#Like it would be barely a question he would fall for it hook line and sinker

[sysig]

You could stay forever, if you wanted (Patreon)

[ceilidho]

hound dog

prompt: You pick up Ghost from a bar for a one night stand. Too bad Ghost isn't interested in a casual hook up. (nsfw, 6.7k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

-

Rare is the day when a stupid girl doesn’t do stupid things.

This is just one of many such occurrences. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar—the one miles from your place, reeking of tobacco and leather and motor oil, the noxious perfume of week old sweat and weed stinking up the joint, pardon the pun—with too much eyeliner and mascara on, and a skirt too short for you—and would you just stop fiddling with it? But you can’t because that would mean admitting that it barely fits over your ass, that putting on a skirt so short was a choice, an invite, a teasing little taunt to the men in the bar saying, what are you waiting for? I’m asking for it, aren’t I—

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

It’s why you’re planted at the bat some six weeks after being dumped, two weeks after being ghosted for the third time in a row, a smile on your face despite your crumbling self-esteem. Pride hanging in tatters. Grimacing when you find the bartop sticky with congealed liquor, the residue sticking to your skin when you quickly lift your elbows off. But there’s a time for self-pity and a time for getting it the fuck togther. This just happens to be one of the latter times.

“What’m I gettin’ you?” the bartender in front of you asks, barely impressed with your get-up. Not even attempting to conceal his distaste when he eyes you up and down, lingering on the way your tits are practically spilling out of your top. 

“Do you have any cocktails?” you ask. Wrong question. The eye roll isn’t even suppressed for your benefit when he makes it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s whatever he can pour straight from a bottle or the fancy bar for cityfolk down the road. He says it like that, the word practically sneered out. Cityfolk. 

Nerves shaken, you sip at your red wine after he leaves you to your own devices, your glass poured straight from the box. It could function passably as lighter fluid if the circumstances called for it. Still, you swallow it with a positive attitude, emboldened by the knowledge that you’re here for one thing and one thing only:

to get fucked within an inch of your life by one of the greasy-haired, cut-wearing, cigarette-smoking men lining the bar. 

Even the thought sends a thrill down your spine. 

It’s an age old question, isn’t it? What’s a girl to do (when her love life’s falling apart / when her credit score just bottomed out because her ex-boyfriend ran up her credit cards behind her back / when her job’s steadily becoming unbearable but quitting would mean scrambling to find a job that’ll pay anywhere near to what this one’s paying her) to get a drink around here? 

Evidently, the answer isn’t to use a dating app; you can say that confidently after waiting around in fancier bars than this for several no-show dates. 

You’re feeling appropriately over the whole thing. Ready to call it quits. Uninstall all of the apps on your phone and hire a matchmaker or ask a friend to set you up with a coworker of theirs. But that’ll be later, down the line when you aren’t dealing with the issue at hand.

The issue being that—

you’re really fucking horny. 

Embarrassingly so. Enough that you were willing to travel miles away from home to avoid accidentally hooking up with anyone you might run into later on while out getting groceries or on a morning run. 

It’s just better to play things close to your chest. Keep your romantic life and your sexual exploits far apart (not that you’d know much about keeping things separate; you’ve never had much of a sex life to keep hidden) lest you get mired in a stickier situation than you’re comfortable being in. 

Despite the rough start, the bar you chose seems promising. There’s a man at the other side of the bar that keeps drawing your eye. It’s the hulking size of him at first, then the grime clinging to the folds of his skin, worn in from years of hard labor. He looks like a man fresh off a fourteen-hour shift or a fortnight spent on an oil rig in the middle of the Baltic sea, freshly washed ashore, kelp and barnacles still fused to his skin, not yet pried off. 

Rough is the only word you’d use to describe him. A face covered in nicks and old scars, his upper lip slightly puckered and scarred from cleft lip surgery. When he turns his head to say something to the bartender, you catch a glimpse of a cauliflower ear, the cartilage of his tragus and antihelix swollen and deformed. 

He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. If you’d given it more thought, you think you could’ve conjured up an image of the man across the bar all by yourself. It’s like someone plucked him straight out of your head. Big and brawny, broad shoulders that you can imagine dangling your ankles off, and well-muscled arms that you can imagine digging your nails into. It would take both of your hands and extra to wrap around his bicep. The thought makes you shiver.

You try to catch his attention subtly. Looking over at him from under your lashes, quick, smoldering glances meant to draw his attention to you, so that he approaches you first. You keep waiting for the moment when he’ll notice your stare and hold your gaze, a question being asked and answered between your eyes before reeling him in with a coy little smile. 

But when a half hour goes by without a single glance your way, your hope begins to wane. 

He doesn’t look up no matter how many times you glance over at him. It’s frustrating; you know he feels the weight of your stare. His disregard is purposeful, deliberate; like he knows your attention is fixed on him but he can’t be bothered to so much as return your stare. You wonder if that means he’s got a lady at home, a little bird cooped up in his house that he’s more eager to get back to after he’s had a drink to take off the edge than flirt with some trussed up floozy at the bar.

That makes you squirm, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head again. Maybe you made a mistake coming here. 

It’s not as though you’re being completely ignored, it’s just that the caliber of men that have approached you so far haven’t really inspired much, carnally speaking. You’ve sent the few braver ones away, a half-hearted thanks but no thanks when they offer to buy you a drink. Most leave without a word, though a few mutter obscenities under their breath before shoving their hands in their pockets and stalking away. Bitch. Dumb cunt. 

Calling it a night feels like a natural next step. With the attitude you keep getting from the bartender and the way the only man you’re remotely attracted to refuses to so much as glance your way, it doesn’t feel right to stay out any longer. Embarrassment heats you like a low grade fever, warm in your belly. Wine sloshes around in your stomach when you slip off the stool, hunger now another pressing concern. 

You’ll ask him on your way back from the bathroom. If he turns you down after that, you’ll slink off into the night with your tail tucked between your legs. There’ll always be next weekend to try again. You promise yourself that because the alternative is acknowledging how defeated this entire experience has left you, no less disappointing than going on the same boring first date with a guy from Tinder. 

In the bathroom, you dab your face with water and stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years; finger smudges and white strains streaked across the glass. You wonder how many strangers have fucked in this bathroom over the years. The thought makes you grimace even more when you notice that the floor is slightly sticky, the ground sounding tacky beneath your shoes. 

When you come out, the man from across the bar is waiting by the door, so close that you flinch, eyes widening. The narrow hallway means that he’s barely three feet from you when you stand in the doorframe. 

“We leavin’ or what?” he growls, voice as deep as you thought it might be, gruff and husky. 

He’s just as imposing in front of you as he was from across the bar. Maybe more so. You’re forced to crane your neck to look up at him this close, lips parting on an inaudible exhale. There’s something about a brutish man that’s always taken your breath away; everything from the blunt chin to the pronounced brow. His face is flecked with pale, keloidal skin; rubbery nodules from old injuries. 

Dumbstruck, you can only nod, following behind him when he turns away from you, headed towards the parking lot out back where his truck is parked. 

You’re really doing this. You’re really doing this. That’s the only thought in your head when he unlocks his truck and pops the door open for you, waiting until you’re buckled in before slamming the door shut. 

He’s quiet on the car ride back to his place, unconcerned with getting to know you or defusing the tension in the truck. You can’t say you blame him. There’s a reason you chose a bar so far from home as a hunting ground. If you wanted to get to know someone, you would’ve met someone at a coffee shop. 

When you ask his name, he grunts it out like it’s an inconvenience. Simon. He doesn’t give you more than that, even when you awkwardly ask him what he does for work. Blatantly ignores your questions. The rebuff smarts for some reason, makes you frown and duck your chin to your chest, shoulders hunched.

His demeanor is so off-putting that halfway through the drive, you wonder if you misunderstood him somehow, if he means to drive you home instead of taking you back to his place (but that can’t be right, otherwise wouldn’t he have asked for your address?). It’s just hard to reconcile his churlish attitude towards you with his ostensible invitation to fuck. 

Maybe he doesn’t intend to fuck you at all. Maybe you managed to pick up the one serial killer in a twenty mile radius and stupidly followed him back to his truck without telling anyone who you planned to go home with. Your blood curdles at the thought, hackles raised when you imagine him sizing you up from across the bar, all prettied up and doe-eyed, easy prey. 

Your breathing picks up. “I, um…actually, c-could you…could you just drop me off at my place?”

Simon rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost audible. “Not gonna kill ya, bird.” 

That doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you, but you don’t dig your heels in and demand he take you home either. 

“Do you live nearby?” you ask, suddenly chatty. Why, oh why.

Simon looks over at you, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He drives a manual, you notice. A few too many seconds go by in silence. You wish somebody would just staple your mouth shut already. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, turning back to watch the road, taking a left turn up ahead without using his signal. So it’s that kind of drive.

You keep your mouth shut for the rest of it lest he decide you’re too much of a hassle and turn back. You’re poised right on the edge of something new and exciting, and the thought of that slipping through your fingers makes you feel a bit crazy. So many men before have shown you that same snap dislike. Like you’re tolerable over text or as a dimensionless photo, but not as a flesh and blood person, the real mechanics of you all wrong. It’s an intolerable thought—that people can only like you when you smile and keep your mouth shut.

Still, you’ll do it now, for a price. 

Part of you expects him to pull you into his lap when he pulls into his driveway and puts the truck in park. It’s what you’ve seen in movies. The rest of the night plays out in your head in piecemeal flashes; ravenous passion, hands tearing clothes off each other’s bodies, a shoe left on the porch in your hurry to get inside. Hungry, devouring; slick mouths parting for barely long enough to breathe.

Then Simon cuts the engine and gets out of the truck without so much as a glance your way, like you aren’t even there.

He still comes around to open the door for you. You frown at him through the window, affronted. Baffled at his continued nonchalance. Like even keeping your mouth shut isn’t enough to keep a man’s interest. Where you expected passion and fervor, you’re met with cool indifference. 

Simon pops the door open. “Get out.”

The house itself is nothing special. A two-story cookie-cutter house built in the seventies; weathered, beige-coloured vinyl siding and a neatly trimmed lawn, with a few patches of overgrown grass and weeds. There’s a trailer parked in front of the closed garage, a few planks of wood strapped down in the bed. When you follow him up the walkway, you notice how quiet the neighborhood is, and for some reason that makes you even more jittery. 

You stop in the doorway, frustration breaking your timidity like snapping an ampoule. “Do you even want to—” fuck me, goes unsaid. Too humiliating to even ask. But you ask anyway, the question itself implicit even in so few words. 

Dark eyes stare down at you, impenetrable. You’re struck by the sense of something primordial slithering under his skin. His expression is hard, his face carved from granite; when his expression shifts, it’s like watching tectonic plates create mountains, plates pushed upward by mantle plumes.

He fits a big paw under your chin, fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks hard enough to make your lips purse. Your heart skips a beat when he angles your head from side to side, looking you over like a pet he’s considering bringing home. You almost go cross-eyed when he bends down, his forehead nearly brushing yours, so close that you can smell the scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, see the grease smudged on his face and the folds around his eyes. 

A grin flickers across his lips, gone as it came. “Yeah. I do.”

And doesn’t that tie your stomach in a knot? Your nerves in a pretty bow? 

Inside, his house is just as unremarkable. You’d know in a single glance that a single man lived here; a functional, no-frills living space. Nothing more than a worn couch, a TV, and a few pieces of obvious hand-me-down furniture. It’s hard to glean anything from the minimal decoration around his place, but he doesn’t give you much of a chance to look around. That’s not the point of why you’re in his house. 

“Eat anything yet, bird?” Simon asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge without purpose. It looks like more of a reflex than anything, the first thing he does the second he gets home for the night and the last thing he does before going to bed. From the size of him, it makes sense; his body is muscle on muscle, covered by a healthy layer of fat, just a surface layer over the bulk beneath. 

You shake your head. “No.”

“Have a bite, then.”

“I’m not, uh, hungry though,” you deflect rather than saying the obvious, which is, I came to your house to have sex, not make sandwiches at the kitchen counter together. 

He shuts the fridge door, pinning you with his stare. “Your call. Could’ve used the energy though.”

You swallow. 

The first thing you do after he herds you into the bedroom is try to pull him into a kiss, cupping his cheeks and standing up on your tiptoes. Before your eyelids flutter shut, you catch a glimpse of a cocked brow. Then you press your lips to a slack mouth that doesn’t move no matter how much passion you infuse in your kiss and feel embarrassment flare up in your guts. 

Bastard. You should’ve expected that he wouldn’t kiss you back. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, breaking the facsimile of a kiss and dropping back down onto your heels. 

You flinch when he grabs you by the back of the neck and reels you back in, forcing you back onto your tiptoes, “Don’t be,” grunted against your mouth before fusing your lips together. A pathetic keen climbs up your throat, eyelids slipping shut. 

His greed leaks from him like tar, his kiss so messy and violent that you’re almost too jarred to do anything apart from hang on. Teeth clack against yours, a horrid sensation, the lust in your belly abating long enough for the real world to slink back in and you get flashes of it: hands winding around a thick neck, a scratchy cheek against your lip when he twists his head to angle your noses better, a tongue shoving into your mouth unceremoniously, no finesse at all. Straight to the main point. 

A shudder wracks you from head to toe when you try to break the kiss only to find the hand on your neck firm, holding you in place. The subtle reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you, that you willingly went home with a man big and strong enough to pin you down and fuck you however rough he wants. 

“Simon,” you whine, squirming against him, gasping a breath and his name again when he wrestles you back into the kiss. “No—Simon—”

“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snarls against your lips, and you freeze, knees going weak when his fingers dig into your jaw to hold you in place.

The endorphin rush nearly makes your vision white out. A sudden winter storm, the blood rushing to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your breath coming out quick and choppy. Lungs barely filling up with each inhale. 

“Get this off,” Simon growls, tugging on your skirt when you don’t move fast enough. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, content to wrench your skirt off himself instead, your panties along with it. 

It takes your breath away, how fast you go from clothed to partially nude. Trying to match his fervor is a losing game, so you just try to keep up. Your hands tug at his belt, desperately trying to undo it, and he chuckles when he notices; big hands paw at your ass while you shakily pop the buckle out of the first loop. 

He takes over after that, popping the button on his jeans one-handed. 

“Wanna handle the rest?” he prompts, an eyebrow jutting up, expectant. Lazy with his arrogance; oozing rugged masculinity. It’d infuriate you if it didn’t get you so hot. 

Your fingers are numb by the time you pull his jeans down, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him with wide eyed devotion as he kicks off his boots and shakes the pants off his legs, nothing under his jeans. His pale white thighs are dusted in fine blond hairs, mottled with burns and scars and old, faded cigarette marks, like someone used his legs as an ashtray. The thought makes your throat close up.  

He shucks off his shirt while you stare at the shaft heavy with blood hanging between his legs, drooping with its own weight. Flushed red at the head and streaked with dark veins, leaking a steady drip of precum. The hair at the base of his dick is of a darker shade, gold like straw. 

Your stomach swoops at the sight, dropping to the pits of you. You swallow. Maybe you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew. A lot more.

As if sensing your unease, a wide hand is suddenly firm on the back of your head, urging you closer. “Gonna give it a kiss?”

It’s not a question. You know that and you know that you’re way out of your league; that if you panic now you’ll flounder. So instead of fighting it, you lean forward and press a shy kiss to the weeping head of his dick. 

You lick your lips instinctively when you draw back, lapping up the precum smeared across them. The taste makes you wrinkle your nose. It’s salty; bitter. Not altogether pleasant. 

Simon wraps a hand around his dick and holds it to your lips. “Open your mouth, bird. Get me nice ‘n wet.”

A shudder rolls through you, but there’s little else you can do except part your lips and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a struggle to fit more than just the head in your mouth, his dick too wide to take more than that. Your eyes water at the stretch, the musky taste of his cum overwhelming. 

Any experience you’ve had before this pales in comparison. It’s like the first time all over again. His cock is heavy on your tongue, instantly making your eyes water. The grip he still has on the base of his cock tells you that he doesn’t expect you to swallow the whole length (an impossible task; you go cold with dread at even the thought), but Simon doesn’t hesitate to grip your head firmer when he feels you falter, forcing you to take as much as you can.

When you gag, he shushes you. “Keep at it—you’re fine.”

You wonder if he thinks by saying it, it makes it true. You’re very much not fine, struggling to breathe through your nose and suck him off without scraping his cock with your teeth.

Your exhale when he pulls you off his cock by your hair is full of both relief and trepidation. Your lips feel swollen and tender when you touch them with your fingers. 

“Can we please have sex now?” you ask, dazed enough to be bold. 

Simon cracks a smile at that, endeared somehow. “Gotta get up for that, bird.”

You have to brace your hands against his chest when you get to your feet, the blood that rushes to your head making you wobbly. Even on your feet, he’s so much taller than you, a behemoth. Men like him have always been your type, but Simon is really in a league of his own. 

Glancing up at him from under your lashes, you bite your lip. You’ve seen that in movies before, starlettes bringing men to their knees with just a look. Coquette; demure. It’s harder to replicate than you thought, but you’ve never rehearsed this before. This is a one-time, live performance. The culmination of everything you’ve ever read or watched or studied. 

You keep up the ruse of being sexy by crawling onto his bed on your hands and knees, dropping down onto your elbows once situated in the middle of the mattress. The debauchery of wiggling your ass back at the man who took you home from the bar would overwhelm you if you weren’t playing a part right now. Role playing. This isn’t who you usually are, but if it’s only for one night, you can force out the self-scrutiny and timidity. 

Silence hangs in the air like a bubble, waiting to be burst. You fight the urge to look over your shoulder at him. 

Then Simon exhales, breaking the silence. Goosebumps ripple down your arms. 

The mattress dips under his weight when he settles behind you, hands immediately sinking into the flesh of your ass and pulling your cheeks apart. No preamble. You open your mouth to say something, but thick, coarse fingers are already dipping between your thighs and playing with your hole, sinking a finger in up to the first knuckle. 

You breathe out shakily, shoulders tensing. The sheets reek of him, musky and ripe; you concentrate on that instead of the fingers penetrating you, getting you ready for his dick. Your walls squeeze tight around his fingers when he forces another one in. 

When he finally feeds his cock into you, the stretch is nearly unbearable. The sharp stab of pain that accompanies it almost makes you flinch away, but Simon drags you back by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere, bird,” he rumbles. “Relax. It’s going in.”

What can you say to something like that? 

His whole frame presses you into the mattress, the breath forced from your lungs. Bigger now that he’s got you on your belly. Suddenly making two hundred pounds seem less abstract, more real. He bullies as much of his cock into you as he can, paying no mind to the way you squeal and kick your legs. 

“Real tight cunt,” Simon grunts, humming with his pleasure when his hips punch forward and your pussy squelches around his length. So lewd.

His knees on either side of you keep you trapped in place, nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. All you can do is lie under him and let him rut between your thighs, gasping for breath with every thrust. The sweat is slick down your back, half yours and half his. 

“Ya let other men fuck this cunt, bird?” he asks. It sounds hypothetical, like it’s said half to rile himself up, and though it prickles at your nerves, you don’t complain too much because he fucks you rougher after the words slip out of his mouth. 

When you don’t answer him though, concentrating more on filling your lungs and not biting your tongue off, he grabs your face and twists your head until you’re looking over your shoulder at him, neck aching with the strain. 

“Answer me,” he demands, sounding almost pissed off. 

“N-no—”

“Good,” he grunts. Satisfied.

His words should piss you off. How dare he ask you about fucking other men as if he were your husband or boyfriend. You have half a mind to cuss him out, but then he pumps his hips forward and your face goes numb from pleasure. Electric impulses zip up and down your skin, sizzling your nerves. 

Besides, maybe it’s hot that he’s acting like you belong to him. Like you’re his; his girl that he picked up from the bar after a long shift, eager to go home and lay her out on the bed so he could fuck his pretty girl into a tongue-tied stupor. It certainly does it for you, a thin filigree of pleasure winding its way down your spine. 

It’s an intoxicating fantasy—being wanted by a man in a real, visceral way. It’s one you’ve never gotten close to before, never even grazed with the tips of your fingers, no matter how far you stretched out your arms. You don’t know what men see when they look at you, but it can’t be anything worth keeping. 

He fucks you like he wants to pry you open and leave a piece of him inside. A big hand fits around your neck and tightens; a collar, a manacle. 

Hard to feel anything but grateful though. It’s everything you wanted but never thought you’d get out of this experience. You expected to feel like a body on a butcher’s block, hacked limb from limb. Marble ribbing on the inside. Brought to a high only to be left out in the cold after. 

You never expected apotheosis. You never expected the filth murmured into your ear, the lurid, coarse diatribe in surround sound, all perfect fuckin’ pussy, can’t wait to shove my tongue inside, gonna make you suck my cock while I eat that perfect cunt out—

All—

Perfect fuckin’ girl; you don’t give this to anyone else, do ya? Knew you were gaggin’ for it back in the bar, but wanted to wait ‘n see; turned the rest of ‘em down, didn’t ya? Not a fuckin’ slut. Jus’ for me—only hungry for my cock—

It’s too rough, too much. Overpowering. Musk and body heat and raw strength, his forearms planted on the mattress on either side of your head. The scent of him suffocating, smothering. Heady. In your pores, on the back of your tongue, in your belly. He’s everywhere.

If only you could put it into words. The fire in your belly growing so wild, so out of control, that it threatens to incinerate you. Thinking dangerous thoughts—that you could be his, that he wants you so bad he can’t stand the idea of anyone having you before him, that he’ll kill anyone that touched you before, rip them apart with his bare hands, cut out their hearts and slice it ‘em up real thin so he could feed you the strips with his hands—

“Fuck—” Simon pants in your ear, pulling his cock out of your cunt. You whine, clenching down on nothing, suddenly empty, until he turns you roughly over onto your back and grabs one of your flailing ankles, hooking it over a burly shoulder. “Cunt this good oughta be locked down. Should just chain your leg to the bed so I can wake up to this pussy every day. Would’ya like that, bird?”

Like it? You think wildly—

Keep me, keep me, keep me, pleasepleaseplease.

The leg not hooked over Simon’s shoulder gets pulled around his hip, spreading your legs wider to accommodate the width of him between them. The scour of his voice threatens to erode you, smash you to pieces. There won’t be anything left after he’s done with you. 

He’s just so big. Built like an ox, broad and solid. When he braces his forearms on either side of you, his biceps bulge, skin pulling taut over the muscle. The dark hair of his pits is stark against pale flesh. 

Blood roars in your ears and over you, he moves like a wave, filling you up again and again. You’re swimming in uncharted waters now; gazing out into an unfamiliar and dangerous sea. A swell this big might take you right under. 

Too bad for you, the hazy adumbration of danger in his words is pitted against the maw in your soul, the deep, cavernous hole that yawns wider with each passing year. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: overlooking a sea of evergreen peaks illuminated by a silky moonlight hue, winding a long, narrow road darkened on both sides by tightly clustered trees, your arms wrapped around your chest. Cold layered like a skin, sinking deep into your bones, cold wet like a damp hate; trees clustered around your wandering soul, spurned into wandering like a little undead ghost with teeth clattering in Morse code, saying: so many wrongs done, it is almost incomprehensible.

Is it too much to ask to be wanted? 

You need it like air. 

The issue is that—

more than horny, you’re really, really fucking lonely. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: a dream of being a lighthouse keeper, skin saltwater slick, seafoam on the backs of your knuckles, slathering over frozen fingers clutching at the gallery railing. Beckoning something to you.

What it is, you do not know.

“Look at tha’,” Simon says wonderingly, grabbing your face and yanking it towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “Just needed to get turned out on a fat cock, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good, Simon, ohmygod—”

“Only this needy for me, right?” The glint in his eye is terrifying.

“Only you, only you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, bearing all of his weight down on you, forehead to forehead. His sweat-slick chest slides against yours, cock buried so deep that you can taste him at the back of your throat. Dark eyes stare down at you with an intensity that steals the breath from you, glossy like he’s rapidly losing the ability to be consciously present, but ever attentive to the pleasure rippling across your face. 

When his cock grinds into the soft plug of your womb, his eyes narrow when yours bulge, and he batters that spot until you seize up and spasm around him. His buzz cut gives you nothing to hold onto, so you dig your nails into the bulky planes of his back instead. 

“Fuck—hold on, Christ, fuck; here it comes,” he spits, the veins in his neck protruding when he grits his teeth. 

Your blood goes red hot when he rams deep into you, each thrust deliberate. Hips losing their rhythm. You don’t notice the first spurt of cum, too preoccupied with the smell and weight of him blanketing you, infiltrating every crevice of your body, but the second is hot. Scorching. You ignore the screaming alarm at the back of your head, barely coherent enough to parse out its meaning. All you can focus on is the warmth spreading inside you and your own walls pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him. 

Time blurs. You lose some of it. 

You don’t come back until Simon rolls over onto his back, taking you with him. His cock is still buried inside of you, his cum running out in rivulets, pooling at the base of his dick lodged at your entrance. You’re going to be messy when he finally pulls out. 

Despite the ache already setting in, you feel reborn. Renewed. The old, dead skin flayed off. You can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got your energy back, when even tracing your eyes across the other side of his room doesn’t take tremendous effort. The traces of him littered around the room make you curious. A half empty glass. Steel-toed boots sticking out of a half-opened closet. A damp towel crumpled into a ball on the floor. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s no use trying to fill the gaps in. Whoever Simon is won’t matter in the light of day. You repeat this to yourself until it sticks. 

When you try to get up, planting both hands on his chest, he pulls you back down, forcing your head onto the pillow of his chest. “Simon, the sheets are wet—”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Simon says, eyes already shut, on the verge of falling asleep. “Now shut up. You’re ruining the fucking afterglow.” 

You wake up the next morning covered in bruises and bite marks and dried cum between your thighs and on your belly, so sore that even twitching your finger hurts.

It takes awhile for everything to come back to you. When it finally does, consciousness snaps back into you, discomfort giving way to quiet self-satisfaction. You managed to do it. Your first one-night stand. A real milestone. The tacky sheets beneath you are proof enough of your accomplishment. 

The sadness slithers in when you realize that it’s over. One and done. In a half hour or so, the man plastered against your back and breathing heavily on the crown of your head will wake up, groggy and bleary eyed, and side-eye you until you put back on your clothes from the night before and slink out, tail tucked between your legs. A few hours delayed from when you were planning to throw in the towel at the bar, but still. In the end, it always comes around. 

A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach and shoving his raw cock into your cunt and it’s only now that it dawns on you that you were too horny last night to remember to ask him to use protection. 

The thought is wiped from your head when he bucks his hips forward, impaling you on his swollen length. You lose track of time after that. 

Breakfast is an informal affair. Cereal from a box and a bit too much milk, and a cup of instant coffee. You wince when you sit down across from Simon at the kitchen table, your inner thighs still tender and pussy sore from the battering it just took. If it strokes his ego to see how gingerly you sit down, he doesn’t show it. 

It’s weird sitting across the table from him after last night. Hard to just leave it unaddressed, the truth simmering in the air. The red marks across his back make you wince, cheeks heating. Thin crescent marks and scored nails. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with the girl from last night. 

He eats in silence for the most part though, ravenous after the night before. Doesn’t comment on the state of his shoulders or the way you shift on your chair. Not even bothering to make eye contact with you. Your appetite takes a bit of a hit watching him shovel food into his mouth, hardly even pausing long enough to breathe, but you’ve seen plenty of hungry men eat before. 

Still though, silence has always had a way of getting under your skin. You’re not comfortable around it, prone to chattering. So you can’t help the way your mouth opens and the words come out involuntarily. 

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I don’t shit where I eat,” Simon grunts dismissively.

The expression makes you grimace. “So do you usually pick up girls elsewhere or—”

The look he gives you could melt the flesh off your bones. You realize your misstep, interrogating the man you just fucked about his other hookups. Best not to ask questions. It’s not like you’ll see him again after this. 

These last few moments are bittersweet. There won’t be many opportunities like this in the future, mainly because you don’t think you’re cut out for one-night stands. Last night proved that. As good as it was—and for as many times as you came, another time in the wee hours of the morning when Simon rolled over on top of you and shoved your legs apart to eat you out (a midnight snack)—in the light of day, you feel world weary. Like something monumental happened and passed you by. 

You almost want to thank him for making it special, but the anxiety around finally pissing him off is more than you can bear. You want to leave on a good note. It’s better this way. You’ll never have confirmation about whether he’d eventually grow tired of you like everyone else. Never know if he’d one day manage to lose interest in the real you, not the made up sex kitten from the bar. 

It’s better this way.

You tell yourself that when you push your chair out and stand up, hands fisting in the oversized shirt Simon made you wear before leaving the bedroom. “I should get going.”

He stops eating, staring up at you. His eyes are inscrutable, and the longer he stares, the less you understand his look. 

You shift from foot to foot. “Thanks for… I had a good time.”

Simon doesn’t say anything, but when he drops his spoon into the bowl, the metal clang makes you flinch. 

His silence leaves you off balance, like you’ve overstepped somehow. All motion stills under his scrutiny. 

“Got somewhere ya need to be?” he asks, a vague, almost menacing undercurrent in his voice. It’s said like a warning. There shouldn’t be anywhere else you need to be. 

“I…—don’t you want me to leave?”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “You gonna walk home like that?” His words make you tug at his shirt, pulling it down to cover your thighs.

Your whole life has been made up of misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Men who you thought loved you vanishing into thin air. You’re a poem often lost in translation. A long game of hide and seek; people run towards you then feign right, leaving you in the dust. 

Whatever this is, you don’t recognize it. 

You swallow on a dry throat. “…No?”

Simon searches your expression for something before he nods, satisfied. “Then sit the fuck back down. Finish your damn breakfast.”

You sit back down (wincing when you do) because the alternative is admitting that you don’t know what’s next. That you’re out of step again, but this time without that sinking feeling in your belly. A wild fluttering instead. That thought again that maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew. 

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

[moonchildstyles]

fender

it's 1976, and harry is the biggest rockstar in the world and y/n never thought she would have the chance to meet her idol. especially not like this.

wordcount: 12k+

—————

(Y/N) swore she could feel every note from the blaring speakers in her veins, her bones rattling from the base. Her skin was heated, a sheen of sweat covering every exposed inch. Bodies were packed all around her, dancing and jumping, hands in the air just as hers were. The bar of the barricade pressed heavily against her stomach, holding her back with a cool punch through her clothing. She'd never been to a concert by herself before, but she was finding she didn't mind the fact she was on her own, her dancing much more inhibited with her voice beginning to crackle from the sheer pitch of the screams she was letting out. 

Before her, up high on the stage with the bright lights cloaking his form, was her favorite rockstar. 

Harry Styles. 

In flared bell bottoms, and chest bare, he pranced across the stage, taking in every adoring eye trained on him. His trusted guitarist was shredding away on his neon orange Fender, taking care of the hard work so Harry could swagger about the stage with his microphone swinging in his hand. Sweat dripped down the blocks of his muscles, shimmering as if he had spread the glitter on his eyes over the rest of his body. His lips were curled in a lopsided smile, smug and cocky; he was more than aware of the fact that thousands had filled this arena just to see him. 

Another upside to having made it to this show by herself, (Y/N) didn't feel all that silly when she screamed that much louder when he strided over to her side of the stage. Dimples dented the rockstar's cheeks as he took in the adoration being flung at him from all sides. He scanned through the crowd, taking in every set of sparkling eyes and no doubt spotting every beautiful face that was more than willing to do just about anything for him. 

While this was the first time (Y/N) had the privilege of seeing Harry live (after having missed both his '73, and '75 tours, it seemed '76 was finally her year) it was no secret just how much love he liked to share with his fans. He never denied it in interviews and more than once photographs of women draped over him had come to light and landed on the front cover of tabloids, or anonymous sources sharing details of sordid nights in his bed. Whenever confronted with questions about those stories or who he was pictured with, he famously gave a dimpled smile and shrugged it of, saying something about how he fell in love easily and didn't shy away from the feeling. 

She wondered what she saw when he looked out at the huddles of people looking up at him tonight—if he saw someone he could fall in love with for the night. 

As the song continued on, it was time for his next verse though he didn't stray from this side of the stage. He brought the microphone to his lips, crooning his famous lyrics in perfect melody with the rest of his band. He put on a show where he stood as he sang a particularly suggestive line while trailing a hand down his bare stomach, hooking a finger into the waist of his pants to bring them down for a teasing peek of more skin before snapping back into place. 

(Y/N) felt her breath catch in her lungs, immensely grateful for how close she'd made it to the stage. She wouldn't have been able to see the thatch of hair he revealed had she been any farther back. Screamed erupted around her, Harry seemingly liking the reaction so much he had to pull away from his microphone to let out a bubble of laughter. By the time he went back to doing his job, there was a particularly smug smile on his lips with matching dimples and amused eyes.

He continued to sing even as pairs of panties and lacy bras were thrown up to the stage, women screaming for his attention with their shirts pressed up to expose their chests. He weaved around the set up, playing with his bandmates to the excitement of his fans. He soaked it all in with exuberant confidence, shining under the stage lights and he put on his show. (Y/N) felt breathless as she sang along with him, her bones rattling as the pit danced around her, pushing her harder against the barricade at her stomach. 

By the time the final lines of the song came around, he had made his way back to (Y/N)'s side of the stage. She and the fans around her danced and sang along, her voice scratching in the back of her throat as she gazed up at him. The tune ended in a flourish of drum beats, heavy and bone rattling through the arena. 

Harry finished with phantom punches to the air in time with the drum beats just before the lights went down for a flickering moment. His chest was heaving by the time the lights came up once more, his band breaking to take sips of water, his guitarist changing out instruments for another, just as flashy, guitar. The spotlight was dead center on Harry, his eyes casting far out to the rest of the packed arena before him. (Y/N) went her mouth drop into a gape as she took in the man before her—no photograph able to do him justice. 

"Everyone still doing good? Having fun?" his voice boomed through the speakers, gesticulating with his hands as if he could reach to the back stretches of the venue. The arena erupted once more, pitched screams calling for his attention. He let out a breathy laugh into the microphone. "I'd hope so," he crooned, "because I'm having a wonderful time. So many pretty faces—thank y'for coming to see me tonight." 

He reveled under the cheers given to him, going quiet as he turned his gaze down, to the pit closest to him. 

To where (Y/N) was standing right in front of him. 

His eyes lingered over the rows behind her before coming closer, stopping a little too close for comfort. 

(Y/N) didn't want to get too far ahead of herself, but was he looking at her?

"And what about right here?" he asked, bending down to one knee at the edge of the stage as if he wasn't close enough already, "Having fun?" 

Those around her burst into screams, pressing behind her as if they could surge through her and get closer to the rockstar. Her vision was vignetted with all the reaching hands attempting to touch him, fingers outstretched. (Y/N)'s reaction was stuck in her chest, her body stunned into paralysis with sweaty hands tightening around the barricade bar.

His only acknowledgment of the rest of the world came in the form of a quirked lip while his eyes stayed fixed to one spot. The longer she blinked up at him, no reaction, his smile grew, a brow lifting. 

Whatever view the rest of the venue was getting had another round of raucous reactions. 

Finally mustering enough wherewithal, (Y/N) nodded her head, her mouth still in a small gape. 

The quirk in his lips tilted that much more, a dimple settling in his cheek with a hint of the white of his teeth. "Yeah?" 

Though inaudible compared to the ruckus around her, she nodded her head with a parroted, "Yeah." 

His eyes lingered on her for a passing moment, the tip of his tongue peaking out to skim the blunt of his teeth. Around her, (Y/N) could feel the screams just as much as she heard them, the volume coasting over her skin and seeping through her pores.

"'M gonna make tonight the best night of your life, yeah?" he pressed, speaking directly to her though the world had their own view of the moment.

Another stunned wave touched (Y/N)'s bones, stuttering her lungs and knocking her breath askew. If she wasn't being delusional—something she couldn't be one hundred percent sure of—there was a chance Harry's eyes touched over the neckline of her top, following the line of her exposed skin. 

She gave him a small nod. 

He gave her another smile before rising to the full of his height once more, the stretch of his body on display. Waltzing over the stage, (Y/N) knew he was speaking, pointing out more in the crowd and doing what he did best by enchanting the masses and bending them to his will, though she didn't hear a word of it. 

The trail of his gaze left behind a warmth like he had touched her with his own hands, enough pressure lingering on her skin even when another song started up. 

Once the first verse of the song had played, (Y/N) felt her body come back to life slowly, the gravity of the moment beginning to turn into adrenaline. The man she had a hidden poster of had just made eye contact with her and told her he'd make her night special. Harry Styles had looked at her. 

Thank god she showed up early tonight. This barricade was now holy ground as far as she was concerned. 

Just as she began to sway along with the rest of the bodies around her, checking back into reality, the rockstar swaggered across the stage once more, taking his time to prowl before her. 

He looked out in the crowd, reaching far back before trailing closer to where she stood just in front of him once more. He shuttered a single eye in a wink to her with a stanza of particularly suggestive lyrics dripping from his lips.

This time she couldn't help the scream that bellowed from her lungs, only spurred on by the grin on his face.

—————

"See? If you ask nicely, y'get what y'want, don't you?" 

Harry's booming voice reawakened the arena. He was giving them the encore they had been begging him for once he exited the stage, the chants of his name being enough to have his band reenter with the rockstar himself following closely behind. (Y/N)'s heart thundered in her chest, cheers leaving her throat. 

Mourning the end of the show could wait another ten minutes. 

The opening notes of a new tune started, the shredding of the guitar screeching through the arena. (Y/N) couldn't take her eyes off of Harry as he pranced across the space, his jeans sitting low on his hips (at the right angle, she swore she saw a decidedly thick bulge at his crotch—more than just needing a readjustment).

(Y/N) only had a chance to hear the first few lines of the opening verse before a large man in all black came to block her view. If not for the fact she was currently—as promised—having the best night of her life, she would have thrown a fit. She instead attempted to crane her neck around this block and catch glimpses of Harry for the last few moments of the night.

"Sweetheart," he yelled against the bass coming from the speakers, "You're coming with me." 

Blinking, (Y/N) forced her gaze to settle on this man. Just as she feared, he was looking right at her as he spoke. 

Though she was largely unwilling to not pay attention to the concert of her life, she didn't think she had much of a choice in ignoring this man. 

"Me?" she enunciated, pointing at herself if he wasn't able to hear her right. 

"Yes, you," he said again, eyes trained on her, "Now. Before the end of the show."

Had she done something wrong? She couldn't imagine she was any more rowdy than the rest of the crowd (especially, as she still had all of her undergarments on and her nose clean), but she was the one being removed? 

"Why?" she sputtered, anchoring to her spot. 

The man's lips thinned, unimpressed with her pushback. "I've been asked to bring you backstage." 

(Y/N) blanched at the new information. "By who?" she pressed, not entirely believing this moment. 

The man sighed, his shoulders lifting. He caught her gaze, holding it as he jerked his head to gesture to the stage behind him. 

Right where Harry Styles was prancing about, low slung jeans and all.

She blinked at him, flicking between his enlarged gaze to the rockstar at his back. "Really?" 

"Yes," he insisted, "And I would like to take you now while we still have the space." 

(Y/N) didn't immediately move, switching her eyes to Harry Styles, in all of his glistening glory. The curls on the top of his head were slick with sweat, but still managed to flop so handsomely over his features. His tattoos shuddered over his skin, animating with every belting note and roll of his body. 

He had promised to make this the best night of her life, and she couldn't imagine any better way than to meet him backstage. 

With the help of the man in black, she crossed the barricade with the eyes of those around her following closely behind. He led her carefully around the stage and through different equipment on quick feet, the music being left behind with the private backstage area before her. 

Chancing a look over her shoulder, Harry, with his microphone cord coiled around his hand and sparkling eyes, winked at her once more. 

—————

Sitting alone in what she figured was Harry's dressing room, (Y/N) could hear the final encore being played through the walls. While a part of her was itching to run back out, to catch those moments she had been looking forward to from the second she had bought her ticket, she was practically bolted to her spot. 

All around her were small relics of the man out on that stage. An herbal candle sat with a pool of melted wax on the vanity table, anchoring down a blue cloth. Flecks of glitter seemed to stick to near every surface, leaving specks of light dotted across every surface, including the familiar container of makeup remover reflected in the mirror. A faded t-shirt was on the ground, next to a rumpled pair of athletic sweats. A bottle of cologne balanced on the edge, just a bump away from falling to the floor. 

Her fingers fumbled in her lap, her heart puttering in her chest. She was backstage at a Harry Styles concert after being requested by the man himself. Knowing his discography well enough, every note that rocked through the walls acted like a ticking time clock, counting down to the moment she would no longer be alone in this dressing room. 

Muffled through the arena, she heard the music crescendoing, heavy drumbeats and addicting guitar riffs ruffling the structure. Harry's voice played over the music, though it was clear he wasn't singing. Was he saying his goodbyes for the night? 

The thought had her heart jumping into her throat, head going blank. 

Should she stand up? Should she meet him up there? Would he like her outfit or was the cutout between her breasts too much? Oh god, what was she going to say? 

Her pulse was kicked into overdrive when she heard a ruckus start up backstage, more voices piping up than she'd heard in the last ten minutes. Harry's voice had disappeared from the muffled tone he'd had on stage, making her pulse kick up that much more. 

How close was he? Was anyone else going to come back here with him? Would he think her pants were stupid?

The long line of questions came to a halt the second the doorknob turned, the sound seemingly louder than the band playing the show out back on the stage. A muffled goodbye sounded on the other side before the first glimpse of the rockstar could be seen.

He was looking over his shoulder, speaking to someone she couldn't see around the broad strokes of his frame. His bare skin shimmered with sweat and glitter, animating his tattoos over the blocks of his muscles. The denim of his jeans were tight around his thighs though the waist still managed to fall some down his hips, showcasing a pair of leafy tattoos. He was saying something, a string of words that she missed completely over the roaring in her ears. 

It felt like hours, watching him say his final goodbyes to whoever, before he finally turned around to face her. 

Had her mouth already been dropped open, or was that just a side effect of seeing the green of his eyes up close? 

"Hi," he smiled at her, moving towards his vanity table to retrieve the blue cloth held down under the candle, "How are you?" 

Blinking, (Y/N) practically stumbled to her feet, her hands behind her back in a fumbling mess. "Hi. I'm good, thank you. How are you?" 

A small smile touched his lips, "'M alright, thanks. 'M Harry." 

It was (Y/N)'s turn to smile, a breath of laughter falling from her lips. "Oh, you're Harry! Got it," she attempted to joke, feeling one of the many strings tensing her shoulders being cut when he rewarded her with a bubbling laugh. "I'm (Y/N)." 

"Nice to meet you, (Y/N)," he shared, a single curl flopping over his forehead as he ran the cloth over his face and down his neck, "'M happy y'made it back here—was worried y'weren't going to come after seeing y'talk to Paul." 

"I was just a little confused," she explained, noting the way his eyes dropped to her lips as she spoke, "I couldn't believe you were actually asking for me." 

"No?" he pressed, raising a brow with a quirk to his lips. He leant against the vanity counter, giving her all of his attention as if he wasn't shirtless with a sweaty chest staring at her. "And why is that, hm?" 

Somehow, even without the amps and speakers booming throughout the venue, his voice held more impact in the quiet dressing room. The bass seemed heavier, his accent more drawling, the draw of his lips more alluring without a microphone in the way. 

"Um," she started, blinking the stars out of her eyes, "Just... There was a lot going on out there—I didn't think you could even see me over the lights—or the bras." 

Harry laughed, dimples popping into his cheeks with a light in his eyes. "Yeah, there was a lot out there tonight. Want anything before 's all cleaned up out there?" 

He gestured out the door of his dressing room while (Y/N) shrugged. "Maybe. Was there anything pretty?" 

The way he let his eyes drop heavily to her body, touching over the cutout on her top and the soft of her midriff exposed by the cropped fit almost made (Y/N) want to stumble back. When he dared to meet her eyes once more, he had a coy curl to his lips as if she hadn't been there as he dragged his eyes over her. 

"I can think of a couple of things that might look pretty on you." 

Despite the small laugh that puffed from her lips, her heart hammered in her chest. She hadn't wanted to get too far ahead of herself when she was first asked to meet him backstage, but it was hard to ignore the way he looked at her and still think this was nothing more than a friendly conversation. 

"If there's anything you don't want, I'll take," she countered, hoping he couldn't hear the sound of her heartbeat with the way it was rushing through her ears. 

The coy smile on his mouth turned into something more genuine then, amusement in his eyes. "Yeah? Y'saw anything y'think I need to take home?" 

Even with the squeeze of her lungs, the nervous pit in her stomach, (Y/N) saw her own opportunity being dangled before her. She hoped she came off as nonchalant as she pictured as she shrugged, canting her head with a slight lick of her gaze down his chest. "I think you look good enough right now." 

While there was still a lingering flush on his cheeks from the stage, the adrenaline clearly visible on his features, her words seemingly only fanned him hotter. The cloth he held was now dropped to the vanity, his empty hands coming to rest on the lip of the counter behind him. His arms flexed at his sides, veins popping out on his forearms. 

"Good enough for what?" he pressed, a spark skittering through his eyes.

He hadn't shot her down. He was flirting back. Oh, god. 

What would one of the women in the magazines say? How did they flirt with him so effortlessly to be invited for a fanciful—even if fleeting—night? 

"You tell me," she countered, the only syllables that were able to squeak through her throat. 

Dimples were deep in his cheeks by the time he turned around, collecting the bottle of makeup remover before pouring some on his cloth. He began wiping away the glitter as he found her eyes in the mirror. 

"The band and I are going back to the hotel with a few friends—maybe party a little. Y'wanna come?" 

Bubbling excitement like what she felt out on the arena floor reentered her stomach. A bright smile touched her features. 

"I'd love to."

—————

"Pick your poison, darling." 

(Y/N) didn't even know there were hotel rooms with fully stocked bars, but here was one right before her. A liquor tray behind the counter was decorated with plenty of bottles and decanters, more than half already missing gulps. Harry was acting as her bartender while the rest of the band and various guests were traipsing around the suite, the door to the hallway left wide open as they milled in and out. Music pumped through a set of stereo speakers, a member of Harry's band acting as DJ with various records and cassettes being switched in and out upon the players. 

More than one familiar face swept through the suite, people she'd seen in the crowd of the arena tonight alongside those she'd met backstage. Some left the bathrooms with wide eyes and sniffling noses, others with hair bigger than when they had gone in and lipstick askew with a partner behind them. It was nowhere near the kind of party she had pictured when following after Harry, but she'd never been around rockstars before either. 

Flitting her gaze over the various bottles surrounding Harry, (Y/N) canted her head. "Anything sweet." 

Harry hummed, a slight quirk to his lips as he started fiddling about the different bottles. "Should've guessed, hm?" 

"Why do you say that?" 

Leaning on the bar, arms folded underneath her chest with her breasts pushed up, (Y/N) watched with her eyes lingering on his hands. All of his stage adornments, including his rings, had been left behind when he changed into something decidedly less ostentatious for this party, leaving the length of his fingers bare for her eyes to feast upon. 

"Jus' had a feeling," he smiled at her, his eye falling into a wink. 

(Y/N) watched with the same rapt attention she had given him on stage as he mixed her drink. He pulled bottles of clear liquor together with various juices, working in smooth movements as a brightly colored cocktail came together. Everything he did came off as fluid and practiced, the same kind of ease he offered to the stage with every note he belted and swagger of his hips.

"We jus' got here," Harry murmured, knocking her attention from his hands to his amused gaze, "Y'can't keep looking at me like that unless you're ready for our night to end." 

Her breath caught in her throat. He'd told her earlier that this entire floor had been booked out for him and his band, but his room was at the very end. The biggest suite, he'd said—with a terrace and everything. 

Would it be so bad to find out what his room looked like so early?

Attempting her best nonchalant facade, (Y/N) shrugged, a coy smile on her face. It was enough to make Harry laugh. 

She could see him open his mouth to say something only to be cut off by a shout of his name from across the room. He whipped to face the call, the baby curls drying on the back of his neck giving a bounce at the motion. (Y/N) turned to follow his line of sight, seeing a semi-familiar face she had passed when backstage heading towards them with a beaming smile. 

"I didn't know you were here! Took you forever to clean up, I thought you were spending the night at the venue," the man joked, pushing long dreads over his shoulder. His dark eyes danced over to (Y/N) for a fleeting second, his grin widening. "Is this your friend Mitch was telling me about?" 

Rounding the bar with a fluorescent drink in his hand, Harry handed off the glass to (Y/N) (no ice, the crystal warm from his hand) before slinging his arm over her shoulder. She felt a shiver touch the bottom of her spine, though she used all of her effort to keep it pinned down.

Harry shrugged her closer to him, the side of her breast pushing against him through the thin material of her top. "Yeah, this is (Y/N). Met at the show—saw her pretty face right in the front row." 

Harry's friend looked at her with raised brows, amusement laced in his eyes as he followed the length of Harry's arm around her shoulders. "Yeah? Liked the show?" 

(Y/N) eagerly nodded, Harry's hold slipping from around her shoulders to be readjusted around her waist with a flex. She could feel his eyes on her face as he awaited her answer. "Loved it," she chirped, smiling with a cant to her head, "I've never seen him live before, so tonight was really amazing. I feel really lucky." 

Maybe she was laying it on thick—she already made it backstage with his arm around her waist, she didn't have to catch his attention anymore—,but she liked seeing the dimples denting into his cheeks as he listened to her. 

"I didn't know tonight was your first time," he mumbled to her, voice low as if they didn't have another person standing just in front of them, watching on with amused eyes. 

"I'd feel lucky too if I were you," the man continued, his voice lilting in a tease, "Most of Harry's friends never make it past the dressing room."

"Alright, Jay," Harry cut in, voice louder than a moment before as he suddenly steered them towards the end of the conversation, "I'll see y'later. Thanks." 

Jay only laughed it off, seemingly having achieved the reaction he wanted from Harry. (Y/N) didn't let herself linger on the motion of Harry's other friends—she knew she wasn't first and would most likely not be the last. Some of her wildest dreams had been reached just by meeting him, she could be happy with whatever she was granted tonight. Even if it was just that: one night. 

"Sorry," Harry murmured, saving face as he guided (Y/N) away from Jay and towards the sitting area where most of the musicians were huddled together with drinks and records splayed across the coffee table. She ignored the faint lines of white scattered over the recognizable covers. "He likes to get on m'nerves, I think." 

"It's alright," (Y/N) reassured, watching as Harry sunk into the one cushion left on the couch, "I thought it was funny." 

Harry raised a brow at her, a sly smile on his lips, "'M sure y'did. C'mere darling."

He gestured her to his lap, opening his arms for her to plant herself on his thighs. Looking at him with his eyes trained upwards at her, sparkling and a bit lazy after putting on an energetic show, (Y/N) felt her skin warm. She had to make a point to see from tripping all over herself to take up his invitation. 

There were eyes all around that watched as she took her spot on Harry's spread thighs, taking note of his arm wrapping around her middle to keep her steady. She had her own eyes down looking at her pretty drink as she hid the smile on her face. The cropped cut of her top allowed his palms to press against the bare skin of her waist, calluses roughening his touch from his years of playing different guitars. She was sure he could feel the line of goosebumps that rose in the wake of his touch, including the circuit his thumb started up around the waistline of her pants. 

(Y/N) brought her head up when she heard the call of Harry's name from one of the many sitting around the coffee table. The guitarist—Mitch—had his head tilted, looking at Harry with a sly smile on his face. 

"Mitchell?" Harry drawled, a teasing lilt to his voice as he pulsed a hand on (Y/N)'s waist. 

"Are you going to introduce any of us to your friend?" 

While Mitch and others in the circle didn't look particularly surprised to see someone on Harry's arm, it appeared Jay wasn't kidding with his comment about a rare few of Harry's friends making it past the dressing room. 

"This is (Y/N), everyone," Harry relented, his voice low despite the music blasting just behind them. Nonetheless, everyone gave him rapt attention as if he had a microphone in his hand. "(Y/N), this is everyone." 

"Hi, everyone," (Y/N) smiled, hoping she came off funnier than she sounded to herself,  "Nice to meet you." 

She could feel Harry laugh, his chest puffing from behind her. She took another sip of her drink, hiding her proud smile. 

Conversation bubbled up then, some words slurred and slow while others were rambling at a rapid pace. (Y/N) sipped her drink as she took in the environment, listening in as if she were watching a movie. Harry's rumbling voice was an anchor at her back, his hand on her thigh keeping her attention as she tuned into his voice. 

Behind her, he and Mitch were talking about the new customer Fender that was being made in Harry's honor. Perfect for the next album, she'd heard, the information brightening up her face. 

"What are y'smiling about, hm? Something funny?" Harry's lips brushed the back of her ear, his voice drifting down the column of her neck. As he spoke he shifted his hand up to land on her waist, giving the curve a tickling squeeze. She jumped in his lap, holding her drink tight to her chest as she let out a gasping laugh. 

"No," she smiled, turning to face him as he gazed up at her, "Just... New music? Already?" 

"'M always working on something," he murmured, keeping his voice quiet as if conspiring with her on sensitive secrets. 

Curling in his chest, (Y/N) could still hear the rivers of conversations flowing around them, eyes that landed on her as she cuddled up to a rockstar, but she kept her eyes on him. "Really? But you're on tour." 

He shrugged around her. "There's always something to write about," he told her, eyes dragging down her face until he landed on her lips, "Something worth making a song about." 

Her skin heated, feeling his gaze as if he touched her with his calloused fingers. Feeling his attention so heavily was like finishing her drink and standing on a rooftop over the city: exhilarating. How had anyone before her survived these kinds of moments—been bold enough to sit through them without taking down every second and memorializing it?

She wasn't sure what he saw in her face, but whatever it was had the corner of his lips turning upwards. A smug smile molded his features. 

"What did I say about looking at me like that?" he murmured, his words teasing though the grip on her hip was far from. 

Canting her head, she matched his gaze, his grip on her keeping her grounded. "I thought you liked it." 

In that moment, his eyes seemingly darkened, pupil dilating. If not for the rest of the noise around them—the music and loud conversation—she wondered what his instincts would have urged him to do. 

"I do," he crooned, shifting under her with his hand still on her hip. 

The way he moved underneath her had her position adjusted on his lap, pushing the curve of her ass right against the middle of his thighs. A hard ridge pressed against her. Emphasizing his point exactly. 

"Oh," she sighed, feeling breathless as if she were still flush against the barricade with an illuminated rockstar before her. It was that memory of him swaggering about the stage, picking her face out and singing the songs she'd listened to like gospel, that had a burst of confidence in her chest. That rockstar had picked her. 

Keeping her eyes on his, she whispered, "Can I hear some of the new music? In your suite?" 

She didn't have to elaborate any further, Harry catching on to the undercurrent to her words. A single dimple touched his cheek, his hand pulsing around her hip. "Let's go." 

(Y/N) stood first off of his lap with Harry following after, reaching to take her hand in his. 

"Leaving already?" Mitch piped up, his eyes dancing with amusement as Harry turned to face him. 

"Gonna show her some of the stuff we've been working on," Harry drawled, nonchalant as he began inching towards the door, "Back in m'room." 

"Coming back?" 

Harry glanced at (Y/N) then, a silent communication that had her sheepishly smiling. "Probably not." 

"Right," Mitch said, brows bouncing over his eyes, "See you in the morning." 

Without much ceremony, Harry made their getaway for the night, leading her out into the hall. Stragglers were stationed around the ajar door, some with a lingering powder under their nose, others with hair messed up more than what (Y/N) was sure was intentional, matching the smudged makeup. Harry only gave them an acknowledging nod before heading down the corridor with her in tow. 

It was a short walk to the door, though (Y/N) hoped to be able to recall every step down the hall, every beat of her heart against her ribs in the morning. 

"After you," he crooned, opening the door with a flourish as he stood to the side. 

She gave him a smiling nod as she crossed the threshold. The press of his gaze could be felt on her backside. 

Flicking the lights on, a true suite was presented to her. She could only see the bedroom through a cracked door. The main living area, though much more put together compared to the room they'd just left, it was still clear a rockstar was crashing there. Random clothing was strewn about the space, open suitcases full of stage clothing as well as casual pieces. A heavy boombox with an array of tapes scattered around it was placed atop the television. 

It wasn't nearly as bad as she had thought it would be, given the rumors of what rock stars got up to in hotel rooms, but she figured that was what the extra rooms were for. It wasn't much fun sleeping in a mess, especially when on stage every night with little sleep to boot. 

"Didn't have time to clean up today, sorry," Harry said, closing the door behind them.

(Y/N) smiled over her shoulder at him, setting her cocktail on the counter of the kitchenette as she walked deeper into the suite. "Too busy?" 

Dimples in his cheeks, he walked slowly as he followed her in. "A little bit." 

Stepping around the mess, she found herself by the sound system, rifling through the cassettes he had around it. The plastic casing gleamed in the light, more than a handful scattered on the television stand. A few familiar, newer albums stood out. 

Bowie, Station to Station. Queen, Day at the Races. Ramones' debut. Elton John, Blue Moves.

One empty case was beside the player, the cover flipped open with the tape missing. Flicking it back, the cover of ABBA's Arrival shone. 

"ABBA?" 

Behind her, Harry slipped an arm around her waist, looking over her shoulder. "What? Y'don't like disco?" 

"I do," she laughed, turning around to face him, "Just didn't picture you as a dancing queen, that's all. You look a little bit older than seventeen." 

Harry clasped his hands behind her back, his fingers pressing into the bare skin presented through the crop of her shirt. His features were softened as he matched her gaze, eyes hooded and heavy. "Does that disqualify me?" 

"Probably." She wasn't sure when they started whispering, when his fingertips on her back began to creep under the hem of her top, but she melted into his touch with her own hands settling on his chest. 

"Still like me?" 

It should have been annoying to hear him speak this way. It wasn't hard to detect the cockiness—near arrogance—in his voice; he knew the answer before he'd even posed the question. It should have turned her off and had her taking her leave. 

But, it only had the opposite effect. His confidence was a warmth hitting her stomach.

With him so close, their bodies flush, she didn't have to try very hard when she shifted her hips to feel the bulge in his pants pressing to the small of her stomach. 

"Yeah," she answered simply, voice suddenly breathless. 

Just as she expected, a smug smile had his lips curling. His hooded gaze traveled around her features, the tip of his tongue skimming the corner of his mouth.

"How much?" 

This was the moment, she decided. There was no way she was in a rockstar's hotel room, after being plucked from the crowd at his request, feet away from his bedroom, and not going to take the opportunity that was being offered on a silver platter. 

"I can show you." 

That had to have been what he wanted to hear, given the fact he surged forward and sealed his lips to hers. 

Unsurprisingly (not that she'd thought about it, or anything), his lips were soft, molding to the shape of her own glossed pair. He slotted his mouth to fit her top lip between the pillows of his two, the tip of his tongue slicking the seam. The smoky taste of the whisky he'd drunk back in the other suite lingered on his tongue, mixing with the sweet liquor of her own sips. 

His hands on her back flattened out, leaving on her bare skin between the waist of her pants and the cropped hem of her top, with the other slipping underneath. His palm was aligned with the knobs of her spine, spanning between her shoulder blades under the thin material of her top.

Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss as he pulled her closer. The soft sound of their lips parting and meeting once more filled his hotel room, slick and messy. His tongue snaked out, sampling a taste of her own when she opened her mouth just enough for him. (Y/N)'s chest shuddered. 

She was kissing Harry fucking Styles. 

She hadn't kept a diary in years, but she was going to have to crack open a new one just to write out every detail of this moment. (Though, she might leave out the bit about how ABBA's Dancing Queen got them there).

"What are y'smiling about?" 

"Hm?" (Y/N) hummed, hands traveling up his chest to follow the broad stretch of his shoulders. 

He pulled away, keeping his body close to hers as he gazed down at her. His lips were glossed with their shared spit, his pupils blown. "You're smiling. What's funny, hm?" 

His hand under her top shifted until he had his palm over her side, lining up with the ladder of her ribs. Goosebumps touched over her heated skin. 

"Nothing," she murmured, her own hands moving until she had his cheeks cupped in her palms. "Just... This is crazy." 

His eyes practically sparkled with the way she breathlessly spoke. Leaning close, he nudged his nose against hers, eyes slitted. "Yeah?" 

Gone was the smile on her face as she listened to the same voice that had soundtracked her life for the last handful of years. All while he looked at her with kiss-swollen lips and hooded eyes, his hard cock pressing through the material of his pants. 

"Yeah," she parroted, breathy with the word sweeping over his lips. 

It was his turn to smile, surging forward to smear his lips against hers. It was a lingering press, just a bit clumsy with the way his nose knocked hers. She was expecting him to tip his head and deepen the kiss once more, only for him to pull away. 

"I think I promised some new music, right, love?" 

Blinking up at him through her lashes, in a second she was transported back to the other suite, where she had conjured up the story of sneaking to his room to hear new tracks. That felt like hours ago—like she had been a different person back then. Someone who had never kissed Harry Styles before, at least. 

"Right," she smiled, playing along with the game he was proposing, "In your bedroom?" 

A smile grew on his lips. "Of course. Where else?" 

She let out a breathy laugh as she followed after him, hands twined together as they left behind the cassettes and strewn clothing for his darkened bedroom. Different from the rest of the suite, only lamps are left to light the room. Only a single standing lamp beside the rumpled bed was flicked on, leaving a small wash of light sitting on the messy sheets and the bedside table on the opposing side. The space holding a smokey sweet scent, matching the fragrance of his skin. A mess of unlabelled cassettes occupied the bedside table, with another more compact player off to the side. 

Shooting her a lopsided smile, Harry led her to the side table. His hand still in hers, he rifled through the tapes with his free hand. 

"What do y'want to listen to first?" 

The blank bricks held no indication of what could be on them other than a silver sharpie marking them as demos with different numbers. 

"This is your new music?" she murmured, eyes widening when she realized what she was looking at. 

"Mhm," he hummed, the weight of his eyes hitting the line of her profile, "Wanna hear m'favorites?" 

Looking at him through the fan of her lashes, she gave him a nod, pretending as if she wasn't as excited as she really was. She figured being giddy over a couple of tapes wasn't exactly a sexy look. 

Deft fingers pulled out a tape marked as Demo #4 before setting it into the player. Through the speakers, the sound was crackly and quiet compared to the records of his voice she had in her bedroom. The guitar started first, the chords wavy and psychedelic, the guitarist letting the notes linger as if they were melting through the speakers. 

Just as a familiar voice sounded over the notes, Harry pulled her flush to his chest with the help of the grip on her hand. His free hand cupped her cheek, his lips meeting hers in a clumsy mess. He fit her bottom lip between his two, immediately touching the tip of his tongue to the full center of her lip. (Y/N) didn't have to think before she had her mouth parted, letting him in once more. 

Letting go of his hand, she curled her fingers into the material of his shirt, clinging to him. She hadn't been aware her nails could be felt through the thin fabric until a shuddering breath rocked his chest. 

Walking her the short steps backwards, Harry blindly guided her to the edge of the bed. Her knees gave way to the mattress before she fell backwards, Harry following after with his hips fit between her thighs. 

The chains of his necklace dangled over the base of her throat, a cool point of clarity against the rising warmth of her skin. His hands skated down her sides, grazing the bare skin presented from the cut of her top. Her hips fit against his like a puzzle piece, cradling as he pushed against her core with lingering rocks. 

While his hands roamed over her form with their lips locked, (Y/N) took advantage of her position under him and locked a leg over his hip. Reaching up, she racked her fingers through his hair. The curls threaded around her fingers, a low rumble coming from his throat when she pulled just enough at the roots. 

The bass of his moan came just as there was a peak to his voice playing through the cassette player. (Y/N) was reminded she was making out with a rockstar to his own unreleased music. Her hips rocked upwards at the thought. 

Harry began to kiss down her chin, over her neck, and to the shelf of her collarbones while he fit the lengths of his fingers under the material of her top. Her bare skin sang for him, blood rushing through her veins. 

His lips travelled down until he hit the neckline of her shirt. "Can I take this off?" he murmured into her skin, the words sinking into her pores. 

"Uh-huh," she nodded, goosebumps rising when the tip of his nose brushed her neck. "Please." 

She could feel the way he smiled at her response, the curl pressed into her skin before he bit at the line of her collarbone. Her grip in his hair tightened at the short sting, her leg curling that much more around his hip. 

As promised, Harry, with his hands underneath her shirt, helped slide it over her head. Reluctantly, she pulled her hands from his hair and raised up from the bed long enough for him to slip it off her form and for the garment to become another piece of clothing puddled on the floor. 

Without a bra, her breasts were exposed to the buttery light of the lamp. Her nipples peaked in the cool air, her chest rising and falling with each breath she pulled in. Harry didn't wait before he lowered his face to her breasts, smearing his lips over the swells. He scraped his teeth along the plush skin, leaving tender marks in his wake. Her hands once again found his hair, burying her fingers among the strands. 

After a particularly harsh bite, she pulled his hair harshly. She could feel the sly smile that touched at his lips. 

"Feeling good, baby? Like it when I bite you?"

 She gave a clumsy nod of her head, mouth opened in a soundless nod. With her hands in his hair, she pulled him to her nipple, wanting the sting of his bite on the tender bud. 

He didn't immediately give in, only pecking a soft kiss to the peak before looking up at her through the frame of his lashes. "Want me rough? Like it like that?" 

Mindlessly nodding, she keened at the rumbling of his voice. "I like it rough," she bubbled, speaking over the unedited melodies of his voice. 

Instead of responding, Harry gave her what she wanted, his teeth scraping over her nipple. With her hands still in his hair, she gripped the strands at the roots, her back bowing into his lips. Her lips parted with a breathy moan. 

Harry took care of her, his mouth skating over her breasts. His teeth left tender spots—some she almost wanted to leave bruises—with his tongue following in the way, soothing the marks. Her stomach tightened with every wet press of his mouth, his hands sliding down to her hips. He played with the waist of her bottoms, his kiss following slowly after as he trailed down the soft of her stomach. The tip of his nose skimmed her skin, a tickling feeling rising in her chest that had a burst of laughter bubbling out. 

With his lips still attached to her, he peered up at her through his lashes. A slow smile stretched his lips, the curl pressing into her skin. 

"You're always laughing, baby," he murmured, "What is it this time, hm?" 

"Tickles," she laughed, the melody floating over the next track playing off of Demo #4.

A plume of his own rumbling laughter grazed her stomach, goosebumps raising on her skin. Cushioned by the messy, tobacco scented sheets, (Y/N) watched with laughter edging on her lips as he nuzzled into her stomach. He made a show of hitting the waist of her pants with his fingers hooked into the band. 

From between her thighs, he looked up at her with hooded eyes. "Gonna take these off, baby. 'S that alright?" 

"Uh-huh," she nodded. With his hair out of reach of her hands, she propped herself up on her elbows to watch as he worked, fingers curling into the sheets. 

With deft hands, Harry made quick work of the garment. It didn't take long before her pants and boots were on the ground beside her discarded top, leaving (Y/N) in nothing more than a pair of string panties. 

(It was done as a joke almost, when she was getting ready, to pick panties as if she was going to be showing off for someone after the show. She'd never been more grateful for that delusional choice).

Harry was still fully clothed as he took his place once more between her legs, laying the broad of his body flush to hers. Her breasts were pressed into the solid blocks of muscle of his chest, only the thin material of his top separating her skin from his. He sealed his lips to hers once more, getting a taste of her tongue against his in broad strokes.

It was her turn to start stripping him, keeping her mouth to his as she plucked at the neckline of his shirt. 

He pulled away with a breath, lips spit-slicked and kiss-swollen. He looked all too satisfied with himself as he gazed down at her, pulling off his shirt. Throwing it somewhere in the room, (Y/N) didn't have a chance to catch the landing before he was crowding around her once more. 

"Trying to get me naked?" he murmured, a teasing thread through his tone, "Think 'm that easy, love?" 

"I'm hoping," she smiled, pecking a messy kiss to the corner of his mouth. She could taste the smear of her lipstick on his skin. 

Chasing after her mouth, he trailed his lips over her cheek, following the line of her cheekbone. Whispering to her, lips brushing her ear, he said, "Y'want me, baby? Tell me." 

Between the press of his covered cock against her pussy, the rumble of his voice through her chest and against the shell of his ear, her eyes fluttered to a close. Her mouth was dropped in a gape, her breathing stilted. 

"I want you," she said, suddenly breathless, "I-I've thought about this before." 

She could hear the smirk in his voice. "Yeah? What've y'thought about, baby?" 

"Yeah," she repeated dazedly, sucking in a harsh gasp when ground down hard between her legs. "I—um—I wondered if all the stories were true. If-if you are really like how everyone says." 

"Is that why y'dressed like this tonight? Hoping you'd find out for yourself?" 

She didn't want to melt over how cocky he was, how sure of himself over assuming she had dressed with him in mind. But, he was right—she wanted him to at least see her, remember her if she was lucky enough. Only in her wildest dreams did she imagine her cutout crop top and tight pants would land her here. 

With her eyes still closed, she nodded her head. "I wanted to know if your songs were true." 

"Which ones?" 

"The ones," she stalled when she felt his hand slip between their bodies, tickling over soft curves of her body until he reached the apex of her thighs.  "Um—the ones about... You sing a lot about eating pussy." 

His laugh was warm, bubbling over her. "I do, don't I?"

"Almost two albums worth," she teased, a lighthearted tone running under her words before she was cut off. 

Between her legs, he made no ceremony of the way he pulled her panties to the side and dragged his fingers through her folds. It wasn't until he split her open that she realized just how wet she'd become. Slick noises from between her legs filled the bedrooms, two of Harry's fingers slipping through her slit in long strokes, prodding at her weeping hole and nudging her clit, in a smooth circuit. 

"What did y'think about when you'd hear those songs?" Harry asked as if she had any mind left to comprehend anything but his touch.

Squeezing her eyes shut when he circled her clit in a teasing touch, she dug her nails into the strapping muscles of his biceps. Under her hands she could feel the way the hand between her legs had his arm flexing with every movement.

"Huh?" 

Through a smile he pressed a messy kiss to the space before her ear. "What did y'think about when y'had your fingers in your pussy?" 

The blunt wording had her insides tightening, a squeeze she was sure he could feel as he brushed over her opening. 

"How did I fuck you in your pretty head, hm? Tell me, baby." 

Her mouth had a mind of its own as she started blabbering off without a thought. "Hard—You'd fuck me hard. I-I'd let you do anything to me, daddy." 

His hand between her legs lagged, lingering close to her clit but not close enough. "What was that?" 

"What?" she mumbled, turning her head in hopes of catching him in a kiss. 

Harry pulled away, just out of reach though he kept his hooded eyes on hers. "What did y'jus' say?" 

Blinking at his question, she attempted to cast her mind back enough to catch any memory of what she said. It dawned on her slowly, the kind of word she let slip from her imagination and into the real world. 

"Um," she floundered, skin flushing in a different way than just a heartbeat before. 

His smile grew, lopsided and entertained over her tied tongue. Leaning over her, he nudged his nose against hers, the full of his lips just barely brushing over hers. 

"Y'called me daddy." 

(Y/N) didn't say anything in response. Her hands tightened around his biceps. 

"Say it again, baby." 

Her mouth dropped into a gape. He wanted her to say it again?

"What?" 

"Say it again," he murmured, his voice melding with the crackly tape soundtracking this moment, "'S alright—I know y'want to." 

How was she supposed to say no to that?

Hyperaware of the way her voice wrapped around the word, she hoped it would be just as intriguing to him this second time. 

"Daddy." 

A rumbling moan left his chest just before he dove down, slotting his lips against hers in a messy kiss. Between her legs, he didn't hesitate before he slipped his fingers inside. The length of the digits were fit snug inside, opening her up as he gave a few cursory thrusts through. She could barely even kiss him back, her face screwing up in pleasure at the jolting touch with her lips parting. Harry slipped his tongue inside, licking over her own as he stroked his fingers through her pulsing walls.

Her breathing completely stalled when he curled his fingers, the calloused pads pressing into the spongy spot hidden among her walls. There were only a few times when she'd had the patience to find the spot herself, her memories of the sensation paling in comparison to what was happening to her now. Instinctively, she wanted to close her thighs, keep his hand from moving anywhere away from her. Harry's free hand came down and cupped the soft inside of her thigh, and splayed her legs open wide for him. 

"Again," he ordered, the command falling on her tongue. 

It didn't take a single thought before she was falling to his instruction. "Daddy—fuck." 

"Feel good, baby?" he crooned, breathy and heated against her mouth. 

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," she whined. 

"I bet it does," he teased, "Can barely keep still for me, huh? For daddy?"

 Her stomach wound itself tight at the sound of his accent, the same voice she'd listened to through her headphones and the crackles of her record player, wrapped around the title. This was what her fantasies were made of. 

"Liked that?" he drawled, a sly smile working onto her lips, "Could feel how much y'liked that. Is this what y'thought about when you'd fuck yourself, baby?" 

Rocking her hips up into his hand, he never lagged on circling the spongy wall inside her, only breaking when he opted to thrust deep inside to keep her on edge. His palm was pressed headily against her clit, the heel smeared heavily over it with every lingering stroke through her insides. 

"Al-always you," she breathlessly admitted, "Always wanted you there with me." 

"I know, baby. Y'need me, huh?" 

"Yes, daddy," she panted, eyes rolling to the back of her head. 

Dropping his forehead to rest on the apple of her cheek, she felt Harry's own heavy breaths  sweeping over her heated skin. "You're gonna come for me, baby. I want y'to come on m'fingers, then 'm gonna fuck you like y'want."  

He didn't give her any room to respond as he kept his palm heavy on her clit and drilled the pads of his fingers to the sensitive spot inside her. He didn't relent, her senses becoming overwhelmed with nothing but him. Even the sheets smelled of him, there was nowhere she could turn without finding more of him to pull in. 

Her toes curled as she allowed herself to sink into the pleasure brewing in her stomach, her nails digging into the flesh of his biceps. She could feel her insides tightening, ribboning together in a contracting bow. (Y/N) wasn't even sure if her lungs were working around the pounding of her heart, her breathing shallow. 

Suddenly, the pleasure she was feeling and floating in was too much. Her muscles were bunched almost too tight, snug around his fingers and sucking him in as if there were more to be taken.

Letting go of his arm, she reached for his wrist for an anchor. "I—Wa—Harry, I—" 

"I know, baby, I know," he breathed, shifting until he caught her swollen lips in a kiss, "You're gonna squirt f'me, yeah? Make a mess with me." 

"I—I've never—I can't—"

"You can. You can and you will, baby. Squirt for daddy." 

The culmination of the way he talked to her—the rockstar she'd admired for years—the weight of his body pinning her to the mattress, the sound of his unreleased music filtering through the heated room, and every stroke of his fingers through her pulsing walls had her giving way to his command. 

(Y/N) swore every bit of her body bunched, her hand tight around the bones of his wrist, toes curls, and eyes squeezed shut. Harry never relented, working her through the heaviest weight in her stomach. In a heartbeat, everything her body was squeezing, holding inside herself, let go. 

A gush came from between her legs, rushing out around the plug of his fingers in her pussy. Every shallow motion of his hand against her went from slick to completely wet sounding, every beat of his fingers coaxing another rush of cum from her. 

With her mouth dropped in a wordless gape, (Y/N) felt Harry's eyes on her with the way her skin buzzed, hyperaware. Her mind was cast elsewhere, miles away with her body anchored right where she was underneath him. She wasn't sure when she would come back—if she even wanted to with the way the feeling washed over each of her nerve endings. 

"Look at that," he murmured in awe, his voice finally sounding like more than a rumble through the rushing heartbeat in her ears. "Jus' like I asked. So good, baby. So good f'me." 

The descent was slow, the aftershock of her orgasm lingering in her bones until it finally relented enough for her to crack her eyes open. Harry looked down at her, satisfied with dark eyes trained on her features. With a jolting touch to her clit, he pulled his hand out from her pulsing walls, leaving her swollen and sensitive between her thighs. 

She could feel the inside of her thighs slick with her release, Harry's hand that landed on her hip just as sticky. Dipping his head down, he caught her in a languid kiss, nose nudging the bridge of hers. He was a bit too proud of himself, she thought, a dazed smile touching her lips. 

"Told you, y'could," he mumbled into her kiss, "Gotta listen to me more, hm?" 

"Maybe next time," she sighed, too out of it to try too hard to play along. 

"Maybe, next time," he repeated, letting out a plume of laughter for the both of them. Letting go of her hip, she could feel Harry fiddling with the waist of his pants, fingertips brushing against her sensitive core. "Ready f'me to fuck you? 

Her lashes fluttered in a blink, remembering his promise of giving her more tonight. Peering down at where his hands pushed down the band of his pants, she watched as his cock bobbed against his toned stomach. It was flushed red, head ruddy and slick with a vein vining along the shaft. A pearl of precum clung to the blocked muscles of his abs, where the length hit high under his navel. 

Just the sight of his hard cock had her stomach twining once more. Truthfully, she wouldn't have imagined anything less—not with the way he carried himself. 

"Baby," Harry sang, grabbing her attention, "Are y'ready? Gotta say it—tell me y'want me." 

Whatever he saw on her face was enough to have a dimple denting his cheek, more than satisfied with the desire in her eyes. "I want you," she said, despite the quivering muscles in her thighs, "Please, daddy." 

His features shifted at her words, darkening as his eyes dragged heavily over her body. The way he looked at her was enough to have goosebumps on her skin, lungs squeezing. 

"Think 'm gonna fit?" he crooned, fisting his length as he dragged the crown through her slit. 

Before she could answer, he laid his cock against the small of her stomach, lining it up to show just how far inside he would reach once sinking in. His balls pressed against her clit, setting a jolt up her spine. She could feel him throbbing, matching the rhythm of her heart. 

"We-We'll make it fit." 

His laugh was melodious, lighthearted amongst the atmosphere cultivated between them. He cut himself off when he reared his hips back and nudged the head of his cock against her opening, a soft wet noise slicking through the room. Nothing seemed to be too funny, then. 

Reaching for the wrist to the hand keeping her thighs spread, (Y/N) anchored herself to him with the grip. She felt her walls split open as he pushed through, the flare of his head nudging through the squeezing pulses. A lingering whine sung from her throat, breathless and pitched.

Harry seemingly held his breath as he bottomed out inside her, his base smearing against her clit. He reached the farthest parts of her, crowding in her stomach.  A whine of his name fell from her lips, her head falling back into the mattress with her eyes falling closed. 

Falling over her, Harry rested his forehead on the shelf of her collarbones, a heavy breath fanning across her heated skin. The press of his body atop hers was a comforting weight, keeping her wriggling form steady among the sheets. 

A whispered curse was felt against her skin just before Harry reared his hips back. The slide of his cock through her walls gave a pleasant burn, reminding her just how far she was stretching to fit him in. The slick of her gushing orgasm was more than enough to help him through the pulsing, wet noises sodding from where their bodies joined. 

Just as she adjusted to the slide of his length, Harry thrusted forward once more, keeping her stretched around him. He curated a rhythm, spearing through her in lingering draws. The breath was knocked out of her everytime, matching the heavy breaths Harry panted. 

"So wet for me, baby," he murmured, voice strained, "Fuck—Gonna make y'squirt for me again, yeah? Gonna do it again for daddy?" 

A loud moan filtered from her, reverberating through her chest with her head thrown back. This wasn't going to take long, she was sure. She was already twisted up inside, incredibly sensitive given the kind of pleasure he'd given her just minutes before. Every time he pulled out, leaving just his tip inside, the ridge ground against the spongy spot hidden between her walls. As soon as he sank inside, her clit was pressed against his base. Each touch stole her breath, lungs stilted. 

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," she frantically agreed, "I—I'm so close—fuck."

 "I know y'are," he crooned, teeth gritted, "'M gonna—Where do y'want me, baby? 

Her answer was immediate, a breathy moan, "My tits."

She could feel the way he twitched inside her, nudging hard against her snug walls. "I can do that for you, baby. Is thi-this what you've thought about—what y'wanted when y'came to m'show tonight?" 

Reaching up and looping her arms around his neck, she pulled him close once more, their mouths resting against one another though there was no energy to be had to turn it into a kiss. "You made me so wet during the show," she admitted, the words sweeping across his mouth, "I wanted you to fuck me so bad." 

His hips bucked harshly against her own. "As soon as I saw you," he started, his voice graveled, "I knew I was taking y'home tonight." 

He caught her in a kiss, messy and off-centered. He plucked his teeth against her bottom lip, the sting running down her spine in a clarifying jolt. She wrapped her legs around his hips, ankles crossing behind his back as he kept her close, disrupting his rhythm. Her toes curled as his thrusts turned into lingering rolls against her, shooting his head deeper. 

This time, the growing spiral in her stomach came on quickly. The knot she was now familiar with built quickly, heavy and tight with every grind of his base against her clit. It was all too much, enough to have her crying into his mouth. 

"Squirt for me, baby," he murmured, coaxing her closer to the edge with every rumble of his voice, "Show daddy how much y'want me." 

She didn't have to think—unable to think—her orgasm came rushing. Though it wasn't quite as messy as the first time, she could still feel the gush between her legs, fighting against the plug of his cock. It was hard and fast, knocking the breath out of her to leave her mouth dropped in a silent gape. 

It wasn't until she was beginning to see the other side that she heard Harry's voice, a string of curses, coming out through gritted teeth, could be heard. She was still high in the clouds when he pulled out, shifting up to his knees on the bed until he was hovering above her. Cracking her eyes open, she could see the same wild look in his eyes that she was sure was in hers, dazed and out of this world. 

Fisting his length, his hand squelched along his shaft for only a handful of pumps until his cum gushed over her. Just as she asked, the ropes landed across her chest. Her skin was already heated enough, but the trails he left over her breasts were that much more. The sight of him working his own cock was enough to have her breathless once more, though her body was too sensitive to feel anything but a jolt through her nerve endings. 

Harry with his head thrown back, moaned out her name and strings of curses. Even these moments sounded like notes, perfect for setting to music. 

Once the world came back into focus, (Y/N) could feel cum drying on her chest, her own wetness sticking to the inside of her thighs. Harry dropped to the mattress beside her, chest heaving and flushed. His eyes were closed though his head was turned to face her, raspberry lips swollen and parted. 

With the limited light from the lamp, he was bathed in buttery warmth. His chest sparkled with a sheen of sweat, droplets having run between the blocks of muscle underneath the inked lines of his tattoos. 

He took his time joining her back in this moment, his eyes shuttered closed as he ran her eyes over his features. If she had a camera with her, she would have had to take a shot of this—the moment pretty enough to end up as an album cover. The haze in her head did little to stop her from reaching out and tracing her fingertips over his face, just barely grazing her skin in glancing touches. 

A blooming smile made its way onto his lips, dimples denting his cheeks.  

"C'mere," he murmured, voice graveled and rocky. 

Despite the drying cum on her skin, Harry welcomed her into his arms, settling her against his chest. Holding her close, he nosed at the top of her head, uncaring about the sweat entwined in the strands of her hair. 

(Y/N) practically melted into his hold. She hadn't expected cuddling was a part of the package tonight. 

Her body grew heavy in his hold, the night's events catching up to her. Even without everything happening in this hotel—from the party to being invited into his suite—she had also been to a concert tonight, flush to the barricade. Her body was spent, even if her head pinged with reminders of just who had made it that way. 

It wasn't until the crackling stopped that she realized that the tape finally ended, needing to be replaced or turned to the other side. She couldn't even be bummed that she missed out on these unreleased tracks. She'd hear them again someday, probably. She wouldn't have this night again. 

She wasn't sure how long they laid with one another, cuddled and messy, before Harry's voice poked through the silence. 

"What are y'doing this summer?" 

A plume of laughter left her lips. Now was the time for small talk? 

"I don't know," she smiled, "Why?" 

Playing with the ends of her hair, Harry's tone was casual as he spoke, "Well, m'next show is this Saturday. Y'coming with me?" 

Her heart lagged. 

"What?" 

It was his turn to let out a breathy laugh. "I want y'to come with me, love. We could do this every night for as long as y'want." 

Before she could think better of it, another question blurted from her lips. "Why?" 

Harry paused. "Y'make me laugh—and cum faster than I should, but don't tell anyone that." 

In the dark of his suite, clothes puddled on the floor and bodies sticky, (Y/N) couldn't wait to pick up a diary just to write out how they laughed together. 

"You're that easy?" 

"I suppose I am, love." 

—————

its been a super long time since I wrote something with the plain intent of writing smut so I hope this turned out well shufshfuhs thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please lmk if you have any fun ideas or requests!

[evansbby]

𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑☆.｡.:*

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈 - 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mean jock!Ari Levinson x naive!reader, mean jock!Steve Rogers x naive!reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smutt, noncon, dubcon, daddy!kink, dd/lg vibes, choking, spanking, anal play, fingering, size difference, innocence kink, naive reader, 18+ only, minors dni!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You never thought you'd be stuck between two beefy basketball players who have it out for each other - but which one do you choose?

𝐀/𝐍: This is part 3 of my fic, Wicked Games. I'm literally so nervous about posting this. This is 21k words long. I hope you enjoy and forgive any mistakes!

“I told you, Wanda. I barely remember anything from last night,” you say, balancing the phone between your ear and shoulder as you manoeuvre the vacuum cleaner around your room. You’d woken up feeling like shit – hungover and with a terrible headache to boot. But a warm shower and some skincare later, you’d decided to do some chores in order to clear your mind. “I do remember you ditching me though.”

“I didn’t ditch you!” Wanda screeches from the other end of the line, and you wrinkle your nose, holding the phone away from your ear before she speaks again. “Curtis told me you’d left, and then he took me back to his place! I left you a message and everything, but maybe it didn’t send because the service was so shitty.”

You hadn’t received her message until you got home last night, along with about a dozen more from Ari which you also still hadn’t looked at, let alone responded to.

“Wait, you went home with Curtis?”

Wanda giggles, “Yeah. I didn’t think someone as popular as him would ever be interested in me but he was! And he was so good, and gentle too, and–”

You stay quiet, letting her gush on and on about her magical night with the basketball player, ooh-ing and aah-ing and gasping at all the right places. The truth was, the moment she’d mentioned Curtis’ name, the memory of him cornering you on the dancefloor and giving you drink after drink had all come back to you. How he’d offered to take you upstairs before Ari had interrupted… Oh, but what did that matter? It’s not like you didn’t already have your hands full with a basketball player of your own…

“So, what about you?” Wanda finally asks, “Do you really not remember anything?”

You inhale deeply, “I remember talking to Ari.”

No. You remembered more than that. You remembered the thumping music, the flashing lights, the crowd surging around you. His hands on your hips, his lips on your neck. His words in your ear. How he’d fucked you right there in front of everyone… All of that had come back to you in the shower this morning, but you’d been trying not to think about it ever since. All you could really do was persuade yourself that it was too dark and crowded for anyone to have seen that.

“Ew. Not that two-timer. Please tell me you didn’t fold.”

Scrunching your eyes shut, you bite your lip, “We hooked up.” You weren’t going to delve into the details of where you’d hooked up with him, though.

“OH MY GOD, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS?!” Wanda screeches again, and you press your lips together. It was a valid question, but you just weren’t in the mood for a lecture.

“You ditched me and went home with Curtis. Please spare me the lecture, Wanda.”

She’s silent for a handful of seconds, “Okay fine. But how did you get home? Did Ari give you a lift?”

You frown, “He must have. I don’t really remember–”

At that moment, your eyes land on a blue and white varsity jacket draped over your desk chair, and your heart jolts all the way up to the roof of your mouth. Wanda’s voice prattles on, but the phone falls slightly from your hand.

Steve. You’d met a guy called Steve last night. It was slowly coming back to you now. How Ari had broken your heart in that bathroom, how you’d felt so alone and heartbroken the rest of the night. Blurred bits and pieces slowly join together like a jigsaw puzzle in your mind… Steve had found you, and you’d talked to him. And then…? Ari and Steve had faced off, and you’d chosen to leave with Steve…

You couldn’t remember anything after that. But surely Steve had called a cab and dropped you home, right? You had no recollection of what happened in the cab, however. You just have a vague memory of feeling cold and Steve giving you his jacket while you were both in the backseat. But that was the gentlemanly thing to do, as was dropping you home after the terrible night you’d had thanks to Ari.

“Hello? You still there??”

You blink, pressing the phone back against your ear, “Uh, yeah, I’m here. I don’t know what happened after that, but I got home safely so I guess that’s a win, right?”

Wanda agrees, before launching into a detailed account of how Curtis had let her sleep over and he’d even gotten her coffee in the morning after allowing her to sleep in. You sit there, half listening and half staring at Steve’s varsity jacket on your chair. Inexplicably, your fingers itch to touch the soft material, to hold it against your nose and see if you can detect a scent to try and remember more of what had happened last night. You have a vague memory of how heavy and secure it felt around your shoulders, but you can’t recall anything else no matter how hard you try.

A distinct rattling against your doorknob distracts you momentarily, and before you know what’s happening, your door flies open, and Ari appears. The spare key you’d given him clenched tightly in his fist, and a scowl on his handsome face.

“Why the fuck have you been ignoring my messages?” He snarls.

Seeing him now, seeing his devastatingly handsome face, his hair which is slightly wet at the ends, as if he just showered. His grey tank that clung to his body and showed off those incredible, tanned biceps. Oh God, seeing him now just makes you feel all weird, hurt and angry and helpless and yet so attracted to him all in one. And you wonder if all these conflicting emotions show on your own face as you stare him down.

You sniff in what you hope is a dismissive way, “I’m on the phone with Wanda right now.”

It takes him two seconds to cross the room, snatching the phone from your hands before speaking into it gruffly: “Fuck off, Carla.” He hangs up while you gape at him in shock and annoyance, before throwing your phone to the other end of your bed. “Answer me. I won’t repeat myself.”

He’d been messaging you nonstop all night and even this morning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at them. Not after how much he’d hurt you last night in the bathroom.

“Why would I reply to your messages when I have nothing left to say to you?” You say, priding yourself on keeping your voice level and calm.

He scoffs, running a hand through his hair like he usually does when he feels insulted or frustrated, “Watch your tone. That’s no way to talk to someone who’s been worried sick about you since you let that asshole abduct you last night.”

Your jaw drops open, “Worried sick? Are you for real, Ari? You weren’t worried sick when you left me in that bathroom even after I begged you to stay with me.”

Ari blinks, crossing his arms over his chest, “You remember that?”

You side-step your vacuum and square up to him (as well as you could possible square up to someone who is almost double your height). “I remember how heartbroken I felt, how hopeless and drunk I was. And you… you didn’t even care! Not even a little bit…” Your voice breaks, and you hate it and you wish you were stronger but you feel your shoulders crumple and your eyes well with tears.

“Aww, baby…” Ari’s strong arms wrap around you, and he pulls you into his solid chest. And he smells so good, like fresh soap and aftershave, and his embrace is so familiar, so safe, and you hate him for that. “Don’t cry, baby. You know I hate it when you cry. Look, I didn’t want to leave you, but I had to. Sharon was making a scene and multiple people were looking for me.”

At the mention of her name, you push him away immediately and take a few steps backwards to create some distance between the two of you. No, you wouldn’t let him sweet-talk you this time, you wouldn���t fall victim to his manipulations. You were going to stand your ground.

“Don’t, okay? You don’t need to make all these excuses because you basically laid it all out on the table last night, Ari. I remember everything.”

“Baby, listen–”

“No, you listen! You strung me along for weeks, telling me you’d make me your girlfriend one day. I told you I’d do anything for you. I let you fuck me wherever, however you wanted! I begged you to stay, but you told me you already had a girlfriend, and now I know that if it came down to it, you’d always pick her over me. So, I’m done.”

You swallow back your tears and stand with your head held high, heart pounding at everything you’ve just said. But you also feel exhilarated, liberated because you’ve never voiced your thoughts to him like this before. And he just stands there, eyes narrowed as he stares you down and yet he says nothing, and you wonder if you’ve finally rendered someone like him speechless.

With triumph, you turn on your heel, walking past him and into your bathroom. You have nothing to do in there but you busy yourself with rearranging your lotions and creams, determined to ignore him until he leaves.

“I could take you out tonight,” he calls from the bedroom, “Like a real date. We could go to one of those Italian restaurants downtown. And we could stay at a hotel after that, I can easily get us a penthouse suite at the Hilton, I know you’d like that.”

You would like that. In fact, your heart lurches in excitement. A romantic, public date with Ari? Oh, that would be incredible! But your happiness is short-lived when you realise that none of it meant anything if he was still with Sharon. That meant this date would probably take place in the shadows of the night, with him on edge over someone spotting the two of you together. And you refused to be his second-choice, his dirty little secret, any longer.

“I’m not interested, Ari,” you mutter, pretending to read the label of your shampoo bottle. A minute passes before you look up, disappointed when he doesn’t answer. Had he left? Oh, you were hoping he would’ve stayed longer and grovelled a bit more. Or even grovelled at all because he still hadn’t apologised. You resist the urge to call his name as you stare hard at your shampoo bottle, so hard that the label blurs. Still nothing. You sigh before leaving the bathroom, heart sinking that he left.

But Ari’s still there, standing in the middle of your room. Deathly still, and in his hands is Steve’s blue and white varsity jacket. Shit. You’d completely forgotten it was there.

“This is his.” Ari says softly.

You don’t say anything.

His blue eyes meet yours, narrowed and accusatory, his jaw tense with contained anger. He holds the jacket up as if it’s a piece of damning evidence in a murder case, and you’re the convict on trial. You see a glimmer of betrayal on his face, and his lips press into a thin line.

“Why is this here?”

Your mouth suddenly feels dry. It’s like his demeanour has completely changed in the past thirty seconds. You’d never seen him so calmly angry before. It’s almost eery.

“I asked you a question.”

You chew on your lower lip, “I-I was feeling cold, so he–”

Again, he closes the gap between you with just two long strides. But this time, he pushes you against the wall, his hand going around your throat and giving you the strangest sense of dejavu.

“Was he in here? Did you let him fuck you?”

He shakes you when you don’t answer, and his fingers squeeze your throat threateningly.

“No, okay!” You say, feeling your windpipes close. Of course, you and Steve hadn’t slept together – all he’d done was give you a ride home, right??

“Did you let him touch you? Did you!?” He shakes you again, “Did you hook up with him? Tell me the fucking truth.”

“NO! Get the fuck off me!” You cry, pushing at him feebly.

“Do you remember everything? Tell me right fucking now, because if you don’t remember then that means that asshole took advantage of you while you were drunk.”

“I REMEMBER EVERYTHING, OKAY?!” You lie, “Nothing happened. H-He gave me his jacket because I felt cold, then he dropped me home. Nothing else happened, just let me go!”

Ari does let your throat go, but his menacing eyes never leave yours. You’ve never seen him so… affected before. He was always so cool, collected, so nonchalant… but right now, he almost looks frenzied. The sneer never leaves his face as his hand slips up to grab your jaw instead.

“Are you sure?” His every word is enunciated slowly, in a frighteningly level manner as he stares you down. “You better be fucking sure, because I know guys like him. He’s a fucking slimeball who would’ve been happy to touch you even if you were unconscious.”

Your heart sinks at that, but you know Ari’s just speaking out of anger. Steve had been so sweet, and he’d never do that. You were sure of it…

“All he did was give me a lift home!” You try to wiggle out of Ari’s grip but he holds you firmly against the wall, his huge body pinning you flat against it similar to how he had last night when he’d fucked you. Out of nowhere, a wave of anger surges through you, the memory of him using you and disposing of you flashing through your mind once again. And now he had the audacity to get mad at you for going home with someone else? The next words out of your mouth are spiteful:

“But it wouldn’t be a problem if I did hook up with Steve, would it? I mean, it’s not like I have a boyfriend.”

Quick as a wink, Ari flips you around, till your cheek is rammed up against the cold wall, and you can practically hear the angry rumble from his throat. He roughly yanks your shorts down your legs, along with your panties too. You struggle against him, but your protests die as his palm cracks down on your bare ass hard.

“Don’t you fucking even think about that.” Ari hisses, smacking your ass four times in quick succession.

“Stop!” You squeal, pushing back against him but he’s too big and strong, “Stop, you jerk! It hurts!”

“Don’t you ever even entertain the idea of hooking up with someone else.” Ari growls in your ear, his unforgiving hand raining slaps down on your poor, ass which already feels raw, “You’re mine. I own your whole fucking body and nobody else can touch you. Say it.”

You sob in pain, fighting against him, “No! You don’t respect me, you don’t–”

“That doesn’t fucking matter,” he says through clenched teeth. Roughly, he pulls your pyjama shorts down, and your panties are quick to follow. His palm collides with your ass over and over again, alternating between your two bare cheeks with unforgiving slaps whilst ignoring your cries of protest. “I had you first. That means you’re mine, and he can’t have you. No one can have you unless I fucking say so.”

Your eyes widen, his words chilling you down to the bone. Never before has Ari ever sounded so serious, so scary. You swallow harshly, before gasping when he pinches your ass meanly. It hurts, you feel like your ass is on fire as he resumes slapping it over and over again. His other hand holds you tightly by the hip to keep you in place – otherwise, with the force of his smacks, you’d have gone flying across the room.

“Stop it, Ari! Fucking stop it!” You beg, trying to keep resilient despite the fact that your backside is stinging so bad. The last thing you want to do right now is start crying and fall into a submissive stupor that has you begging for his forgiveness and approval. And you know that very well could happen, because that’s what’s always happened in the past when he’s punished you.

“Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“No! Fuck you!” You weren’t gonna give in to him. Not this time.

You squeal when his hand presses against your lower back, bending you over slightly. He spreads your glowing ass cheeks, swiping his finger up your slit. You squeeze your eyes shut when you hear him smirk at your wetness. Your body can’t help but respond to his touch… but it’s your mind and willpower that you need to keep strong right now.

“You won’t say it, huh? What, you decided to develop a mind of your own overnight?” He gathers your wetness on his finger, steering clear of your clit completely as his finger moves upwards instead. You clench involuntarily when you feel his digit probe your asshole, “I make all your decisions, you got that, sweetheart? I own you. I decide what you do, who you talk to, all of that shit.”

Oh, how was he so possessive over you when he couldn’t even call you his girlfriend? You just couldn’t understand him…

He forces his pointer finger into your asshole, making you scream out loud at the intrusion. He’s fingered your ass before, but never as roughly as now. You bite down on your lower lip – you’ve already screamed once but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of doing it again. His other hand leaves your hip to grab your hair, pulling your head back.

“Say you’re mine, or I’ll add another finger.”

“How can I be yours when you’re the one who doesn’t want me to be your girlfriend!?”

Ari scowls, and yet he doesn’t respond. Instead, he continues to spank your ass. And his finger continues to pump in and out of you, and you find yourself biting your lip now to suppress your moans.

There was just something so carnal, so raw, about him finger-fucking your ass. He was stoic and angry right now, but in the past Ari would always tell you how obsessed he was with your butt. How cute and round it was, how it drove him crazy when you bent down in your cute little skirts. How you had the type of ass that was always just begging for a smack. And he’d always find reasons to “punish” you, insisting on spanking you for the smallest of offences. He’d told you that he loved how needy you got when he spanked you, and how he knew it got you horny when he fingered your butt.

But right now, it seemed like Ari was more fuelled by anger and jealousy than lust. And a part of you, despite everything, the neediest and most insecure part of you is happy that he’s so jealous. That he’s so affected by the prospect of you getting with Steve. And yet… Yet it clearly isn’t enough to get him to leave Sharon for you…

“I own you.” He grunts in your ear, “I don’t fucking care if you say it or not. But you’re not gonna speak to Steve Rogers again. Do I make myself clear?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, probably because he knows you won’t right now. There’s a shift in energy, you both can feel it. You know he can sense your mind fighting against him harder than ever before. It’s in the way you keep your mouth clamped shut, despite inwardly wanting to moan in pleasure.

Ari slips his hand down your front, cupping your mound as he continues to finger your butt with his other hand. You suppress another gasp, fighting the urge to press against his palm. You hear him smirk again from behind you, grinding the heel of his hand against your clit. You exhale loudly, thrill shooting straight down to your core.

“Don’t think I give a fuck about you giving me the silent treatment,” he says into your ear, “Daddy can still make you cum harder than anyone else ever could, and you’ll cry like a fucking baby while you do it.”

His words go straight to your pussy and you clench hard. Your hips move on their own accord, thrusting forward to hump straight into his hand before you still them. But it feels so sinfully good, your clit rubbing against the hard heel of his palm. And it doesn’t help that he knows exactly how to move his hand against your bundle of nerves, circling and pressing and rubbing at you.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“There she is,” Ari murmurs cockily, “There’s my girl. I guess the little baby didn’t lose her voice after all…”

“I mean, fuck you.”

He snorts, rapidly pressing his finger in and out of your puckered hole with such force that he rocks you forward, making your pussy press deliciously against his hand.

“You’ll listen to me,” he says beguilingly, licking the shell of your ear, “you’ll do exactly what I say. I don’t care if you want to throw a tantrum right now and act out and pretend you don’t want me anymore. I own your pussy, and I decide when we’re done. Not you. Me.”

You drop your head in shame, the pleasure in your tummy making you almost dizzy. Your body sags, surrendering to him physically as he mauls you. The tight walls of your ass swallow his finger up each time he thrusts into you with it, the force jolting you forward, making you dry hump his hand. Your ass burns and yet it feels so sexy, and you know you’re losing yourself; you know you’re losing the battle…

“Say it. Say who’s making you feel this good,” Ari breathes, rubbing your clit sensually, coaxing you to rut against his hand, to chase your pleasure while he dangles it in front of you like a carrot. “Nobody else will ever make you feel like this, you got that? Just me. So, say it.”

“Ari,” his name falls past your lips in a choked whisper, and you scrunch your eyes shut as you cum violently. You spasm in his arms, pussy walls clenching and releasing over and over again as you squirt all over his hand.

“That’s a good baby,” Ari coos, holding you up because your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. “It’s okay, you can be mad at daddy all you want. But I know what’s best for you, and I lo–” He pauses, clearing his throat and pressing his lips down on your neck, kissing and licking at your skin, “I own you, you got that?”

You don’t answer, and he walks backwards with you in his arms. He lays you down on the bed before making a show of licking your cream off his fingers. You lie there, watching him and trying to catch your breath. Coming down from that orgasmic high, a dark feeling manifesting in the pit of your stomach. You’d let him get to you…again.

“We’ll go out tonight,” Ari announces, “I’ll pick you up around nine, and we’ll go wherever you want to go.”

“No.”

His eyes narrow, “What?”

It takes you a second to gather up your strength to sit up. Your orgasm has weakened you – or maybe it’s the emotional weight of what you’re about to say next.

“I said no, Ari. I don’t want to go out with you.”

He blinks, but doesn’t say anything. You take that as your cue to continue.

“I’m done, okay? I’m serious this time. I don’t wanna be with you if you’re still with her.” You suck in your breath, looking somewhere beyond his shoulder because it’s too intimidating to meet his gaze. “I don’t wanna go on a date that starts at nine in the evening when it’s pitch-black outside, just because you can’t risk being seen with me. I deserve better than that.”

Ari crosses his arms over his chest, regarding you carefully and yet he still doesn’t say anything.

“A-And I deserved better last night. I didn’t deserve to be left alone in that bathroom. I was high, and drunk, and I begged you to stay with me,” you bow your head, “I-I deserve someone who isn’t embarrassed of being with me in public, Ari.”

“I’m not embarrassed of you, I just can’t–”

“You can’t risk it, I know. You have a girlfriend. And I wish to God it was me, but it’s not. So, I’m done trying to persuade you.”

He scoffs, “You don’t mean that. You’re just in a mood, but you’ll come crawling back to me the moment you start feeling needy again.”

You shake your head sadly, “Think whatever you want to think, Ari. I’m done.”

Sighing lowly, you keep your head bowed as you pick at a loose thread on your quilt. You can’t bare to look at him, because a part of you knows that looking at him would make you melt and then he’d have you back eating out of the palm of his hand. But you were done this time, you were so exponentially done, and–

“Listen to me,” In a flash, Ari grips your chin harshly between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look into his menacing eyes that flash with indignation and anger. “If you end this now, then that’s it. We’re done. I won’t ever speak to you again.”

Your heart jolts, stunned by his harsh words. But that was what you’d decided you’d wanted, right? For you and him to be done? Or had you wanted him to grovel, apologise, break up with Sharon and shack up with you? Nevertheless, you try to remain strong.

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“I’m serious. I know you think this is some kind of game and you’re playing hard to get, but I swear to God, I will leave this room and never even look at you again. Is that what you fucking want?”

His face is inches from yours, and you try to read his eyes. Try to understand him on any level, try to detect if there’s an inkling of care behind those eyes, even an iota of love or adoration for you. A desperation to stay with you, be with you. But you can’t. His face is unreadable, like a mask. And so a lone tear breaks free and meanders down your cheek, and you speak in a broken whisper:

“Maybe it’s for the best…”

He backs away as if you’ve stung him, or flung a vial of poison right in his face. His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, chest rising and falling with each breath as he glares daggers at you. And a large part of you just wants to take it all back, to jump into his arms and burst out crying like you always do, and he’d make you feel better for the night and then leave before you woke up tomorrow. No, you had to stay strong.

Easily, like he’s slipping on that damned mask once more, Ari’s features morph from anger to nonchalance, and he straightens up and shakes his head.

“Fine. Then we’re done.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something else before thinking better of it. Instead, he turns and leaves without a second glance back at you, his fists balled up at his sides.  

It’s only when he’s gone, and the door slams shut with a crushing finality, that you allow yourself to burst into tears. Loud, wracking, sobbing tears, and one word falls past your lips in a choked whisper:

“Bye.”

***

Heartbreak felt strange. For one thing, it was constant. You missed Ari all the time in the days that followed. You thought it would get easier after a few days, but two weeks later and you still felt like your heart had been sawed in half. And every time you’d see him on campus, your heart would jolt.

In the past, he’d always smile at you or give you a wink – even if he was with his girlfriend. Now? You may as well have been invisible for all he cared. He never looked at you, or whenever his eyes did glance in your direction, it was like he’d see right through you or over your head. You didn’t exist to him anymore. And it hurt.

But isn’t this what you had wanted?

Well, yes. And yet, you can’t fathom how it’s actually happened. A large part of you had expected him to come crawling back to you like how he had last time. You’d expected your phone to blow up with texts and calls from him, expected him to show up at your door at midnight for a booty call, even. But nope. Radio silence. You and Ari were well and truly done and he’d moved on.

And often, when you were getting ready in the morning, your gaze would fall on the blue and white varsity jacket still draped on your chair and wonder if it was time for you to move on to someone else too…

But Ari still plagued your mind, and you didn’t know how you were supposed to contact Steve or even if you wanted to. After all, all he’d done was give you a ride home when you were messy drunk and probably at your most unattractive. He probably wasn’t even interested in you like that…

“Oh my Gosh, Curtis is coming this way. Do I look okay? Do I need to powder my nose again?” Wanda hisses at you. The two of you are sat on one of the wooden tables in the campus courtyard. She quickly grabs your compact, not waiting for you to answer as she scrutinises her reflection in the tiny mirror.

Oh, right. Another important advancement in the past two weeks: Wanda and Curtis were now a thing. Which made it even harder to avoid Ari, who was Curtis’ best friend. Even now, as you look beyond Wanda’s shoulder, you can see Curtis walking towards her with Ari right next to him. To your relief, Ari hangs back, getting his phone out instead.

“Hey, babe.” Curtis pulls up behind Wanda, wrapping his arms around her while she throws your compact back at you so she can squeeze his bicep. It hits you in the face and you huff to yourself as you put it away, pointedly trying not to look at the two of them while they start to make out. Watching them be a happy couple especially stung seeing as your own “relationship” had ended in such a disaster.

Looking beyond them proves to be a mistake, however. Ari’s now been joined by Sharon, and the two of them are also wrapped up in a kiss. God, what was with everyone? You scowl and look down at your lap.

“What’s wrong with your friend, sweetie?” Curtis asks Wanda, his voice dripping with smug amusement. You almost scoff out loud at the use of “your friend,” as if this man hadn’t been flirting with you the night of the party two weeks ago. You still haven’t mentioned that to Wanda – not when she’s so happy with him now.

“Oh, nothing. She’s always moody nowadays.” Wanda says flippantly, pulling him down to sit on the bench next to her as the two of them continue to kiss obnoxiously. The buzzcut-haired man squarely grabs her breast and gives it a squeeze – right out in the open! But Wanda only giggles, letting him pull her into his lap and feel her up as their make-out session takes a quick, R-rated turn.

“That’s my cue to leave,” you mutter to yourself, gathering your books and standing up. The happy couple doesn’t even glance your way or even acknowledge you’ve said anything. You sigh, wondering whether this was what the rest of your college experience would be like. You’d had your fun at the start of the year and now you were doomed to be the third wheel to these two…

“Oh my gosh, you’re the girl from that party, aren’t you?”

A high-pitched voice knocks you out of your hole of self-pity, and you almost run smack into… Sharon. She’s standing by your wooden table now, hand in hand with Ari, who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

“H-Huh?” Your mouth suddenly feels dry. You’ve never spoken to Sharon before – and how could you? How could you even look her in the eye after you’d spent weeks and weeks sleeping with her boyfriend?

“You’re the girl from the party,” Sharon repeats, elegantly raising her voice over the obscene making out sounds coming from Curtis and Wanda. “I was pretty drunk but I remember you! You were in that gorgeous red dress, right?”

Your heart’s racing, and you wish you could disappear. Instead, you nod and force a smile.

“Yeah, that was me. Hi.”

“I thought so! You have to tell me where you got that dress, girl! I honestly couldn’t stop talking about it. I mean, just ask my boyfriend!” She nudges Ari, who is trying his best to appear nonchalant, ignoring her as he texts someone on his phone. Sharon rolls her eyes before continuing, “I was totally off my face drunk, but if I remember anything, it’s that dress.”

You nod, forcing a tight smile. “I was pretty drunk too. And the dress is from this website called White Fox Boutique. Look, I have to go–”

“Did you get home okay?” Sharon interrupts, her face morphing into a look of concern. And God, you hate how kind she’s being. It would have been easier to swallow the fact that you’d slept with her boyfriend had she been a bitch. Not a ray of literal sunshine who was so pretty to boot – with messy blonde hair cascading down her back in perfect waves, and the sparkliest blue eyes. No wonder Ari had chosen her – she was absolutely stunning, and even more so up close.

“Yes, I got a lift home–”

“Oh, that’s right! You were with Steve Rogers, that guy from St. Jude’s!” Sharon says excitedly, clasping her manicured hands together before grabbing Ari’s bicep, “I didn’t know he had a girlfriend now. Although it’s a good thing we both had our boyfriends there that night to get us home safely.”

Ari snorts, finally deciding to contribute to the conversation: “He’s not her boyfriend.”

“Um, okay. And how would you know that, babe?” Sharon smiles sweetly up at him.

The brunet freezes, glancing at you for a nanosecond before he clears his throat. “That guy couldn’t hold down a girl if his life depended on it. He’s too volatile.”

Sharon rolls her eyes, “You’ll have to excuse my boyfriend. He has this weird rivalry thing with Steve Rogers. They’re both basketball players, you see.”

You nod, trying to pretend like this is all new information to you. “Uh, right. Well, Steve isn’t my boyfriend, actually. I only met him that night and he was kind enough to give me a lift home. Speaking of home, I gotta g–”

“You and Steve would make a cute couple,” Sharon muses, “you guys looked good together that night.”

You smile awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other and not knowing what to say. She clearly had an excellent memory of that night considering she was off her face drunk for the majority of it.

You hear Ari huff while you’re wracking your brain for an excuse to leave. Sneaking a glance at him, you find him frowning, his hands curled up into fists by his side. Oh, he was affected! Did that mean he still cared? A lightbulb goes off in your head…

“M-Maybe I will go out with Steve. We’ve been texting a lot since that night.” Your voice comes out shaky, the lie feeling foreign on your tongue.

Ari glares daggers at you, “That’s a bad idea.”

Sharon slaps his chest lightly, “Don’t be rude! I think that’s a fabulous idea!”

The brunet bristles and looks down at his girlfriend with an annoyed look on his face, “Don’t you have a class you need to be getting to?”

“I do but–”

“Go.”

Your eyes widen at his gruff tone, and you’re even more surprised when Sharon nods at his command. What was it about Ari that made every girl around him bow down to his authority so easily? You’d been guilty of it too in the past…

“Okay, grumpy-pants,” she says easily before turning to you, “it was nice meeting you! I’m Sharon, by the way.”

You tell her your name.

“Cool, I’ll find you on Instagram. You can text me the details of your dress there!” She says happily, and all you can do is nod while Ari continues staring at you with a steely expression on his face. Clearly, he was bothered by the idea of you and Steve texting! So what if it wasn’t even true?

You stare back at him defiantly, finally feeling like you’ve gained the upper hand in the two weeks since you two have been apart.

In response, Ari narrows his eyes, grabbing Sharon as she’s about to walk away. Your heart drops when he kisses her right in front of you, his gaze fixed on you as his lips move against hers. You feel your face grow hot, then cold, then hot again, heart feeling like someone’s shredding it into pieces. How could he? Your eyes well with tears, but you fight to keep them at bay because you can’t cry here, not in front of everyone.

He continues making out with her, being as obscene as possible as his eyes lock with yours, and you just stand there, frozen and gormless, not even able to look away. Finally, after what feels like ten years, they break apart. Sharon giggles, and Ari slaps her ass before sending her on her way. You wish you could gouge your eyes out.

“You’re unbelievable.” You mutter lowly once Sharon is out of earshot.

“And you’re a liar.”

“What?”

Ari steps closer to you, “I can always tell when you’re lying. You’re not texting Steve.”

You roll your eyes before pushing past him, “It’s none of your business anyways.”

Curtis – you’d forgotten he was even there – breaks a kiss with Wanda to grin up at you. “Don’t mind Ari, he’s just been extremely crabby lately. Not getting laid does that to people.” He goes in for another kiss, adding against Wanda’s lips, “Same can’t be said about you and me, huh, sweetheart?”

Ugh.

“Wanda, I’m leaving. Are you coming?” You ask, doing your best to ignore the two basketball players.

“What? Uh, no, I’m busy,” your friend answers distractedly before Curtis pulls her back in for another kiss.

“You’ll stay away from Steve if you know what’s best for you.” Ari says quietly.

Great. Was he seriously threatening you now?

“I’ll do whatever I want,” you raise your chin up at him defiantly once more.

Ari scowls, running a hand through his hair. You know him well enough to know that he does that when he’s frustrated. “Look, I’m being serious. It’s for your own good–”

“Why do you even care? I thought we were done, Ari.”

“We are done.”

“Then leave me the fuck alone, okay!? I’ll date whoever I want to date.”

“Not him.”

“Yes, him.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“We’ll vacate this bench if you two need the space to fuck.” Curtis offers jokingly, but both of you ignore him as you stare each other down.

Finally, you huff, attempting to sidestep him but he’s way too big and easily blocks your path. A second attempt, and he blocks you again – and this time he has the audacity to smirk amusedly. That boils your blood, and you glare up at him. How dare he try and tell you who you could and couldn’t date? When he just made out with Sharon five inches away from your face not even two minutes ago!?

 “Just listen to me for once,” Ari grabs your wrist but you’re quick to tug it back. His scowl deepens, but he doesn’t grab you again, “Steve is bad news. He–”

“He can’t be any worse than the guys I already do know.” You cut him off pointedly before turning around and walking away without a second glance.

***

“I can’t believe I let you drag me here.”

You’re all too familiar with the university’s basketball court – you used to come here all the time to watch Ari play. That didn’t mean you wanted to be here now. In fact, it was the last place you wanted to be, and you’d told Wanda that several times but she wouldn’t hear any of it.

Wanda rolls her eyes, “Curtis is playing, and as his girlfriend, I need to be there for moral support.”

You wrinkle your nose; she’d only been going out with Curtis for a few weeks now and yet she was running around acting like Curtis was the president and she was the first lady or something. She didn’t really have any time to be your best friend anymore. You and Wanda had bonded at the start of the academic year – doing everything from attending society meetings together to having movie nights and sleep overs.

But now, it was all “Curtis wants me to go to this new club with him,” and “Curtis says that it’s okay to bunk lectures once in a while!” and “Oh sorry, I can’t hang out tonight – Curtis’ schedule just got cleared up so he needs me to go to his room.” It made you wonder whether you’d been this insufferable too when you were with Ari.

“Moral support? Wanda, this isn’t even a proper game. It’s just a practice,” you remind her, “and anyways, I don’t know what I’m doing here. It’s not like I’m dating Curtis.”

“Of course not, you’re not his type at all. I just couldn’t show up alone, that’s just sad,” says Wanda before she spies Curtis in the corner of the court with a few other teammates, all of them stretching and doing warm-ups. She waves at him like mad, blowing kisses in his direction. He shoots her a quick smile before turning around to talk to a nearby cheerleader.

You spot a familiar figure, tanned, tall and muscular with his long brown hair pushed back with one of those metal wire headbands that men wore, barking out a game plan to the rest of his team. Ari. You freeze.

“Wanda!” You hiss, tugging hard at her sleeve, “You said that Curtis told you that Ari was sick and wouldn’t be at practice today!”

Wanda blinks, “Oh. That was a lie.”

“What!?”

She shrugs, “Come on. I needed you here today and I knew there was no way you’d come if you knew Ari was here. Hey, does my lip gloss look okay, by the way? I’m gonna go say hi to Curtis.”

“Don’t leave me all by myself!”

Wanda rolls her eyes, tugging her arm out of your grasp, “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right back anyways. In the meantime, just find us a good spot to sit. Somewhere close to the front where Curtis will be able to see me.”

And she’s gone before you know it. Great. The last thing you needed right now was Ari thinking you’d come here specifically to see him play. And with his big head – that’s exactly what he’d think. You contemplate just leaving – you could tell Wanda that you’d had a medical emergency or something. Or maybe you could just sit somewhere in the back or hide in the bleachers, and Ari would never have to know you were here. He was too busy ordering his team around, he hadn’t noticed you yet anyways, and maybe you could–

“Sweetheart, I was hoping I’d see you here.”

A warm hand grasps your waist, and your first reaction is to jump back and smack whoever’s touching you in such a forward way. But then you turn, being met by a sturdy chest covered by a blue and white St. Jude’s basketball jersey. Golden hair. Sparkling blue eyes. Angelic face.

“Steve!” You exclaim, before realising that you sound way too happy to see someone who is essentially still a stranger to you. You clear your throat, trying to sound more casual. “Wh-What are you doing here?”

“Our court is being renovated, so we got permission to practice here with your team.” He flashes you a bright smile, his hand still on your waist, his thumb stroking you from over your blouse. His eyes rake over you unabashedly, and you find yourself growing hot under his gaze. “This is a really pretty outfit you got on, sweetheart. Is it for anyone in particular?”

You were wearing a pink blouse and cardigan set, with a matching pink tennis skirt which had unfortunately shrunk in the washing machine. You’d still worn it though, promising yourself you wouldn’t make the mistake of bending over and giving everyone within close vicinity a good eyeful of your panties.

“Oh, uh, no, not for anyone in particular,” you babble. You feel nervous around him, but not necessarily in a bad way. “Thanks for getting me home safely that night, by the way. I, uh, I meant to thank you the next morning but I didn’t have your number or anything.”

Steve nods, shooting you a wink, “That’s alright, princess. I think it’s me who should be thanking you for that night.” His hand slips down to your hip, giving it a warm, meaningful squeeze.

You frown, “Why would you be thanking me? I didn’t do anything.” Your Uber ride home with Steve was still a blur to you, but you doubt anything eventful had happened during it. “Oh, don’t tell me I kept you entertained with all my drunken chatter. I’m sorry, I do that sometimes, and I was so embarrassingly drunk that night.”

He blinks, before a slow smile spreads across his face, “Baby girl, don’t you remember?”

“I remember me being a total embarrassment, and you being a total gentleman. You even gave me your jacket and I still have it now!” You say brightly, picturing his varsity jacket still hung up on your desk chair back in your dorm room. “I wanted to return it to you but you never called, or texted, or…” your eyes widen when you realise what you’ve said, “I mean, not that I expected you to call me. I understand that all you did was give me a lift home. I’m not insinuating that you had to call me, or that you’re attracted to me–”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve easily grabs your chin before his thumb brushes upwards over your lips, effectively shutting you up. His eyes are intense, and so close, his lashes fanning his cheekbones as he looks down at you, “I am attracted to you.” He says squarely, before chuckling, “I thought that much was obvious. I should’ve gotten your number that night, baby girl, but you’d been drinking a lot.” His eyes glint as he licks his lips, “And I’d never take advantage of you when you were drunk.”

Oh, he was such a gentleman! Of course, he’d never take advantage of you while you were drunk! Unlike dumb, stupid Ari! As if on cue, you look beyond Steve’s shoulder, the tiniest part of you hoping that Ari’s watching this interaction between you and the blonde. But the brunet is busy warming up now, grunting as he does his push-ups in the corner of the gym, his tanned, muscular arms bulging. You almost bite your lip before focusing back on Steve.

“Give me your phone,” Steve says suddenly, and you’re obeying him before you’ve even registered what he’s asked. He smirks, taking it from you and typing his number in, saving it before handing it back to you. “You’ll text me tonight, won’t you?”

Was he asking you or was he telling you? Either way, you find yourself nodding.

His eyes bore into yours, “Say it, then. Say you’ll text me tonight.”

Oh, he was so intense! But you don’t seem to mind one bit. Again, you nod. “Y-Yes, Steve. I’ll text you tonight.”

He gives you a relaxed smile, “Good. We can discuss where I’ll take you on our first date.”

A thrill ripples through you. A date?! You’d never been on a date before! Oh wow, this was–

“Hey, you guys!”

Sharon’s bright voice echoes across the gym as she makes her way over towards the two of you. Sharon. Of course. Of course, she’d be here – she was a cheerleader. And she looked beautiful as she always did, with her blonde hair piled up in a messy bun, her cute cheerleading outfit accentuating all her curves perfectly. You’re hit with a sudden wave of insecurity – would Steve forget about you now that she was here? – but you try to keep it at bay.

The truth was, Sharon had requested you on Instagram a few days ago as she’d promised she would. And you’d had to follow her back, which was painful enough seeing as half of her pictures were her with Ari. But she was sweet when she texted you asking about where your red dress was from, and a few more mini-conversations and a bit of small talk later, clearly, she thought the two of you were friends.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Sharon squeals, giving you a quick hug which you reciprocate whilst wondering why exactly she’s so happy to see you. She nods at Steve with a humorous twinkle in her eye, “And you’re Steve Rogers, aka Ari’s best friend in the whole world.”

Steve snorts, “Yep. That’s me.”

She giggles, looking from him to you and back to him again, “Let me guess. You guys are a couple now.”

You shake your head, “No, we–”

“–We are.” Steve cuts you off, winking at Sharon before wrapping his arm properly around your waist and pulling you into him. Your eyes widen, cheeks feeling hot. You weren’t at all used to public displays of affection like this, nor were you used to anyone being as forward as Steve was being right now. After all, this was only your second time meeting him- how was he already telling people you were together? And why weren’t you objecting to it?

Sharon clasps her hands together excitedly, “Yay! I told her you guys would make the cutest couple.”

Steve chuckles, and your eyes widen when his hand meanders downward. His palm settles on your ass, cupping it as he casually speaks to Sharon. She’s in front of you, so she can’t see it, but your eyes nearly bug out of your head as you feel his big, warm hand cup your ass through your tennis skirt, even giving it a squeeze.

“Careful, Sharon. You might get in trouble if your boyfriend sees you talking to me.” Steve jokes airily, as if he isn’t kneading your ass cheek at the same time. Your face is on fire, but you also feel your walls clench, turned on by the extra attention he’s giving you as he nonchalantly talks to someone else. It’s hot.

“Pfft, no way. Ari doesn’t care who I talk to, he’s not really the possessive type.”

“Interesting…” Steve murmurs softly, almost to himself.

“Look, there he is now,” Sharon waves across the court, “Hey, babe!”

You follow her gaze, watching Ari as he dribbles the basketball casually. Upon hearing her voice, he looks up. He’s got a disinterested look on his face as he nods in acknowledgement at Sharon, but then his eyes meet yours. And it’s like the whole world freezes over, and your body freezes and your blood freezes.

Ari’s face contorts from disinterest to shock as he drinks in you standing with Steve. You feel your chest tighten, as if your body can’t decide between feeling triumphant that you’re making Ari jealous, or upset that you’re making Ari jealous. Either way, you hear Steve smirk, and then he pulls you closer, giving your ass an even harder squeeze that has you yelping.

The shock on Ari’s face quickly morphs into hatred and disdain. He’s all the way across the court, and yet you can see his knuckles redden as he grips the ball so tightly you fear it may explode. A part of you wants to move away from Steve out of respect for Ari, but you couldn’t do that even if you wanted to. Steve’s grip is like iron around you, his palm glued to your ass as if he owns it.

Almost like he’s doing it on purpose…

You don’t know what to expect from Ari, but you brace yourself nevertheless as he makes his way over. But the dark look on his face has melted away, and by the time he reaches you, he looks cool as a cucumber, almost as if he’s slipped on a mask of nonchalance at the drop of a dime. You always wondered how he did that so easily…

“Why aren’t you out there cheering me on?” He asks Sharon, pulling her into his chest and pointedly kissing her. Your blood starts boiling once more and you subconsciously sidestep closer to Steve, lifting your chin up in defiance in Ari’s direction. The brunette side-eyes you and clutches Sharon closer in return.  

Sharon beams up at Ari, “I was talking to Y/N. I’ll go in a second, because the squad is starting a new routine today and I want us to get it down in time for the next big game, and–”

But Ari’s no longer listening to her; him and Steve have now locked gazes much like how they did weeks ago at the party.

“I’m not sure why you even decided to show up today, Steve.” Ari breaks the steely silence first, “No amount of practice could help your godawful team beat mine.”

Steve smirks, undeterred. Pointedly, his arm tightens around you. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Something tells me you’ll be distracted tonight.”

Ari – somehow – looks equally unbothered, never breaking eye contact with Steve. You think you see his lip curl into a snarl for a millisecond, but it’s gone before you can be sure. “Even distracted, I’d still beat your ass.”

The blond snorts, “Your overconfidence is going to cost you, Ari. It’s what made you lose her.”

“Lose who?” asks Sharon, but she quickly grows distracted by the cheerleaders that are in the corner of the court, “Ugh, I gotta go. They’re trying to practice the pyramid and we need six of us to make it work. I’ll catch you later, okay? Please don’t try to kill Steve while I’m gone.” She kisses Ari’s cheek before waving at you and Steve and skipping away.

That just leaves you, standing frozen by Steve’s side while the two men lock eyes in their silent battle. And why does it kind of hurt, the fact that Ari hasn’t looked at you even once throughout it? In a way, you’re relieved that all they seem to be disagreeing over is basketball and who would beat who (aka lame boy stuff). But then that in turn makes you wonder: Is Ari not even affected by Steve’s arm around you? But then why did you even care if he was or wasn’t affected? And how was Steve being so forward, and, and, and–

“I-I gotta go. Wanda’s calling for me.” You lie, slipping out of Steve’s grip and scurrying away. The energy bouncing off both of them made you feel nervous, on edge, almost unsafe. You look back over your shoulder now to see them still staring at each other. Cold, barren stares that seemed to have grown more intense now that you’d left. It makes you gulp, and you wonder if it’s just a basketball rivalry between them after all – or it it’s something more.

“Where the hell have you been? Didn’t I tell you to find us good seats?” Wanda rolls her eyes, grabbing your hand and yanking you over to the last remaining front row seats. You try to clear your head of any thoughts of Ari or Steve, instead marvelling over how many people had showed up to watch these two teams play together in what was just a practice match.

“I was, uh, I just saw Steve.”

“Who?”

“He’s the… he gave me a lift home the night of the party.”

Wanda wrinkles her nose, about to say something before she grows distracted, “Look! There’s Curtis! The game’s about to start!!”

You never held much of an interest in basketball, even when you used to watch Ari play. But now, you pay attention carefully as the teams hit the court. Ari’s team have maroon jerseys and Steve’s team are in blue. They huddle on opposite sides of the court before the coach blows a whistle and they start playing.

“Look how good Curtis looks in his jersey,” Wanda gushes.

Ari looks pretty good too, you almost say out loud. And Steve too.

Both Ari and Steve were very similar on the court. Both the respective captains of their own team, you observe them ordering their teammates around, calling out strategies and gameplans, hyping the players up. They moved around similarly too, both so big and beefy and yet so fluid and lithe when dribbling the ball across the court. They were both clearly the most talented players out of everyone, yet you couldn’t tell who was better between the two of them.

“C’mon Rogers, is that the best you can do!?” Ari taunts after shooting an easy three-pointer about a minute into the game.

Steve rolls his eyes before beckoning one of his teammates closer. He’s a brunette with “Barnes” printed on the back of his jersey. The two of them confer for a few seconds while Ari and Curtis laugh and gloat with their own teammates. Then the coach blows the whistle again.

You zone out for a while, the maroon and blue jerseys becoming a blur as they whiz across the court. A bunch more points scored, the roar of the crowd, Wanda shrieking happily every time Curtis scores or jogs close to your seats. You, however, are much more interested in the way Steve had brazenly felt you up just now before this practice match had begun. Or how Ari hadn’t even looked at you when he’d come over to confront Steve. Or how…

“You fucking tripped him.” Steve seethes, the frustration in his voice carrying across the court and making you refocus on the game which has suddenly halted. The blond looks pissed, a borderline lethal look on his face as he kneels down next to his teammate. The brunette, “Barnes” is on the shiny floor, clutching his knee in pain.

Ari shrugs, “No I didn’t.”

Curtis snickers behind him.

Steve gets to his feet and shakes his head, but he barely has time to react before Ari throws the ball at him. Hard. It hits Steve squarely on the chest before he catches it, his jaw twitching as he does.

“C’mon, Rogers. You got a sub for your friend or are we gonna have to call it like last time?” Ari grins.

The brunet called Barnes limps to his feet, “Nah, I can play.”

Ari frowns. But the coach blows the whistle and the game resumes. This time, you pay closer attention. You note how Curtis is playing dirty, shadowing Barnes till he’s nearly on top of him, even trampling on his feet a few times.

And it’s meant to just be a practice game, but Ari and Steve look like they’re playing in the basketball world championships – or whatever it was called, it’s not like you would know. Both look stone-faced and determined, stealing the ball from each other multiple times, blocking each other, not letting each other shoot. They seem to be within a game of their own, one which was mental almost as much as it was physical.

“Is that all you got, Steve?” Ari taunts as he steals the ball from the blonde.

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve mutters, stealing the ball straight back.

Back and forth it goes, neither of them letting the other shoot. Taunting and jeering each other every chance they get.

“What’s the deal with them?” You find yourself asking Wanda, your eyes glued to the court, “Why do they hate each other so much? Has Curtis ever told you?”

Wanda shrugs, “All I know is that the last time our team played against Steve’s, he lost it and got a yellow card, making his whole team lose. Curtis told me that. Basketball is a competitive game, Y/N. I thought you knew that.”

This seemed more than just a silly sports rivalry, though…

“I fucking saw that, you bald fuck!” Steve rages at Curtis, halting the game once more. “If you trip another one of my guys one more fucking time–”

“You’ll what? Blow your top off and get another yellow card?” Ari smoothly steps in front of Steve, squaring up to the blond with a smirk on his face, “Not a single person in here would be surprised, pretty boy.”

In a flash, Steve has hold of the front of Ari’s jersey, “Keep fucking talking–”

Ari doesn’t back down, and your heart begins to thud like crazy as you watch them. They’re quite close to where you and Wanda are sat, but you have to lean forward to hear what exactly they’re saying.

“Not so fucking smug now, are you?” The brunet sneers lowly. “Thought you could dangle her in front of my fucking face? But you can’t keep a girl, pretty boy. And you can’t keep your cool either.”

They’re like two Adonises, one as ripped as the other. One every bit as tall and built as the other. One every bit as handsome as the other. And both with an equal look of hatred on their faces, a kind of deep-seated hatred that made you uncomfortable, that chilled you down to your bones as you sit frozen in place, watching it all unfold.

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve murmurs threateningly, a blue vein in his forehead looking like it’s about to pop.

Ari smiles coolly, “Or what? Gonna let your team down again, Rogers? Maybe a yellow’s not enough for you, maybe you’re aiming for a red card this time, huh?”

“A red card’s worth splitting your fucking skull–”

“ROGERS, LEVINSON, BREAK IT UP!”

You jump when both the teams’ coaches blow their whistles, making their way over to the two captains. Curtis drags Ari away, and a guy with “Wilson” on his jersey, as well as Barnes both pull Steve in the other direction too. A five-minute recess is called, and you can’t believe what you’ve just seen.

In his team’s respective corner, you watch as Ari snatches up a bottle of water and takes a long swig before pouring the rest of it over his head, as if to cool himself down. Swivelling your eyes, you see Steve in his team’s corner of the court, his hands curled into fists by his side as Barnes and Wilson speak lowly to him. But his blue eyes seem far, far away. And his jaw remains tensed, a dark, almost unreadable look on his face.

The game resumes, but this time it feels different. The dynamic between the two men is completely juxtaposed from what it was the night of the party. Then, Steve seemed in control, laughing as Ari lost his cool. Now, it’s the complete opposite. Ari seems to have recovered from the scuffle, resuming his taunts and insults as he dribbles the ball up and down the court like a pro. But Steve is somewhat out of it, still playing well but almost as if he’s out-of-sync with himself, as if his mind is elsewhere.

And Ari seems to have picked up on it.

“What’s the matter, Rogers? About to lose it again?” Ari snickers after he’s dodged Steve and scored another three-pointer.

Steve says nothing.

St. Andrews (Ari’s team) is up by three points. There’s no scoreboard as it was just a practice and not an official match, but there’s a freshman in the front row – Jake Jensen – who’s acting like a play-by-play commentator.

“Will Steve Rogers lose his marbles and cost his team another match?” Jake speaks into his headset in a suspenseful tone, “Will this all-star athlete crack under the pressure? Will he succumb to the opposition’s tireless taunts? Will the golden boy lose his cool once more? Will he–”

Steve swiftly tosses the ball aside, and the ref barely has time to blow the whistle to call for a time out before the blond grabs Jake Jensen by the collar and hoists him up in the air as if the freshman weighs nothing more than a feather.

“You say one more fucking word, I’ll shove this headset up your fucking ass, got that?” Steve shoves Jensen back in his seat before throwing the poor freshman’s headset at his face, knocking his glasses off. Jake swallows and nods, his mouth clamped shut and a frightened look on his face.

You bite your lip and watch as Steve returns to the game. He’s still got that far-away look in his face, as if he isn’t quite one hundred percent there. He also looks agitated, rattled, unnerved. You feel wary of him, and yet at the same time you also feel a pang of pity, a part of you wanting to go up there and give him a hug despite the fact that you don’t know him like that.

The game starts up again, and quite frankly, you really just want this damned practice to end already. The atmosphere is so intense, so thick, you could practically cut through it with a knife. Steve scores a point, then Ari does, then Steve, then Ari – it’s almost like they’re playing a one-on-one match and everyone else on the court is a paid actor.

“You’re losing your edge, pretty boy,” Ari starts his taunting once more, “Do it. Lose it. Let everyone down, Rogers. Show everyone what a–

“GODDAMIT, JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

 Steve explodes. What happens next happens very quickly. Steve, in a fleeting fit of rage, throws the ball straight at Ari’s face. Hard. Except Ari dodges it just in time. You hardly register what happens after that, and –

THWACK.

The ball hits you right in the face.

Commotion around you. Yelling. Whistles blowing. People talking. Whispers of your name. You think you even hear a snicker from right next to you. And yet you hardly take in any of it, trying your best to catch your breath. Your ears are ringing, your face burning with immediate pain.

Oh god, oh god, oh my god!

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Ari roars at Steve.

You try and find your voice, try to voice that you’re okay, try to grab for Wanda’s hand but it’s like you’re stunned into place. And truth be told, you’re not okay. The whole right side of your face where the basketball hit you hardest throbs in pain. You can even feel the tears brimming in your eyes. Oh, but you can’t cry here, you just can’t! But it hurts! Oh, it hurts so bad!

The next thing you know, you’re being scooped up into someone’s muscular arms.

“Are you okay?” It’s Ari. You blink several times to clear your fuzzy vision. Were you imagining him? No, his arms feel very solid and familiar around you as he lifts you up, carrying you out of the crowd and to the side of the court.

“It hurts!” You can’t help but whimper, feeling like a baby. A disoriented, helpless baby.

“Oh my gosh, is she okay?!” You hear Sharon run up to you two. Shit. Ari wouldn’t be caught dead holding you in his arms in front of his girlfriend, would he? Despite your disoriented state, despite all the pain, you brace yourself for him to drop you.

“Go get some ice,” Ari orders her. “There’s an ice box in the locker room. Go.”

You’re too preoccupied with your throbbing face to really notice Sharon’s reaction, but she dutifully does what he tells her.

“It’s okay, you’ll be okay,” He murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face.

“I’m sorry,” Now you hear Steve’s voice, a scuffle which was him probably pushing past people. You try to straighten up in Ari’s arms so you can look at the blond, but dizziness overtakes you. You can still hear him though, despite the ringing in your ear, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“You stay the fuck away from her,” Ari growls.

“Shut the fuck up, I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m talking to you, asshole. You’ve already done enough.”

Ari walks away with you in his arms. You’re finally able to look over his shoulder as he carries you, and catch one last glimpse of Steve just standing there. He’s staring at his hand, flexing it in front of him as if he can’t believe what he’s just done. But it wasn’t his fault, was it?! You can’t think straight, and your face throbs with pain if you try to touch it.

“I can’t fucking believe him,” Ari fumes, as he walks the two of you into a bathroom off the side of the court. You welcome the privacy, being away from the multiple pairs of eyes that had been ogling you when the basketball had hit your face. He gently sits you down on the sink before grabbing a first aid kit that’s conveniently in one of the drawers. “I told you he was trouble, didn’t I? Now he’s physically attacked you in front of everyone. He’s a fucking psychopath–”

“Ari, it hurts,” you interrupt, your voice all wobbly.

The brunet’s features soften. He’s got an ointment in one hand, but he uses his other one to brush your cheek, coming up to stand between your dangling legs.

“This’ll numb the pain.” He says, his voice soft like a cloud. And you’ve never felt this type of softness from him before. Especially not in the past few weeks whilst he’s been giving you the cold shoulder. He spreads the numbing ointment over and around your eye, and you sigh, feeling a little relief.

“That’s a good girl,” Ari murmurs, his hand coming to rest on your leg and giving it a squeeze, “He got you straight in the eye, that dumb fucking prick. It’s definitely gonna bruise, but you’re doing so good, baby. You’re being such a brave little girl.”

Oh god, the way he was speaking was giving you butterflies! Why was he doing it? Did he still care about you?!

“Why are you being so nice?” You blurt out, the pain on your face making you deliriously bold.

Ari snorts, squeezing your thigh, “Baby, I can be nice. You know that.”

Well, he’d been awful these past few weeks. He’d been awful to you the night of the party, too. And yet… You can feel yourself slipping, getting lost in his blue eyes that seem to be sparkling with earnesty, and– No! No, you weren’t going to let yourself go there. Not this time!

“Y-You weren’t being so nice to Steve tonight.” You accuse, trying to shake off the romantic tension that seems to be creeping up on both of you, trapping you in that bubble of desire that you always seem to find yourself in alone with him.

Ari scoffs. “Don’t defend that asshole, not after he gave you a black eye.”

“He didn’t mean to!”

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him? That he was bad news?” Ari’s hand doesn’t leave your bare thigh, and you’re acutely aware of his thumb stroking your skin softly. “Now he’s gone and hurt you just like I knew he would.”

“You were goading him the whole time, Ari!”

“That doesn’t give him the excuse to physically assault you.”

“That’s not what it was!” You try to frown, but it makes your eye throb with pain, and you wince instead.

“Well, either way, you’re never gonna see him again after tonight.” Ari declares.

Your jaw drops open, “Excuse me?”

He meets your gaze squarely, the hint of an amused smile touching his lips, “You heard me. He’s too volatile, and if you had listened to me, you’d know that.”

“He only blew up like that because you wouldn’t stop insulting him!”

It’s his turn to frown, “He blew up like that because that’s who he is.”

You regard Ari suspiciously, “How do you know him so well?”

Ari sighs, suddenly devoting all his attention to screwing the cap back on to the ointment bottle. He takes his time, carefully placing the bottle back in the first aid kit before he refocuses on you. You expect him to answer your question, but instead he cups your face (the side that hadn’t been hit by a basketball).

“Sweetheart, the bottom line is that he hurt you.” Ari’s voice drops a few octaves, his face suddenly so close to yours, so close that you can see his long lashes flutter as he blinks, “I didn’t like that.”

You bite your lip, goosebumps running up and down your arms. You feel a sudden sense of dejavu – being in a bathroom with Ari alone like you were all those weeks ago at that party. The bathroom where he’d left you. “Wh-Why didn’t you like it?”

“You know why.” He moves even closer, his lips looking so plump and pink…

“No. Tell me.”

“Because I care about you. And I’m sorry for leaving you alone that night.”

Tenderly, he kisses you. And you don’t even fight it, easily melting into it despite everything. Despite how much you’d coached yourself not to fall for him again. His lips just feel so good, so natural, so him. And he’s holding you so gently, almost like you’re made out of glass. It’s like it’s a different Ari that’s kissing you now, so different from the man you’d gotten to know, from the man who’d hurt you and lied to you countless times.

The two of you pull apart, before instinctively pulling back in for another kiss. And you don’t know if it’s you or him that initiates the second one, but it’s like there’s an invisible string between the two of you, keeping you connected no matter how hard you try to run away.

“Ari,” you whisper against his lips, “Ari, what does this mean?”

He says nothing, continuing to peck at your lips. His hand slips up your skirt, but you quickly grab it to halt him. No, you needed answers this time before you took it any further.

“Y-You said you care about me.”

“Yeah, I did. I do.”

“Are you going to break up with Sharon?”

Silence.

And just like that, the bubble pops. You crash back down to reality. Your black eye throbs, your heart throbs, and now your head’s throbbing too. Sighing sadly, you push Ari away.

“Hey, look, I’ll figure something out.”

You shake your head, “I don’t have time for you to figure something out, Ari. It’s either me or her. Because honestly, Sharon doesn’t deserve this and neither do I. And I’m not going to start sneaking around with you again if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Ari doesn’t say anything, but his eyes look torn. He opens his mouth as if to say something before clamping it shut again and sighing. Running a hand through his mane, he leans forward as if to kiss you again, but you turn your head, not wanting to give in to the temptation a second time.

His silence is all the answer you need. With a heavy heart, you sigh.

“We need to pull the plug on this – whatever this is.” You say firmly, “and maybe it’s time for me to see other people so I can properly move on from you.”

Immediately, Ari’s eyes narrow, “What, like Steve? I already told you he’s dangerous.”

“He likes me and he’s not afraid to be seen with me in public!”

“He’s not afraid to physically assault you in public, that’s for sure.”

Round and round the two of you went, in this never-ending circle of fighting then making up then fighting again. It needed to end. You had to end it.

“Steve asked me out earlier today, and I think I’m going to go.” You scoot off the sink, feeling a bit shaky on your feet but overall alright enough to walk away.

“No, you’re fucking not.” Ari blocks your path, looking frustrated beyond belief. “Look, the only reason he even asked you out is because he wants to get back at me.”

Your jaw drops open for the second time in the span of five minutes. Angrily, you push past him, “You’re a fucking dick, Ari.”

“I’m not saying it to hurt you, I–”

“No, just shut up!” You interrupt, “Another guy asks me out and you can’t help but make it about yourself, can you? Because God forbid a guy likes me for me, right? Fuck you.”

He opens his mouth to as if to say something, but the door to the bathroom pushes open at that exact second.

“There you guys are!” Sharon huffs, looking red and out of breath, with a bag of ice in her hands. “It took me ages to find the ice box, are you okay?!”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You answer, but she insists on icing your eye for you. It makes you feel even worse, standing there and allowing her to gently press the ice against your injury. The physical relief is instantaneous, but you feel icky on the inside. Yet again, you’d kissed her boyfriend behind her back. And it was even worse since you and her were kind of friends now.

Ari slips out of the bathroom without another word, and you watch over Sharon’s shoulder as he leaves. As he disappears down the corridor until he’s just a shadow, and only then you allow yourself to let out a long sigh. There. It was done. You and Ari were over now.

Forever.

***

“Sorry again for the black eye,” Steve says, his hand pressing against the small of your back as he leads you up the cobblestone pathway to his front door. “I promise I don’t usually have to resort to violence to get a girl to go out with me.”

It’s been a week since the fateful basketball practice game. Steve had texted you that very night, apologising over and over again for throwing the ball at your face. You were forgiving, naturally. It wasn’t his fault, and it’s not like he was aiming for you anyways. After that, the conversation had quickly flowed over to other things, and you found Steve easy to talk to over text. It wasn’t as intimidating, and he led most of the conversation, telling you how he’d love to take you out that weekend. The two of you had texted all week – and it was a welcome distraction from Ari, anyways.

Now, you giggle, feeling all glowy and special because the day of your date is finally here. You’re outside, the sun is shining and Steve’s confidently taken your hand in his. In comparison, you can’t even remember the last time you’d held hands with Ari – or if you’d ever held hands with Ari for that matter.

“That’s alright, Stevie. Just as long as you promise not to do it again, I don’t think I’d fare well as a battered and abused wife.” You answer before your eyes widen once you’ve realised what you’ve said. Had you just referred to yourself as his… wife? On your very first date? God… What the fuck was wrong with you?

But Steve only smirks, pulling you up the stairs leading to the front door of his house before yanking you into him, taking you by surprise. Your face collides with his hard chest as he kisses the top of your head. Your cheeks immediately go hot – he was so forward sometimes! No. All the time. He was incredibly forward all the time. And you don’t think you mind it in the least.

“Trust me, sweetheart. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t have allowed you to run around in that slutty little outfit at practice in front of so many feral basketball players.” He says, grabbing his keys from his pocket and going to unlock the door.

You bite your lip, “Are you calling yourself feral?”

His gaze is intense as he looks back at you, but then he chuckles, “Baby girl, with you prancing around in that tiny excuse of a skirt, who wouldn’t be feral?”

Your eyes widen and you stare down at the floor again, cheeks forever hot at his way with words. Steve smirks, pulling you inside. You find yourself in a massive foyer. You’d never seen anything like it, because the front door to your family’s house back home simply led into a living room. But this place was all marble floors and crystal chandeliers and grand staircases – like a fairytale palace.

Everything leading up to this moment had felt surreal like a fairytale. Steve had picked you up promptly at 4pm, just like he said he would. And he’d checked every box on the imaginary first date checklist in your mind that you didn’t even know you had. His hair was all windswept and gorgeous, starting to grow longer down his neck. His face was clean-shaven, blue eyes sparkling as he’d kissed you on the cheek when you’d opened your dorm room door to greet him.

With your hand grasped tightly in his, he’d tugged you to his car. Held the door open for you, helped you inside and he’d even secured your seatbelt for you.

“I’m so excited!” you’d blurted out when he’d got into the driver’s seat. And Steve had smiled, leaned over the console and kissed your forehead, murmuring in agreement. And it had made you swoon, your eyes widening at how forward he was, how comfortable he was with you when this was only the first date.

And then he’d grabbed your chin and looked at you with those intense eyes, “Baby girl, you know what would make this date even better?”

Entranced, you’d asked him: “What?”

His features had hardened for a second, and his grip on your chin tightened all of a sudden too, “You don’t mention Levinson tonight. Or ever again. Not when you’re with me. You got that?”

Your jaw would’ve dropped open had he not been holding your chin so hard. But you’d shaken your head hastily, not wanting to do anything to upset him or ruin your first date, “O-Of course, not, Steve, I wouldn’t, I–”

“I’m serious,” Steve had said softly, and yet he sounded almost threatening, “I hear his name come out of your mouth even once, and I’ll be very angry. Got that?”

“Y-Yes, Steve.”

“And if I find out you’re dating me just to make him jealous, I won’t be happy. Understood?”

You had swallowed harshly. Was that what you were doing? Oh, you didn’t even know! But you decided to focus entirely on Steve after that.

“I understand.”

And then he’d changed, letting go of your chin and shooting you a winning smile. His demeanour relaxed once more as he’d started up the car, and all the tension in the air dissipated. He began complimenting your dress, your hair, telling you how beautiful you looked and how much fun the two of you would have tonight. His warm hand patted your bare leg, and then it stayed there for the duration of the car ride, making you relax, making it seem as if that moment had never happened.

And that’s how you’d ended up at Steve’s house. And sure, it was a bit strange that you were at Steve’s house for your first date with him. But he’d said something about checking on a few things at home before he took you out. It was a casual date anyways, so you didn’t mind. Plus, he looked so handsome and earnest in his pressed white shirt and navy jacket, how could you ever say no?

“This place is huge,” you can’t help but marvel.

Steve shrugs, “I guess. It’s pretty empty nowadays – my parents are both surgeons and they travel overseas a lot to perform big surgeries. And I live on campus at the frat house, so it’s just my little sister here now. I like to check in on her every now and then.”

Oh, he was so sweet! Nothing like Ari, who was looking worse and worse by comparison. Ari, who never took you out on dates. Who only ever wanted you for sex. Whose love language seemed to only consist of lying to you, and the only times he was ever sweet was when he was manipulating you…

And yet… despite everything, your mind flits back to the way he’d carried you off when Steve’s ball had hit your face. How tenderly he had stroked you and tended to you. How sweetly he’d kissed you, making the butterflies in your tummy grow alive with excitement and nerves.

Stop, stop, stop thinking about Ari!

“So, where are we going for our date?” You ask brightly, letting Steve grab your hand again as he pulls you through a large, carpeted corridor.

“Oh, you’ll see,” Steve says vaguely, “But I thought we could hang here for a while. Do you want anything to drink?”

He leads you into a modern yet grandiose looking front room, with luxurious leather couches and a fireplace and an ornate coffee table that looks more expensive than your whole house back home. There’s also an open plan kitchen, also modern and minimalistic, and Steve drags you over, pulling out a chair and pushing you down by the shoulders to sit at the marble island.

“Water is fine.” You answer politely, not wanting to ruin your appetite before the date itself had even begun. Again, you start to wonder what he has planned for you two… A cute café? A posh restaurant? An aesthetically pleasing diner, even? Your heart somersaults excitedly at all of the potential prospects. The closest you’d ever gotten to a date before this was Ari ordering Nobu to your dorm room and the two of you eating on your bed while you forced him to watch Gossip Girl with you on your laptop…

 “What’re you smiling about, gorgeous?” Steve interrupts your thoughts.

“Huh? Nothing.”

He shakes his head and gives you another one of his charming, lop-sided smiles, “You sure you want just water? We’ve got some good bottles of wine down in the cellar. Or I could mix you a drink, although I’ll warn you now, I’ve been told I’m a bit too generous when it comes to measuring out the alcohol.”

Your eyes widen – was it a thing to drink before a first date? You didn’t know, since you’d never been on a date in your whole entire life. Would you look dumb if you just stuck to water? Could he tell how much you were currently overthinking things? It’s not like you were against drinking – it’s just that you had done so much of it on the night of the party that you were looking to steer clear. Plus, you wanted to be completely sober for your first date, and–

Steve chuckles, “Okay then, water it is.” He tosses you a bottle of still water and you catch it gratefully. Unscrewing the cap and taking a swig, you watch him as he moves around the kitchen island, settling down on the seat next to you before grabbing your chair and pulling it over till you’re very close to him.

“I’m really happy you said yes to this date, baby girl,” he says in that intense way that he speaks, all up close and his blue eyes sparkling like a crystalline lake where the sun’s hitting it just right. It reminds you of Ari’s eyes, actually – and it was crazy how both Steve and Ari had the exact same shade of blue eyes.

“Oh, uh, I’m happy too,” you say shyly, gulping as he pulls you even closer, his hand coming to rest on your bare thigh. He strokes your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake before he fingers the lacy hem of your sundress.

“And I love this little dress you’re wearing,” His voice lowers, and your lips part as you watch his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallows, his face so close to yours. “I love that you wore it for me today, sweetheart. You did wear it for me, didn’t you? Just me?” His grip on your leg hardens slightly, but you’re too busy focusing on his long lashes to even notice.

“Y-Yes, I thought it would look cute for our date,” you breathe, acutely aware of his fingers playing with the soft material of your dress, lifting it up slowly.

Steve smirks, “You do look cute, in your pretty pink dress that you wore just for me.” He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you forward, his eyes hooded and lips hovering over yours. Just an inch away, and your heartrate quickens, and you move closer–

“Steve! I thought I heard you come in!”

You and Steve spring apart when a girl appears in the doorway of the kitchen. But her wide smile is immediately replaced by a look of embarrassment and even fear the moment she sees that you’re there too.

“O-Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had company…” she stutters, backing out of the room.

“Kira, wait, don’t go,” Steve jumps up and grabs the girl’s arm before she can escape, “Come meet my date. Babe, this is my little sister, Kira.”

For some reason, when Steve had mentioned his little sister living here earlier, you’d automatically just assumed there was a pre-teen running around somewhere in the house with a live-in nanny chasing after her. But Kira looks about the same age as you, and she also looks somewhat petrified. Standing there next to her brother, wringing her hands together and barely being able to make eye contact with you.

“Hey, Kira, it’s nice to meet you.” You say pleasantly, and she returns your smile awkwardly for a nanosecond immediately looking back down at her feet, as if she felt embarrassed in her own skin. She’s pretty, with pale skin and blonde hair just like her brother. But Steve was big, assured and confident, whilst Kira looks extremely shy, with a slight build – much smaller than him. Her hair is scraped back in a tight plait down her back, and her glasses were slightly crooked on her face.

“Hey,” she whispers softly, and she looks at you for a second or two, but seems to grow alarmed when you meet her gaze. Quickly, she looks to the floor again, her fingers fidgeting nervously.

“She’s the girl I’ve been telling you about,” Steve says to his sister.

Your heart swells, and you beam up at him, “You’ve been talking about me?”

He gives you a wink, “Of course. You’re practically a household name, sweetheart.”

Kira clears her throat, backing away slowly, “I-I should go, uh, it was nice meeting you–”

“Stay, Kira, please!” Steve says, “We’re leaving in a second anyways, then you’ll have the whole place to yourself.”

The poor girl looked extremely awkward, and a part of you feels sorry for her as she stands there quietly, with Steve beaming next to her.

“I like your sweatshirt.” You say after a few seconds of silence.

“Th-Thank you,” Kira answers, glancing down at her front before shooting you another quick, tight-lipped smile. “I – uh – I thrifted it a while back.”

“I love thrifting! I’m new to the city though, so I don’t know any of the good places.”

“Kira could show you around!” Steve suggests. You nod politely. Kira smiles too, but you can tell she still looks mortified. You try not to make it obvious, but you’ve noticed how her hands are shaking as she keeps them clasped in front of her. A part of you can relate – you still get shy and awkward around people you don’t know, too.

Kira starts backing out of the room again, “I – uh – I’m so sorry, I have a report, I–”

“No, please! You’re good!” you say, “It was really nice to meet you!”

“You too,” she answers, before leaving the room and closing the door gently behind her.

A few beats pass before you speak.

“She seems really nice,” you say, taking another sip of water.

Steve nods, looking distracted as he watches after his sister through the glass pane of the door. His smile from earlier is still plastered on his face, but it no longer seems to reach his eyes. The atmosphere, the air itself, suddenly feels heavier, different in a way, and you can’t quite pinpoint what it is.

When Steve finally looks at you, he’s got a dark look suddenly shrouding his face. But he smiles nonetheless, grabs your hand and pulls you up to your feet, “Yeah, she’s great. I know she didn’t talk much but that’s only because she tends to get really anxious around people she doesn’t know. But I promise you, she’s a good kid.”

“I totally understand.”

“No really, if you get to know her, she’s a lot of fun. She doesn’t really go out much…” His voice trails off, but you feel him squeeze your hand tighter as he leads you out of the kitchen and into a spacious corridor.

“I get that,” you answer honestly, wondering if you should say anymore or whether it would be overstepping. But Steve still looks distracted, and you want to show him that you’re present and attentive and interested in what he’s telling you – which you are. “Honestly, I get it. Does she have a good group of friends at her college? I know that friends can be–”

“She went to your college.” Steve interrupts you.

 Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, “She goes to St. Andrews’? No way, that’s so cool! I don’t think I’ve seen her around but that’s probably ‘cause the campus is so big, but wow, I–”

“No, she used to go there,” he says, stopping in front of what you assume is his bedroom door, and turning to look at you with a peculiar expression. Steve, always so forward with his emotions, but right now his blue eyes gaze at you with a look that’s almost unreadable, and his words come out blunt. “She doesn’t go there anymore. She dropped out.”

Oh.

You can feel his hand clutching yours very tightly, his grip almost crushing. And yet, despite the physical contact, he seems far away. Like he’s lost in his own world, like there’s something brewing inside his head but you can’t seem to read him and figure out what exactly it is. His full lips are pressed into a thin line, and his other hand grips the doorknob tightly for a handful of long seconds before twisting it and pulling you into his room.

“Steve, I…”

He shuts the door before turning to face you once more, and he’s still got that stormy, distant look on his face, a look you’ve never seen before now. It’s almost eery, how quickly his demeanour had changed. Just a minute ago, he was being charming as hell…

But then his face suddenly relaxes, lips twitching into that lop-sided smile of his. The familiarity of it relaxes you too, makes you not fully notice how it still doesn’t reach his eyes as he tugs you into him.

“Why did she drop out?” You breathe.

Steve’s face is so close to yours, his blue eyes blazing and his jaw tensing and untensing almost rhythmically. He sucks in a breath, his charming smile freezing on his face as he looks somewhere beyond your shoulder.

“She just didn’t have the best time there,” his eyes darken, the grip he has on your hand not relenting in the slightest, “There were some people – one person – who just…” He trails off once more, before his gaze suddenly snaps back to you, and he clears his throat, “It was just one of those things where she decided it was best for her to drop out. That was last year, and she’s taking some courses online now.”

“I’m sorry, Steve. That must’ve been so tough for her,” you exhale, unaware that you’d been holding your breath in.

He nods, and you watch him closely. His eyes twitch before he smiles once more, pulling you towards his bed, “Yeah, it was.”

He backs up till he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling you on top of him till you’re straddling his lap. Automatically, your arms wind around his neck, and you don’t think you’ve seen a more intense-looking pair of eyes than his in that moment. Neither of you say anything, but his fingers dance up and down your bare legs. Slip up your hips and give them a squeeze, and you bite your lip.

He kisses up your neck, the first few being feather-light before they grow more frenzied. His hand cups your ass through the material of your dress, giving it a squeeze that has you breathing hard.

 Wait, what was happening? Just a second ago he was opening up to you about his sister, and now…?

“Steve, what’re you – ah – wh-what about our date–?”

He’s got a glint in his eye when he looks up from kissing your skin, “I didn’t forget about our date, sweetheart. I just thought we’d take a little detour first.”

Oh. Okay. It’s easy to grow distracted when his kisses on your skin are making the butterflies spiral and flutter in your tummy. You want to melt into his arms, let him kiss you all the rest of the day and all night too. Let him take you on this amazing first date that he’d painstakingly planned for you, and in doing so erase the thought and touch of Ari from your mind completely, till your body forgets about the man you’ve been nonstop thinking about for the past month. Maybe this was it, maybe it was time for something new. Someone new. All Ari ever wanted from you was sex, but Steve? Steve was different.

“I wasn’t – ah, Steve – I have to say, I wasn’t planning on kissing you until the end of the date, definitely not before it,” you giggle, pushing at his chest to try and get a word in as he tugs the strap of your dress aside and trails his lips down your shoulder blade.

You feel him smirk against your skin, “Don’t worry, baby girl. I’ll be a gentleman and save our first kiss for the end of the date, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do other things right now.”

You feel your core thrum with excitement at his words, and you look up to beam at him except he’s too busy pushing your dress down to meet your gaze. The sun shines through the open window, making his hair glisten golden, and you wonder if the sunlight makes his eyes glimmer like that too. But he’s not looking at you.

“Steve,” you push at his shoulder, “Steve, won’t we be late for our date?”

His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, and with ease he unfastens it before looking at you, and his eyes are so dark, “Who’s planning this date, sweetheart? Me or you?”

You giggle nervously, “You, of course. But–”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Y-You, but–”

“No, no buts. We’ll go when I say we’re ready to,” he runs his hand down your bare back through the gap created by the open zipper of your dress, his calloused fingers running over your sensitive skin and making your heart skip a beat. His tone is distracted, and yet there’s a finality and authority to it that makes you listen to him.

Before you can think of a response, he grabs you by the waist and pushes you down on the bed before climbing on top of you. You gulp, a huge part of you so turned on by how in control he is, and yet it’s such a contrast from the easy-going Steve’s you’ve gotten to know today. But at the same time, you get a strange sense of dejavu, as if you’ve been in this situation before with him… But that wasn’t possible at all, was it?

“Stevie, please, my hair and makeup’s gonna get ruined!” You laugh, trying to bat him away as he kisses down your chest, pulling your dress down with him, “I worked really hard on it, you know!”

You wait for him to quip back, say something funny or charming to reassure you and make you feel all warm inside. Like how he’s been doing today ever since he picked you up from your dorm room. But he doesn’t reply at all, too focused on tugging your dress off. It’s crazy, almost as if his personality had completely switched since he’d dragged you from the kitchen into his room. He seems distracted, frenzied, unresponsive almost as he licks and nips at your chest.

And a large part of you wants to give in. You know your panties are soaked through, and it would be so easy to just relinquish control completely, till you did that thing where you went all dumb and submissive. But then… what about the date? You’d been looking forward to finally going out with a guy, really going out instead of just hanging out in a bedroom…

Was that all you were worth?

“Steve! Stevie, c’mon. I don’t wanna wrinkle my dress before our date–”

“Then just take it off,” he yanks at the fabric hard, and you hear a rip.

“My dress!” You cry, but he pins your arms above your head with just one of his hands before you can survey the damage. His face is hovering over yours, so close that his nose brushes against yours, and yet despite the closeness, his eyes look so far away. So dark and far away, even the sunlight from the window doesn’t seem to reach into them.

“Steve, please slow down–”

“C’mon, baby girl. The innocent act is cute but everyone knows you’re not exactly a prude…”

“Huh?”

His kiss swallows you whole, and his lips are so soft, so warm. They mould perfectly against yours, and you momentarily forget everything, your arms winding around his neck as you kiss him back. For a few seconds, it’s magical. It’s different from kissing Ari – but not at all in a bad way. When Ari kissed you, it felt like the whole world stopped moving, like everything came to a halt except him and you. But with Steve, it felt like the world was spinning doubly fast, making you feel light and heady and excited, like you were in the midst of a whirlpool, like Steve was consuming you whole.

But only for those precious few seconds, before he bites down on your lower lip, and you feel a jolt of pain. He ruts against you, his movements rough and animalistic. You make a sound of protest, but it’s drowned out by another loud rip, and you feel your dress coming further undone.

“Hey, stop!” you manage to pull away, the metallic taste of blood invading your tastebuds. You wipe your mouth, heart beating faster than a drum. You look down at your dress – the front of which has been ripped down to your waist, and a horrified feeling spreads through your chest. “M-My dress…”

“It’s not a big deal,” he tries pressing his lips against yours again but you dodge him.

“It is! H-How am I gonna go on our date if my dress is all ripped?”

Steve blinks, “We’ll figure something out, sweetheart.”

“No, wait! Please… I was looking forward to–”

He cuts you off with another rough kiss, his hands spreading the tear of your dress to expose your bra. He palms your breasts through the lacy material, and you don’t know whether to give in to the pleasure or address the sinking feeling in your chest. You’d gotten all dressed up for him, for this date! And now?

“S-Steve, can we please just stop for a second – ah!”

He pulls the cups of your bra down, his mouth latching on to your nipple. And oh, it feels so good! And yet…

You push him off you, “Please, Steve. Slow it down!”

Steve blinks, his eyes looking so deeply stormy, so dark and far away despite the fact that he’s making direct eye contact with you, “That’s strange.”

“What’s strange?”

He grips your chin roughly with his thumb and forefinger, “Playing hard to get isn’t really your strong suit, so I don’t get why you’re doing it now. You didn’t do it the night we met.”

He’s back on you once more in a flash, when his words haven’t even properly sunk in. His lips brush past your collarbone, kissing back down to your bare breasts. He circles your nipple with his tongue, grabbing your hands and squeezing them before bringing them up to his abs. Your breath hitches, the feel of his mouth on you… and his body, so hard and masculine and big, it’s got your mind clouding over. You almost forget what he’s just said…

You force out another giggle, although you don’t much feel like laughing anymore. “What do you mean? Look – ah! – please just stop for a second –”

“That’s not what you were saying the night of the party,” Steve mutters against your neck, pushing your hand past his waistband, his grip too strong for you to pull away from. “You clearly didn’t have a problem spreading your legs for me then.”

Your blood runs cold. What did he mean by that?

He gets rougher, biting and sucking on your nipples, manhandling your body till he’s got your legs spread and he’s slotted himself between them. Lewdly, he thrusts his clothed dick against your panty-covered pussy, and you suppress the need to moan. Your entire body’s screaming for you to just lay still and let him do what he’s going, because it feels so fucking good. And yet, once more, your palms press hard against his chest to push him off.

“Steve, stop, I don’t think–”

“Shut up.” He bites down on your nipple harshly and you gasp, continuing to push at him. How had his whole demeanour changed in such a short amount of time? Where was the sweetness and the charm he’d shown you less than half an hour ago?

“Wh-What, Steve, I–”

“You heard me. Don’t act like a nun all of a sudden, not when you let Levinson fuck you in the middle of a party in front of the whole fucking world.”

Your heart drops all the way down to the pit of your stomach. Your blood freezes up, making you go deathly still. You feel like there’s poison in your veins all of a sudden, turning all your insides into black tar. Your hands stop pushing him, dropping to your sides like you’ve forgotten how to use them.

Steve stops too, blinking suddenly as if he’s just woken up, as if he’s just been doused by a bucket of ice water.

“Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that–”

“Get off me.” Your voice sounds oddly thick, and you feel the sudden urge to cry.

Steve doesn’t budge, still on his knees on top of you. He frowns, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I said I’m sorry.”

“Get off me. Get off me. GET OFF ME!”

He does, regarding you carefully as he stands up beside the bed. Watching as you scramble to your feet, feeling disoriented, confused, hurt, used, upset – oh, and so much else! So he knew about what you’d done with Ari the night of the party… But for him to use it against you? After being so charming and perfect all day? You don’t know what to think anymore as your mind feels like it’s moving a hundred miles per second.

Steve sighs, reaching for your hand, “Baby, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m going home.” You say quietly, fixing your bra back into place before reaching behind you to zip your dress back up. Praying to God that you don’t struggle with the zipper just this once. And by some miracle, you get it zipped up in one go. Not that it does anything to rectify the fact that the front of your dress is torn down the top. Another wave of tears threatens to spill from within you.

Steve’s eyes narrow, “Home? Why?”

You stare at him incredulously before quietly making a beeline towards the doorway, holding the front of your dress together almost pitifully. You need to get out of here, get out before he sees you burst into tears.

Steve grabs your arm before you can get to the door.

“Look, let’s just go on our date. We can talk it out, I just said I didn’t mean to say that.”

You shake your head, “I just want to go home.”

His eyes flash dangerously, and you find your heart beating faster than normal as you shrink back, trying to tug out of his grip but to no avail.

“I fucking apologised.” He says sharply, “I’m taking you out now, so stop trying to leave.”

“You never wanted to go on a date with me.” You say shakily, tears welling in your eyes. And that’s when you realise it, like it’s just dawned on you that all of this… him asking you out, picking you up in his car, acting all sweet, introducing you to his sister… All of it was just so he could get you into his bed.

All men were the same. Ari, Steve, all of them…

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I do want to take you out, so let’s just go.”

Steve tugs hard on your arm, making you cry out in protest. His eye twitches, and he reaches down towards your face as if to tuck your hair behind your ear. But you can’t help but flinch, and then another realisation slowly dawns on you. You’re afraid of him.

You tug with all your might, freeing your arm from his and shaking your head profusely.

“I-I-I need to go home. Just, please. I need to–”

“GODDAMIT, I SAID I WANTED TO TAKE YOU ON THE GODDAMNED DATE.”

There’s a loud crack. You duck in fright, hands covering your face. When you peak through the gaps of your fingers, you see Steve breathing hard. His fist, driven straight through the wall, has created a massive hole and several cracks in the plaster.

Silence. Except for the sound of your heartbeat. You don’t even think you breathe; you’re so paralysed with fear. You watch Steve as he slowly removes his hand from the wall, as he examines his fist with an unreadable expression on his face. He flexes his fingers, and his whole hand looks red – as does his face. His jaw is tensed, almost to the point where it’s vibrating.

And then he looks at you.

“Look, I’m sorry. Sometimes I…” his voice trails off, and he shakes his head as if trying to clear his own thoughts. “Let’s just go on the date, okay? Just let me explain–”

“P-Please, just let me go home,” you beg, and it comes out as a broken, scared whisper. You can’t take your eyes off his fist, or the gaping hole in the wall. You’d seen men punch through walls in movies, but never in real life. Your heart still hadn’t calmed down, and now you’re even more sure you have to leave.

 “Goddamit, why can’t you just listen to me?” He takes a step towards you and you flinch, cowering back once more as if he’s going to hit you next. Instead, he freezes, taking in your expression. He swallows, blinking several times. “Look, let’s just calm down. This doesn’t have to ruin the date, you can borrow something from Kira and I’ll buy you a new dress, alright?”

“I c-can’t, I…” you don’t even know what to say to him. What could you say? That you felt unsafe? Afraid? Not to mention, betrayed and used too? How could he possibly expect you to forget all that and go out with him?

You take a deep breath, tightly holding the top of your torn dress together with one hand. You dart towards the door, hoping to slip out without him catching you. But he’s too quick, and once again takes hold of your elbow just as you exit his room and come out into the hallway. This time, you can’t help the tears as they spill down your face.

Steve’s blue eyes flash once more, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Didn’t you hear what I just said? Borrow something from–”

“Let me go, Steve,” you tug once, before growing more panicked and tugging again, harder. “Let me go, let me go, let me go–”

“I’m sorry you feel scared, I didn’t mean for that. Sometimes I get like that – just stop fucking struggling for one second, okay?”

“Steve, let her go.”

Both of you look up to see Kira standing in her doorway across the hall. Steve’s grip loosens momentarily, and you take his distraction as your opening. You break free, hastily making your way down the stairs. You don’t dare look back, focusing on the steps beneath you because the last thing you want to do right now is fall.

“Let her go, Steve. Just… Just sit down.” You can hear Kira say.

“No, she can’t just leave. I need to–”

“Please, Steve. You’re freaking out again. I’m gonna have to call mom and dad if you don’t sit down right now.”

And that’s all you hear, both Steve and Kira’s voices fading as you descend further down the stairs. Through the kitchen, your shoes pitter-pattering over the marble floors of the lobby. The ornate front door is heavy as you pull it open, escaping to the fresh air outside. You don’t dare look back, too scared to see if Steve has followed you or not.

You’re halfway down the porch steps when you hear the door open behind you. You’re about to break into a run lest Steve grab you again, when–

“H-Here.”

It’s Kira. You turn around and she throws you something soft. A pink hoodie. Despite your frazzled, haphazard, frightened state, you can’t help but feel gratitude. You quickly put it on, and it smells sweet – like candy perfume. It solves the problem of your ripped dress, and yet it does nothing to calm your frenzied heart, or stop the tears that drip past your cheeks. You back away from the town-house quickly.

“Thank you, Kira. I need to go, I need to–”

She nods as if she understands, “W-Will you be okay?”

You bite your lip to stop from bursting into full on tears. All you can think right now is that you need to get away. Far, far away. Somewhere quiet where you can think, where you can straighten your thoughts out, somewhere where you’re alone. Away from Steve, away from Ari, away from boys like them, away from everyone.

You leave, hoping she’ll understand. After all, she’d helped you – and it wasn’t her fault that her brother had been so… so…

Oh, you don’t even know what’s just happened! Your speed walk turns into a slow jog before you all but break into a run, only slowing down once you’re off his street. How had he just said all those things to you? How had he known about Ari fucking you at the party? And what did Steve mean by you spreading your legs for him the night you’d met him?

He thinks you’re a slut, you realise. All he ever wanted from you was sex, and you were stupid, stupid, stupid to think this first date was going to be something special. Or anything at all apart from sex.

You feel like crying, screaming, sobbing, pulling your hair out. But you can’t do that here, not while you’re on some random street so close to Steve’s house. Instead, you take a few deep breaths to gather yourself. Wait until you get home, wait until you’re alone in your room, you coach yourself, desperately holding on to the single thread that’s keeping you together right now. When inside you feel all torn – he’d torn up your heart just like he’d torn up your dress.

You call an Uber, luckily only having to wait a minute or two before it arrives. The ride home is silent, you just stare out the window and try your hardest to keep your tears at bay. Oh, why couldn’t you be like those other girls? The ones who could easily find a boyfriend who loved them for them? Boyfriends who liked to hang out, go on dates, cook together? Why did no boy ever want that with you? Were you only ever worth their time when you spread your legs for them?

You feel numb by the time you reach your dorm building. It feels like you’re wading through cement as you forlornly walk inside, not even noticing the familiar car parked outside. You fish your keys out of your purse only to find your door already unlocked. You swing it open, ready to just burst into tears and sob into your pillow and–

“I broke up with her.”

Ari is sitting on the edge of your bed – you’d forgotten he still had a key to your dorm – with a bouquet of pink roses his hand. Pale pink, delicate, tied together with a pink satin ribbon. But you didn’t care, not anymore.

He stands up as you walk in, slowly shutting the door behind you. You hardly register him, your mind still racing with thoughts of: Steve used you; he didn’t really want you. No man could ever really want you. They all just want one thing. They all just–

“I broke up with Sharon,” Ari repeats. “It’s over between me and her. I told her I wanted to be with someone else.”

You still don’t say anything. He may as well be speaking in gibberish.

“Go away,” you say, but it barely comes out as a whisper.

Ari grabs you by the shoulders, his blue eyes sparkling. And he looks so devastatingly handsome, his hair brushed back, wearing a crisp white button-up as if he’s gotten ready just to tell you all this. “You were right, I should’ve done it a long time ago. But who cares, we can be together now.”

“Go away.”

“I told you I’d make you my girlfriend, didn’t I?” He says cockily, thrusting the pink roses into your hands. And yet the bouquet feels like nothing, like you’re holding on to air. Ari doesn’t seem to notice your lack of enthusiasm as he continues, “And now we can do all that shit you always told me you wanted to do. I’ll take you out somewhere nice, in fact we can go right now, we can–”

“Go away.” You say it much louder this time.

He hears you, his brows etching upwards in a frown as he regards you almost suspiciously. As he looks at you, really looks at you, slowly drinking in your shrunken demeanour, your dishevelled hair, the numb look on your face, the dried tears on your cheeks, how your eyes don’t quite meet his.

He squeezes your shoulders before his hands freeze, and you look up to see him staring at the hoodie you’re wearing. You see a flicker in his eyes, but it’s so fleeting it’s almost like you imagined it. He inhales deeply.

“Where did you get this?” He asks, before he grows distracted when his gaze flits over to your dress. Your poor, torn dress. His frown deepens, slowly turning into a snarl, “Who the fuck did this to you?”

You shrug out of his hold, feeling like you’re a million miles away, “Just go away.”

Ari’s lips press into a thin line, his jaw tensed up as he surveys you carefully. His hold on your shoulders never loosens.

“He did this to you, didn’t he?”

“Go away.” You feel like a broken record.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Ari’s features harden like stone, his fists curling at his sides as he surveys you. “I knew this would… Fuck, I can’t fucking believe–”

“DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME!? I SAID GO AWAY!”

You erupt like a fucking volcano, tears flowing freely down your cheeks as if you can’t hold them in anymore. But you feel more rage than sadness: rage at him, at Steve, at yourself. You throw the bouquet of pink roses at his chest. Hard. They bounce off him at fall to the ground in a dejected heap. The look of seething anger on Ari’s face is replaced with one of shock, and then concern. But was it even real? Was it ever real when it came to you?

“Just get out of here, Ari!”

“He’s a piece of shit, and I’ll fucking kill him, alright? I promise he’ll never hurt you again.” Ari says it slowly, trying to step closer to you but you immediately push him back. One shove turns into two before you lose it, your tiny fists landing on his chest over and over again.

“I DON’T CARE, OKAY!? I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU DO JUST GET OUT OF MY FUCKING ROOM!”

You scream it at the top of your lungs. You’re pretty sure everyone in the building heard you, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything anymore. All you want to do is be left alone.

“Hey, hey, stop. Calm down.” Ari grabs your fists in his hands but all you feel is trapped. Like you did back in Steve’s bedroom. Like Ari’s about to administer his sweet manipulations once more so that you end up in bed with him. It was all you were good for after all, wasn’t it?  You jerk away from him, shaking your head fiercely.

“GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!”

“What the fuck did he do to you?” Ari looks like he’s at a loss, and yet at the same time he looks livid, “Hey look, you’re okay now. He can’t hurt you anymore, you’re okay. Just calm down–”

“Get out!”

You scream it over and over again, till your throat feels hoarse and yet you still don’t stop. You just want him out, want him gone. You push at him again, and then again, and he’s so strong and solid that he doesn’t even budge, and this makes you even more upset. He’s looking at you like you’re crazy, but there’s also a softness in his eyes but you don’t know if it’s real or if you even want it to be real anymore.

“Baby, you’re okay. Just calm down, you’re safe now, I won’t let him hurt you again.”

He sounds so soft, so kind, so unlike himself. He’s acting, you think to yourself. Acting just like how Steve was acting. He doesn’t really care about you. Neither of them do. You’re the idiot. You’re the fool. You’re the slut.

“GET AWAY FROM ME OR I’LL FUCKING SCREAM!”

Ari is the most stubborn man you’ve ever met, and he never takes orders from you, that much you know. And yet, by some miracle, he backs off. Maybe he sees how broken you look, how there’s nothing he could really do in this moment that wouldn’t just make you angrier, and push him away even more. You also believe there’s a large part of him that wants to genuinely kill Steve – for whatever reason – probably pride – and yet, you don’t care.

And so he does leave, but not before promising once more that he was going to murder Steve Rogers. He says some other things too, but you’re too distraught to even take them in. He tries to touch you again, but you bat him off, screaming even louder. Finally, he just leaves, an unreadable look on his face and his hands still curled into fists, undoubtedly going to find Steve.

And that’s when you collapse to the floor, the tears uncontrollably rolling down your cheeks as you cry and cry and cry. You grab the pink roses, and in a fit of uncontrollable rage, you rip them apart. Rip flower from stem, petal from petal, throwing them on the floor with such vitriolic rage and sadness all rolled into one.

Ripped flowers. Ripped dress. Ripped heart.

AHHHHH OMFG OKAY!

I want you guys to know that I literally don't even know if I like this. I do but I also don't... Basically I'm super insecure about it. Nevertheless, please do tell me what you think!!!! ANY SHOCKS?? ANY SURPRISES?!?! OMFGGGG.

I prepared a few questions, although you guys don't have to answer them!! These are just for fun hehehe.

So... whose team are you now on? Team Ari or Team Steve? Hehe.

Why did Steve's mood suddenly change during their date???

IS WANDA A GOOD FRIEND?!?!?!

Any ideas NOW on why Steve and Ari hate each other?? What could it have to do with... I wonder...

ANYWAYS thank you guys so so much for reading! I love you all so so much, please reblog and give me feedback as I live for that and sajdjag IDEK ENJOY ENJOY ENJOY

[urauntiefaye]

How boynextdoor (legal line) would react to u being too shy to ask for sexy time 🤭 super love ur work btw!!!

Boy Next Door When You're Too Shy To Ask 🔞

CW: Cussing by me, NSFW works, Got a little too into it with some members…, nicknames(princess, my love, honey) let me know if I missed anything! 

A/N: Hehe, thank you babes for the compliment and the request! I hope you like it! (Content under the line!)

WC: 537

Jaehyun 

Jaehyun is a clueless baby. Okay, he will not understand that you're needy. So you being shy and needy with him is a nightmare for you. In y’alls relationship Jaehyun is usually the one to initiate things first. But when you’re the one whos needy you find it physically difficult to verbalize that you want him. So you start becoming more clingy than usual hoping he’ll pick up on it. Unfortunately for you he doesn’t…not until you sit on his lap and start grinding on him that he notices. He would let out little giggles and coo at how cute you are. 

Sungho 

Is quick to pick up that you’re horny. This man knows you like the back of his hand okay, as soon as you start slowly distancing yourself from him but also burning holes in his back from your stares. He will flex his muscles just to see you clench your thighs together. Unlike Taesan however he will go to you and ask in a low loving yet teasing voice if you need anything. He knows you struggle asking for things, but that’s why he’s there, to help his little baby who's too dumb to use their words. 

Riwoo

Will question it, he would pick up on it but would second guess himself ya know?, like he doesn’t want to assume anything and make a move scaring you. But when you sit on his thigh and hide your face in his chest and whine he could’ve sworn his heart would bust out of his chest from how adorable you were. He would wrap his arms around you and massage your hips. “Yes my love?” he would be so giddy about this, his baby? Wanting him? But too shy to ask? Omo, he would become hard so quickly, mans madly in love with you and you having this behavior would make him fall even more. 

Taesan

A LITTLE SHIT (I say this with love), like Sungho he will pick up so fucking quickly, but instead of approaching you he will act as if everything was normal. But he would also tease you a little by flexing his muscles, resting his hand on your thigh, the placement being a little too close to where you need him. He will wait until you come crawling to him whining like the pathetic bitch in heat you are. He will smirk and grab your face, hooking his thumb into your lip “I don’t know what you want unless you say it princess”. He will make you say it one way or another. 

Leehan

I see Leehan as a mixture of Sungho and Taesan tbh. However I am a firm believer of Leehan having a corruption kink, so you being all shy and too embarrassed to ask for him gets him turned on far beyond belief. He won’t even waist to attach his lips onto yours, his hands traveling up and down your thigh, asking questions like “where do you want me honey?” his fingers just barely ghosting over your clothed heat “here? Do you need me here baby?”. God you beautiful whimpers and whines paired with your teary eyes has his inner demons scratching away his soft dom barrier. 

[xhoneygirlxx]

because work has been kicking my ass and i'm a wh*re for virgin Eddie, here is this small little blurb as a treat :)

virgin!eddie x reader (reader and Eddie are both in their 20s)

rated r: smut, oral receiving, swearing, mentions of sex. (18+ minors GO AWAY)

You and Eddie sit on the small couch in his trailer living room, the blue glow from the tv highlighting him in the most beautiful way. The eerie music of Halloween plays through the tinny speakers, the soundtrack of your night. Although the metal head has watched this movie more than he can count, you can’t help but notice your best friend has become instantly tense the moment Lynda’s tits appear on screen.

Eddie’s virginity wasn’t a secret in your friendship, he’d constantly asked you for advice on how to please his partner when the day finally came, but watching him squirm in his seat at glimpse of bare tits makes your heart melt. To be completely honest you had a crush on your bestie for as long as you can remember, to be fair who wouldn’t? You’ve thought about him a few times when your hands were in between your legs, fingers pumping in and out of your sopping cunt.

You’ve thought about offering taking Eddie’s virginity but you would hate to take something so special from him especially when it should be with someone he loves. So you kept your offer to yourself, helped him with any advice he’d asked, and remained supportive in his search of a partner.

The continuous bounce of Eddie’s knee pulls your attention from the screen, too entertained by his constant fidgeting. The scene that got him so riled up as now ended with the pretty blonde being killed but his growing length beneath his jeans continues to strain against the unforgiving material.

Even though it’s selfish and you’re dying to know what he hides beneath his pants, you give in and ask him the one thing you’ve been dying to ever since the two of you turned eighteen.

“Eds, are you good?” Leaning forward, you curl your legs underneath your bum.

His head snaps towards you, eyes bugged out and cheeks flushed. “M-me? Yeah I’m fine, m’good.”

Eddie nods his head slowly, not only trying to convince you of his words but also himself. Your face falls, mouth pulling into a straight line clearly unamused by his horrible acting.

“Okay let’s try this again but this time tell me the truth,” You say sternly, “are you good?”

Letting his head fall to the back of the couch, Eddie closed his eyes and lets out a harsh breath. “I’m just, the movie it’s,”

The nervousness in his voice won’t let him finish his sentence, every thought in his brain melting together in a bowl of mumbo jumbo.

Placing your hand on his thigh, a little higher than usual, you look up at him from under your lashes. “Her tits got you all hot and bothered, is that it?”

Snapping his eyes open down at you, he stares at you as you spoke in a completely different language. Having too much fun with his blush intensifying, you lean forward just a bit more putting your cleavage on display.

“It hurts, huh? Feels like you’re gonna burst at any moment.” Your voice is sweet like sugar, dripping with an intoxicating amount of intensity that Eddie’s never heard.

His hands that sit by his sides clench and unclench, jitters pouring through him at an alarming rate. Too dumb to speak he nods, curls bouncing with every motion.

“Awe baby, s’okay,” you coo as you hook your legs over his thighs, “if you want I can make it all better. Want me to kiss it better?”

Eddie stares at you unblinkingly, mouth parted slightly in awe. Again he nods but this time you tsk at him, shaking your head back and forth in disapproval.

“I asked you a question, honey, I need your words. Do you want me to make it better?” You pout your lips at him and he swallows harshly.

“Please make it better, hurts s’bad.” He slurs, already drunk off your touch without even really feeling it just yet.

“Such a good boy begging me so nicely.”

Slowly you move forward, capturing his soft lips into a needy kiss. Despite being a virgin Eddie does a good job kissing you, not going overboard with too much tongue or sloppy movements.

Taking a chance and wanting to take care of the growing pulse that grows in between your thighs, you begin to rock hesitantly over his hard length. The intense spark you feel jolting through your veins is verbalized with the wanton moan that rips from Eddie’s throat and vibrates into your mouth.

Picking up your momentum you can’t help but roll your eyes into the back of your head, the rough material of his jeans adding extra intensity to your pulsing bundle of nerves. Eddie isn't any better, his face is flushed red, bangs sticking to his forehead due to the amount of sweat that beads from his hairline, and his chest rattles from all the moaning sobs that leave his open mouth.

Opening your eyes you can't help but snort at Eddie's awkward hand placement. They hang in the air, itching to grasp at something but too nervous to give into the temptation.

Letting your hips come to a complete stop, you gently cup his cheeks in the palm of your hand. Hazy eyes open and look right at you, a thousand tiny specks of glitter shimmer in the big brown pools, sweeping you right into his vortex.

"Eddie honey, do you want to touch me?" Despite the dryness that lingers in your mouth, your words drip and saturate the boy beneath you in love and care.

"If that's okay with you, I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything. So like if you don't want me to I won't-" You stop his rambles with a quick kiss to his lips.

Pulling away with a small giggle you look at him the same way he's looking at you, disgustingly in awe.

"I want you to touch me, Eddie. Bet your hands would feel so nice on me, so big and strong."

With the thought of it makes your underwear even wetter, so wet that you know when you get off his lap there will be a big wet stain. Not wanting to wait any longer you pull your shirt over your head, revealing the pretty white lace bra that holds your breast into place.

Eddie looks something like a fish, opening and closing his mouth with unspoken words that get caught in his throat. Although it's funny watching your best friend so speechless, you can't help but adore his childlike wonder.

Gripping his wrists in your hand and pull them towards you placing them on your tits, squeezing his fingers around the doughy flesh causing you to hiss in satisfaction.

"F-fuck you're so hot." It's breathless when it comes out.

Eddie follows your lead, fondling your round breasts in the palms of his big hands. The feeling of his grip causes you to resume your motions, grinding harder on his lap trying to relieve the hammering thump in between your legs.

You remember in the fog of your lust that this wasn't about you, it was in fact about your best friend who is currently trying to hold himself together.

Again you stop your movements, pulling his hands from your lace covered chest, and move from his lap.

"W-wait, what's- what are you doing?" Eddie is more than frantic, he's completely distraught with the absence of your weight on his legs.

Pinching his cheek sweetly, you push his legs apart to create enough room for yourself. Sinking to your knees, you move into the space you've created for yourself.

"I'm doing what I said I was going to do, I'm going to kiss it better." You drag your nails up his jean covered thighs, gazing up at him with doe eyes acting as if you aren't making one of his dreams come true.

"Yeah yeah, fuck okay." Babbling like an idiot, Eddie stares at you completely shocked as if you didn't promise this to him earlier.

Raising your eyebrows at him, you wait for him to catch on to what you're waiting for. It doesn't hit him until you clear your throat and point at the handcuff belt that hold his jeans in place.

"Oh shit, right. Let me just get these off." Going as fast as his shaking hands will allow him, he goes to undo his belt and push his pants just below his balls.

His cock bounces from their confines, hitting his tee shirt covered navel with a small thud. You can't help but gawk at the sight of him. Eddie's packing more than you ever imagined, long and thick with a prominent vein running along the underside. The tip is a pretty pink shade that shines from the pearls of precum that dripples from the slit.

Your mouth fills with saliva just from the sight alone. The dark brown thatch of curls that sit at the base match the hair on his heavy balls. You weren't someone who found genitalia appetizing but man oh man was did your best friend's look good enough to eat.

The small silence that settled between you two has clearly made Eddie anxious. His chocolate brown eyes look anywhere but you and the thick chunky rings that sit on his fingers have become his clear fascination, twisting them around and around his thick digits.

Not wanting him to sit with his thoughts any longer, you lean up enough to capture his kiss bitten lips in a passionate kiss. This time it's all teeth and tongue, spit swapping between the two of you.

When you both pull away you wish you could continue kissing him, fuck the oxygen that you need all you want is Eddie.

Sitting back down on your knees, you let spit dripple down onto his stiff shaft. Clasping your hand around him you begin to jerk him off slowly, not wanting the moment to be over fast.

Eddie on the other hand is fighting for his life, lip pulled between his teeth and his eyebrows pinching together. You drink it up like a plant in the middle of a drought.

"You're s'pretty, Eds and your cock, fuck it's so pretty too." You coo, to prove your point you press kisses up and down his length.

"Mmm s-shit, your ha- your hand feels so good." Eddie's voice is completely strained, his jugular vein pocking out every once and a while.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that Eddie's nearing the end, the shaking and tensing of his thighs a clear sign. Wanting him to experience it all, you envelope the tip of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and licking along the slit to collect the salty bead of pre that beads out of it.

Moving your mouth lower, you take him halfway into your mouth and allow your hand to jerk off whatever you can't take. The hand that braces itself on his thigh snakes its way to the heavy sack that sits just below his cock, kneading it in the palm of your hand gently.

Without needing instruction Eddie's hand finds it's way to your head, gripping your hair at the scalp and pulling out it with vigor. The pain and arousal that sparks within you causes you to moan around him, making him sob out in ecstasy.

"F-uh, oh don't stop I'm gonna- shit I'm gonna cum!"

Moving your head as fast as you can, you move to the tip to avoid chocking on the salty release. Still pumping your hand up and down on his cock you collect his warm seed in your mouth, letting it pool on your tongue.

Above you Eddie is a screaming mess, blabbing nonsense and groaning loudly. To no one's surprise Eddie cums and he cums a lot, so much so that it starts to dripple out the sides of your mouth with the string of your spit.

Once his breath returns to his lungs and his grip loosens on your hair, you let him fall out of your mouth with a lewd pop. When your eyes make eye contact with his own, you open your mouth to show him the pearly white of his release that sits on your pink tongue. Closing your mouth and swallowing it with a loud hum, you open your eyes to see Eddie completely gobsmack.

"Jesus sweetheart, you can't do shit like that unless you want me to get hard again." He says with an airy laugh.

You take his words as a threat, one that you'd be stupid not to take with the way your pussy flutters in need.

"Who said I was done, Munson?"

[yesimwriting]

https://www.tumblr.com/yesimwriting/745776818108366848/when-best-friend-felix-and-reader-kiss-not-a-kiss

That kiss was HEATED. I had this thought of Felix and reader have their moment in which the kiss turns intensely passionate considering their relationship, and you mentioned that Felix wants to hook up with reader so would he ever push it. Like maybe he leads his hand on the skin of her inner thigh, but the real question is how does reader react. Would she fall into the group of people who always lets Felix take the reins and be in to the situation or would it simply freak her out because “we’re best friends.”

so happy you felt the theatrics of it all,, writing that kiss made me go hm..

i think felix is the master of pushing/blurring lines in the most lighthearted, casually dismissible way possible,, like most of the time when things are getting a little too touchy, it's when both of them are drunk/tipsy so it's easy to laugh off and dismiss,,

and whether they're drunk or sober, felix is an expert in reader's body language bc they are that close, so he's constantly subtly checking in and reminding himself that not everyone's as comfortable/casual about those things as felix

reader having an easy out is so important to him for so many reasons,, it protects the friendship and also keeps everything comfy

i feel like reader's reaction depends on so many factors...if she's fun, giggly tipsy and she's happy she'll probably be more open to things,, only pulling away/slowing things down if she realizes she wants things to go further bc while felix might be okay with hooking up with friends, she's scared of getting lumped into the group that obsessively hangs off his arm

if she's feeling a little insecure/jealous,, i can see reader being even more okay with things,, can also see felix picking up on that and trying to use it to his advantage, but that's another thing

however they are not perfect and felix is the type to border on being a little too into the reader and he's also so pretty and reader is just a girl

so let's have a drabble on that :))

"And what--" A laugh tumbles into the words, clumsy and a little breathless. The sound leaves you warm all over, not unlike the feel of sunlight soaking into your skin after an English winter. "What was--what was that last guy on about?"

The question is so enthusiastic, you can't help but grin. Felix is so determined to piece together the words he barely heard as you--with Farleigh's help--attempted to guide him into a cab. "I think he was trying to kick you out."

Felix turns onto his side, head shifting to rest against the edge of his pillow, the angle awkward enough to strain his neck. You make a mental note to not let him fall asleep like that. "I don't think so."

You laugh. "I do."

"You're very cyclical."

Another laugh as your elbow presses into his mattress for support as you try to sit up a little more. You're an odd combination of drained and giddy. Your limbs feel weighed down, making each movement a major commitment, and yet everything's okay. Fuzzy and warm and happy. "You mean cynical?"

In an impressive display of focus, Felix pushes himself so that he's almost sitting, most of his weight resting on his forearm. He pauses, staying there for a beat before sitting up fully. "I said that."

"No," you mumble with an exaggerated shake of your head. "You said cycli--cyclical, which is when something's a circle." You pause, mind not exactly catching up with your mouth. "Goes. It goes in circles, like a cycle--because it's a cycle." You sigh at your uncertainty, turning your head to look at him. "Cycles are just circles?"

Felix presses his lips together, spine straightening as he shifts even closer. "They go in circles, Lovie."

The corner of his mouth tugs itself upwards. His knee close to yours. You straighten your legs, the exposed skin of your thigh pressing against his leg. "Very astute."

Felix's chin dips downwards, his gaze falling towards the bed. You look down, squinting at wrinkled sheets and resting limbs in an attempt to understand what he's looking at. His fingers move to rest against your leg. "All from trying to keep up with you."

You lift your head at the sudden lowness of his voice. How long has he been this close? "Well, you're doing a really good job."

"High praise."

He angles his head forward. A strand of his hair falls forward, but Felix doesn't react. His attention remains solely on you.

Being able to openly examine Felix this closely is a rare luxury. The low lighting of the room tinges his skin with a warm glow. His features are always lovely, but when he's this relaxed they seem better suited to him. There's a lightness that contrasts from any sharpness, a softness that makes him such a gentle giant not even his eyebrow piercing can redeem him.

You've seen people be intimidated by him, have picked up on the way that some avoid his gaze when wandering around campus and how they twist themselves to please him. You fully aware that it's possible, but you're having an extremely hard time grasping it.

You tilt your chin up a fraction of an inch without a second thought, your lips now so close to his jaw it'd be so easy to...

You dismiss the train of thought as assuredly as you can manage anything right now. Your resolve feels unsteady as you part your lips. There's something you should say...some second joke or something else entirely.

Felix's hand shifts forward, his fingers now closer to your inner thigh than the edge of your leg. He drags his thumb against your skin carefully, a steady back and forth pattern.

His eyes find yours before dipping his head forward. He presses his lips against yours, the contact steady and soft. Questioning. You tilt your head upwards, your bottom lip dragging against his.

A hand finds the back of your head, guiding you back. He's everywhere, fingers in your hair, hand inching further up your inner thigh. And yet it's not close enough. The urge for more of this, more of Felix is dizzying.

You part your lips further, letting his tongue slip into your mouth. He moves without breaking contact, settling his weight against his knees. His fingers press into your thigh, gently encouraging your legs to adjust to make room for him. You register a faint tug against your hair. Felix pulls your bottom lip between his teeth.

He pulls back slowly, teeth grazing against your lip before releasing you. The loss of contact, of total distraction, leaves you breathless. So breathless you're shocked that you didn't notice before.

Still panting, the reality of all you didn't notice hits you hard. You and Felix are comfortable with each other...more comfortable than a lot of best friends are. But he's--he's close in a way that you're not sure he's been before.

You're quiet, eyes focused on a spot just above Felix's shoulder. This can't possibly change things between the two of you. You've been drinking and--and what's a tipsy kiss between the two of you? Besides, Felix started it, so he can't feel weird about it. You press your lips together, forcing yourself to not think about the fact that you did nothing to stop it, or even slow it down.

He takes his time untangling himself from you. His hand moves away from your head, fingers trailing down to your shoulder. He squeezes your thigh once before taking his hand back. Felix shifts back, moving to sit next to you.

Felix exhales, body relaxing. He reaches forward, hand searching for yours. You squeeze his palm to yours. "You're getting good at that."

You're not sure you've done much of what just happened, but his praise feels so light and genuine, you have to smile. "All from trying to keep up with you."

Felix lets out a breath that feels like a laugh. He turns his head, pressing a quick kiss against he side of your head. "You're a natural."

You grin, moving your head to rest against his arm. Maybe that wasn't that weird--not for Felix. You know for a fact he's done a lot more with girls he considers friends. "I'm tired."

"Tired you out?" You can hear the grin in his voice, which forces you to keep your lips pressed together to keep from laughing. In protest of his smugness, you start to attempt to slip his fingers out of his grasp. He squeezes your fingers in an attempt to hold you in place. "Sto--stop. I was kidding." You still, lifting your head enough to look up at him. He watches you with eyes to plead for you to believe his innocence. "Kidding."

"I don't believe you, but I'm too tired to argue."

"Wow," he whispers, pulling your hand towards his lap, "That is tired."

Felix bends and straightens your fingers. "What's even more tired is that I'm letting that go too."

Ignoring your attempt at snark, he lifts your hand to kiss the back of your palm. "Then I guess we have to go to bed, so that you'll be ready to argue in the morning."

You're still as he traces the lines of your palm. Despite wanting to go bed, you don't move. "Good idea."

He sets your hand down before carefully moving his arm away from you. Felix expertly ignores the dirty look you throw in his direction. "C'mon, bed, Lovie."

With a sigh, you nod, pulling your legs forward to crawl beneath his sheets.

----

taglist; @vader-is-hot @spiritofbuddha @getosangie @freyafriggafrey @ilovehyperfixating @aryiannarae @willowpains @ker0senebunny @lilyrachelcassidy @khxna @imbabycowboy

[hyesk3y]

nobody gets me (you do)

Lee Heeseung x reader

synopsis : Little did you know that you would be the ones to save each other.

w.c : ~10.9k

warnings : comfort fic! mainly fluff with brief mentions of drugs, alcohol and sex, slight angst, mentions of side character death, mild kissing and some skinship, lmk if anyth else!

song rec🪽: nobody gets me - sza

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

Getting here wasn't a breeze, the hardships you endured just to be able to be call Lee Heeseung your boyfriend would have been enough to drive anyone else away. After all, he did have a certain reputation. Having to bear with the countless rumours that left you crying yourself to sleep at night, the countless encounters with the girls obsessed with him in the girls' bathrooms. The number of times you've both argued and fought just because you "caught him cheating" after seeing pictures of girls in his lap at a party, or when people told you he was hooking up with someone behind your back, when in reality he was in fact not interested in anybody but you, rejecting every other girl without a thought, shoving them away, and flipping them off. This barely even suffices to highlight how much you have gone through because of him, but still you stayed. Why? 

{more under the cut}

Park y/n, a name that everyone in Decelis Academy knew. It was the name that was at the top of every grade report. Regardless if it was for the most useless subjects like physical education, or if it was for the subjects that would determine if one would even graduate. You were known for always being so on the ball when it came to your studies. Never one to really associate herself with anyone else besides your best friend, Sunoo. A "goodie two shoes" they said.

Lee Heeseung, the boy who'd earned himself a permanent spot at the bottom of the grade report for his year. The boy who seemed to have a never-ending line of girls waiting for a chance to get with him, the boy whose life revolved around parties, alcohol, drugs and sex. 

One would question how in the world he managed to get accepted into the most prestigious and exclusive academy in the country with a lifestyle like his. He was the typical bad boy from a wattpad story, the epitome of delinquency. He always stuck with the same group of friends- doing all the illegal shit together, as if it were the activities of a typical person at that age. Jay, Jake, and Sunghoon were Heeseung's closest friends. Though many thought that the only reason the 4 hung out together was to create trouble, party and get high, they were simply misunderstood. They knew each other's darkest secrets, ones they’d carry to their graves, and they would have done anything to protect each other. They were all each other had, as thick as thieves, inseparable. 

Heeseung liked to make himself think that he had all he needed: money, popularity, good friends. But he’d always known that deep down there was one thing he yearned for the most. Hell, it kept him up some nights, some nights it's what helped him fall asleep when he wasn't high. And it was the desire for someone who could love him for himself, flaws and all. Someone to fill the void in his heart.

He knew the effects of his reputation, the kind of people it attracted. And none of them could have been that person who really understood him. 

So why did you stay? Because you knew him. Not the whole "high all the time and couldn't give a fuck about anyone but himself" persona. But the persona of the broken boy behind all of his facades that managed to fool everyone but yourself. The boy that you found on the school rooftop one day, smoking a cigarette while the traces of tears on his cheeks dried from the sun, grieving the death anniversary of his mother. 

You too had your fair share of problems and were trying to escape them. You had received your report card and to your absolute dismay, not only did you fail a subject  for the first time since you were 14, you failed multiple. miserably. 

You never had a good relationship with your parents who wanted absolutely nothing but perfection from you, in all areas. To any other parent, you would have been a star in their eyes, their trophy child. But to your parents, you were nothing but disappointment. Nothing you did was good enough for them. Absolutely nothing. And when you looked at that piece of paper, you wanted to die. You thought that maybe even death would be less painful than the punishment you were to receive from your parents. You wanted to run away. From them, from the expectations of the world, from yourself even. But you found him. 

Despite being the boy everyone sought after for his good looks and sex-appeal, Heeseung's life wasn't all that, either. He had lost the only parent that genuinely cared about him not long before practically getting abandoned by the man he once called "father", who had grown sick of his delinquent lifestyle, miserable grades and the people his son surrounded himself with. It’s not like he cared about him anyways, always doting on his other son who was the exact opposite of Heeseung. Even while Heeseung’s mother was around, it was as if Heeseung didn’t even exist in his world. Her passing only allowed her husband to completely write himself off as Heeseung’s father. 

His father had cut off all personal contact with Heeseung, leaving him with a penthouse apartment in the city to live in, a nice sports car to drive and a bank card which he said that he would deposit money into every month. This didn’t really bother Heeseung, at least it meant being away from the man that he’d grown to despise, but what really ate Heeseung alive, was the loneliness and longing for affection that only his mother had been able to provide him with. 

She had been the one that stopped him from truly hitting rock bottom, the one who showed him the value of life. But now that she was no longer around, he was truly left alone and he no longer saw that value. 

Yes, he had his friends that would have dropped everything to help him, that were undoubtedly there for him. But that didn't seem to be enough to stop him from slipping into habits much worse than what he was already accustomed to. All he wanted was for someone to save him from his misery. From himself.

That was until you came along. That day changed both your lives. You both sat on that rooftop for hours, talking to each other until the sun had set. You didn’t even realise when you started telling him about your worries until you saw him holding out his arms, offering a hug. You couldn’t possibly describe the emotions you felt stepping into his embrace. It just felt so safe. And eventually the emotional floodgates opened once again, and you began to sob more. 

If you asked Heeseung, holding you in his arms reminded him of the times he would be consoled by his mother after being beaten up by his father. And from that day, he swore to himself that he would do his best to be your place of solace in this evil world. He had even briefly shared about his own worries, barely scratching the surface of them. And after hearing what he had to say, you found yourself crying even more, holding on to him tighter as if he’d disappear if you didn’t. You two got significantly closer after that day, but you couldn’t help but feel entitled to be there for Heeseung the way he had for you.

It took much more effort and time to get to know Heeseung, because of the number of walls he had up protecting his heart. It was not easy, considering that even his friends struggled and are still somewhat struggling to do so. But you were more than willing to go the lengths to gain his trust. He was terrified. Terrified that once you got to know the person under it all, that you would leave him and hang him and his worries on a platform for all to see. 

But you never did. You were the only person that was successful in trying to get to know the person under all the walls he put up around his heart. From the day you found him on the rooftop, You stuck with him through it all. Despite his problems, his reputation and his less than legal habits, you never once left his side. 

He never left yours either, fighting for you against your own parents, holding you as if you were made of thin glass when your emotions got the best of you. He understood that under your own facade of being a top- student, someone who had everything under control, there was a girl who longed for validation and affection, just as he did. 

He would do anything under the sun, just to see you happy. Whether it’s just his mere presence, or buying you the most expensive gifts. To him, you were the one that hung the stars in his dark and empty sky. 

Eventually, his nights of getting high and drinking til he was black out drunk turned into late night study sessions with you, one night stands with random girls he’d just met turned into movie nights in his living room with pizza he had ordered in for you both, sleepless nights turned into sleeping soundly with you in his arms. He never thought that he’d reach this point, where he would finally be able to say that he was happy with where he was in life. Everything seemed to have fallen into place. He finally had good grades, he was able to have genuine fun with his friends without being intoxicated, he’d gotten rid of his delinquent-playboy reputation and most importantly, he’d found the person he yearned so long for. 

And you had never felt happier. Being with Heeseung taught you so many things, like what it felt like to truly be loved by someone, what it felt like to have someone to lean on. You were even able to finally move out of your toxic household, and into your now shared apartment with Heeseung. And as much as he taught you, you retaught him the meaning of life, showing him the value of it that he had lost sight of.

So much had happened, but you would both go through it again and again, if it meant being able to be where you were now. 

“Angel, you're zoning out. What’s going on in that precious head of yours, hm?” Heeseung says, shaking you from the daze you were in. You were lying in bed with him, supposedly watching Big Hero 6 for the umpteenth time. You sat up slowly, readjusting your position so that you were now lying on his chest facing him. “You know, I’m so glad we found each other. I’d go through everything again if it means I can spend every lifetime of mine with you. I’m just so happy,” you say softly as you put your ear against his beating heart. “I know, angel. I would too. I had never felt so misunderstood and alone. I thought I was happy, doing all the things I did, but really all I was doing was just distracting myself from the pain." He paused. "But in the end, we found each other didn’t we? We are here together now, and that's all that matters.” You lift your head once again to face him to see him already looking at you, a smile tugging at his lips. You feel his hands cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek gently as he connects your lips in a soft kiss, one that reassures you that he isn't going anywhere anytime soon. 

Later that night, when he thought you had already fallen asleep, he placed a kiss on your temple, saying something so quietly it was almost inaudible, and as if you had heard him, you snuggled closer to his chest in response.  “Nobody seemed to get me, but you do.”

a/n : hi everyone! hope you guys like this one, its the first long fic, and my first post on enhablr so i don't really know what to expect...soo, if you guys liked it do interact by reblogging and leaving a like!

[shalotttower]

Characters: Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader Summary: You died and became a ghost. Now you can’t leave Chrollo, but at least there’s satisfaction in taunting him. Notes: yandere!Chrollo, ghost!Reader, past nonconsensual relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

"Do you ever wonder what it's like," you ask, watching Chrollo flip the pages of his book, "to be dead?"

He doesn't reply.

Of course he doesn't, it's simply not possible. Most conversations you have now are one-sided, monologues with occasional questions sprinkled in between which always stay unanswered. Because he can't hear you. Or see you. Or touch you, unless he accidentally walks through you, and it's probably the only time when Chrollo feels something.

Maybe that's why you keep doing it, walking right through him. Just to make his skin crawl like he once made yours.

But Chrollo only closes the window and gets a warm cardigan. Cold drafts are coming in more often these days, since fall is nearing its end.

It annoys you how meticulous he is.

You float above the tub while he brushes his teeth, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling that weren't present three weeks ago.

"It's chilly here," your fingers sink deep into your thigh, like through butter, and yet it sends no signals down the nervous system to let your brain know. Strange, this body you have now ─ translucent like a jellyfish.

Chrollo rinses his mouth, you push the towel off the hook.

"I could use a cardigan too."

He doesn't get scared. Doesn't get uncomfortable, doesn't...anything, really. All Chrollo does is fix the towel and turn the bathroom lights off.

Fallen things get picked, switched objects ─ put back to their respective places, and doors locked shut. He goes about his day, sometimes drawing two mugs instead of one from the cupboard.

You could leave.

You sit on the balcony railing where Chrollo drinks his tea, and swing your legs in the air. Below your feet, cars move on the pavement like toys lined up in neat rows. People cross busy intersections, and the wind doesn't rustle your hair anymore.

Could. Could leave.

If only you knew how to do that. If only Chrollo wasn't attached to you, like a string tied to your wrist ─ invisible, but still so thick that it tugs you back whenever you try going further than a few blocks away.

You don't know why it's like this, but suspect it might have something to do with unfinished business.

Stuck here, you watch him read and brush his teeth, drink fancy tea and shake the snow globe he stole two weeks ago; the dancing fairy inside looks a tad much like you and you're debating whether pushing it off the shelf would be childish or not.

Sometimes it's frustrating being around him.

But sometimes, sometimes a door creaks and Chrollo stops in the middle of the opulently decorated space. The wallpaper has little fleur de lis printed on it, and heavy red curtains frame large windows.

This is when you go so, so still and stare.

"Dear?" he asks quietly.

There's nothing behind the door.

Just an empty hallway bathed in dim lighting.

You never reply. Because this is why you keep hanging nearby, even when there're many empty rooms in the penthouse, barely there, barely lingering ─ for the greatest and most profound pleasure of making him believe, just once, that perhaps, there's something else besides himself in this furnished apartment.

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Three (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but can you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of tasty angst, some tasty smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see series warnings, here. 

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule and series masterlist are here. 

Author’s note: Thank you so much if you're still here :) Hope you enjoy chapter 3! I'm so grateful for the interaction so far, and any feedback / comments / reblogs / asks would seriously mean the world! 

Word count: 7.1k for this part

Santiago’s eyes flit over you as you ever so deliberately lean yourself up against the counter edge, legs stretched and elongated before you. 

He just told you he’s missed you, after all these months apart - an admission you’d never expected so readily from him - but you, on the other hand, can’t bring yourself to be quite as forthcoming.

Instead, you fold your arms firmly around your middle and your expression grows taut - despite his effort to soften things. To close this distance. To drag you back in. 

Stubbornly, you offer a big fat nothing in response. Opt not to make things easy for him. 

Still, although you don’t make any move to invite him closer, you certainly do not make any move to deter him. 

And so, Santiago inches forwards, stepping into the place of your sketched memories of him -all you’ve had for months- and showing them up to be wholly inadequate. When you’d imagined him he wasn’t this. He is so much more than you had been dwelling on. More handsome. More affecting. More Santiago. 

He was hard enough to resist as an outline - as a vestige of the warmth he offered you. You don’t know if you can resist the full force of his corporeal form, and its promise of touch. You don’t even know if you want to. 

Santiago is a wound you could never close. A scab you always pick. A scar you will always carry. It’s not nice to think of him in such a way, but you don’t know another way any longer. He hurts you, but you don’t know how to stop letting him get close enough to do it. 

Your expression remains taut, however, even as Santiago’s face dances with a tentative smile, crinkles blooming around his eyes like sunbeams. A veneer of easy charm paints his features, no doubt in an attempt to sucker you in. 

He always was good at that. 

He just never quite knew what to do next when he had you. 

To answer Tom’s question, Santiago had never used a line on you, no; but, since you started hooking-up, he had never needed to. Not once. You were weak for him, and it didn’t take much at all to drag you into him. Barely anything, in fact. A bad day. A drink or two. A lingering hug and parted lips, hovering just a little too close to your neck. A hand smoothed down your back, a little lower than he’d thought to touch before. A thick, dark eyebrow raised with a question, a nod towards his bed with a solution, and then, you were his. Unravelling all over him. Tipping into him then falling - so far. Further than you’ve ever fallen. 

And God, you had tried. Tried to love him only in fragments. See him in pieces. Friend. Soldier. Lover. 

But you saw him all at once. 

He had drawn you in; because that’s what he does, isn’t it? It’s what he’s good at. He drags people in. To him. To danger. Because he can. Because he wants to. Because he needs to. Because he can’t bear to hurt alone. Because anything is a weapon in his lethal hands. His touch alone had even become a weapon, in the end. His fingers on you, inside you. Santiago knew exactly how to take you apart; but he didn’t know when to stop dismantling you. 

His hands had never learned to build things. 

It’s not his fault. Not really. 

Still, you can’t help but blame him for it. 

Santiago treads closer still, and your chest tightens with feeling. 

You wish desperately that you had that same power over him. The power to pull him, to drag him, to persuade him into safety; but Santiago’s always looking for a close call as though he depends on them. As though, if he steps back from the edge, he will forget what it feels like to live without the constant threat of dying. 

Santiago stops a few strides from you, planting his feet and shuffling from foot to foot, ugly flip flops slapping obnoxiously against the tiles. 

You have so much to say to him. So many things you’ve rehearsed and scripted in your head these past months. But suddenly, all of that is too much to verbalise. Instead, there is something else burning far more strongly than regret or resentment or anger or saving face. More strongly than the million things you had sworn you had wanted to scream at him if only you could finally get him in front of you. 

The truth is, you’ve missed him too. 

You miss him. 

This distance of only a few strides is the furthest you’ve ever felt from him, and you want nothing more than to close it. 

Here, like this, you’re achingly aware that he’s not touching you. Hasn’t touched you, since he arrived here. 

There was no hug hello. There has been no conspiratorial huddle of your bodies. No leaning into him on the couch. No sign of the two of you moving as one. In tandem. Symbiotically. 

No lovers. No friends. No soldiers. And what are you without that? 

You had left the latter life behind but you didn’t mean to lose the former too. 

Santiago scratches his chin, flecked stubble rasping along his jaw, against the rough pads of his fingers, and your core turns itself over. In this moment, you can recall the textures of him as thoroughly as if you are touching him yourself. 

Touch - that’s it. 

Touch is the shared language you two have even when there are no words. 

It is the language you have always shared. Developed over time, adding deeper and more elaborate phrasings to the point that, now, there are things you simply cannot say to each other without your fingers, your hands, your bodies, your lips. Therefore, in so many ways, until you can touch him? Until you have touched him? It will continue to feel like you haven’t yet spoken. Like you haven’t spoken since he left you in that doorway and you spat cruel words at him down the stairwell. Like you haven’t spoken since his hands -his touch- were last on you. Inside you. Over you. Covering you. 

You haven’t spoken since his hands were moving over your body and telling you he loved you. Needed you. Wanted you. 

And that? That won’t do. That’s too long without speaking to your best friend. 

You undeniably need his touch now, regardless of how dangerous it may be. You need it, regardless of whether or not it is a weapon in his palms. Indeed, with the words attempting to burst out of you still too numerous and craving this far more intimate, straightforward shorthand, you simply move to hug him. 

Santiago. 

To draw him into you and gather him up into your arms. Your oldest, dearest friend. 

You drink the scent of him in, and it is the scent of home. A home you’ve been searching for everywhere since you left it behind. A home you haven’t found anything close to back here - even at the family dinner table. A belonging you haven’t found in your new place, no matter how many throw cushions you buy and rearrange or how many photographs you hang in the hallway. 

And so, the sheer force of your embrace takes Santiago by surprise, his hands still shoved in the deep pockets of his cargo shorts; but, in only moments he is reacting, wrapping his arms around you too. You’re not proud of it, but for the first time in months you feel like you can breathe. 

Your fingers travel to any bare patch of skin you can find, snaking up to the back of his neck, into his hair, relearning the textures of him. Mapping his body beneath your touch. Cataloging every contour and swell of his terrain. And, it gives you pause as you find a fresh, ridged scar sliced into the back of his neck. 

How didn’t you notice this before? 

Oh yeah – that’s right. Because you’ve barely dared to look at him. To see him. Only dared to grasp at fragments of him, rather than risk seeing him all at once. 

Santiago feels you urgently exploring the ridge with your fingers when you reach it, an unfamiliar range freshly cartographed on the map of his skin. A new dimension to the familiar paths your fingertips have traversed time and time again. 

You pull away in shock, your fingers trembling. “What’s that? What happened?” 

Santiago routinely got injured when you were in the field with him. Usually right in front of you. That hurt too, of course – seeing him in pain. In danger. But you weren’t quite prepared for the way it would scoop out a hole in your chest to know that he had been hurt without you by his side. That he had been hurting alone. 

You knew, somehow. Knew he would throw himself into it when you’d left – into the danger. That he would get reckless without you around and God, what if something had happened? What if something had happened and you’d left it like that- the way you did? Fraught and angry and never having said any kind of proper goodbye? Leaving an open wound in your wake like that? How would you ever hope to piece yourself back together then? 

Finally, your eyes swim with the tears that you’ve been holding back all weekend, for longer, and which suddenly find their exit valve so suddenly that you can’t even hope to prevent them. Instead then, you scrub them helplessly from your cheeks as you search Santiago’s eyes for answers. 

“It’s okay,” Santiago soothes, smoothing his broad palms up and down your arms, shoulders to elbows. “Hey, it’s okay. Sweetie. I’m okay. Had that pain in my neck, remember? Went to get it fixed.”

It takes a moment for your surge of worry to still as you fight through the cloud of it, your eyes flitting all over his face. Your trembling fingers grasp his forearms in your grip as his broad hands shift to support you beneath the elbow, his thumb raking back and forth over your skin to subdue your concern. You feel ridiculous, but your eyes continue to ball with rogue tears. That is, until Santiago reaches beneath your chin and grips it, giving it a gentle jostle, his eyes steady and reassuring. “I’m okay. Really. Quick surgery. No complications.” 

You nod. Blink through the tears. “Okay. Okay. Right. Did it work? Pain in your neck gone?”

His cheek tugs on a smile. “Debatable. Tom’s still sat outside, last I checked.” 

You smile too. Release a light exhale of a laugh, venting some of the pressure. 

You examine Santiago’s face, painted as it is with mild shock and confusion, as though he’s wondering how you could possibly get so worked up about this new little nick on his neck. He never did quite get it, did he? What he means to you? “You promise you’re not hurt? Really?” 

He drops your arms. “It’s not your job to worry about me any more, remember?”

The blow feels low, even for him. A crack in his layered on charm, no matter how casually he attempts to pass it off. 

“Sure. It might not be my ‘job’ but it’s still my life’s fucking work, idiot. You got surgery. Why wouldn’t you tell me?” 

His brows draw down. “Well. We haven’t exactly been friendly lately. Not since…” his pink tongue curls around his lip, as though he can’t quite complete that thought. Can’t quite bear to revisit how you left things. At least, not out loud. 

He folds his arms around himself, creating a barrier, and you see the shutters go up over his eyes too. 

There it is again. This distance. 

Your shoulders slump with an exhale. “Fuck, Santiago. This is so much harder than I… The way we left it. I…”

You watch a hard swallow trail down Santiago’s corded neck. 

How did you leave it, exactly? 

Hurt. 

Yes. 

But also; searing pleasure. Pulse hammering in a hot throat. Insistent, grasping, spearing fingers. Stubble as rough and warm as sand. The urgent, soothing slide of tongue. Unfinished. 

Unfinished, and it’s so hard not to simply fall on to his lips in this moment. Warm. Soft. Familiar. 

He’s remembering too, and his sunken gaze dips to your mouth. His throat bobs around another thick swallow. And, as he so often does when his feelings become too much, Santiago yeets them away. Far away, in the worst possible way. “It’s okay,” he says coolly. “Look. I forgive you.” 

Your mouth falls open, in complete indignation. “Me? You forgive me?” 

He rocks from foot to foot. “Well… yeah.”

Santiago’s -up to now- cool, calm expression twitches with evident irritation as you scoff. Meanwhile, a sudden, hot rage tremors in your belly, making you gallop over your words so fast you almost trip. “Excuse me?! You’re the fucker who stormed out. Who left it like that.”

“Princesa,” he says, still eerily calm despite the momentary fracturing of his mask. “You left the fuckin’ country without saying goodbye.” 

Your nostrils flare. You boil. 

This anger which has festered for months, it seems, is finally finding a release valve. It is an ugly, gnarled thing, and yet, you lean into it with your whole self. You lean into it because it’s bringing you closer to him, the distance between your bodies tightening and shrinking as you zone in on one another with this twisting, animated rage. 

“Oh ho ho! Funny that the other boys managed to find the airstrip just fine, isn’t it? Frankie had a good luck banner. Benny brought me fucking sandwiches.” 

Santi rolls his eyes so hard. “Benny’s always been sweet on you.”

“And you’re not?!”

The words scrape you on the way out, like sand in your throat, and by the time you are almost chest to chest with Santiago, jabbing your pointer finger into the valley between his pecs in utter disbelief, it is too late. 

Too late to retreat as his hand almost absent-mindlessly settles over yours to relieve himself from the stab of your accusatory finger. 

Then, as coolly and calmly as his words are delivered, he still opts to level an accusation of his own. “You never should have left in the first place.” 

You snatch your hand away from his before the heat can travel up your arm and settle in your chest. And, in this moment, in response, you find that you want to hurt him. Perhaps a part of you truly is cruel. 

This time, your words are delivered coolly too. Slow, so that every syllable has time to crawl under his skin. “Santiago. I had no damn reason to stay.”

You watch as his eyes flash with a momentary knife lick of pain. He takes an almost imperceptible step back from you, whatever wolfy words in sheep’s clothing he was about to rasp dying in his throat. Instead, he exhales a huff of air through his teeth. Shakes his head. Smiles a smile somehow entirely scrubbed of joy. 

The implication of your words is clear. 

He was not reason enough for you to stay. 

“There,” he says coolly. Unfeelingly. Icily. “Are you done?” He scoops a hand around his mouth, stubble rasping beneath his palm, his eyes glassy and dulled now. 

Whatever satisfaction you had expected to derive from hurting him was a false sun. You feel empty now too, for having dulled his brightness. 

Did the anger make anything better, you ask yourself? Did it change a damn thing? 

No. 

Here you are, still entirely burdened by this weight in your chest. 

Still at such an impasse. 

Still best friends. 

Still bound. 

Still falling to pieces. 

Still hopelessly in love with him. 

And it’s still not enough. 

You watch him rock self-consciously from foot to foot once more. Attacked but not retreating. Still here. Still trying, in his own way. 

You wish you could state with some truth that you’re sorry. That you can forgive him. You don’t know if that’s real, but you still know one thing for sure. 

You missed him, and you do still want to close this distance. To heal this wound, not deepen it. Whatever it takes. 

“Fine. I’m sorry. I-”

“-Bullshit, hermosa.”

You look down at the floor, almost ashamed that you can’t bend the words quite enough on your tongue to make them feel true in your mouth. That Santiago saw right through you. 

But why would you be sorry? 

In your estimation, Santiago owes an apology far more than you do. 

Still, when you finally drag your eyes back up to his, his stare somehow feels softer. Bright enough with possibility, at least, to singe away your would-be tears. 

Maybe it’s because he sees you still here and still trying. 

You want to say something more, to do something, but you are entirely at a loss. The anger had gotten you nowhere - no closer to resolution - and you had not once in four months looked beyond it to what might happen next. To what the possibilities might be. 

You blink slow and long, bringing your palms up to shield your eyes as you gather yourself for a moment. 

Then…

“Here,” Santiago’s weakened voice sounds after a while. You hear the clink of a couple of glasses to the side of you, being grabbed up from the counter. 

“What?” you blink a few times in confusion. 

“Help me out.” Still, you look blank. “With the dishes.” 

You look around the kitchen, as if suddenly noticing where you are. As if only just having clocked the chaos created by you and the boys after an evening of hearty dinner and drinking. Corn husks and burger buns. Beer bottles and discarded dishes littering the surfaces.  

“Pope…”

“Come on. Like you wouldn’t be lying in bed staring at the ceiling all night if we left these festering ‘til morning?” 

Festering. 

Slack-jawed, you watch Santiago gather up the glasses and pad over to the dishwasher in his stupid flip flops, and you feel a sudden surge of affection for the man. 

Your eyebrows jump up in delayed surprise. At what, you’re not precisely sure. At the fact he knows you well enough to understand that a mission, however small, is what you need right now? At the fact he remembers you? That should in no way surprise you, but it does. 

Santiago ticks up an eyebrow in return, his hand brushing yours as he conveys a plate to you, ready to be slotted into the rack. “I haven’t forgotten you,” he promises, his voice silk, and an involuntary heat blooms through you. 

You are grateful that your arm moves on autopilot to stow away the plate, your body turning away from him before you can ignite. 

You are also grateful to have this small mission to focus on together. To place your two bodies back into their rightful routine. Sure, this domesticity is a far cry from what you’re used to. From any of the endless ways your bodies might have previously combined – acted as a unit. But, your heart aches as Santiago begins moving around you with ease. Effortlessly intuiting your path around the space, and slotting the path of his body around yours as you work together to get the job done. 

You suppose there are some paths you never forget if you walk them enough, and the way you move around each other so fluidly exhibits your years of togetherness – of walking in the same direction – far more clearly than you might care to admit.  

Your bodies remember each other, and, oh boy, do you want to test that assertion in all the ways you can think of. 

Still; you don’t. 

Can’t say anything for a moment, besides responding wordlessly to the brush of his skin against yours as he passes close to you. 

“Better to do it now, I guess,” Santiago twitters mindlessly as he rinses a dish and stacks it. You look at him almost completely stalled, as a characteristic smirk finds its way to his full lips. “Personally, I like doing it in the morning.” 

You wouldn’t know. He’d never stuck around until morning for you to find that out. 

“Right,” you respond stiffly. “Always putting everything off until later.” Including you. 

His face drops. 

Shit. You can’t help yourself, can you? 

You don’t know why you said that. Don’t know why you had to throw around more blame, just as things were softening. Just as things were beginning to feel more than a little like they used to. “Shit. I’m sorry. I…” This time, the words feel genuine. 

“Yeah. No. It’s fine. I get it,” he says somewhat placidly, all things considered. Reaching for another stray glass and loading it up. “You think this is all my fault.”

You grab up a used pan and tuck it into a space. The words are so strangled in your throat that they barely come out as more than a whisper. “Well. Isn’t it?” 

Santiago’s jaw writhes, tension travelling through his corded neck, his mouth a thin line. Still, he passes you the item in his hand all the same. “Agree to disagree?”

“Fine.” 

You both opt to contain it, then. Not to let it erupt. To focus intently on your task and only vaguely on each other. After all, it’s far safer that way – dulling the intensity of him.  

“Hey,” you try, forcing a brighter tone, which comes more easily than you might have expected. “Do you really play up the knee thing?” 

“Sometimes.” 

There is a beat, and you somehow can’t contain your statement. “I was never on top.” 

A frown notches in his brow. “Sure you were.” 

“No.” You swallow the lump in your throat as you watch Santiago rise from his hinged position, coming fully to standing, 

You hold your breath for a moment, wondering where he might take this, but you are relieved as an amused spark glints in his umber eyes. “Made an effort with you, I guess.” 

Fuck. You remember. His mouth on you for hours. 

Aaaand… There he goes. Dragging you back in. 

God, you want him to. Want him to soothe your anger. Win you over. You want that. 

“Ha. What made me so special?” Shit. You hadn’t meant… you didn’t mean it like that. Still, you clock the way Santiago self-consciously scratches the nape of his neck. 

His eyes glance off of yours now, like a careening, flung spark. 

You try to refocus. 

Knives and forks in the cutlery holder. 

You let the question hang. 

You let the moment breathe. 

It sounds odd, maybe, for something so mundane, but doing the dishes with Santiago - or something equally domestic - has long been a secret desire of yours. When bullets and bombs hailed around you, everything heightened and extreme and horrible, you had begun to entertain dreams of normal, boring moments with him. A morning cup of coffee. Falling asleep in his arms. Doing laundry. 

Peace instead of war. 

You snort softly at the thought. 

Now, it is the two of you who are at war. 

If only your hearts could be as in sync as your bodies always were. Apparently still are. And, dammit, once again, you want to take that theory to its logical conclusion. 

“So, look. What’s the deal?” Santiago asks self-effacingly, as he peels the wrapper away from the dishwasher tablet. “Are we ‘friends’ again, or what?”

“Santi. We never weren’t.” That’s not the issue, is it? Never was any question of whether you were friends. It’s that you didn’t know how to be more - not without tearing each other apart. 

Santiago nods slowly, processing all of this, and his expression is so contrite that you can’t hope to dull the tide of affection for the man. You turn a bowl over and over in your hands as a distraction. “I still want to know, Santi. I want to know what you’ve got going on. When you get neck surgery. I… You’re still my best friend.” You want to reach out for him. To hold him. In years gone by you would not have hesitated to touch him - but things are different now. “I mean… right? Aren’t you?” When a lump balls in your throat, you realise it’s less of a question, more of a plea. 

You can’t look at him, but in your periphery you note him moving closer. His arm extending, his broad, warm palm reaching out ever so tenderly to cup your cheek. Making you meet his gaze before he speaks. “You’re my ride or die, sweetie. Always.” 

It’s a relief to hear it. So much of a relief that at least one thing is a constant that your eyes brim with tears, misting your view of him as you finally tip your gaze back up to his. You find his expression wistful at first, but then, as his thumb continues to skim back and forth across your cheek, the moment morphs. 

That was always the problem, wasn’t it? 

You were soldiers, then friends, then lovers. If only you could figure out what to be next. How to be all of those things at once. 

So, when this heat between you is finally given a chance  - instead of sparks flinging themselves into the dark - it catches, beginning to blaze. 

Suddenly, there is a whole conversation happening between your bodies, without making any move. So fluent are you in the language of touch that you can even intuit his words before he speaks them. Suddenly, a whole tome is written in the fleeting moment that your eyes lock. A tome dedicated to every conceivable position your bodies might combine into. To how you might make use of every surface around you. 

The way he could shunt you up against the-

-spread you open on the-

-turn you around and bend you over until-

-a collapsing of this need. 

Your bodies, doing whatever they need to sync themselves back up. No longer out of rhythm. 

In many ways, it would be so easy. 

So easy to succumb. 

In that fleeting moment, all the possibilities seem to flash through you as you contemplate what move you’re going to make. Which way you will choose to give into him. 

But instead, you reach for the dishwasher door, and you push it closed. Santiago follows, standing formally beside you, hands folded in front of him as though mourning the moment you had both allowed to pass. Mourning the fact that your bodies are talking, screaming out to one another, but not one of you is prepared to listen. Not yet.  

“There’s another job,” Santiago states blankly. “I found Lorea’s cash house.” 

Your stomach drops. “Fuck, Pope.”

“The boys are in,” he snips back, almost defensively. 

Are they? The others were meant to be done with that life too – just like you. It had barely been any time at all since they had followed you out. Started to move on with their lives in whatever way they could. 

Thank God, is all you can think. Thank God you didn’t let your need collapse, because if you had, you’d be right back where you started. You’d never get out. All Santiago knows is how to walk around in circles. 

“I’m out. I told you,” you reaffirm, as if in danger of being drawn back in regardless of your firm resolve. Santiago always was so very persuasive, that at times you wondered if his desire for you was anything more than a sales pitch. Fucking propaganda. 

“I’m… Shit. I’m not asking you to be a part of it.” 

You arc an eyebrow, trying your best not to let on that hurts you; contrary thing that you are. “Oh?” 

“I’m just telling you what I’ve got going on. Like you wanted.” 

“Right.” You swallow. Why did Frankie not mention this? Asshole. “Sure.”

Now that the dishes are stowed away, Santiago casually pops a couple of beers, leaning himself up against the counter. You follow his lead. 

“So,” he breezes, nodding the head of his bottle at you. “I gave you something. Now you can tell me about the guy you’ve been dating.” You arc an eyebrow at him, definitely coming off as miffed that he’s found out about that. “Oh yeah,” he says smugly, with a knowing curl of his lips. “Your sister dropped you in it big time. Almost like she was trying to make me jealous or something.” 

You shrug. 

Well?

Did it work? Is he? Jealous? 

Part of you wants him to claim you again. At least, you want him to want to. Want him to remind you in no uncertain terms of all the ways he can’t forget your body - and everything he knows how to do to it. 

“He’s….” Possibilities of what you could respond with filter through your brain. He’s not even a thing. He’s none of your business. He’s what you deserve for letting me go. He’s revenge. He’s a bit of fun. He’s not someone I could make a go of it with. He’s not you. Never will be you. “…Hot.”

“Did you meet him at a wine mixer?” Santiago asks with a brash smile. “Does he listen to true crime podcasts and do ultra-marathons to prove he’s special? Take you on dates to Olive Garden?” 

“That’s… ridiculously specific. Also; no.” 

In truth, you know this revelation from your sister won’t even bother Santiago all that much - not on any real level. That’s because he knows it as well as you do. Knows that you’re his. At least, that you could be his, at any moment. That he could make you forget. Or remember. Whatever he wanted. 

You prickle though, and he sees it. “Come on. I’m not trying to be an ass. I swear. I just-“ he bumps your arm with the back of his hand “-want to know too. What you’ve got going on.”

“Then you should ask me about my job, the house. All of that.” 

He leans in, just a little. Conspiratorial almost, eyebrows shooting up. “I get all of that shit from Frankie.” So Frankie’s been selling you out too, huh? You’ll need to have words. “But… Look, he holds out on me when it comes to who’s giving you the dickin’ down these days.”

“As he should!” 

Santiago chuckles, and God you’ve missed that sound. 

You search his face. A gentle, genuine curiosity plastered over his features. You take a swig of beer, for some illusion of courage. 

“Fine. I met him when I kicked his ass at a BJJ seminar, thank ya very much. He has tattoos. Owns a gourmet street food truck. Hangs with his two kids in his spare time.” Santiago nods solemnly, as though his own curiosity is coming back to bite him all of a sudden. As though he’s growing less and less sure that you’re his. “And it’s...” You clear your throat. Christ, there’s no subtle way to do this. “I mean. It’s still early. We haven’t even said we’re exclusive yet, you know?”

Santiago nods slowly again, processing all of this. Studying your face intently, without giving much away himself as a heat claims your cheeks. You’re not sure what you want him to do with that final piece of knowledge, exactly. Can hardly bear to think about how desperate it must come off. 

Fuck. If he really cared about you, he’d let you go, wouldn’t he? But you won’t let him let you go. 

Maybe you really are just as bad as one other. 

“So… it’s not…” you continue, hoarsely. “I mean. It’s not serious.” 

Santiago gives you a look then though. One which is desolate, eyes scrubbed clean of that perpetual, vital spark. “Don’t,” he pleads softly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t give me hope.” 

Santiago. 

Why the hell not, exactly?

Why the fuck shouldn’t you give him hope? After all, there is so much of it twisting in your chest. Hope that somehow, this time, this thing you share could maybe be different. There is such an abundance of hope that it only seems fair to heap it upon him too, doesn’t it? So that he may share the burden? 

“Okay. Whatever.” You set your mouth into a thin, pinched line, but there’s too much feeling bubbling up inside you to contain. “I missed you too, you know.” 

Then, despite what he’d just said…

His eyes spark, glancing off yours like flint on rock, no more settled ash here; only kindling catching. “Oh you did?” he purrs in a smooth voice, like breath bellowed into a burgeoning flame – giving you heat.  

You’re so fucked. 

You want his heat. You want… 

Fuck. 

Your bodies betray yourselves, your resolve, your best intentions, magnetising ever so slowly towards one another until you are almost chest to chest, all hitching breaths and need-burdened brows. Hovering hands and blown-out pupils and parted lips, inching closer. His finger trailing up your forearm like the crackle of a licking flame, causing you to gasp from the way it burns. 

He dips forward for a kiss you’ve waited months for. 

Months; and yet… when it comes to it? When you finally get what you think you want, you deny it. Your head whips to the side, chin to shoulder at the last moment, leaving Santiago’s lips moments from your cheek, his breath fanning warm against your skin. It takes everything you have not to turn – to offer your mouth to his so that he might quench your desire like a cooling tide rolling over a hot, needy shore. 

“Don’t…” you plead now too. Don’t, because if he starts, you will not have the strength to stop, and you’re so very tired of moving in circles. 

Santiago remains in place for a moment, chest moving with gently ragged breaths, the scent of him all over you like smoke. The heat of this desire – the desire to consume you, devour you like fuel - pouring off of him in waves, and desire sinks through your middle too, tacky and hot and rolling. 

“Shit,” he curses, dragging both his hands through his hair and causing waves of turmoil through his grizzled curls. He steps back from you, and you look down at where his hand had found your arm, half-expecting it to be singed. 

“Fuck, Santi,” you breathe - in despair, in relief - not knowing quite how you avoided this collision, your stomach in your throat as though you have lurched in a flung vehicle, narrowly avoiding the edge. 

This is the one thing you promised yourself, coming here. That you wouldn’t go there. Not again. But, despite trying, it’s quite apparent that you don’t know how to go anywhere else. Your body can barely comprehend itself without his now. After all, you’ve been like a river coursing towards him your whole life. Every sign and route and valley and peak leads you towards him. Every fear and hope of yours is mapped on his skin – hidden in the crooks and valleys of his body. At this point, you don’t know how to flow any other way. How to be anything other than a team. How to do anything other than combine. 

Except; when you combine, you collide. You buried your home in his bones, piece by piece, and you can no longer tell if that was love or violence. What do you do, when your home is also your battlefield? When you’ve already done enough fighting for a lifetime? When all you want is to feel safe and at peace, and he can’t give you that? 

Your eyes glance off of his again, and this time they are cool and liquid, salt tides shrouding his burnt umber eyes. “Is it always going to be like this?” he asks flatly. “We never gonna to be able to be around each other again?” He looks at you earnestly, and you realise that he’s genuinely waiting for an answer. 

“It can’t. It can’t always be like this.” Fraught. Difficult. Painful. It’s not an option. So, it can’t be a possibility. You can’t be with him; but more importantly, you can’t lose him. You just can’t. 

You are unsure which words Santiago swallows in the next moment, but you see them bob down his throat and into his chest. Then, you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exposed by the pain stinging your eyes like woodsmoke. 

“So. Glad you got out, huh?” Santiago needles, and you wonder, for a moment, whether a small part of him is cruel too. You wonder what he truly wants to hear, and you resent the scepticism in his voice. Resent the way his words appear to say one thing, but his true meaning is clear. Look what you’ve done. 

“Yeah. I am.” What else can you even say? It’s evident that Santiago will never get down on his knees and beg you to come back. And, even if he did do so, he’d be missing the point. You can’t ever go back. You need him to follow you out, and, meanwhile, he’s still looking backward. “I know you won’t leave, Santi, but I couldn’t stay.”

He never did have a clear vision for his future, did he? He only ever had tactics. The next mission. The next pay packet. The next bust. The next lay. Short steps, and never strategic ones. Always a soldier, and never a leader, not even when it came to his own fate. 

Santiago sighs deeply, scooping his palm over his stubble. “I know,” he concedes, reluctantly. “I get that. I do.” The muscles in his jaw writhe as he bites the inside of his cheek. 

A truce. A ceasefire. For the moment. 

How did it come to this? 

“And?” you press, trying to soften your tone and getting halfway. “What about you? Are things… good?” Are they better? Better with you gone? 

Santiago looks at you then like you’ve just shot him in the leg, but like he also finds it kinda funny that you did. He juts his chin towards you in challenge. “What the shit do you expect me to say, huh?” 

Nothing, in truth. Nothing at all with his words. Everything with his lips. With his fingers. With the sting of his teeth on your lips. The rake of his stubble on your skin. With his touch. 

For a moment, once again, his eyes are soft and bright, and you can’t help it. Can’t help the way you take a couple of steps forward, extending your palm out to cup that pretty, ridiculously shapely jaw of his, the anger you’ve held on to for months lifting like a veil. 

It’s not his fault at all, is it? 

You simply loved him too soon; and he loved you too late.

Still, it feels a lot like love when he settles his warm, broad hand on top of yours. For all that has gone wrong, it still feels pretty right from where you’re standing. 

Your gaze dips to his full lips and God, yet again, you are only moments from caving. 

Maybe this time… 

Maybe if you just hope- 

“-Yikes! Sexual tension much? Hot as the Sahara in here.” 

You and Santiago jump apart from each other as a booming voice fills the room, your heads whipping towards the noise. 

Benny Miller. 

Benny Miller has arrived at the beach house, everyone. The towering man is clutching a couple of holdalls, and a rucksack is slung over his broad back. You notice his clownish, pearly grin first, and the howler of a bruise on his eye comes a close second. 

“Bring it in, bitches!” he encourages, opening his arms towards the two of you, and you quickly attempt to shift gears, a part of you grateful for the sudden interruption, but the whisper of that almost kiss lingering on your lips all the same. 

Still, before Santiago can succeed in reading the disappointment on your face, you practically leap into the arms of the younger Miller brother. 

“Benjamin!” you squeal in delight, squeezing him tight. 

“Miller,” Santiago grins, pulling the taller man in for a backslapping, neck-grasping embrace. 

“Where are the other chumps at?” Benny inquires, as soon as greetings have been exchanged, already beginning to shrug off his bags and piling them on to the floor.  

You nod your head in the direction of the beachside portion of the house. “Out front. Fire pit. Beers. Three dudes who ate their bodyweight in tamales. Get involved, Ben.” 

“Nice.” 

Benny bounds outside to say hello, insufferably energetic for this stage in the evening, and once again, you are left alone in the kitchen with Santiago. 

You feel like all of the air has suddenly been sucked right out of the room. And, with nothing else for it, you press the button on the dishwasher and it whirrs into action. Hell - that damn machine is the only thing around here getting any. 

“We’re done here then?” you question, and, not for the first time this weekend, you’re entirely unsure what it is you want to hear. 

Santiago looks at you. Looks at you with all the knowledge of someone who knows you in every way there is to know a person. His gaze is intense – locked and loaded and so very counter to the casual way he shoves his hands into his pockets. You wither under his stare, but his earnest words are the thing which ends you. “I wanna kiss you. So bad.” 

Your arms wrap tightly around your middle, as though you are searching around your skin for an exit wound; but no. Apparently, you have not yet worked him out from under your skin. Santiago is still the bullet inside your chest. His love still hurts. 

Apparently, there was no clean parsing of him from you when he slammed that door and walked away, but instead, the slow bleed of metal and blood under your skin. You think, all of a sudden; I will never get you out, will I? You are a part of me. You are scar tissue. The echo of a wound. 

Your eyes swim, and your burgeoning tears extinguish any fire you may feel. Any words you might say catch on hooks in your throat and never make it out at all. 

Santiago has something to say though, it seems, even as his gaze drops to his own toes and your silence speaks volumes. “For the record? It’s not good at all. Without you.” 

You press your palm to his chest, a gesture caught smack-bang between reaching to pull him closer and pushing him away. You shake your head lightly, your plea whispered into the tight space between you. “Santiago. Don’t.” 

And then, with a deep breath, you walk away. Calm and slow, but with just as much turmoil on the inside as when he had left you behind in a frenzy, doors slamming and voices raised. 

After he watches you leave, Santiago remains in the kitchen for a moment, stooped over and his hands braced, palms flat against the counter. 

Then, after a quick side-eye at the dishwasher - for it daring to whirr and intrude on his quiet, contemplative melancholy – he pushes it all down. Resumes wearing his mask. The one signaling that everything is fine. That he is fine, even though everything he held most dear seems lost. 

The truth is, he needs you. He loves you. He wants you. 

But you don’t seem to want to hear it. 

You had left, and you had also left him behind. 

The truth is, it breaks his heart. 

[secondhand-snow]

Imagine Logan Roy having a stepdaughter, just a couple of years younger than Roman, and who's tried to stay away from all the family drama while having a secret affair with Mencken, and then one of the Roy siblings finds out about it and tells Logan, but in a "let's marry her off to him and get us a first Lady in the family" as a way of securing more power for the clan.

love this idea so much, apologies for the delayed response! ♡

sfw | semi-dark content? | jeryd mencken x f!reader (succession)

Somehow, it’s Roman that finds out first. You’d (stupidly) left your phone out on his desk when using the bathroom when a conspicuous message notification popped up on your screen. Rome couldn’t help his curiosity. He found a way to unlock the device using a photo of you on his desk. It only took a few moments for his eager fingers to open your text thread, scrolling through your history with vigor. In doing so, he unknowingly opened Pandora's box, unleashing its complexities onto the entirety of the Roy household.

“You know the future president of the United States? She’s fucking him!” Roman barely waited until the glass door to Logan’s office was shut before shouting, your phone held proudly above his head as he waved it in the air. You were hurrying after him, as fast as your business heels would allow, trying desperately to grab the device out of his hand before he could flash the screen to your step father.

“Wait- Mencken? She’s fucking Jeryd Mencken?!” Even Shiv’s tone was shocked at the news, her usual nonchalant demeanor compromised. Her gaze flicked between Kendall, who was standing with his mouth hung open, and Logan, who was sitting at his desk with his brow furrowed.

“Oh my God, Roman shut the fuck up!” Your voice was whiny and pitiful, the deep blush on your cheeks speaking for itself as you reached your brother, beginning to wrestle the phone out of his grip.

“Are you serious? Is- is this a joke, Rome? Are you… like- fucking with us?” Kendall moved to the two of you, attempting to separate the fight as he questioned you. 

“No, it’s not like that!” With a rough tug you managed to grab the phone from Roman, immediately checking to see how far he’d gotten in your messages. 

“Oh it’s absolutely like that! He was sending you the address of hotel rooms!!” 

“Romulus.” Logan’s voice breaks through the madness, causing an immediate stop to the bickering in the room. His attention turns to you. “Is this true? Have you been sleeping with Mencken?” 

You cross your arms over your chest, casting your gaze to your feet. You don’t respond.

“Oh my god-”

“You fucking-”

“I told you!! She-”

“It’s not like that though!” Your tone cuts through the chatter of your siblings, the volume  a little less than a yell. “It’s not even that bad. It’s not, like, an affair… It’s a relationship.”

“A relationship? What, does he buy you flowers and take you to dinner?” Shiv’s usual sarcasm is turned up incredibly high, her eyes cutting daggers through you as she speaks.

“I just mean- it’s not just hooking up. Okay?” You wave your hands sharply through the air before letting them fall to your sides, finishing your poor explanation. “And it’s not even like you need to know. This is my private life, it doesn’t affect you.”

“Tell that to Monica Lewinsky.” Kendall is standing with his arms crossed, eyes wide in disbelief as he stares down at his shoes. Logan shifts in his seat, one hand moving to push his glasses onto his nose, the other picking up the receiver of his phone.

“Put me through to Mencken.” Your step father speaks into the phone, directed at one of his assistants before placing it back down and pressing a button to turn on the speaker.

“Wait, Dad I-” Your attempt to stop Logan is given no merit, waved off with a quick motion of his hand as the line picks up.

“Mr. Roy, what a pleasant surprise.” Jeryd’s voice is as charismatic as ever, the mere sound of him causing you to subtly bite your lip in longing. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I’ve been recently informed on some of your, uh, extracurricular activities that may cause an issue with our endorsement of your campaign.” Logan pauses, brings a hand to his chin. 

“The support of ATN is incredibly valuable to the success of this campaign, I can assure you that I will take all necessary steps to ensure the health of this business relationship.”

“I do appreciate that, but I still have a question for you.” A cold shock goes down your spine as Logan takes a moment to breathe. “When were you going to tell me about your relationship with my step-daughter?”

“...”

“Now, the way I see it, you've begun an unauthorized association with a member of my highest corporate team. That in itself is ground for the termination of our endorsement. But more than that, you’ve started an affair that could be detrimental to your traditionalist image if leaked to the public.”

“Mr. Roy, I have gone to great lengths to ensure that my private life does not interfere with my professional image and public perception. I don’t see why this needs to end the mutual benefits of our contract-”

“Well, maybe I’m just upset that you fucked my daughter.”

“Dad!” Your tone is shocked at the vulgarity from your step father, volume loud enough for Jeryd to hear on the other line.

“So, I will give you two options, Mencken. Option one, we terminate our promotion of your campaign, almost certainly losing you the presidency, and you never see my stepdaughter again.”

“And option two?”

“Option two, you marry my stepdaughter, solidifying your partnership with Waystar and giving us a more direct route to support your political endeavors.” 

“Dad, you can’t be serious…” It’s a little pitiful how desperate your voice is. You move to stand at the front of his desk, Kendall moving with you to place a hand on your shoulder as you look at Logan. The expression on his face answers your question.

“Option two it is.”

“Wait, what?” Shiv speaks now, walking to stand near you with her arms crossed over her chest. “You can’t just… marry her off to someone. Arranged marriages are illegal in the U.S.”

“Forced marriages are illegal, Siobhan. Are you being forced, Mr. Mencken?” Logan knows he’s won now, his tone laced with that air of cockiness he’s prone to.

“No, sir.”

“And are you being forced?” He turns his head to you.

“I don’t…”

“You can stop this if you want to. You’ll just have to deal with the consequences of your choices.” That makes you stop, biting your lower lip in concentration. It’s a moment before you speak again.

“No, I’m not being forced.” With four words, you seal your fate.

“Then it’s settled. We’ll be in contact with you, Mencken.”

“Alright.”

When Logan hangs up the phone, it’s like the air in the room has gone stale. It’s a full thirty seconds before anyone even speaks, all of you standing there in a stunned silence. You’re actually the first one to move, stepping backwards, brushing past Kendall, to fall into one of the chairs before your dad’s desk. Your eyes are wide, your hands moving to your face and you lean forward, propping yourself up with your elbows on your thighs. 

While it’s a shock, the arrangement of marriage isn’t terrifying to you. You knew you liked Jeryd, maybe not loved, but at least the sex was good. You think you could put up with him as a husband. But being a first lady? Having your life displayed to the public more than it already is? That scared you. Your jaw clenches as the familiar ding of a text notification emits from your phone, the sound ringing through the silent room. 

You open the device to see a notification from Jeryd lighting up your text thread:

We’ll be okay.

© secondhand-snow 2024

[em-prentiss]

all of me a wound me to close (but I leave the whole thing open)

----

The silence stretches and Aaron can’t fill it, the back of his throat fuzzy with words that won’t do any good. When she speaks, her voice is thready.

“I’m so fucking tired.”

Or, Emily struggles to sleep after Doyle.

Word count: 3.5k

----

Emily isn’t sleeping. 

Aaron knows, and not just because he tries to keep tabs on his team in any small ways he can. It’s become increasingly obvious over the past week; she’s pale, shadowy half moons pressed firmly under her eyes, and seemingly always frowning. Brows drawn in a knot, a pinch to her mouth that she can’t quite hide behind hasty smiles. She’s slower than usual, blinking at him when he gives her an order; seconds would slip by between them before she’d nod, the movement jerky, the flow of her body just as sluggish when she’d walk past. Tension never leaves her shoulders, even when she’s working on something as routine as paperwork.

To say he’s waiting for her to collapse on the bullpen floor is an understatement.

He knows the others have noticed it, caught on to the way she seems to hang from a fraying thread. It’s hard to miss JJ and Morgan’s exchanged glances, heavy with worry when she seems to sway on her feet, losing her balance when she does something as simple as rise from her seat. Rossi gently repeats questions that go unanswered to her deaf ears, Reid tries to wordlessly hand her his eye mask on the jet. Even he felt the itch to pull out the bottle of melatonin from his go bag and hand it to her.

But nobody seems to want to verbally breach the defenses she’s built around herself and prod, except for Penelope, who got brushed off with the usual—if slightly clipped—I’m fine. They’re hesitant to cross the line between caring and hovering—hell, he is—but when he spots the fourth mistake in half as many pages on her after-action report, he decides to seek her out.

Aaron steps out of his office, his eyes habitually sweeping over the bullpen. As he’s going down the stairs he finds that Emily’s chair is empty; there’s a mug of tea cooling next to her desktop, a half-empty strip of Tylenol pinned under her keyboard—common fixtures these past few days. Her phone is also there, so is her purse, but the woman in question is not.

His lips press together as he walks past her desk and peers into the empty kitchenette. Distantly, Aaron knows he should jump to a more reasonable explanation, like the restroom, but he leaves the bullpen and steadily heads to the elevators, a churning in his stomach as he presses the button. The doors slide open with a ping and he already knows he’s going up, though he’s running on nothing but instinct.

When he steps into the roof, he’s immediately hit with the acrid scent of cigarettes. 

Emily is leaning against the wall, an arm hugging her torso and her other elbow stacked on top of it. Her head is bowed, right hand pressed between her brows, the glowing tip of her cigarette dangling dangerously close to her hairline.

Aaron has a sinking suspicion that her eyes are closed.

It’s confirmed when he approaches; she doesn’t start even though his footsteps thud against the floor, purposely heavy. Aaron finally glimpses her face and finds her eyes shuttered, her lips parted. A pack of Marlboro reds is held limply in her hand, barely enclosed within her loose fingers. Everything is still except for the stagnant rise and fall of her chest.

He’s briefly torn. Aaron doesn’t know whether to wake her first or grab the cigarette before it burns her into consciousness. He’s not even sure how she’s still standing upright; her lower back touches the wall but from there her spine curves, like a wilting crescent, her forehead meeting the connected hook of her pointer finger and thumb. She already looks fragile, the tips of her hair swaying in the wind, blowing dark ends into her sickly pale face. He doesn’t want to scare her further, doesn’t want her to jolt awake with the momentary panic in her eyes, but he can’t find another option.

The glowing tip of the cigarette slowly eats at the wrapping paper, the browning edges growing closer to her knuckles. It’s loosely wedged between her middle and index fingers; ash tumbles to the floor and Aaron calls out her name, holding his hand out under hers to catch it in case it drops. 

Emily doesn’t respond but for a hitch in her breath. Her lashes flutter, her pale chest caving beneath the wool of her v-neck.

The cigarette burns more of itself. Aaron grabs it, pinching the part just extending above Emily’s knuckles, and pulls it from between her fingers. He hears her sharp intake of breath as he tosses it to the floor, stares down at it and crushes it beneath his heel in a cloud of bitter smoke.

Emily’s eyes are wide when he looks up at her. The brown is clouded with thick swirls of sleep, an almost visible fog in her irises that he wishes he can wave away with a snap of his hand. 

Her brows crease together, frown lines easily slipping back into their long-carved grooves. “Hotch? Wh…What—?”

“You need to go home,” he says softly. It’s not even what he intended to say, but it’s what leaves his lips anyway. “You’re in no shape to be here—”

“I’m fine.” She croaks. The blatant lie makes him shake his head. “I was just—”

“You were just what, Emily? Just closing your eyes, resting them for a moment? You almost burned yourself.” He catches the almost imperceptible way she tenses and his hard tone wilts. Aaron briefly closes his eyes. Nausea stirs up in his gut but he blows out a breath, his knuckles coming up to tap the cement behind them. “This wall is holding up more of your weight than you are.”

Emily shoves the cigarettes into her pocket. “Fine, I’m not sleeping. You made your point. Happy?” She snaps, the darkness of her eyes turning bitter. Her jaw is tight, her words barely slipping out from the minimal space between her clenched teeth. “Forgive me if your tumultuous schedule doesn’t allow for much sleep.”

The razor edge of her voice pokes through the padded fabric of his suit. Blood blooms between his ribs, the same stark red as his tie. Aaron holds her gaze, feeling his shirt grow damp at the emptiness in her bloodshot eyes. They used to be warm; shining with light that made them glitter like the stars, but the stars have burned out and her eyes have turned brittle. 

He has to stand there and stare into them like the cold doesn’t reach his heart, turn his blood to ice.

“We haven’t been on a case in days,” he says evenly. “This…it’s been going on before that.” He’s more confident than he should be, but the tug in his gut tells him he’s right.

Emily scoffs, a derisive twist to her mouth. “Well, since you know all about it—”

“I’m sending you home,” Aaron cuts over her, keeping his voice steady, “you can come back after you’ve had some proper sleep—”

“I can’t sleep at home!” She yells. Her face crumples, her eyes glossing over in seconds. “Damn it, Hotch, you think I haven’t fucking tried? It’s all I’ve been doing.” Her voice breaks on the last word and she looks up, her lashes fluttering in wings of black as she blinks rapidly. Emily swallows, crossing her arms tight over her chest. Holding herself together. 

Though he was expecting it, Aaron’s heart still skips. Alarm bells start to ring in his ears, distant and growing louder as Emily shoves off the wall.

Her nostrils flare as she breathes in. The silence stretches and Aaron can’t fill it, the back of his throat fuzzy with words that won’t do any good. When she speaks, her voice is thready. 

“I’m so fucking tired.”

There’s a heavy weight to the words, one that almost drags him under. Colored with the bruised purple of exhaustion, the deep blue of defeat. It’s that, more than her admission, that almost makes his knees buckle. 

Emily bites down on her lip, trying to mask the way it trembles in time with her shoulders when she gives him a meek shrug. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do anymore.” She says, gripping her own arms tighter. There’s nothing to dig into her flesh, because her nails are jagged and raw, bitten to the quick. The breath she sucks in makes her whole body shudder.

Nausea whips through his stomach and Aaron finally gets it. It scares him to see her like this, blatantly falling apart at the seams, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Her chest stutters and his does, too, his ribcage constricting around his heart, the bones digging in and giving him a fraction of what she’s feeling.

Fix it, his mind screams at him. But he knows he can’t. The damage is long done, and now they’re standing in the wreckage.

Aaron takes a step. Two. He doesn’t remember actively making the decision to move, but his feet close the distance anyway.

Emily doesn’t stop him when he gets closer. Doesn’t stop him when he tentatively reaches out, making his intentions painfully clear. All she does is look him in the eye and say help me, her shoulders loosening a fraction when he finally wraps his arms around her. Aaron hears her exhale, shaky and low as he brings her into him and feels the cold on her skin, even through their clothes.

For a few seconds, Emily still tries to hold herself upright. But when he cups the back of her neck, fitting her more securely into his chest, she crumbles. Her body sags against his, her head defeatedly thudding against his shoulder. Aaron’s weight becomes his, hers, theirs. She reaches for the fabric of his jacket and holds on tight.

Let me help, he wants to say, but his tongue is heavy with the lump in the back of his throat. He wraps an arm around her back and smells cigarette smoke, chamomile tea, the long since familiar scent of her perfume buried deep down, faded on her twice-washed clothes. A faint tremble goes through her and he kicks himself, swallowing to get rid of the persistent boulder in his airway. He’s never been good at words, but now they fail him more than they’ve ever had.

“It wasn’t like this for you.” Emily says. Her voice is so low a whisper he barely hears it, spoken to the skin of his neck and the wind. But it’s just enough.

Aaron’s tongue finally moves. “I know what it’s like.” He says. Because yes, it was like this for him. Shadowy demons in the corners of his eyes and the soothing dark where he used to seek sleep; his muscles tense under sweaty sheets before he’d reach for the pills on his nightstand; exhaustion shutting his body down without his permission, making him collapse on his couch despite the nightmares.

Only sometimes he had the added comfort of his sleeping son to ground him. She has nothing. 

“You…you can almost feel them behind you. They’re there, you swear they are, but it’s just you. You can’t close your eyes—” she tenses and he tightens his grip—“and the longer you stay awake the more they start creeping in.” He says into her hair. Then come the headaches, the tremors; the way they start to slow, their bodies growing heavy. Their focus slips through their fingers like sand. “I know, Emily.”

Emily fists his jacket tighter. Her trembling breath warms the skin of his neck, fluttering lashes almost ticklish as they scrape his throat. “How…” Her voice is hoarse. She clears her throat, “How did you get through it?” 

You. 

He hid so much from her, from the team, but that never stopped her from being there. Even now, when he looks back at a year, two years ago, he remembers her the most amongst the grief. The vice-like grip she had on him, unwilling to let him tumble over the edge and sink into the abyss. Her determination not to be shut out, worming her way past his walls even though he never technically allowed her. She held on tight with her fists and slowly dragged him back, step by step, and though his insomnia was his to battle on his own, she did a thousand other things to keep him from the brink.

It’s his turn now.

“I wasn’t alone.” He whispers. “And neither are you.”

Emily takes in a shuddering breath.

“Come on,” Aaron says, pulling back to look at her. “You can try—”

“I’m not going home.”

“I’m not sending you home,” he soothes. Emily frowns, the arch of her brows sluggish. “You’re coming to my office. The couch isn’t half bad, believe it or not.” He attempts a small smile.

Emily’s hands fall from his jacket. She crosses her arms over her chest again, fighting a shiver against the wind that ruffles her hair. “But…but you need the—”

“I don’t need anything other than for you to sleep.”

“I can’t.” Her voice cracks.

“Just try,” Aaron urges. “Your body’s exhausted, Emily. You’re at your limit. You can’t keep going like this.” His hand goes to her shoulder, gently nudging her to the door. 

Emily’s feet remain firmly planted on the floor. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, her chin moving the tiniest fraction to shake her head no. But she herself is unconvinced, the drooping of her eyes admitting defeat even if her mouth won’t.

Aaron curls his fingers around her shoulder. “Emily,” he says gently. She’s always Emily now; she stopped being Prentiss the moment he walked into her cold hospital room. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t hold her pale hand in his, her fingers weak and grabbing for something familiar when her whole world started crumbling. The carefully constructed walls of Prentiss fell away as her breath caught, her lips trembling when he told her she’d be going somewhere. Somewhere he didn’t know, couldn’t know. His fingers had squeezed hers, their first and last touch wrapped up in one.

But the foundation of Prentiss had been crumbling long before that. 

“Please,” Aaron murmurs. “I won’t be there, I promise. I’ll get you your tea and you can close the blinds—hell, lock the door, even—but please just try. If you keep going like this it’ll either be my office or the hospital.”

Emily shudders and closes her eyes. “Okay.” She mumbles, a grimace pulling over her teeth.

Aaron allows himself a small smile when she allows him to nudge her this time. He traps the relieved breath in his throat, swallowing it down and letting it soothe the knot in his stomach. “That’s what gets you to cave?” He says lightly, trying to mask his surprise when she leans into him. Aaron falters a little, but then he adjusts his arm to wrap around both her shoulders, holding her steady as he opens the door and they walk back into the building.

“Your office smells a lot nicer than the hospital.” Emily says, her words chewed together in a slur.

High compliment. 

“Thank you.”

“And, uh—just to be clear, that wasn’t a threat, right? The hospital?” She asks, an audible tinge of anxiety to her voice as they get into the elevator. He presses six.

“No.” Aaron assures. His hand drops from her shoulders, skating down her back to gently grip her elbow. “But it is what will happen if you continue this way. Your body won’t be able to handle it, Emily.”

“Right,” she mumbles, looking down just as he catches the shine to her eyes. “S’not like I can help it.”

Before Aaron can reply, she’s leaning away. Fiddling with the sleeves of her sweater as she stares at the descending numbers, waiting for it to land on six. Emily hangs back uncertainly once it does, nudging him with her eyes to go before her. Aaron does. He opens the bullpen door, gently places his hand on her lower back to let her in. He knows the team is looking as they make their way to his office, knows Emily isn’t by the silhouette of her bowed head from the corner of his eye. They walk up the stairs in unison and this time she rushes past his office door when he opens it, waiting until he closes it to let out a low exhale.

“Lie down,” Aaron murmurs, shuttering the blinds closed as he walks past the window and to his desk. Emily seems to relax more with the rest of the bullpen shut out, quietly sitting down and bending to take off her boots. 

Aaron grabs his go bag from under the desk. He takes out a blanket—fuzzy gray and dotted with glow in the dark stars, twin to the one on the foot of Jack’s bed—and hands it to her.

“Cute.” The corner of her mouth tugs upward.

“You should see it when it glows in the dark.”

Emily huffs a weak laugh and drapes it over her legs. She’s halfway situated on the couch, her legs awkwardly bent at the knees as she drops her head on the armrest.

He’ll have to get a pillow from Dave’s office, Aaron thinks.

Her sigh is low as her gaze flits up to him; he’s still standing over her head.

“Just close your eyes.”

“It’s useless, y’know.” She mumbles.

The light hits her eyes. He moves over to one of the windows and drags the blinds down. “It’s not. Your body can gain the rest even if you’re not sleeping.” The second one slides down; the room dims. He reaches for another one before Emily stops him.

“Like this is fine,” she says, a tight edge to her voice.

Aaron lets go. “Okay. Try to close your eyes.” He says again as he heads for the door, his fingers wrapping around the handle. 

“Hotch.” She calls out, stopping him before he opens it. Aaron turns, his eyes meeting hers. “It—it gets better, right?” She fiddles with the hem of the blanket, her thumb rubbing over a star.

His heart twists.

“It does.” He says quietly. The urge to make her a promise lies on the tip of his tongue. Aaron traps it between his teeth.

Emily nods jerkily. “You can…uh, you can stay.” She mumbles. “Just don’t stare at me while I sleep.”

They’re both equally surprised at the small chuckle that leaves him. 

“It’s okay, Emily. I’ll just go to the round table room.” 

“No really, it’s okay. Can’t kick you out of your own office, y’know?” She insists. Her tone doesn’t give anything away, but her eyes are pleading. 

It dawns on him. Slowly, like the warmth that starts to spread through his chest.

“Not that I would mind if you did,” he says, rushing to get the words out when her shoulders rise further to her ears, “but okay. Promise I won’t stare.” He gives her a small smile. Emily’s brows sag, her head tilting in a tired nod. “I’ll get you your tea,” he says softly, even though she’s barely hanging on.

“Thanks.” Emily mumbles.

Aaron closes the door behind him with a quiet yeah. He makes her the promised tea and catches sight of the haphazard stack of files on her desk on his way back. Aaron gathers them up, tucking them under his arm as he carefully walks up the stairs and nudges the ajar door to Dave’s office. He grabs a plush cushion from the couch, ignoring Dave’s questions as he grips it tightly. 

By the time he goes back to his office, Emily is fast asleep. Aaron smiles as he sets down the chamomile and the files, stepping around the coffee table to reach her. In a move long practiced in his years of being a father, Aaron gently maneuvers Emily’s head off the armrest of the couch. He slides the cushion under her neck, brings the blanket up her shoulders.

Emily’s lashes flutter. “Hotch?” She calls out, her letters all jumbled so it sounds like Hosh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You’re okay, sweetheart. Sleep.”

“Mmkay.”

Aaron steps back, remembers his promise, and ducks his head. He grabs the files from the table and heads to his desk, quietly sitting down, quietly picking up his pen. Emily’s tea grows ice cold by the time he’s done with her reports, but she’s still asleep, so he gets to work on his own stack.

Night eventually starts to press itself outside his windows. But Emily doesn’t stir; Aaron continues to write, ignoring the cramps in his hand, moving from one file to the next as she sleeps on.

taglist: @kllingdaddy @luhwithah @cheetobreath07 @dontemilyyyyme

[gilverrwrites]

Rule Breaker ♥︎

Roman Sionis/Stripper!Reader, 650 words Kinktober entry 2: Public Sex Warnings: Mildly dubious consent | public sex | unprotected sex | p in v sex | biting Disclaimer: Shit like this rarely actually happens in strip clubs. Requested by: Anonymous

Roman Sionis is a rule breaker, as much was evident from the first time he set foot in your club. He liked to touch your merchandise. He pays the DJ to skip your sets, ensuring him more time to put his hands all over you. He puts your tips between his teeth, or tucked tight into his belt buckle and will only let you take it from him with your pretty, painted lips. Security and management have never tried to stop him, big spender that he is. You’d only played his game in the beginning because you knew he was packing heat, and even if he didn’t use it, he was dangerous enough to make you wish he would.

But as of late, you’d found yourself getting more and more excited for his twice weekly visits. He paid you enough to live comfortably, so you told yourself that was why. Really though, there was something exhilarating about being his favourite dancer. Something titillating about openly flouting the rules; rubbing your slick pussy on his thighs and sucking his leather-clad fingers in front of everyone that made you feel both intoxicatingly superior and dolefully pliant.

A new level of excitement blooms between your legs as he removes his gloves for the first time ever within your presence. He does it slowly, one finger at a time before settling a hand on the globe of your ass, blatantly and roughly digging into your flesh as he encourages your undulating hips deeper into his crotch, ignoring the beat of the drum and base. The bare fingertips of his other hand scratching at your midriff as he strokes downward and hooks them beneath your thong. For all of his boldness, Roman has never crossed that line, and you find yourself tempestuously intrigued to see what his next move will be.

“Lean back.” His gruff voice bellows over the music. It’s not a request, but you don’t jump to follow his instructions, taking your teasingly sweet time to let your back fall against his chest. When his mouth presses to the shell of your ear he lowers his tone. “How long have I been coming here? Long enough to pay off your mortgage, ain’t that right?”

How he’d come by that information is a mystery to you, but it’s often better not to ask questions you don’t want the answer to, so you just nod. No need to fake the salaciously breathy timbre in your voice as you answer, “Yes, Sir.”

“An’ you’ve never said thank you.” You can feel the popping threads of your underwear as he suddenly and forcefully yanks it to the side, exposing your cunt to anyone who looks your way, and though your hearts sinks and your hands scramble to cover your modesty, your core betrays you, sending ripples of heated arousal through your body, and straight to your head.

It's not true. You've said thank you a thousand times, but you supposed Roman is expecting something bigger than two little words and a smile.

Roman ignores your pitiful, half-hearted attempt to stop his assault. Huskily cooing into the crook of your neck and sinking his teeth into your soft flesh as he quickly unzips his trousers to free his erection.

“Thank you?” You try, but the sharp grin you feel pulling at his lips tells you it’s in vein.

“C’mon baby.” He chides, sliding his cock beneath what's left of the miniscule fabric you'd once called a thong, inserting his length between your ludicrously drenched slit and slapping his crown on your tender clit until you arch your back and gasp loud enough to grab the attention of some nearby patrons. Roman doesn’t care, laughing at your needy, unprofessional little display, reeling back until your entrance begins to part around his dick. “I think you owe me a little more than that.”  

If you're reading this, I think you're really, really great.

Kinktober Masterlist

[threesrirachas]

i would pull you from the tide

a/n: jjk fans got into ricky montgomery through jjk, but i got into jjk through ricky montgomery. call that built different. if mr. loverman is satosugu, then line without a hook is satoru/reader. sorry y’all, argue with the wall, you don’t know ricky montgomery like i do. man i wish gojo satoru were real bc i feel real pain thinking about him.

pairing: gojo satoru x gn!reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: none, really just some hurt/comfort? it’s a songfic if y'all find that warning necessary lol

the night was still, the only sounds being the soft hum of the city outside and the rustle of the trees as a slight breeze blew through. the rustle of the sheets as you shifted in your sleep briefly cutting through the silence. the room was bathed in the gentle moonlight that was shining in through the window, casting soft shadows on the walls. satoru laid beside you, wide awake, his piercing gaze fixed on the ceiling. he really should’ve been asleep by now – and he usually was, especially with how little sleep he gets after long days of teaching, going on missions, and attending meetings he doesn’t really pay much attention to. but tonight, something kept him awake.

“darling, when i’m fast asleep, i’ve seen this person watching me saying,”

he turns his head slightly, his eyes falling on your sleeping form. your face was peaceful, your breaths coming out steady and even. you looked…serene, the usual tension of your features gone, replaced by a calmness that only a deep sleep could bring to you. but even as he watched you, a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. he’d had a dream earlier – a strange, unsettling one. in it, he saw a dark figure watching over him at the foot of your shared bed, its presence looming like a shadow. it asked him a question, on repeat, its voice echoing through his mind: 

“is it worth it? is it worth it? tell me, is it worth it?” 

the question lingered in his thoughts, refusing to let go and leave him alone. he knew what it was about – what it had to be about. his life, his choices, everything he had done and gone through to get to where he was now. he closed his eyes briefly to ponder, was it worth it? the answer, in theory, should’ve been easy to answer. but tonight, with the dream and the strange figure still fresh in his mind, he found himself unsure if it actually was. his gaze shifted back to you. you, you, you. you were his anchor, the one thing that grounded him in a world that often felt chaotic and out of his control. you were everything. but even as he looked at your sleeping form, the doubt crept in. was he enough for you? could he ever be? in the dream, there was a song playing faintly in the background, one that he recognized but couldn’t quite place his finger on. the lyrics had repeated over and over in his mind, like a mantra:

“she’s a, she’s a lady, and i am just a boy.”

he couldn’t really shake the feeling that the song was about you and him, about the two of you and your relationship. you were so strong, so capable – so much more than he’d ever truly thought himself to be. sure, he was the strongest, the honored one. but you were the one who kept him steady, who made him believe for just a second that maybe, just maybe, he could be something far more than what he already was. but there was always that lingering doubt, the one thought that whispered in his ear late at night:

“she’s a, she’s a lady, and i am just a line without a-.”

he sighed softly, his breath barely a whisper in the quiet room. he hesitantly reached out, his hand brushing against yours, and even in your deepest sleep, you responded. you always did. he couldn’t help the small smile that grew as your fingers curled around his. the touch steadied him, a reminder that you were here, that you were real, and that you loved him. but still, the uncertainty plagued him.

“oh, baby, i am a wreck when i’m without you.”

the words resonanted in his mind, pulling at the deepest parts of him. he was a deeply messed up wreck without you – he knew that. he’d seen it in the times you’ve been apart, in the moments he was left alone with his thoughts and fears, in the time before he had meet you. he needed you, more than he’d ever allowed himself to need anyone before. and that need shook him to his core, that need terrified him. he didn’t want to be a burden. he didn’t want to be the one that held you back, the one who made your life harder than it already was. if being a sorcerer was mind-numbingly difficult, then being a sorcerer who was in love with someone like him was basically a slow and painful death sentence. but at the same time, he couldn’t help but want to be a little bit selfish; he couldn’t imagine a life without you. you were the one person who made everything else make sense. you were the world, you were the sun and the sky and the moon and the stars, you were the universe. you were the everything and everywhere and the all at once that he held in his fingertips. you truly were everything.

“i need you here to stay.”

the thought hit him like a punch to the gut that even his infinity couldn’t protect him from, and for a moment, he felt a wave of emotion so strong it nearly overwhelmed him. he looked at your fingers still interlocked with his, and squeezed your hand a little tighter, as if holding on to you tighter could somehow keep his thoughts at bay. you stirred beside him, your eyes fluttering open as you felt his grip tighten. still groggy, you turned your head to look at him, brows furrowing in concern as you saw the look on his face. 

“satoru?” you whispered, your voice soft and laced with sleep, but still full of the love that made his stomach churn. “what’s wrong?” 

he hesitated, unsure of how or if he should put his thoughts into words. but as he looked into your eyes, the doubts began to fade, replaced by something stronger – something real. 

“just…thinking.” he replied, his voice matching yours at barely above a whisper. you frowned, your concern and worry deepening. “thinking about what?” he hesitated again, then sighed. “about us. about…everything.” 

you shifted closer, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek. “satoru,” you said softly, your voice filled with a warmth that made his heart ache. “you don’t have to worry about us. we’re okay. you’re okay.” he wanted to believe you, he wanted to let go of the doubts and just be with you, but the words from the dream still persisted in his mind. he shook his head, his voice slightly strained as he spoke. “what if…what if i’m not enough for you?” 

you blinked, clearly surprised by his unexpected admission. “not enough?” you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief. “satoru, of course you’re enough. you’re more than enough. you’re everything to me.” here he was again. he wanted to believe you – god, he wanted to – but the fear still coursed through his veins. “but, what if i’m just… what if i’m not the person you need me to be?” your eyes softened, and you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “satoru,” you whispered against his skin, “you are exactly the person i need you to be. you don’t have to be perfect. you don’t have to be anything other than who you already are.”

his eyes fluttered closed, letting your words wash over him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe you. you were right. he didn’t have to be perfect. he just had to be there – for you, for both of you. 

“i love you,” you whispered, your voice steady and sure. “and nothing’s going to change that.” 

he opened his eyes, looking at you, and everything he had been feeling from that god awful dream melted and washed away, leaving only the love he felt for you – love that was deep and unwavering. “i love you too,” he whispered back, his voice stronger now. “more than anything.” 

you smiled, your tired eyes shining with the same love he felt, and you leaned in, capturing his lips in a tender kiss. it felt like promises kept and fears overcome. it felt like love stronger than any doubt. it felt like coming home. …it felt like you. as you pulled apart, satoru felt a sense of peace settle over him, and he felt truly okay. he knew the doubts and worries would come back – they always did – but as long as he had you by his side, he knew he could face them.

[accipio]

@absolutionem

Hawke awakens with great reluctance, squinting groggily at blurry red lines that slowly coalesce into the numbers on his bedside alarm clock. 7:56 AM. Far too early. He glares at the bars of sunlight streaming in from between the blinds and turns over to face the wall. Maybe if he falls back asleep now he can get back to that dream he was having, though his sleep-addled mind can’t recall quite what it was about. Something pleasant, to be sure—the scent of elderflower and moss mingling with the faintest hint of lyrium, rough stubble against his cheek, Cullen’s palm warm and steady against his—

Oh, shit. He bolts upright, the details of the dream flooding back. Every moment is rendered in perfect clarity, more akin to a memory of a real event than the hazy vestiges of a dream. In his mind’s eye, he sees it all—the Gallows, the desire demon, Cullen’s miraculous arrival, the… what came after that.

He groans, rubbing his eyes. You idiot, you’re lucky you’re not waking up an abomination. Like any mage, he’s no stranger to demonic temptation. He knows all the usual tricks, and he knows never to trust anyone he meets in his dreams, not even if they wear the face of someone he cares for. Especially not then. It’s plain to him now that Cullen could not have actually been in the Fade with him; therefore, what he encountered must have been another demon—a demon whose charade he fell for hook, line, and sinker. By all accounts, it ought to have possessed him. He can’t for the life of him understand why it didn’t, but he’s not one to question his own preternatural good luck.

He’s about to write off the experience as a lesson learned when he feels something cold and hard next to his leg. He reaches for it, wondering if he left his phone on the bed again. Instead of the familiar metal rectangle, his fingers close around smooth glass. No. It’s not possible. 

The makeshift phylactery sits in the palm of his shaking hand, the vial’s contents bright crimson in the morning sunlight. What the fuck? Did he make this in his sleep? Manifest it, somehow…? His mind supplies a half dozen possible explanations, each more far-fetched and disturbing than the last.

Then, because today is really not shaping up to be his day, the doorbell rings. He curses under his breath, throwing on a ratty bathrobe that he doesn’t bother to tie. He’s taken to sleeping only in boxer shorts, which make the heat more tolerable but aren't ideal attire for entertaining visitors. “Just a moment,” he calls, a trifle testily, wondering who in the Void would pay a social call at this hour. He stuffs the phylactery in his robe pocket, partly because he doesn’t know what else to do with it and partly because he’s paranoid that it’ll disappear back into the Fade once it’s no longer on his person.

He races to the door, knowing that he must look an utter mess—hair even more disheveled than usual, beard untrimmed and unoiled, robe just barely maintaining the pretense of decency. “Sorry for the—oh.” Standing in the doorway is quite possibly the last person in the universe he wants to face right now. What is he even supposed to say? Lovely morning, isn’t it? By the way, I just had a dream in which a demon wearing your face kissed me senseless right after I bared my soul to it. Or maybe: I think I might have feelings for you, and those feelings have physically manifested in my house in the form of a phylactery. Weird, right? 

Since saying any of that would likely result in him eating a Smite, he simply steps aside and opens the door a little wider. “Do you, uh, want to come in?”

[bitimdrake]

pssssst hey quick question on the dl - who is helena bartinelli??

i cannot answer anon questions on the dl, so answer on the up-high, which she deserves:

HUNTRESS

a.k.a. Helena Bertinelli, a.k.a. Gotham's coolest and most notable antihero, crossbow-wielder, and purple bat-associated vigilante.

Helena was born to an Italian mob family, but spent her childhood blissfully unaware of the family business--until her entire family was slaughtered in front of her when she was eight. She stayed with family overseas for the rest of her childhood, learning how to fight and protect herself.

She came back to Gotham for both vengeance and justice, and became one of Gotham's many vigilantes. Though her focus is on the mob, she'll step in to stop any crime.

She's also a schoolteacher! Good for her.

She is discerning in who she chooses to kill, but she does kill. As you can imagine, this put her at odds with Batman for a long time. Helena is pretty much the premiere example of Bruce trying to claim control over every vigilante in Gotham, no matter how little right he has. The argument on killing/ethics is valid, but his default was basically "do exactly what I say and fall in line under my command, or stop completely," which is why he's an asshole control freak and why I'm constantly mad about how she was treated 👍

She was an absolute mainstay of the Batfamily before Flashpoint (2011) and it is personally hurtful to me that people don't know her. (Like, to be frank? She had far more of a presence than Damian or (living) Jason in the post-crisis era.)

You could count on seeing her in any major Batfamily crossover, from Cataclysm to Battle for the Cowl.

She was central to the biggest Batfamily crossover ever, No Man's Land, where Gotham was locked off from the rest of the country and turned into a lawless wasteland. Bruce left to sulk for the first couple of months and in absence of any other vigilantes in the field (only Oracle having remained in the city), Helena donned the mantle of the Bat for herself to protect the city. And when Batman came back, in return for all she'd done, she got...yelled at, assigned impossible tasks and criticized for not achieving them, her costume stolen and given to someone else, lied to, abandoned in the face of impossible odds, and shot multiple times protecting kids. Absolute fucking hero, honestly.

She also was on the Justice League for a while, though admittedly I have barely touched that run. To my understanding, despite nominating her for the position, Bruce was also the one to revoke her membership there.

Fortunately! things improved!!

In the early/mid 2000s, Helena joined the Birds of Prey, Oracle's team, and found legit friendships and support there with teammates like Dinah Lance/Black Canary. She finally got more respect in the community, and had a much better time.

Additional relationships include:

A big sister/annoying little brother type thing with Tim, who may disapprove of her killing but simply likes making friends too much :)

A great relationship with Vic Sage/the Question

One single issue where she met Steph that presented SUCH interesting potential that I desperately wish had been followed up on

On and off romantic/sexual tension with Dick, depending on the writer, which culminated in a single hook up that apparently most people around here would rather pretend didn't happen, though I really don't think it's that bad

A complicated relationship with Barbara, partially due to clashing personalities and conflicting morals (with Babs being nearly as much of a control freak as Bruce), and partially due to a shared history with Dick because DC loves making women be catty

Surely others from her first solo or time on the JLA that I don't know well enough to list!

She's rad and determined and takes no shit but cares a lot, and I love her. We deserve more stories tying her teaching day job into her night work. We also deserve more stories with her in general.

If you would like additional Helena beyond just cruising my tag, I recommend:

Batman/Huntress: Cry for Blood - far more Huntress than Batman, this is a great 6-issue miniseries about Helena reckoning with her past, ft the Question.

Batman: No Man's Land - if you have the time for it, a big storyline but worth it.

Birds of Prey vol 1 (1999) - Helena starts to appear around issue #57 and becomes a central character from there.