance of two cats fighting. Before it could escalate into an endless battle of who dominates who, Paige tightly gripped Azzi’s wrists. When their movements stopped altogether, the faint sounds of their pants echoed around the empty house. The older girl looked deeply into Azzi’s eyes, scanning her girlfriend’s face and internally ogling at how every feature sat perfectly. Azzi was art to Paige. The taller girl took a small step closer, switched her hands back onto Azzi’s waist like it was home and closed their distance. Paige bent down by a little just so her lips were by Azzi’s ear.

“You know, I think we should spend this energy doing something else,” Paige whispered suggestively before planting small kisses on Azzi’s earlobe, knibbling on it, before running them down to perfectly reach the sweet spot that Paige knew all too well, like second nature; the simple curvature between Azzi’s neck and shoulder. Paige cemented her lips in the familiar area, which elicited a soft moan that escaped through Azzi’s breath. Paige, ever-the-more hungry, held her girlfriend tighter and continued sucking on the spot with intention, making sure a mark was made.

“P, let’s go to my room,” Azzi breathed out with much effort as she could not contain the warmth growing below her. Paige retracted her head back so she could look into Azzi’s eyes, both seeing an alarming degree of thirst and lust swirling in each other’s pupils. Paige took Azzi’s hand and intertwined them as they headed out of the kitchen, walking up the stairs towards the shorter girl’s room.

As Paige opened the door, making their way into Azzi’s room, a wave of nostalgia and longing was felt unconsciously. The childhood bedroom - the room where it all started. Where they pined for each other during their first heartfelt conversation as best friends, where they confessed to each other after Azzi first admitted her feelings for Paige over the summer of lockdown, where they had their first kiss, and where they had sex for the first time as a junior/sophomore at UConn. Every part of their romantic journey started in this room and it only made their heart grow fonder as they continued to kiss longingly.

Paige held Azzi delicately, as if cautious not to drop a glass item, while Azzi’s arms were wrapped around Paige’s neck, deepening their kiss. With one hand, the taller girl closed the door behind them. They moved together towards Azzi’s desk, the main board, usually filled with books, pencils and a laptop that were now tucked away, left only with picture frames of the pair’s shared memories together. Their lips never left one another as they grew hungry for each other, both soliciting whimpers and moans. Paige lifted Azzi and was propped comfortably on her desk. Their lips detached for just this moment. Paige’s arms were planted on the desk and guarded both sides of Azzi, while the brown eyed girl placed her hands on Paige’s cheeks, both staring lovingly at each other.

“I like the way you hold me,” Azzi whispered as if in a dream state while caressing Paige’s cheeks. “You make me feel safe. You make me forget every negative thought I have about how I played during a game, about my fears of not being good enough for the team…or for you”.

As Azzi’s words traveled towards what seemed like a potential downward spiral of pessimism, Paige placed her hands back on Azzi’s waist.

“Az. You’re always enough, you’re even more than enough,” Paige eyebrows slightly furrowed, her eyes almost welling up. “You’re not trying to be perfect for your team or for me… you’re just perfectly you. You play because you trust yourself and your team. And you love me the way you always have. We would never expect anything different.”

Azzi scanned her girlfriend’s face in awe while a single tear fell from hereyes, which Paige swiftly wiped away. The blue eyed girl pecked Azzi’s lips before looking to see if her girlfriend was in the right headspace.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m getting emotional and over-thinking right now. Our summer just started… I guess I’ll be on my period soon,” Azzi softly laughed at her reason as Paige closed her eyes and chuckled.

“Azzi, don’t think about any of that when you’re with me, okay?” Paige’s eyebrows tented while she looked intensely at Azzi, anticipating for a response from her girlfriend. The curly haired girl nodded and gave Paige a reassuring smile before wrapping her arms around the blonde’s neck once more, pulling her even closer.

“I’ll make you feel better, baby,” Paige lowly hummed and darted her lips onto Azzi’s, more soft moans escaping from the younger girl. The kiss was slow and steady, allowing them to be in rhythm with their bodies and to place their arms in perfect position. Paige tilted her head, in which Azzi responded by opening her lips wider for Paige’s tongue to explore. The pace of their tongues ran between quick and slow, tangling in each other and wetting both their lips. Amidst the steamy make out session, Paige’s right hand traveled towards Azzi’s centre where the warmth was increasingly felt. Without a second to waste, Paige rubbed her hand onto Azzi’s clit, which was double gated by the fabric of her underwear and sports shorts. Azzi let out a louder moan in between their kisses.

“You’re so wet down there, girl,” Paige mumbled in amusement while her lips traveled to Azzi’s jawline, giving each other a moment to breathe, her right hand still rubbing rhythmically on Azzi’s centre.

“Fuck, Paige, I need to take it off,” Azzi squirmed in her place, her frame still being guarded by Paige’s hand placements. Azzi lifted herself slightly from the desk to remove her bottom attire as Paige bit her own lower lip trying to take them off. The shorts and underwear were tossed to the side so quickly before they resumed fervently to their french kissing. Paige, with direct access to Azzi’s clit, rubbed it with her middle and ring fingers, the slick lubricating the area. Azzi resorted to uneven huffs, small bouts of edging from just a singular action.

“Babe, not too soon. I’ve only just started,” Paige reminded in between sloppy kisses on her girlfriend’s neck.

Before Azzi knew it, Paige slid her fingers into her causing Azzi to slump faintly into them. Paige grunted at her own actions and at the sight of Azzi in a vulnerable state. Paige’s long fingers moved in a rhythmic nature in and out of the younger girl causing an eruption of melodic moans sounding across the room. With more need to satisfy her curly haired girlfriend, Paige then went down on her knees, her torso at a perfect height for her lips to close into Azzi’s clit. Just as her tongue was about to touch Azzi’s entrance, the brown eyed girl grabbed quickly onto Paige’s head and pulled her even closer.

Damn, Paige thought as she realised how needy her girlfriend was. Paige’s tongue danced on Azzi’s folds, as if emulating their french kiss earlier. Up, down, in, out. Not a beat missing as Paige moans into her girlfriend, who was riding her high.

“Ugh, don’t stop, baby. Just like that,” Azzi exasperated as her arms gripped tighter on Paige’s head, rocking her hips onto her face in matching rhythm.

“Mmm, you like that, princess?” Paige looked up at her girlfriend while her own body heated up, her fingers and tongue moving faster in tandem as she sucks on her folds.

Moans and whimpers started becoming more and more erratic as the motion of Paige’s fingers and tongue did not seem to stop. Soon, Azzi’s moaning in particular started escalating to a short-note, ascending pitch; usually an indication for Paige that she was about to cum. Paige timely curled her fingers in more.

“Paige, I’m gonna-“ Azzi exclaimed, bringing her head backwards, still gripping onto her girlfriend’s head. Meanwhile, there was no sign of Paige stopping until Azzi came. And on Azzi’s loudest moan, a wave of orgasm vibrated through the younger girl’s body and a fair amount of ejaculation poured out of Azzi. Paige moaned and made sure to lick and swallow every bit that had come out.

“You’re so hot,” Paige smirked before getting up, licking her lips and bringing her thumb to remove the cum around her mouth that her tongue could not reach. Azzi smiled, her eyes slightly closed after her first orgasm of the night. Without hesitation, the younger girl removed her top, revealing her bare chest and, thus, fully exposing her naked body to her entranced girlfriend.

“Paige, stop staring and take your damn clothes off,” Azzi commanded. Shaking her head from a hypnotised state, the blonde chuckled and followed suit. She crossed her arms and latched onto the lower hem of her shirt before taking it off sexily, making Azzi bite her inner cheeks - a sight she will never get tired of seeing. Paige then proceeded to untie and take off her black checkered basketball shorts (which she had bought a matching blue pair for Azzi) and her boxer shorts, tossing them into the dark corner of Azzi’s room.

“Mmm, you’re so fine, babe,” Azzi said in a sultry tone before jumping out of her desk and wrapping her arms yet again on her girlfriend’s neck while smiling in satisfaction. A red tint developed onto Paige’s cheeks as she smiled gingerly, wrapping her arms around Azzi’s waist.

“Let me ride you,” Azzi seductively whispered into her girlfriend’s ear, her breath tickling. Paige looked at Azzi in pure lust, biting her lips.

Their expressions at each other turned more dark, their stares searching for more. Azzi turned Paige around and guided her towards her bed, making sure that when Paige felt the edge of her covers behind her knees, Azzi could gently lay her on her back. The taller girl then used her elbows to scoot herself towards the pillows and head board, while Azzi was on her knees following Paige up the bed. Once Paige stopped moving, Azzi continued moving up, having Paige in between her legs until she reached the blonde’s centre and straddled her. Without a moment’s hesitation, Paige placed her hands on Azzi’s waist, rubbing small circles with her thumb and letting out a small whistle, making Azzi roll her eyes playfully. Soon, Azzi bent forward with her back slightly arched and her arms propped on either side of Paige, keeping herself steady.

Without a moment to waste, Azzi started grinding in circular motions over Paige’s clit.

“Oh, fuck,” Paige gasped at the quick arousal. The entire moment all-encompassing of making her head spin, especially seeing Azzi’s seductive expression as she slowly rode her. Paige also moved her hips in rhythm, a slow burn in both their centres. Their movement continued with their eyes locked in, but Azzi needed more from her girlfriend. She knew how quick Paige makes her feel satisfied and always wanted to reciprocate.

Azzi quickened her motion gradually, eliciting moans and whimpers from Paige, who seemed to already be troubled with pleasure. The brown eyed girl then bent down even more and started sucking on Paige’s breast, while massaging the opposite.

“Az, oh god,” the sight was overwhelming for Paige, but in a good way. Azzi smirked in her sloppy make out session with Paige’s breast, before using her tongue to tickle her nipple in unintelligible ways. The sensation caused Paige to bend her head backwards as she caressed Azzi’s ass, the arousal creeping up.

“I’ll ride you like a cowgirl,” Azzi cheekily uttered before placing a wet kiss on her girlfriend’s lips. The curly haired girl then sat up started lightly grinding up and down and in circular motions, making enough movement for Paige to let out uneven gasps and whimpers. This prompted Azzi to then bounce on Paige’s clit while moaning loudly herself, aggravating her girlfriend’s state of mind and wanting her to beg to continue.

“You’re making me go crazy, baby,” Paige exhaled in frustration, her hands travelling up towards Azzi’s breast and massaging it synchronously with Azzi’s motion. Paige starting groaning as Azzi’s clit against hers sent electrical waves down her spine. Without missing a beat, Azzi removed herself from Paige’s clit, so she could bend down and envelope her girlfriend’s pussy in her mouth. Paige promptly bent her knees, feet flat on the bed, as Azzi held her thighs. The lust-filled Azzi started licking Paige’s folds and inserting her tongue into her entrance in a faster tempo, continuing the high from tribbing. Her fingers rubbing up and down in alternate patterns with her mouth, making a chaotic, but systematic routine for Paige to climax off of.

“Come for me, baby,” Azzi moaned while her fingers started rubbing Paige’s clit even faster. Paige gently grabbed Azzi’s head, rubbing her pussy on Azzi’s nose and lips while her whimpers grew louder.

“Fu- uck,” Paige groaned and closed her eyes, bewitched by the sensation and thought of a perfect princess being able to frazzle her mind and control her in many ways. In just a few seconds, Paige’s own fluids came out, surprising Azzi with a couple of squirts as the curly haired girl continued inserting into her in a curled direction, savouring the last few seconds of Paige’s orgasm. Just like that, Paige ejaculated the remainder into Azzi’s hands, letting out her loudest moan of the night. In a satisfied hum, Azzi licked her fingers clean and got out of position, laying herself beside her girlfriend. The pair brought themselves closer into a cuddle.

“I’d rate that an eleven out of ten,” Paige joked, her arm snaking under Azzi’s head, pulling her girlfriend close and kissing her forehead.

“What the hell, so we’re rating our sex now? But, thanks, I knew I was better,” Azzi teased before pecking her girlfriend's cheeks. Paige chuckled, then furrowed her eyebrows.

“Wait, what does that mean? So, mine wasn’t good enough?” Paige questioned in disbelief, her neck shifting to look at Azzi fully. The younger girl laughed contagiously as she gripped her girlfriend’s waist, bringing them closer.

“It’s not like that. I think I give more variety. Like, you just like eating me out. Which I’d still rate highly-,” Paige scoffed in interruption to Azzi’s words. She shifted her body even closer so that their faces were only millimetres apart.

“Oh yeah? What if bring in the strap? Then what? Huh?” Paige retorted in a whisper, their light argument emulating that of high schoolers.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that. I remember the first time we used it, I was more aroused by how good it looked on you than anything else. Too fine…” Azzi continued teasing while staring at Paige in a trance and tracing her fingers along her girlfriend’s jawline, remembering the image of Paige with a black strap on with a pink dildo. The blonde grew more confident and annoyingly egotistical with her next words.

“Oh, I thought I, and quoted by Azzi Fudd, fucked you’re brains out. And, if I recall, you couldn't stop talking about it for days - "Paige, Paige, can we do it again? Pretty please? Oh my god, you were a beast," the older girl mocked her girlfriend in exaggeration, Azzi's mouth left agape followed by slapping her girlfriend's exposed arm.

"Okay, now you're just making stuff up," shook her head with a grin.

"So you were really not satisfied with everything after that, huh?” Paige raised her eyebrows, her eyes flicking to Azzi’s chest as they were still both naked.

“And what if I said I wasn’t?” Azzi played along, clasping Paige’s jaw and peppering the side of her mouth with kisses.

“I’d like to have a satisfied customer,” Paige hurriedly got out of the bed and made her way to the many boxes hidden in the corner of Azzi’s closet. Azzi couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of an adamant Paige rummaging through the thousand of boxes where the strap hid secretively.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi

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lvnleah · 4 months ago

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Silent moments | Leah Williamson

based off a little request that I somehow lost! just a short one <33

The minute Leah came into Lily’s view, Lily left her teachers side and ran straight towards her, her face lit up with the sheer energy of a six-year-old who’d been saving all her stories for this moment.

“Mumma! Guess what?” Lily said as she handed Leah her bag. “Today we had a special visitor at school! And we made art with glitter! And guess who spilled their whole glitter jar all over the floor?”

Leah chuckled, slinging the backpack over her shoulder before taking Lily’s hand into her. “Oh wow, who?”

“Sammy!” Lily announced with wide eyes as if this was the most dramatic thing that had ever happened. “It went everywhere! And Ms. Jones said, ‘Oh no, not again!’ because apparently, he spills stuff a lot.”

Leah laughed softly as they made their way to the car, listening as Lily continued recounting every detail. She soon managed to get her into the car and strapped in. The ride home was filled with a steady stream of stories—what her friends did at lunch, how she drew the biggest rainbow ever, and how she got to be the line leader for the first time this week.

“Hey, bubs,” Leah said, turning to face Lily in her seat. “When we get inside, let’s try to be a little quiet at first when Mummy get home, okay?”

Lily tilted her head, her big, curious eyes locking onto Leah. “Why?”

“Well, Mummy’s had a really really long day at work, and she might be feeling a little tired,” Leah explained. “Sometimes, when grown-ups have tough days, they need a little bit of quiet before they can talk and play. So, we’ll give Mummy some space, and then you can tell her all about your day after she’s had a moment to relax. Sound good?”

Lily nodded seriously, her expression softening. “Okay, Mumma. I can wait.”

Leah smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind Lily’s ear. “That’s my good girl. You’re so thoughtful, you know that?”

With that, they climbed out of the car, and Leah held Lily’s hand as they walked toward the house. Even though Lily was still buzzing with stories, she was ready to show a little patience for you—just like Leah knew she would.

Leah set her up in her playroom with some colouring and a little tea party with her teddy bears. She began to make dinner while Lily played, knowing you’d be starving when you came home.

A few hours later, the door creaked open as you stepped into the house, the weight of the day heavy on your shoulders. You slipped off your shoes and dropped your bag by the door, wishing you could shed the stress as easily. The day had dragged on with endless meetings and tasks at work, and all you wanted now was a moment of peace.

You could hear Lily’s voice from the living room, her usual chatter filling the air as she played. You loved how full of energy she was, how much she loved telling you every little thing about her day, but right now, you weren’t ready. Not yet.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, gathering yourself for the chaos of Lily that you were about to be bombarded with. A few minutes of quietness was all you needed. Your head was buzzing with thoughts and all you wanted was a few silent moments.

Leah appeared from the kitchen, a soft smile on her face as she took one look at you and knew. “Rough day?” she asked gently, stepping closer.

You nodded, too drained to even explain. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, her touch soothing like it always was. “Why don’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll keep Lily busy.”

You shot her a grateful look and nodded before heading into the living room and sinking onto the couch. The cushions seemed to hug you as you closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. You could still hear Lily’s voice in her playroom, but it was quieter now, thanks to Leah.

“Lily,” you heard Leah call softly from the other room, “Mummy’s had a long day. Let’s give her a few minutes, okay?”

There was a brief pause, then Lily’s quieter voice responded, “Okay, Mumma.”

You smiled to yourself, knowing Lily was probably bursting with stories from school but was trying her best to be patient. Leah always knew how to balance things, how to give you that little bit of quiet you needed to reset.

For a few precious minutes, it was just you, the low hum of the house, and the comforting knowledge that Leah had everything under control. You heard the soft murmur of Leah and Lily talking, the clink of dishes in the kitchen, and the soothing rhythm of home surrounding you.

After a while, Leah appeared again, this time holding a cup of tea. She handed it to you, her eyes full of understanding. “Here,” she said quietly, “this might help.”

You took the cup, the warmth seeping into your hands, and took a slow sip. “Thank you,” you murmured, the simple gesture easing the last of the day’s tension.

Leah smiled and sat beside you, resting her hand on your knee. “She’s dying to tell you about her day. Apparently year one drama is at an all-time high right now.”

You chuckled softly, imagining Lily waiting for the go-ahead to launch into her stories. “Yeah, I’m sure she is.”

Leah gave your knee a reassuring squeeze before leaning her head on your shoulder. “Take your time.”

For now, the house was calm. Lily’s excited chatter would come soon enough, but at that moment, you had peace. Just for a little while. And right now, that was all you needed.

#lvnleah #awfc #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader

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thedensworld · 29 days ago

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Family Outings | K. Sy

Genre: Fluff, parents au!

Summary: In a family outing, Soonyoung finally able to make a proper thanks to his mother after trying to keep up with his sons.

Welcome to The Densworld Kwon Soonyoung 🤍🌼

Soonyoung’s life became a whirlwind of joy and laughter ever since he started a family with you. From the moment he got married, he always imagined himself as a quintessential "girl dad." In his daydreams, he pictured himself wearing a sparkly tiara, cradling a tiny teacup, and proudly sporting mismatched nail polish in the favorite colors of his daughters. He thought he’d master the art of braiding hair and join endless tea parties with princess costumes and giggles filling the air.

But life had other plans. The moment his first son, Kwon Yootae, was born, he realized he was destined to be a father of sons. And not just any father—he was made for this. The role suited him so naturally it even surprised him.

Got a kid who needs to burn off endless energy? Enter dancer Soonyoung, always ready to tire them out with moves no one asked for.

Need a little discipline in the house? Strict Soonyoung appears, balancing warmth with authority in a way that commands respect.

Kid having a bad day and needing a laugh? Comedian Soonyoung is there to clown around, pulling faces, cracking jokes, and doing whatever it takes to make his sons’ smiles come back.

“I could do this forever,” Soonyoung said one day, grinning ear to ear. “Raising boys is the most fun I’ve ever had.”

“It’s because you always act like you’re their age,” Jihoon retorted, deadpan as always, delivering a truth Soonyoung couldn’t argue with.

Soonyoung’s sons, six-year-old Yootae and four-year-old Gitae, couldn’t be more different yet somehow mirrored him in distinct ways. Yootae, the eldest, was calm and reserved, much like you. He had a love for books that made your heart swell with pride, often curling up beside you for hours, reading quietly. But his need for attention? That came straight from Soonyoung. Yootae had a knack for saying the funniest things or sharing bizarre, almost unbelievable facts just to make people look his way. And when he succeeded, his little face lit up, a perfect blend of your quiet charm and Soonyoung’s flair for the spotlight.

Then there was Gitae, your little firecracker. Gitae was the embodiment of pure energy, a whirlwind of flips, jumps, and splits that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The only time he ever slowed down was when he caught a cold—and you and Soonyoung dreaded those moments more than anything. You’d much rather have him bouncing off walls than lying listlessly in bed. “He’s like me on a sugar rush,” Soonyoung joked once.

The group chat was always buzzing with stories of Soonyoung’s adventures as a dad. One night, he shared an anecdote that left the members of Seventeen in stitches.

“You should see Gitae during family mafia games,” Soonyoung said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He’s just like me—so good at bluffing, it’s scary. Sometimes he gives me goosebumps.”

“Wait,” Jun interjected, shocked. “Did you just call your son a freak?”

“Well, he is! In the best way!” Soonyoung laughed, completely unbothered.

Raising boys had turned Soonyoung’s world upside down in the most beautiful way. It wasn’t what he initially envisioned, but it was even better. The bond he shared with Yootae and Gitae was special, filled with laughter, chaos, and tender moments that made him grateful every single day. Watching Soonyoung thrive as a dad, you couldn’t help but smile. He was the kind of father who made parenting look like an adventure, and your family was all the better for it.

"Dad, promise me you'll watch my drum recital next week," Yootae said, his small face filled with determination as he walked into the kitchen where Soonyoung was helping you prepare dinner.

Soonyoung glanced at him, smiling warmly. "Of course, I’ll be there. But how about you help me with something first?" He handed Yootae the utensils and gestured toward the dining table. "Set the table for me, champ."

As Yootae dutifully walked off to complete his task, Gitae was sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to a video of one of Soonyoung's dance practices. Mimicking every move with astonishing precision, he twirled, jumped, and hit every beat as if he were part of the team.

“Gitae, great move!” Soonyoung called out, beaming with pride as he caught sight of his younger son nailing one of the harder steps. Turning back to you, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a grin. “What do you think about him becoming an idol someday?”

“That’d be good,” you replied with a knowing smirk, stirring the soup bubbling on the stove. “We’ll send him to dance practice every time you bribe him with candy.” The sharp edge of sarcasm in your tone wasn’t lost on Soonyoung, and he winced at the memory.

You were referring to the night he’d given the boys candy—secretly, of course—before heading out to work, leaving you alone to deal with the sugar-induced chaos that followed. It had taken hours to calm them down and even longer to get them to sleep.

Soonyoung walked over to you, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. Sliding his arms around your waist from behind, he rested his chin lightly on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby. No more candy without your consent. I promise.”

“That includes donuts too,” you shot back, though your voice softened as his warmth melted away your annoyance.

Soonyoung nodded solemnly, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on your cheek. “And donuts. Noted.”

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly at his sincerity, even if you knew his mischievous streak wouldn’t vanish overnight. You were strict about what your kids consumed for good reason. You worked hard to ensure their meals were balanced, nutrient-packed, and beneficial to their growing bodies. Too much sugar turned them into tiny whirlwinds of energy, leaving them cranky and impossible to settle when bedtime rolled around.

"Yootae, don’t forget to line up the chopsticks neatly!" you called, glancing at your eldest, who was now carefully arranging the cutlery.

“Okay, Mom!” he responded, his voice cheerful.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Gitae attempting to replicate a more complicated move from the video, almost toppling over but recovering with a laugh. Soonyoung released you and clapped his hands in encouragement. “That’s it, Gitae! You’ve got this!”

In the middle of dinner, Soonyoung’s phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, his face lighting up when he saw who was calling. “It’s Mom,” he said, quickly answering. “Hi, Mom! What’s going on?”

His mother’s cheerful voice filled the room, audible even to you and the kids. “Hi, sweetheart! We’re planning a little family outing next weekend, but this time, we’re keeping it simple—just in the backyard. Your sister is coming too, and we’re hoping to see everyone there. It’s been too long since we’ve all been together!”

“Backyard barbecue?” Soonyoung guessed, grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

“Exactly! Dad’s already excited to fire up the grill, and I’m planning to make everyone’s favorite dishes. You should come early so the boys can play in the garden,” his mom said.

“That sounds perfect!” Soonyoung replied enthusiastically, his voice a little louder than usual as excitement bubbled through him. “The boys will love it. We’ll definitely be there!” His grin widened as he placed his phone down, and it was clear he was already imagining the day—the laughter of children running through his parents’ backyard, the smell of grilled meat wafting in the air, and the warmth of family all around.

He turned to you, his eyes bright and full of joy, as if the plan had already taken shape in his mind. “It’ll be great!” he said, his hands gesturing animatedly. “A cozy backyard gathering, all the cousins playing together, Mom’s food, Dad’s barbecue skills—how could it get any better?”

You smiled faintly at his enthusiasm, but the feeling of guilt that had been sitting in the pit of your stomach all day now weighed heavier. The truth you’d been putting off telling him clawed its way forward, demanding to be spoken. You shifted slightly in your seat, the clinking of your chopsticks against your bowl breaking the silence.

“It does sound lovely,” you started, choosing your words carefully. “But I have a work commitment that weekend. I don’t think I can make it.”

The happy buzz in the room dimmed just slightly. Soonyoung paused, processing your words, before flashing you an understanding smile. “That’s okay,” he said, his tone reassuring. “I’ll take the boys, and we’ll represent the Kwon family in full force. You can catch up with us after your work is done.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, guilt tugging at you. “That’s a lot to handle on your own, especially with Gitae’s energy.”

Soonyoung leaned closer, his signature playful grin returning. “Have you forgotten who I am? I’m Kwon Soonyoung—master entertainer, expert dad, and barbecue connoisseur. I’ve got this.”

Yootae, who had been quietly listening, looked up with a hint of concern. “But, Mom, you won’t be there to eat Grandma’s pie with us.”

Your heart sank, and you reached out to hold his little hand. “I know, sweetheart. I’ll miss that, too. But I promise we’ll have a special day just for us soon, okay? I’ll even make your favorite pie.”

Yootae nodded slowly, his lips forming a small smile. “Okay, Mom.”

Meanwhile, Gitae, who had been more focused on his plate than the conversation, suddenly perked up. “Can we play tag in Grandpa’s garden, Dad? I’m really fast!”

“Fast? Ha! I’m faster!” Soonyoung teased, ruffling his youngest son’s hair. “We’ll see who’s the fastest in the family on Saturday.”

“And no candy!” you interjected pointedly, giving Soonyoung a mock glare.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful smirk on his face. “No candy, no donuts—scout’s honor. But, uh, maybe just one marshmallow from the barbecue…?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling at his antics.

As the evening wound down, the house quieted with only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the settling walls. You had just finished tucking the boys into bed, each of them fast asleep after the day’s adventures. Soonyoung lingered by the doorway of their room, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of their tiny chests as they dreamed.

“They’re finally out,” you whispered with a small smile, stepping away and closing the door gently behind you.

Soonyoung turned to you, his expression soft in the dim light of the hallway. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he said, slipping his arm around your shoulders as you walked back to the living room together.

You leaned into him, letting out a quiet sigh. “I just wish I could be there this weekend. I hate missing out on moments like these.”

He stopped you in your tracks, turning you to face him. His hands rested lightly on your waist as his thumbs traced soothing circles through the fabric of your shirt. “Don’t feel bad, okay?” His voice was warm and gentle, and the way he looked at you made it impossible to doubt his sincerity. “You’re doing your best. You always do. I’ll make sure the boys have a great time, and we’ll send you lots of pictures. You won’t miss a thing.”

The guilt weighing on you began to ease as his words settled in. “Thank you,” you murmured, resting your forehead against his chest.

Soonyoung wrapped both arms around you now, holding you close. For a moment, you stood there, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment. “You know,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, a playful edge sneaking into his voice, “with the boys asleep and the house so quiet… we have a rare opportunity here.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “An opportunity for what?”

He grinned, his gaze dipping just slightly as his hands slid down to rest on your hips. “To remind you how much I love you,” he said, his voice lower now, the warmth of his breath brushing against your cheek.

A soft laugh escaped you, but your heart raced at the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. “Oh, really? And how do you plan to do that?” you teased, your hands resting on his chest.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he whispered, “I have a few ideas.”

Before you could respond, he captured your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, his touch grounding and electrifying all at once. The worries of the day melted away as you lost yourself in the moment, his presence overwhelming in the best way.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his grin was unapologetically mischievous. “Feel better now?”

You chuckled softly, your cheeks warm as you nodded. “Much better.”

“Good,” he said, stealing one last quick kiss before stepping back and taking your hand. “Now, how about I make us some tea, and we see where this rare quiet evening takes us?”

You followed him, a smile tugging at your lips as you realized, once again, just how lucky you were to have someone like Soonyoung.

Soonyoung climbed into his car, exhaling deeply as if he’d already run a marathon, even though it was barely morning. Behind him, the boys were buckled into their car seats, brimming with energy and excitement. Their chatter filled the car, contrasting sharply with Soonyoung’s tired demeanor. The morning had been chaotic, to say the least.

Your work agenda had started earlier than theirs, leaving Soonyoung to manage the boys’ bubbling enthusiasm alone. Thankfully, you’d packed their bags the night before, neatly organizing everything they’d need for the outing. At least that spared Soonyoung from the added panic of forgetting something crucial amidst the chaos.

“Gitae, grandmother wants to see you in this shirt. Let’s put it on,” Soonyoung had pleaded earlier, holding up a neatly folded shirt. But his youngest had been too engrossed in his impromptu performance of Maestro, twirling dramatically in the living room.

“Yootae! Are you ready?” Soonyoung had called out to his eldest, only to freeze in disbelief when he entered the room. Yootae, still wrapped in a towel, was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a bottle of lotion beside him untouched.

“Did you put on lotion yet?” Soonyoung asked, stepping closer.

Yootae immediately pumped the bottle, rubbing lotion onto his arms with exaggerated slowness, his wide eyes locked on his dad as if performing under pressure.

Soonyoung sighed, ruffling his hair in frustration. “Alright, let’s just have a light breakfast, shall we?”

At the breakfast table, a simple bowl of cereal finally bought Soonyoung a few moments of peace. The boys sat quietly for once, munching away. It was enough time for him to catch his breath, gather his thoughts, and—most importantly—get himself ready.

As they settled in the car, Gitae wriggled with excitement. “I’m going to beat Leena in tag!” he declared confidently.

Yootae smirked, ever the realist. “Leena is faster than you, Gitae. And she has longer legs.”

“My legs got longer after dancing to Maestro. Right, Dad?” Gitae grinned, looking to Soonyoung for validation.

Soonyoung chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure, buddy. Whatever helps you win.”

When they arrived at his parents’ house, the boys jumped out of the car with boundless energy, running straight into their grandfather’s open arms. Soonyoung carried the bags inside, his tired smile widening at the warmth of his father’s greeting.

“Y/n couldn’t make it?” his mother asked, noticing her absence.

“No,” Soonyoung replied, setting the bags down on the couch. “Her schedule pulled her out earlier than expected today.”

His mother chuckled knowingly. “You got them ready all by yourself, didn’t you?”

Soonyoung nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Good job, my son.” She patted his head affectionately before heading to the kitchen.

Not long after, his sister arrived with her husband and their daughters. The cousins immediately broke off into their groups—Soonyoung’s sons sprinting around the yard with their grandfather while his nieces calmly arranged their dolls on a picnic blanket.

Soonyoung settled on a bench beside his father, watching the kids. His mother and sister prepared the meat for the barbecue nearby, their laughter carrying on the breeze.

“Gitae looks so much like Y/n,” his father commented, nodding toward the younger boy.

“Everyone says that,” Soonyoung replied, smiling as he watched Gitae run across the yard.

“But he’s got your energy,” his father added with a laugh, shaking his head in amusement.

“I’m going to look like you when I get older,” Soonyoung teased, nudging his father.

His mother overheard and quickly interjected, “Don’t. Don’t be. Don’t embarrass your wife.”

Soonyoung burst out laughing, shaking his head as he helped his sister arrange plates and utensils. Despite their rocky relationship growing up, he’d found a sense of camaraderie with her since starting a family of his own.

“What’s it like having daughters, noona?” he asked, glancing at her girls, who were still engrossed in their dolls.

“I don’t get tired much,” she admitted, pointing out the difference. “Look at them—calm and quiet. Meanwhile, your sons…”

Soonyoung followed her gaze to Yootae and Gitae, who were racing around with their grandfather, Gitae screaming gleefully while Yootae laughed. He sighed, shaking his head.

“Getting them ready this morning was my biggest achievement,” he confessed. “It’s usually Y/n who handles that.”

His sister laughed, “They didn’t listen to you, did they?”

“Not even once! I told Yootae to put on lotion and underwear while I bathed Gitae, but when I checked, he was still sitting there with the lotion bottle.” Soonyoung rubbed his face in exasperation.

Their conversation was interrupted by a piercing cry. Gitae was on the ground, clutching his knee and wailing.

Soonyoung sighed deeply, already on his feet. “That’s alright, we’ve got you,” he said softly as he crouched beside his son, examining the scraped knee.

“It hurts!” Gitae sobbed, pointing to the bruise.

“I know, buddy,” Soonyoung said, scooping him up in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re my strong little guy, right?”

Gitae sniffled, nodding slightly.

The day pressed on, and the chaos only seemed to grow. After cleaning Gitae’s scraped knee and soothing his tears with a superhero bandage, Soonyoung barely had time to take a sip of water before Yootae tripped over the garden hose, landing in the dirt. Another round of comforting, brushing off dirt, and reminding him to be careful followed.

Meanwhile, Gitae had already managed to get himself into another predicament, climbing the low branches of the cherry blossom tree despite Soonyoung’s repeated warnings. By the time Soonyoung pulled him down safely, the boys’ shirts were dirt-streaked, their hair sticking up in wild tufts.

“I told you both to stay out of trouble!” Soonyoung exclaimed, his voice tinged with exasperation as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“But, Dad, we were just playing!” Yootae defended, wide-eyed as if the entire mess was beyond his control.

“Yeah, and I’m Spider-Man!” Gitae added enthusiastically, flexing his little arms as though they could shoot webs.

Soonyoung slumped onto the patio bench, exhausted, as he watched the boys dart off again, their energy seemingly endless. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a groan. His mother, who had been quietly observing from the grill, walked over with a knowing smile and set a cup of iced tea in front of him.

“You’re just like them, you know,” she said, sitting beside him.

Soonyoung looked up, surprised. “What? Me?”

His mother nodded, chuckling softly. “When you were their age, you were exactly the same—always running around, climbing trees, getting into every kind of trouble imaginable. I couldn’t take my eyes off you for a second.”

Soonyoung laughed weakly, leaning back against the bench. “That sounds about right.”

“You’d get scrapes on your knees every other day, and you never stopped moving,” she continued, her eyes twinkling with nostalgia. “Your father was just as tired as you are now, and I’d always say, ‘One day, you’ll understand.’ Well, here you are.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he watched Yootae and Gitae chase their cousins across the yard. “I don’t know how you did it, Mom. This is exhausting. I miss Y/n so much right now.”

His mother gave him a warm smile, patting his knee. “Of course you do. It’s always easier when you have someone by your side. But you’re doing great, Soonyoung. You got the boys here in one piece, and they’re happy. That’s what matters.”

Soonyoung smiled faintly, grateful for her reassurance, but the ache of missing you lingered. He thought about how you always handled the chaos with such grace, calming the boys with a single look or turning their tantrums into laughter. You’d have known exactly how to manage Gitae’s climbing spree or Yootae’s dirt-covered mishap.

His mother’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. You’re learning, just like we did. And for what it’s worth, you’re a better dad than your father and I ever were at your age.”

Soonyoung chuckled, shaking his head. “I doubt that, Mom. But thanks.”

As he glanced at his boys again, he couldn’t help but smile. They were a handful, yes, but they were also a reflection of you and him—a mix of mischief, love, and boundless energy.

His mother stood, placing her hands on her hips as she looked out at the yard. “Now, go check on your boys before they turn that garden into a battlefield.”

Soonyoung groaned, standing up with a stretch. “Back to the front lines, huh?”

His mother laughed. “Parenting never stops, Soonyoung. But don’t forget to call Y/n later. She’d love to hear about how you survived the day.”

He grinned, already planning to call you the moment he could steal a quiet moment. He needed to hear your voice, to tell you just how much he appreciated you and missed having you by his side. For now, though, he had two little whirlwinds to manage.

“Hi, beautiful,” Soonyoung greeted you with a warm smile as you walked through the door. His voice was soft, and you noticed he was already in his pajamas—a pair of satin ones you hadn’t seen him wear in ages. They were expensive, gifted by you on your anniversary, and seeing him in them now made you suppress a laugh.

“You finally decided to wear those?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked, running a hand through his slightly messy hair. “Figured tonight was special.”

You stepped inside, slipping off your shoes, and immediately noticed something unusual. The house was too quiet—eerily quiet. “Where are the boys? I don’t hear them.,” you said, glancing around as though they might pop out from behind the couch.

Soonyoung raised his eyebrows, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Well… I intentionally—unintentionally left them at my mom’s. They wanted to have a sleepover, and since tomorrow’s Sunday, I figured why not?”

Your mouth dropped open in shock, and then a burst of laughter escaped you. “What? You left them with your mom? Oh my gosh, baby!”

He laughed along with you, closing the door behind you and grabbing your things. “Hey, they practically begged me. I video-called them earlier, and they seemed fine. Besides, they wanted to stay with their cousins. It’s good for them!”

You plopped down on the couch, still laughing, and Soonyoung joined you, setting your things on the coffee table. “Your poor mom,” you muttered, shaking your head. “She’s going to have a tough time wrangling five grandchildren tonight.”

“I know!” Soonyoung said, his voice full of mock guilt. “I even told her that, but she insisted it’d be fine. She’s a saint, honestly.”

You leaned back into the cushions, letting out a contented sigh. “It feels so strange to have the house to ourselves. Weird, but also… kind of nice.”

Soonyoung looked at you with a grin, his hand brushing against yours. “Right? I felt the same way before you got back. It’s like we’re dating again, just the two of us. But then I also started feeling guilty, like I was abandoning my kids or something.”

You laughed at his dramatic tone, turning to face him. “I feel relieved, but at the same time, it’s like, am I a bad mom for enjoying this?”

Soonyoung chuckled, pulling you into his arms. “If you are, then so am I. Today was rough, baby. The boys were a handful. I even performed a bow to my mom—the deep New Year’s bow we always do—just to thank her for taking care of me.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “No way. You didn’t.”

“I did,” Soonyoung said with a straight face, though his lips twitched with amusement. “I was that desperate. Honestly, I might perform one for you after this because I owe you for doing this every day.”

You laughed so hard your sides hurt, leaning into his chest. “You’re unbelievable. So, what was harder—getting them ready this morning or keeping them out of trouble all day?”

“Both!” he exclaimed dramatically, resting his chin on top of your head. “Yootae wouldn’t put on lotion, and Gitae was running around shirtless, singing ‘Maestro.’ I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, still smiling. “Well, you survived. And honestly, I’m proud of you, Love. I really am.”

He looked at you with such softness that it made your heart flutter. “Thanks, baby. But I think I’ll stick to choreography and leave the morning routines to you.”

You laughed again, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Deal. But tonight, you’re all mine. No interruptions, no kids.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I like the sound of that.”

Soonyoung's arms tightened around you, a playful glint in his eyes as he tilted his head to meet your gaze. “You know,” he began, his voice dripping with mischief, “after today, I’ve been thinking…”

You raised an eyebrow, already bracing for whatever ridiculous thought was about to leave his mouth.

He smirked, his tone mock-serious. “Maybe we should try for a daughter. I heard they’re way less frantic to raise. Calm, quiet, reasonable—can you imagine that?”

You let out an incredulous laugh, lightly smacking his chest. “Oh, so now you’re an expert on parenting daughters because your sister’s kids play with dolls instead of climbing furniture?”

“Exactly,” he replied without missing a beat. “I mean, just think about it. No running around, no wrestling matches over who gets the last donut, no dramatic performances of ‘Hit’ at 8 a.m.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Uh-huh. And who’s going to handle the teenage drama when your calm, quiet daughter slams her door in your face?”

Soonyoung’s grin faltered for a second before he recovered with a sly smile. “That’s where you come in, baby. You’re the expert in dealing with drama. I’ll just be the cool dad who lets her eat donuts and—”

“Stop right there.” You cut him off, laughing as you poked his chest.

He laughed along with you, leaning down until his nose brushed against yours. “Okay, okay. But admit it—you’d love to see a mini-you running around here. With your big, beautiful eyes, your sharp wit…”

“And my temper when you don’t listen?” you teased, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “She’d keep me in line, just like you do.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, his lips brushing softly against yours. “But you love me anyway.”

You sighed dramatically, pretending to think about it. “I guess I do. But if we’re trying for a daughter, you’re taking the night shift for the first three years.”

“Deal,” Soonyoung whispered, sealing the agreement with a kiss. “Now, where should we start our daughter project?”

Your laughter echoed through the house, blending perfectly with the warmth of his embrace, the quiet night ahead promising nothing but love and playful chaos—just the way you liked it.

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silverb0wties · 3 months ago

Text

Lemonade - Part 3

leah williamson x alessia russo x child!reader

Summary: When something bad happens to your Mummy and Daddy, you end up living with your Aunty Lessi and Aunty Leah. But is there room for you considering they have a new baby on the way?

Chapter Summary: You go back to school and you try and make yourself useful

Warnings: bullying, homophobia, misogyny

|| Part 1 || Part 2 ||

PART 3

“30 days has September, April, June and November…”

You had set yourself the task today to make yourself a calendar. Maths had never been your strongest subject in school, but you were excellent at remembering, so you knew the month song off by heart and were mumbling it to yourself as you began digging into your desk draw to retrieve some art supplies.

The decision to make the calendar had hit you last night when you were reading one of your new library books before bed and the return receipt slipped out of the back cover and onto your lap. Normally, it was the very first thing you retrieved when you got home from the library, making sure to mark the return dates down on your big white board calendar on the fridge. But you were still getting used an entirely new routine in your new house and you’d completely forgot to look for the slip.

Now that you had it though, you had to make sure you noted down the dates somewhere you could easily see them. So, with a few pieces of paper, a ruler and some markers, you drew up a calendar for the next few months. By checking the borrow date on the receipt and counting how many days it had been since your library visit, you managed to figure out what todays date was. From there, and with the help of that handy month song, you’d managed to fill in the rest of the dates.

When it was all completed you stepped back to examine your work. If you were honest with yourself, your lines could have been drawn straighter and your handwriting could have been much, much neater. But you didn’t have the energy to redo it, so it would have to do. For now.

You surveyed your room for someone to put it. In your old house your calendar was on the fridge, out in the open for everyone to see and help you keep track of. Here, it needed to be hidden from your Aunties, so that it was your responsibility, and your responsibility alone, to make sure you were staying on top of everything.

Everything.

A wave of guilt crashed over you as you remembered all the other things you would keep track of on your calendar. Now that you were a big girl, you had been helping around the house and you had chores. You would set the table and help take the cups and plates and spoons out of the dish washer (only Mummy and Daddy could touch the knives). You would also check for mail every morning and there was a pretty purple watering can you got use to water the flowers in the front garden a couple of times a week.

But you didn’t do any of that here at your Aunties house.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

Part of you worried that your Aunties didn’t trust you enough to ask you to help out around the house. Perhaps they thought you weren’t smart enough or strong enough or big enough to lend a hand. Or maybe they were secretly mad that you hadn’t insisted on helping and were keeping a top-secret list of all the times you didn’t help out and they would present it to you on a big, long scroll on the day they kicked you out their house.

You shuddered at the thought of that. That was a day you thought about often. You didn’t know how many days or weeks or months it was until the baby was here, but surely your time here at your Aunties house was running out. You needed to do everything in your power to be good until then so that they didn’t kick you out any sooner.

That night before tea, you made sure to wash your hands extra good before heading into the kitchen where your Aunty Lessi was cooking.

“Aunty Lessi, could I set the table?”

“Oh sure! If you’d like. Just give me a moment and I’ll show you where everything is.”

You grinned in silent satisfaction, glad that it seemed like your Aunty wasn’t outright opposed to you proving your worth. After your Aunty Lessi finished with whatever she was stirring on the stove, she led you over to various cupboards and drawers and pointed out where the placemats, plates and cutlery lived. Whilst there were a few plastic cups in the same cupboard as the plates for you to use, the glasses your Aunties drank out of were on a higher shelf that were too high for you to reach.

“Don’t worry about those, I can grab them” she insisted.

“I could get a chair or something to stand on?”

“Don’t be silly, Bun Bun. I’ll get them. Thank you for getting everything else though.”

Silly. Silly. Silly.

Once you were all sat down for dinner, you watched your Aunty Lessi spin spaghetti around her fork before you took a deep breath in and began.

“Did I do okay at setting the table?”

“You did a great job, Bunny!” Your Aunty Leah was smiling big and bright at you. She had a bit of sauce on her chin, but you thought it would be rude to tell her.

“Do you think I could do it every night?” you asked.

“Uhh… I mean, if you want to, sure.”

Victory. One chore to add to the calendar.

“What about the post? Can I be in charge of checking that too? Does it come in the mornings?”

You observed as your Aunties caught eyes with each other across the table, seeming to have a silent conversation.

“Umm, yes I suppose you could do that if you like,” Aunty Lessi nodded.

“Great! And I can help empty the dishwasher. No knives of course, but I can do spoons and plates and bowls and cups and stuff. And maybe I can water some of your flowers, or all of them? Or I can learn how to do other stuff too. Like I could figure out how to do the laundry or clean the bathrooms or anything you want really…”

You hadn’t really realised, but you had pulled your knees up to your chest as your rant had gone on. Your head was now resting on top of them as you looked eagerly between your Aunties, waiting for their response. They were doing the silent conversation thing again.

“You don’t need to do all those things sweetheart. We appreciate you offering, but maybe we’ll wait until you’re a bit older to do things like the laundry and stuff, yeah?” your Aunty Lessi responded.

You felt your stomach drop. Your Aunty Lessi’s voice was kind, but you knew what her words meant. They didn’t think you were big enough to help.

“How about we start off with setting the table for tea and checking the mail? You’re still just settling in here, so we don’t wanna overload you with too much stuff to remember to do.”

It may have been bright and sunny outside, but today was a day you had been absolutely dreading. You had decided to hang your calendar on the back of your bedroom door so that nobody but you would see it, and you had made sure to mark this day with a bright red circle and big a sad face. Today was the day you were going back to school.

You weren’t sure how it was decided or who decided, but you’d had a couple of weeks away from school after the fire and now it was time to go back.

You had only been back at school for 3 weeks of the new school year before the fire happened, so your parents had only just bought you brand-new dresses and shoes to replace the previous ones you’d outgrown. Your pencil case had been filled with fresh crayons and sharp pencils, and you’d only just put a really cool new bunny sticker that your Uncle Gio had given you on your lunchbox. But now, you had to start all over again.

So today, as you sat in front office with your Aunties, you were wearing a brand-new school dress and shoes and socks and Aunty Lessi had done your hair in a pretty braid with some pretty ribbons. You also had a brand-new backpack and lunch box and pencil case, and you even had a brand-new iPad in a shiny purple case.

In theory, you were all set to go.

But just under the surface, just beneath the layer of hairspray and the stiff gingham fabric, you were absolutely dreading heading back to the big noisy classroom and scary, sticky playgrounds.

You didn’t have heaps of friends at school like most of the other kids seemed to have. You did have one good friend though. Nora. She also really liked to read and was super into comic books and superheros. You didn’t really understand why she liked them, but you were more than happy to listen to her when she wanted to tell you all about them. You would then tell her some cool bunny facts in return.

This year the school librarian, Mr Webster, had let you both work on a big jigsaw puzzle every lunchtime. He kept it safe and flat on a special piece of wood that he hid on top of his bookshelf in his office when you weren’t working on it. It was a really, really big puzzle with loads more pieces than any other puzzle either of you had ever done before. You were both determined to finish it before Christmas, but you weren’t sure if Nora had kept going while you were away. You hoped she had but you also secretly hoped there was still some pieces left for you to do.

Unlike previous years, Nora wasn’t in your class this year. You were in Mrs Green’s class, and she was in Miss Roberts’ class. You’d both written a letter to each teacher requesting to be swapped into each other’s class, but it hadn’t worked. You were stuck alone in the classes you were in, and honestly, you were miserable.

You see, it wasn’t that you didn’t have any other friends, that didn’t bother you much at all. It was the fact that a bunch of the other kids seemed to actively dislike you. In fact, the thing they seemed to like most in the whole world was picking on you. They called you names and pulled on your hair and threw things at you. You couldn’r really pinpoint exactly when it all started, but your first and most vivid memory was when Mitchell Timms had snatched your copy of The Worst Witch out of your hands one lunch time. He threw it in a muddy puddle and stomped on it until all the pages were torn and the words had jumbled together. When you ran over to try and save the book, a gift you’d received on your latest birthday, Mitchell just laughed at you and called you a “loser weirdo”.

For the first 3 weeks of school this year, you had been sat next to a boy named Ollie and it had been awful. He kept bumping your arm on purpose while you were trying to write and had laughed whenever you got frustrated that you had to erase and redo your mistakes. One time he had even pulled your chair out from underneath you when you went to sit down, leading you to land on your bottom on the floor with a thud. The whole class had pointed and laughed at you. You had run out of the classroom and hid under a bench to try and calm yourself down.

When the teacher came to find you, you were curled in a ball, rubbing your Pocket Arthur softly against your cheek. Pocket Arthur was your school buddy. When you’d moved up from Reception into Primary School, your parents had bought you a miniature version of Arthur that you could keep tucked away in your pocket. They said that now that you were going to big school, Arthur could no longer come along with you, but they wanted to make sure you still had a little buddy to always keep you company. So, he was your Pocket Arthur, or Pockie for short.

But he died in the fire too.

Failure. Failure. Failure.

So, on the night before you went back to school, you’d searched through your room, trying to find something to fill the big empty space left by Pockie when he died – the pocket of your school dress. You tried crumpling up a wad of tissues, but the texture of it was all wrong. Next you tried a balled-up pair of socks, but it felt scratchy when you tried rubbing it against your cheek. You looked over the stuffies your Aunties had bought you, but they were all far too big to fit in your pocket.

One of the stuffies caught your eye however as your dug through the little pile of toys. It was on the bottom of pile, and you hadn’t seen it since you moved here. It was a lovely and soft grey kangaroo, with pointy ears and a long tail. You rather liked kangaroos, because while they were a completely different species to bunnies and could only be found in the wild in Australia, they kind of reminded you of really big rabbits. As you pressed the soft fur to your cheek, something small fell in your lap. Picking it up, you realised it was a baby kangaroo. It must have fallen from the big kangaroo’s pouch. It was perfect. The perfect size, the perfect feel, the perfect squish. You rubbed it against your cheek. Bliss. Holding it gently in your little hands, you squinted your eyes and ran your thumbs across the soft fur trying to figure out the perfect name for your new pocket pal. Bailey. She seemed like a Bailey.

And it was Bailey who you clung to, you hand shoved deep in your pocket, when the Headteacher Mrs Brinley called you all into her office.

You watched as both your Aunty Lessi and Aunty Leah shook hands with Mrs Brinley and then you all sat down on big uncomfortable chairs across the table from her. You’d never been in her office before, so you took a moment to look around, noticing a bunch of certificates in big frames on the wall, a huge bookcase full of books and some photos of who you assumed were her family.

“Well, while we were very, very sad to hear about what has happened, we are glad that Y/K is back at school with us. Hopefully being back in class will help her with getting back to her regular routine and schedule and assist her in feeling more settled.”

Her voice wasn’t unkind, but everything she said always sounded like she’d been rehearsing for it like it was a speech she had to give in front of the whole school.

“We have both of your phone numbers, as well as the number for your workplace, and we will call you should there be any issues. But I’m sure Y/K will do just fine.”

Your Aunty Leah gently squeezed your hand that wasn’t firmly stuffed in your pocket, clinging onto Bailey for dear life.

“Mrs Green is going to meet you just back out in the front office and she will walk you up to class. So, unless anyone has any questions, I’ll let you all get to it.”

You all shuffled back out the front office, where your teacher was waiting for you. Aunty Lessi knelt down and gave you a big cuddle.

“Okay Bunny. You have fun on your first day back, alright? And if anything goes wrong, or you don’t feel good or you feel sad… you just let your teacher know to call us okay.”

Aunty Leah leaned over and gave you a kiss on the forehead and stroked your cheek. “You’ve got everything you need in your backpack, so you’re all set to go. You’ve got this.”

“Okay.”

“We love you.”

The walk to your classroom was mostly filled with your teacher telling you about all the things you’d missed while you’d been away from school. A little bubble of dread was beginning to build in your stomach as you realised all the work you now had to catch up on. But by lunchtime that bubble had been replaced by a boulder.

Holding your lunch box and book tight to your chest, you looked around the hall for a spare seat. Normally, you and Nora would sit together to eat your lunch and then go to the library, but to make a bad day even worse Nora was away from school today. You had spent a solid 5 minutes looking for her, but according to a student in her class she’d had to stay home because she a nasty tummy bug.

The hall was quickly filling up as students grabbed their hot meals or lunch boxes and sat down at their chosen tables. It quickly became apparent that the only spot left was one on the end of a table filled with some of the children who didn’t like you. You’d spent so long looking for Nora, you’d been left with no other option.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

With a deep breath, you headed over to the table. You sat quietly in the seat, hoping you would go unnoticed.

You didn’t.

“Why you sitting with us, Y/K? Isn’t there anyone else you can sit with?” Jessica asked as you unzipped your lunch box. You just shook your head in response. A chorus of grumbles followed from the rest of the kids sitting at the table.

“Eww yuck, why does she have to sit with us?”

“Where’s her weirdo friend?”

“Maybe she can sit on the floor instead.”

You just tried to tune them out, grabbing a sandwich out of your lunch box to munch on. Your first bite was interrupted when the boy sitting beside you, Max, nudged you.

“Hey, were those your new Mums who brought you into school today?”

You hastily swallowed your sandwich, wanting to explain. “They’re my-” It was no use. The group quickly began announcing their thoughts on the matter before you had a chance to correct them.

“Two Mums? How can someone have TWO Mums? That’s not right.”

“Yeah, my Dad says that it’s disgusting when two boys or two girls are married or kiss and stuff!”

“Oh yeah, like, have you ever saw two lads kiss? It’s weird!”

“I saw two ladies kissing when my Pop took me to the football last week. He said they were going straight to hell!”

“As if she wasn’t weird enough, now she’s got two Mums too!”

Something inside you snapped, and you found yourself with your fists clenched and your cheeks red, Bailey long forgotten in your pocket.

“Yeah, well, they’re not my Mums, they’re my Aunties. And they’re really nice and really clever and super cool. And they play football for England, and and for the red and white club with the cannon! And my Aunty Leah is the captain and everything! So that’s cooler than any of your families, ever!”

There was a short silence before they all started laughing.

“Girl’s football! That doesn’t count!”

“That’s not real football!”

“Arsenal! Pfffft.”

“I can’t wait to tell my Dad about this.”

“One of them looked pregnant when I saw them outside the office. There’s no way they let her play like that!”

“That’s why they shouldn’t let girls play!”

“Wait, how is she having a baby if there’s no Daddy to put the baby in her?”

Whilst the rest of the comments had begun to muddle together and fade into the background as you tuned them all out, this last one pierced through. Your head shot back in the direction of Jessica, the girl who had asked the question. She was looking straight at you with her eyes squinted, twirling a strand of her hair around her pointer finger.

You hadn’t ever stopped to think about this. To be honest you’d never really been interested in where babies came from. You knew that whilst it varied from breed to breed, bunnies were pregnant for an average of 31 days and had litters of babies. You also knew that humans usually only had one baby at a time and they were pregnant for around 9 months. But you didn’t know how either bunnies or humans became pregnant. Honestly, you were stumped.

“Guess you didn’t learn that in any of your stupid books, huh? Loser.”

#woso fanfics #leah williamson x reader #alessia russo x reader #woso fanfic #woso imagine #arsenal x reader #leah williamson x alessia russo x reader #woso fic #woso x reader #alessia russo #leah williamson #lemonade

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roseghoul26 · 9 months ago

Text

Cooper Howard | The Ghoul x fem!Reader

Tags: Title From A Fall Out Boy, Fame < Infamy by Fall Out Boy, Takes Place Before The Destruction of NCR, Jealousy, Someone Else Flirts With You, Derogatory Language Towards Women, Bisexual The Ghoul, Because Walton Goggins Said So, Arguments, Confessions, First Kiss, Sub Ghoul, Poor Man Is Desperate, Teasing, Edging, Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Cowgirl Position, You Wear His Hat, Light Dom/Sub, Cuddles Synopsis: After two weeks out on the job, you and The Ghoul are spending the night at a bar in Shady Shands relaxing. The Ghoul has always flirted with you, but he never meant anything by it, never did anything more, leaving you frustrated and desperately wanting the man. So when you meet someone who acts on his words, you nearly agree to spend the night with him, hoping to fill your lonely nights with another person instead of thoughts of The Ghoul. But any prospect of enjoying his company is destroyed when The Ghoul beats the man for even looking in your direction. Rightfully angry, an argument between the two of you ensues, leading to things that you only imagined would happen in your thoughts during your lonely nights. Author’s Note: alright so normally i’m like meh about my own smut writing but i will admit i am a bit proud of this one :D Taglist: @ancientbeing10 @alex-does-art-things

The bar you were currently sitting in was dingy, seedy, and smelled like old food and piss. You didn’t even remember the name of it, too excited for the prospect of a cold drink to care, and you let The Ghoul drag you in. You were sourly disappointed when the Mr. Handy behind the counter handed you a lukewarm beer, not even a single drop of condensation on the brown bottle.

So here you were, leaning back against a moth-eaten and weathered couch tucked in the corner, nursing a drink that just made you thirstier. He sat next to you, his legs lounged up on the low table in front of you two like he hadn’t a care in the world. You supposed that being alive for over two hundred years would do that to someone.

The Ghoul had his own drink, a glass of whiskey, more specifically. It used to have ice in it, about ten minutes ago, but it had quickly melted, no doubt watering down the drink. Still, he continued to sip at it, his eyes roaming the crowds in the bar. Your eyes were shut, head resting against the back of the couch, catching up on some much-needed rest.

The Ghoul and you had just come back from a two-week-long excursion of the Wasteland, hunting down a group of escaped convicts from the jail in Shady Sands. Most of the time had been spent walking, searching for clues in the ending sea of sand. It had almost been impossible, but you were able to pick up a trail. It had led you to a long-since abandoned town near the shoreline of California, and after an intense firefight the two of you managed to slay them all; there was no way in hell you were escorting alive prisoners all the way back to Filly. Carrying the heads would be easier.

And it was, except for the plethora of animals and insects it attracted, but you’d take that over the prisoners fighting you the entire time. Eventually, you and The Ghoul had made it back to Shady Sands, sweaty and covered in blood and exhausted, and dumped the heads onto the desk of the deputy. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man pale so fast.

After The Ghoul received the cap reward, he paid for two rooms for the both of you and some sleazy hotel, and after getting washed up he had dragged you to the bar further down the street. You hadn’t had the energy to fight him, but you almost wish you had now. You were barely staying awake, head bobbing as you forced yourself to concentrate on the chatter of patrons to keep you conscious.

Bringing the drink up to your lips, your muscles cried out in protest, but you just ignored them. The drink itself wasn’t terrible, the flavor was almost citrusy, but it felt like sandpaper as it went down your throat. Wincing, you cleared your throat, garnering the attention of the man beside you. “Surly it ain’t that bad,” he chuckled, and you cracked an eye open at him.

You didn’t respond, just holding out the drink for him to grab. You were sure to hold it by the neck so he had plenty of space to grab it below, but you felt him grab it in a way that made his gloved finger bush over yours. You kept your face neutral, but you certainly felt your heart react, ticking up in rhythm.

After taking a sip, a similar grimace crossed his face. If he had brows, you’re sure they would be furrowed, his lips curled up in disgust. “Even I can tell that tastes like shit,” he shook his head, forcing the drink back into your hands. There was only an inch of liquid left at the bottom, and so choosing to ignore the fact that his lips had just been on the bottle, you finished it off.

Setting it on the table, you wiped the back of your mouth with your hand. “It’s not good, sure, but it’s better than anythin’ else I’ve had in the past weeks. “So, I,” you stood with a slight groan, “am gonna get another one.”

You didn’t get too far attempting to step around the table, his legs blocking the easiest way out. A hand grabbed your wrist, tugging you back down on the couch, very nearly toppling into him. You tried to break free, but his grip was unyielding. Not enough to hurt, no, but you were stuck. “Now, what kinda man would I be if I made a pretty thing like you get their own drink?” His words made you still, and you were grateful for the shitty lighting that hid your blush.

Little did you know that he could see you clearly, an amused smile now on his lips. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, and you were now able to yank your hand away, glaring harshly at him. “Now,” he lightly patted your thigh, making you jump, “stay here, sweetheart. I’ll be back before you know it.”

You were unable to resist the urge to flip him off as he walked towards the bar, before flopping against the couch with a huff. It wasn’t that you hated that he flirted with you. No, it was quite the opposite. You loved the comments and light touches, making your heart race and less-than-decent thoughts pour into your brain. But from the time the two of you had started working together, so roughly a year ago, that’s all it had been. Soft touches, empty promises, saccharine words and petnames that made you melt, but nothing more. He would always stop before it became more, his touch receding like you’d burned him, a witty remark that quelled the fire he stoked, an I’m just teasin’ ya, sweetheart. God, you hated those words specifically.

You wanted more, but it terrified you because you couldn’t tell if he actually meant something by his flirtations, or if he just enjoyed tormenting you. Friends were a rarity in the Wastleland, and you were screwed if you somehow managed to ruin things between you two. You’d be out of income, protection, and a genuine friend who (sometimes) had your best interest in mind.

So you bit your tongue, pretending like his words weren’t making you dizzy, that you wanted nothing more than to feel his body beneath you, to be able to feel his lips against yours. So many late-night fantasies that left you even more lonely in the morning, your knuckles bruised from where you had to bite them to keep quiet. Even though it hurt, you kept your desires close to your heart, treasuring the small things he did give you. Which, you’d come to realize, made it worse, but he had made you addicted to it.

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t even detect someone approaching. You expected to see the familiar face of The Ghoul beside you, but you were startled to find someone else. He was a ghoul, and even though it was hard to tell you could see that he was younger, late twenties, or early thirties if you had to guess. He wore a simple blue shirt and some jeans, way too neat and hole-less than what you were used to.

He had a beer in hand, and he used it to gesture to the spot beside you. “This spot taken?” He was the usual rasp of a ghoul, albeit a bit higher pitched than The Ghoul’s. God, you couldn’t stop yourself from comparing him to the other man.

Speaking of him, you were able to subtly glance behind him to the bar, and you found the other man in conversation with some others. It didn’t look to be a confrontation, luckily, and you heard laughter from the group. You focused your attention on the stranger in front of you, smiling warmly at him. “Not at all,” you patted the space beside you, only barely warm still.

As he sat beside you, setting his drink on the table, you let yourself take him in. He wasn’t unattractive, far from it. There was almost a playfulness to his features, his fully black eyes glimmering with mirth. His arm went around the couch, and you could feel the heat from it. Even though he wasn’t the man that had plagued your thoughts, you couldn’t help the way your body reacted to the stranger, breathing growing short, your cheeks darkening slightly. You were only human after all.

“Can’t say I’ve seen you around here before, gorgeous.” He flashed his teeth, and you were pleasantly surprised to find pretty much all of them intact, and still in good condition. Another rarity of the Wastleland.

“I’m just passing through. Just finished up some… work.” You turned yourself to face him more.

“Work, you say? Whattya do?”

“Oh, just some odd jobs here and there. Whatever makes me money.”

He chucked at that. “Can’t blame you for that. I’m Daniel, by the way.” He held a hand out for you, ungloved and bare. You shook it, giving him your name, and he repeated it back to you. It wasn’t the drawl of The Ghoul’s voice, but it was pleasant enough.

You expect him to drop your hand, but something about them must’ve intrigued him, and you watched, quite confused, as he filled it over. His eyes ran over your fingers, especially your forefinger and thumb, before flicking back up to yours. He still didn’t drop your hand. “You use a gun a lot?” He smirked when you nodded, bewildered. “I can tell by the callouses here,” he dragged a finger along them, tickling you slightly.

“Well, look at you,” you laughed. “What’re you, a detective?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that. Just… observant.” He flashed you another smile, completely confident in his actions. “So, you’re a bounty hunter then?”

You didn’t bother to deny his claim, knowing the expression on your face just gave you away. Thank goodness you weren’t a con artist. “Is it gonna be a problem if I say yes?” You asked cautiously, slowly retracting your hand, ready for this interaction to go bad. You let your eyes flick to The Ghoul, locating him in case you need help. He was still at the bar, talking with someone new this time, and you felt a pang of something as the man he was talking to brushed his shoulder, nothing innocent in the touch.

“Not a problem at all,” he answered completely honestly. “Nasty business, though.”

You glanced back at Daniel, relief flooding you. You did not have the energy for a barfight tonight. “You don’t know the half of it,” you groaned. “It’s ruthless, but I enjoy it, weirdly enough. And I’m pretty good at it.”

The hand resting on the back of the couch shifted, and you felt his fingers brush over your shoulders, making you shiver slightly. I like a girl that can handle herself,” he admitted. “Strong,” he gently squeezed the muscles in your biceps. “Confident. Powerful.” His voice turned into a whisper at the end, mouth pressed close to your ear.

You were quite flustered now. “Well, you’re in luck then.”

“It seems I am. So, what say you, bounty hunter? Do you wanna get out of here in a bit, have some fun tonight before you head off?”

It had been a long time since you’d had someone in your bed. Since about when you started working with The Ghoul, to be exact. You’re not sure why you hadn’t in so long; it wasn’t for a lack of options. You just… couldn’t bring yourself to take someone to bed that wasn’t The Ghoul. Still, you hated waking up alone each morning, loneliness clawing at your heart. And when you’d see men and women stumble from his room, it felt like someone shot you, making you irritable with him for days to come. Maybe for once you’d have someone leaving your room, your heart content, if for a moment. Maybe you could imagine that it wasn’t Daniel, picture the other man’s features instead.

Maybe he would feel the same way you felt as he watched Daniel sneak from your room. That idea made you grin, and any hesitance about taking him to bed vanished.

You didn’t get a chance to respond, though, before two familiar gloved hands rested on Daniel’s shoulders, making the man tense. He was forcibly pulled back from you, the force of the pull nearly making him fall off the couch. He caught himself, and you watched as he stood and faced The Ghoul.

The shade from his hat hid most of his face, but even then you could see the hatred in his eyes as he stared down Daniel. The Ghoul was a formidable opponent, but you have to give some credit to Daniel as he squared up against him. “The hell’s your problem, man?” If the way The Ghoul had yanked Daniel hadn’t gotten the attention of the crowd, Daniel’s words surely did. Behind them, you watched a small crowd begin to form, and you wished to just let the shadows consume you.

“She’s… off-limits,” he titled his head to the side. The action would make any sane person falter, and you watched as Daniel’s posture went rigid, fear hitting him.

Still, Daniel didn’t let up, male pride and all that. “Maybe you should let her know, then,” he gestured angrily to you, and you shrank lower into the seat. “By the way she was lettin’ me talk to her, I can imagine the whole town’s probably had their way-”

His words, which had been so sweet moments ago, were cut off when The Ghoul grabbed him by the throat, slamming him onto the table in front of you. You jumped off the couch as splinters of wood and glass sprayed everywhere, narrowly avoiding you. Mortified, you could do nothing but watch as The Ghoul began to beat the man, blood joining in with the debris. If Daniel had a nose left, you were sure it would be pulverized.

The Ghoul’s lips had curled up into a snarl, his eyes blazing as he leered down at the man, stopping his assault. Daniel tried to pry the other man’s hand from his throat, a choked gasp leaving him, yet that seemed to just make his grip tighter. “Gimme one reason why I shouldn’t just kill ya?” He growled, shoving Daniel’s head into the ground. He could barely garble out a reply, the words indistinguishable.

Glass shattered on the floor as The Ghoul tossed the man into another table, another piece of furniture destroyed. As he stalked towards the downed man, he rolled over onto his hands and knees, rubbing at his throat. He was coughing and sputtering, genuine fear in his eyes as he looked up at the bounty hunter. Crouching before him, The Ghoul regarded him slowly, nothing but disgust on his features.

“Fuck… she all yours,” Daniel managed to pant out between coughs. “Just… God, don’t kill me!”

Satisfied with his answer, The Ghoul kicked him one last time for good measure, sending him sprawling back. It was dead silent in the bar, and patrons gawked and shuffled away as The Ghoul walked to where you had been standing, only to find you gone.

You had slipped out when he had thrown him, unable to continue watching. The streets were busy, and you kept your head down as you wove between people, heading to the hotel as quickly as you could. Too many emotions overwhelmed you, and you took a deep breath and began to collect your thoughts.

First, you were embarrassed.

You were embarrassed that they had been fighting over you. When you weren’t on a job, you hated creating conflict, not wanting to be the center of attention. You had plenty of that doing bounty hunting. This was supposed to be a night where you relaxed, to forget all about the horrors of the world you lived in, with or without The Ghoul, but that plan was tossed aside.

Secondly, you were angry.

Fuming would be a better word for it, and if you looked hard enough you could probably see the steam pouring from your ears. You were pissed that he had ruined a possibly enjoyable night with another person, ending your celibate streak. You were pissed that he felt like he could just take control of your choices like that. And you were pissed that you never got that next drink, although that was the least of your concerns at this point.

Finally, you were confused.

Why had he reacted the way he did? It wasn’t like there was anything between you two, as much as it pained you to come to terms with it. Why did he care who you took to bed? He had taken plenty of people to bed during the time you’d worked together, and you’d never made a complaint about it. Why were you weirdly attracted to his display of… jealousy? Was it jealousy? You couldn’t even imagine what that could mean if it was.

The sound of your name being shouted behind you forcefully tore you from your thoughts. You immediately recognized it, and you refrained from looking over at him. Ducking your head, you hoped that you blended in well with the others on the street, and you continued to briskly walk towards the hotel.

You heard your name being called again, this time closer, and so you picked up the pace, nearly jogging at this point. You heard the sound of people crying out in alarm, and you knew that he was getting closer to you, barreling through the crowds without any thought.

You could see the neon sign of the hotel, now lit, and you breathed out a sigh of relief. That feeling was short-lived, panic making your stomach drop when you heard The Ghoul right behind you. “Don’t make me fuckin’ tackle ya,” you heard him threaten. For a moment, you debated just ignoring him, but you knew that he didn’t make empty threats. Besides, the ground was dusty, and you’d rather not spend the rest of the night covered in sand.

Groaning, you finally halted, turning to face him with a scowl. You didn’t respond, just raising a brow and gesturing for him to ‘get on with it’. Your jaw was clenched so hard, and you could feel the headache that threatened to torment you later because of it.

“The fuck was that about?”

God, was he joking with you? “I should be the one asking you that! In what world was that a rational response?”

People stared as they passed, but you both just ignored them. “He was touchin’ ya.”

“And did I look even remotely disinterested? Was there any part of my body language that read that I was even the tiniest bit uncomfortable?” You laughed bitterly at the lack of response from him; you both knew what the answer was. “Why the hell do you even care if he was touching me or not?”

He was silent again, and you just scoffed, taking a few steps back. “Whatever,” you sighed in defeat, before turning and walking the remaining way to the hotel. You were almost disappointed when you didn’t hear him following behind you.

The person behind the desk recognized you, and you were able to quickly make your way up to the second floor where your room was. You made sure to not let your eyes wander to the door where he was staying that night, a few feet down from yours on the other side of the hallway.

When you were finally alone in your room, you resisted the urge to just scream angrily. Instead, you kicked off your shoes, which hit the walls with a loud noise, and you flopped onto your bed. Laying on your back with your arms spread, you stared at the surprisingly intact ceiling, frustrated tears stinging your eyes. Disagreements always upset you, but there was something about this one that made you feel ill, a sense of dread that you’d never felt before filled your body.

You’re not sure how long you just lay there, calming your racing heart and your heightened emotions. It must’ve been a while, because you dozed off, the exhaustion in your body now taking control.

A light knock at the door woke you, and for a second you thought you had just imagined it. When it came again, more forceful, you sighed, knowing exactly who was on the other side of the door. Like before, you debated just ignoring him, but you didn’t want to be charged for the destruction of more property. “What?” You snapped out, still not in the mood to talk to him yet.

“We need to talk.” The Ghoul responded, sounding less irritated than you.

“Yeah, no shit.” I gave you plenty of time to explain yourself downstairs.

You could hear him sigh through the thin wood door. “Sweetheart.” You hated that he knew how to get you to do whatever you wanted. You couldn’t even stop yourself as you sat up and made your way to the door. With no hesitation you opened it, his endearment almost putting you under a spell.

It was dissipated when you saw him, those emotions flooding your mind instead. The door was only open a crack, your body filling it as you glared at the other man. “Yes?

“Let me talk to ya,” he sighed in frustration.

“You are.” You couldn’t care less that you were being stubborn and difficult. He deserved it.

His jaw clenched. “Inside.”

You didn’t respond, mulling over his words as you stared at him, fire never once leaving your eyes. Finally, you relented, against your better judgment. Stepping back, you left the door open, leaning up against one of the dressers with your arms crossed. You watched as he entered, the door clicking shut in finality, looking like he expected to be attacked by you at any second. You were almost proud to instill that level of fear in him.

He kept a respectful distance away from you, loitering near the foot of the bed. “Look, I’m… sorry.” He said the words like they were brand new.

He left it at that, and you scoffed. You knew that you should just accept his apology and move on. You knew that you shouldn’t instigate something, to purposely start an argument with your traveling partner. But you were still too damn angry to care. You needed him to know what you felt.

“‘Sorry’? I get nothing more than that?”

“What��dya want from me then, sweetheart?” He growled, your anger rubbing off on him. “You want me to get down on my fuckin’ knees, plead for your forgiveness? You want me to promise I ain’t ever gonna do it again, even though it’ll be a damn lie? What the fuck do you want from me?” He spat the last sentence out, emphasizing each word.

The image of him on his knees before you flashed in your mind, and you had to admit it did seem appealing. But not now.

He was getting closer to you now. Slow, methodical steps, but he was closer, and continuing. “I want an explanation.”

You might’ve as well just slapped him, the way he halted in his tracks, stunned. Words seemed to evade him, and the anger that had just been rolling off him in waves subsided, still there yet not as strong. It should’ve had the opposite effect, but your rage was growing, threatening to burst. “Oh, so now you can’t talk? It’s a simple request!”

“It’s really fuckin’ not.”

“Why?” Silence. “You’ve got two options here. You either suck it up and tell me, or you get the hell out of here. It’s your choice.”

You could tell that he hated the choice you gave him, but you didn’t care. You expected to watch him turn and storm out the door, leaving your relationship in tatters on the dirty hotel floor. So you were surprised when he took a deep breath and remained where he was. “I hated that he was touchin’ you."

“So you were jealous?” You ignored the way you were elated when he nodded, albeit with some hesitancy. The anger subsided, and you felt pure want take its place. “You wanted to be him,” you whispered, taking a step towards him. Your confidence grew at how hungrily he watched you.

“You wanted to be the one whispering those words, to be running their fingers on my body.” Another step. “You wanted to be the one to take me to bed, to feel me, to fuck me.” You were finally close enough to him that you could touch him if you wish, but you kept your hands by your sides.

The Ghoul groaned at your words, and you couldn’t help the small smirk on your face at his reaction. “Do you want that?” You asked, needed to hear confirmation.

It came almost immediately. “Fuck, yes.” His own hands reached out to touch you, but you swatted them away. That snapped him out of his semi-trance, his eyes flashing with confusion.

“You don’t get to touch me yet.”

Something new flashed in his eyes instead, something you couldn’t quite name. “Sweetheart-”

“Sit down.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you just shot him a look, silencing him instantly. The bed groaned as he sat on the edge of it, eyes never leaving yours. It made him stand a head lower than you now, and he had to look up to continue holding your gaze. “How does it feel? To watch someone else get the things you want?”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. “It hurts, doesn’t it? It feels like someone’s stabbed you in the heart, no? So,” you moved between his legs, “how do you think I felt? After you flirt with me, then take someone else to bed. After you touch me, toy with me, but then act like my body disgusts you, and you recoil away. After you say those things that leave me shaking and wanting, but then never act of them.”

Your hands grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and you brought your face close to his. “I’ve seen you take countless lovers to bed during the time we’ve worked together, and I never said a peep. Even though it fucking killed me to see. That man in the bar, the one you beat senseless? That was gonna be the first person that’d occupied my bed in almost a year. And no, I didn’t really want him that badly, but maybe I could finally go to bed for one night and not have my thoughts be entirely of you.”

Shoving his back lightly, you stumbled back a few steps, the confession that had just spilled from your lips making you breathless. “I have to know; did you mean it? All the flirting, the touches, everything. Did you mean it?”

For once, The Ghoul kept any remarks to himself, and sheer honesty was written across his face. There before you, you saw a vulnerable man, gazing up at you like you hung the stars. “I did. I do.”

“Do you want me?” Cautiously, you began to move back towards him.

“Every fuckin’ minute.”

When you were back between his legs, you let your hands rest on the lapels, no longer strangling the poor material. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

A hopeful smile graced his lips, his eyes flicking down to your lips which hovered above him. After nodding lightly, you let yourself move closer until your lips just brushed over his, barely making contact. “A shame, then.” You pulled away before they could fully connect, a victorious smile on your face as you looked down at the confused man.

“Oh, you thought you’d be getting what you wanted tonight? You ran your hands up, resting on the sides of his neck now. You could feel his heart hammering. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not. No, tonight you’re gonna feel as desperate as I’ve felt for the past year. And,” you made sure that he was especially paying attention to your words now, “if you think that at any point tonight you’re gonna have control, you’re wrong. Any objections?”

His eyes had blown out during your little speech, small pants leaving his lips as he stared up at you. He was already so eager, and you’d barely done anything yet. Even still, you saw a flicker of uncertainty, and you realized he’d probably never given up control in the bedroom. You let the facade drop for a moment. “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. Not ever. You just gotta let me know, and we’ll stop immediately.”

Any uncertainty left him, and something warmed in your chest at the fact that he trusted you enough to do something like this. “You ready?”

He nodded, and you shook your head. “I need to hear you say it, baby.”

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed, not expecting the name from you. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” You rewarded him with a soft kiss on the cheek before grabbing his hat off his head. “Go get comfortable on the bed.”

Stepping away from him, you set his hat on the nightstand as he got situated, his now bare head resting on the pillows. Making sure he had returned his attention to you, you heard his gasp when you grabbed the hem of your shirt, turning into an appreciative groan when you tore it off your head. You wore a simple black bra beneath, but you might as well have been wearing the most beautiful piece of lingerie with the way his eyes widened, a smile on his face again. You made quick work of your jeans, and you refrained from shivering as the air hit your now-exposed skin, clad in only your undergarments. But how could you be cold when he was looking at you with such heat in his eyes?

The bed creaked again when you got on it, and you adjusted until you straddled his abdomen. His clothing dug into your skin, but you could hardly feel it. Planting your hands on his chest, you leaned forward until your face was only an inch from his. He watched you with hooded eyes, which fluttered close when your lips pressed against his jaw, moving up until you stopped right below his ear.

Gloved hands rested on your bare waist, and as much as you enjoyed feeling his hands on your body, you couldn’t let up that easily. “Did I say you could touch me yet?” You whispered, and you felt him slowly rescind his touch, now resting on the bedsheets beside him. “Good job,” you praised, and you felt him shudder slightly. Interesting. “If you behave, I might just let you touch me,” you offered, like dangling a piece of food in front of a starving animal.

“Yeah?”

You just smiled against his skin.

Continuing your exploration, you moved inward, barely feeling the ridges of the indents of his skin. Moving up his cheek, to across where his nose would be, then to the other cheek, you littered his face with kisses, purposely avoiding his lips. His eyes continued to flutter open and close, and at this proximity, you were able to see short, brown eyelashes. How… peculiar. And cute.

You didn’t make any comment on them, choosing to move back down again. But you went past his jaw this time, down to his neck, and you felt his head roll back to allow you more room. You felt him jump when you sunk your teeth into the skin before moaning beautifully, and you ran over the hurt with your tongue. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as his hands instinctively went up to touch you, then resting back down on the bed, grabbing at the bedsheets instead.

There wasn’t much exposed skin left when you reached where his neck and shoulders met, his shirt now covering it. Leaning back, you gestured for him to sit up, helping ease the jacket off his shoulders when he did. He pulled his arms out, and it pooled around his waist, still sitting on most of it. You didn’t care, as long as you could get his get his shirt off.

You hesitated a second before beginning to fiddle with the buttons, glancing up into his eyes. “Alright?”

“You don’t gotta keep askin’, sweetheart,” he responded breathlessly. “I’ll let you know if I don’t want somethin’.”

You grinned at him, before quickly getting to work and taking off his button-up shirt. With every inch of his body that was revealed to you, you felt your heart accelerate, excitement bubbling in you. He had just gotten his arms out of the garment and had tossed it to the floor before you were forcing him back down on the bed with hands on his chest, loving how easily he complied.

You let your fingers drag down the front of his chest, nails scratching lightly. Even with the thick scarring covering his body, he was still able to feel it, and he shivered. Your breath caught when you finally looked for yourself, instead of letting your touch see for you. To say he was gorgeous would be an understatement. All lean muscle, you could feel them flex and jump when you touched him, and for a moment you remembered how strong this man was. And here he was, submitting to your every request. You really did try to not let it go to your head.

“You’re so beautiful, Cooper.” You hadn’t even realized you’d let his real name slip until he went deathly still beneath you. Glancing up at him, you couldn’t read the expression on his face, and you thought you went too far. Still, he had yet to say anything, and so you kept your mouth shut. You trusted that he would stop you.

Continuing to touch him, you barely heard the soft plea that he uttered. “Say it again.”

The expression clicked now, and you smiled gently at him. You felt truly happy, knowing there was another thing he trusted you with. “Cooper,” you sighed, and you were startled when you felt his hands grasp at you, desperately trying to pull you towards him. You braced on his chest, stopping him, and you glanced at where his hands now rested until he tore them away. You made a disapproving noise as you leaned back down, teasing him by brushing your lips against his. But with the way you were sitting and the way you pressed down on his chest, he couldn’t meet you, and you heard him make a frustrated noise.

“Do I gotta tie your hands up, Cooper?” You semi-joked, gauging his reaction. When his eyes somehow darkened even more, you knew he was down.

You both knew that he could easily “break free” from the restraints you’d placed on him; he had ghoul strength, and you were just a human. But he continued to play into your game, and you were grateful for it. You were having too much fun.

“If ya keep sayin’ my name like that, then ya might have to.”

“Oh, you’re too good to me, baby,” you praised, hands retracting so you could reach behind you. You smirked at his reaction when you tugged at his belt, being sure to purposely graze over the evident strain in his pants. You gave him the most innocent look you could when he glared at you, returning your touch to his belt. It took a bit of maneuvering, and with some help from him raising his hips, you were able to free it.

The headboard was made from metal bars, so you were easily able to secure his wrists to it. The restraint wasn’t tight, tight enough to keep him in place, but if he severely needed to leave then he could easily escape. When you sat back, you admired the sight before you. Your wildest dreams were playing out right in front of you, and you couldn’t be more excited.t

Starting at the base of his throat, you began to move down his body, pressing your lips against the skin as you descended. When you reached his nipples, you let your tongue flick over it, eliciting a whine from him. Your fingers toyed with the other one, making him squirm. You couldn’t deny that the noises he was making were making you dizzy, a familiar tension building in you. But you kept an amused and unaffected expression on your face, not wanting to break yet.

You didn’t stay there for long, continuing your descent downwards. You scratched lightly over his abs when you reached them, and you figured goosebumps would be covering his body by now.

“I could just leave you like this, you know,” you commented as you moved backward. “Hands bound, aching, wanting.” Your hands trailed down his thighs.

“You wouldn’t,” he groaned, and you just flashed a smile at him.

“Oh, but I could.” You now rested just below his thighs, your own straddling them. “I could just sit here and make you watch as I touch myself, make myself cum, screaming your name.” You heard the belt rattle against the bedframe when you let one of your hands trail down your stomach, a gasp leaving you when you reached the band of your underwear. “Then leave you alone with just your thoughts, imagining all the things you could’ve done to me. Just how I spent every night this past year. Revenge is a bitch, isn’t it?”

“Sweetheart, please.” You don’t think you’ve ever heard something so wonderful, arousal spiking in your body. His eyes bore into you as you reached behind you, unclasping your bra. You let it slide off your body before setting it gently on the floor. Squeezing your breasts in your hands, you let your head roll back, his name tumbling from you. You debated moaning the other man’s name, the one in the bar, but you couldn’t remember it. Besides, you were torturing the man enough, and you assumed that he would tear through his bindings if you did.

Eventually, you took pity on him, and your desire was starting to get in the way of your need to draw this out. He jumped when you rested your hands on his thighs, expecting you to do what you said, and you could feel the relief it brought him.

It didn’t take long for you to unbutton his pants, even less to unzip them. You tugged both them and his boxers down enough to free him. He was already rock hard, almost painfully so, and a strangled groan left him. The noise shot straight to your core, and you sighed in appreciation at him. He was long, not overwhelmingly so, but you knew you’d be feeling him for days to come.

Keeping your eyes on him, you leaned forward and lapped at the tip, licking the bead of moisture there. You watched as he tried to move to touch you, and you grinned at him when the restraint stopped him. You could see the plea in his eyes, and you just shook your head at him. Not yet.

Another run of your tongue made him curse, and you cooed at him. “Want me to take care of this, baby?”

“Please,” he gasped out.

“Well, when you ask that nicely.”

He didn’t get a chance to prepare before you were running your tongue along his entire length, base to tip, before taking as much of him as you could in your mouth. You took what you couldn’t fit in your hand, moving in tandem with your mouth as you sucked him. It was nearly unintelligible, but you heard your name being moaned by him.

Bobbing your head up and down, you were unrelenting in the pleasure you were giving him, and you could feel his hips begin to buck and twist, and you moved your mouth off him before he could hit the back of your throat.

Glancing up at him, he looked absolutely wrecked, and the fact made you smile cruelly. You could tell that he was close, by the way he pulsed and throbbed in your hand as you continued to stroke him. Your name was just streaming from him freely, straining and pressing against the belt. The bedpost made an awful noise, but it was covered by his noises. “You close, Cooper?”

His head had been thrown back against the pillows as pleasure coursed through him, but you watched as he flicked his gaze down to you. “Fuck, sweetheart, yes.” You hadn’t meant to, but you let it slip through in your expression what you were planning, and dread washed over his face. He groaned you name, almost in warning, but you ignored him.

To his very evident displeasure, you let go of him, his incoming release ebbing away as you sat up. A string of curses left him, and a drop of sweat rolled down his face. His eyes were blazing with lust and anger, but they melted a bit when regarding you. At least the anger did. The lust seemed to just flare up, especially when he as you stood to slip off your underwear. “You only get to cum when I do, got it?”

He was able to see the evidence of your arousal on them as you discarded them, and even in the position he was in a cocky smile grew on his face. “Perfectly.” That cocky smile was wiped off when he saw you reach for his hat, putting it on your head as you climbed back onto the bed. As you straddled his lap, realization flashed on his features. “Are you tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?” He wheezed, a mix of laughter and a groan.

“I’m surprised I haven’t already,” you teased back, your hands bracing on his chest. Just like you thought, his heart pounded against your fingertips. Rocking your hips slowly, you began to rut against him, coating him in your arousal.

You heard the tell-tale clink of his belt rattling against the bedframe. “Can I touch ya now, sweetheart?” He gasped out.

You seriously considered it for a moment, but you decided against it. “When you make me cum, you can. But if you finish before me…” You let the words trail off, the threat evident enough.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue, knowing that it would get him further away from what he wanted. You grinned at his compliance, rewarding him by getting on your knees and lining him up with your entrance. Sinking onto him, a gasp tore from you as he pressed into you. It had been so long since you’d been stretched like this, and it felt even better than you remembered. Or maybe it was because it was with him.

His grip was vice-like against the metal bars as you slowly sank down on his cock, almost painful-sounding grunts and moans leaving him. It was a slow process, but eventually, you felt your hips go flush with his. “Oh, Cooper, baby,” you groaned, and you felt him twitch inside of you.

“You… you can’t say shit like that and then expect me to last,” he whined, and you laughed gently.

“You need a moment?” You refrained from adding ‘baby’ to the end, knowing he was about to snap.

A shaky exhale left him. “Just… just a moment.”

You hummed in response, letting yourself sit there for a moment. It felt like torture, wanting nothing more than to ride him, but you held back. You tried to not move too much, either, and you eventually felt his breathing calm some. It was still sporadic, but not as much as before.

“Go ‘head now.” You didn’t have to be told twice.

Starting with a slow roll of your hips, you began to move up and down. One hand was planted on his chest, the other on his hat to keep in on your head as it rolled back. It only took a few moments for you to fall into a rhythm, the slow movements gradually building to something faster.

“Cooper, fuck, you feel so good,” you moaned, and you heard him make some noise in agreeance. Another roll of your hips made you see stars, and you could feel that familiar tension begin to build, slowly but surely.

“What a sight you are,” he murmured between breaths, and you looked down to see him staring at you, almost mesmerized. “Wearin’ my hat while ya fuck yourself on my cock. Fuck, a man could die happy like this.”

You tried to grin down at him, but the pleasure became too much as you continued to rock, and you felt yourself falter. Instead, you just moaned out fragments of his name. He was all you could feel, pressing into spots that made you cry out, hitting them with each roll. “Baby.”

God, you loved the way he reacted whenever you uttered that name. His hips jumped, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. The hand planted on his chest dug into the toughened skin, nails no doubt leaving indents, but he didn’t seem to mind. Even though your legs were beginning to shake, you didn’t let up, moving up and down, your breathing becoming labored. You could feel yourself getting closer; you just needed a little more.

After angling your body to keep it steady, you let go of his hat, moving your hands to between your legs. It made you groan, feeling the way his cock moved in and out of you as you began to rub at your clit. The extra stimulation made you cry his name out loudly, and you knew there would be complaints from the other patrons of the hotel.

Your walls tightened around him, making him bite down harshly on his bottom lip to keep from cumming right there. His eyes flicked downward, his mouth going slack as he watched you touch yourself. He forced himself to look away, blown-out eyes staring into yours. You could see the tendons in his neck strain as he concentrated on controlling his release.

The extra pleasure was what you needed, and you could feel your impending release inch closer. “You close, sweetheart?” His voice was hoarse, and you nodded furiously. “You gonna cum on my cock? Fuck, yeah you are.”

“Cooper, you can…” Your words were cut off with a whine.

He seemed to get what you were saying, and he groaned in relief. “Can I finish in ya, sweetheart? Fill up that perfect cunt?”

“Please.” For the first time during the night, you pleaded for something. You were on the verge of release, your movements growing frantic as you chased your release.

“C’mon, sweetheart, lemme feel ya.”

As you cried out his name again, you came, your body going slack as pleasure made you boneless. It wasn’t your first orgasm in a year, far from it, but it felt so much better when it came from another person. Your nerves hummed and you felt weightless, soft whines and pants leaving you.

You barely managed to catch yourself before you fell on top of him, and the clench of you around him was all he needed for his own release, having staved it off for a long time now. He was even louder than you were, your name coming out like a sharp bark as he came, and you could feel his release seep into you, coating you.

The room felt awfully quiet now, even though it was filled with the sound of both of you catching your breaths. With unstable legs, you lifted yourself up and off of him, and you watched as his spend dripped out of you and onto his abdomen. Groans both left you at this sight.

You had been so caught up in the sight that it nearly startled you when you heard the clinking noise again. Glancing up at him, he gave you an expectant look, an almost teasing smirk on his face as he rattled the belt again. “You gonna release me? I’ve been good.” You scoffed at the way he pouted at you.

“You have been,” you agreed. “My good boy,” you added as you reached for the belt. His eyes widened, sucking in a gasp, and if could, he would be blushing.

You just smirked down at him as you released him, but that victory was short-lived when you felt his hands immediately shoot to your body. He practically yanked you down to his mouth, desperately claiming your lips in a messy kiss. His hands roamed over every part of your body, the rough skin making you whine in pleasure, and you could feel his responding smile.

As much as you were loving his attention, you had to admit you were incredibly exhausted, especially now. A yawn tore through you, interrupting the kiss, and you pulled back. “Am I borin’ you, sweetheart?” He asked, amused.

“You could never. But I don’t think I can do all that again,” you laughed breathlessly.

“There’s always tomorrow,” he smirked. “And the next day. And the next.”

You slapped lightly at his chest, chuckling. “Eager, are we?”

“Desperately,” he growled lightly before pulling you back to his lips. This kiss was gentler, although no less passionate. He laughed boisterously when you pulled away to yawn again, fingers halting their exploration.

When you tried to pull away, though, he didn’t let go, keeping your body close. “Baby, I need to get us cleaned up,” you laughed, trying and failing to escape his hold. “I’m not going to bed covered in…” You trailed off, too embarrassed to finish the sentence. You tried to wiggle free, and you sighed in defeat when he didn’t let go.

“You’re blushin’,” he teased, making your ears burn more. “You were spewin’ those filthy things earlier without a second thought, but now you’re actin’ all shy?”

“I hate you,” you grumbled.

“Sure ya do, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “How ‘bout this? You finish what you were ‘bout to say, and I’ll let ya go. For a minute or two, that is.”

You sighed again. “I was saying that I’m not going to bed covered in your cum,” you said with major hesitancy, your ears on fire.

“Why not?”

You slapped his chest again. “I did what you asked. Let me go, Cooper.”

He debated it for a moment. “Fine,” you felt his hand let up its hold, “but if you ain’t back in a minute, I’m draggin’ ya back to the bed.”

Now on a timer, you quickly got off his lap, not before pressing one last kiss to his cheek. On shaky legs, you made your way to the bathroom, flipping him off when he laughed at your inability to walk in a straight line. After using the bathroom, you used one of the provided washrags, dampening it before running it between your legs, and cleaning you up. Grabbing a new one, you dampened it as well before heading back to the bathroom.

He was now sitting on the edge of the bed, the rest of his clothing discarded on the floor, and he looked up when he saw you enter. “Thought I was ‘bout to drag you back,” he commented as you approached him, grinning when he saw your unabashed staring. “Like what ya see?”

You wiped that proud expression off when the cold washcloth made contact with his skin, and you quickly wiped him down. He hissed when it ran over his cock, and you muttered a small apology. You tried to move back to the bathroom to discard the cloth, but you felt him wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you back towards him. You felt him kiss the back of your neck, and you felt him yank the cloth from your hand, tossing it vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.

He pulled you back onto the bed, adjusting the covers so that they covered you both, the one arm never leaving your waist, his face burrowed into your neck. Out of all the things you expected him to be, a cuddler was not one of them. But you certainly weren’t complaining.

Because of the heat of him behind you, and the exertion of the day's activities, you felt exhaustion take over you again, and your eyes fluttered close. “You still owe me anther drink,” you heard yourself mutter.

The rumble of his chest from his laughter was the last thing you remembered before you fell asleep.

Author’s Note: i stole the hat thing from one of my other fics, but i love it so much that i needed to use it again. also might write a continuation/pt.2 to this, idk yet.

also thank you @kinatanhi yet again for the comment that helped inspire all this <3

#the ghoul x reader #the ghoul #fallout tv series #fallout prime #fallout show #fallout #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #the ghoul x you #the ghoul smut #cooper howard x you

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