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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year ago

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nobody sees, nobody knows

Alright, here we are, me adding my two cents into the dbf!Joel trope which we all love so much. I've read so many incredible fics like this so hopefully mine can stand up with them all. This will be a series, so strap in for more of our favourite neighbourhood DILF.

Pairing | dbf!Joel x female reader

Summary | Back to Texas with a degree under your belt and a school girl fantasy to fuck your dad's best friend. What could go wrong?

Warnings | I mean, dbf!Joel comes with his own warning right? Other than that, swearing, alcohol consumption, age gap (Reader is 25, Joel is 36), dirty talk, and fingering.

Word Count | 3.3K

PART 2 | MAIN MASTERLIST

There was something about summer in Texas that just hit differently. The way the heat crawled on your skin from the moment you woke up to the moment you tried to sleep at night. The way your father used it as an excuse to cook primarily on the grill, regardless of the food, and the way your mother always made sure the fridge was stocked with cold drinks. The way traffic seemed to cease to exist during the high points of the day, meaning you went to the store every day at midday to buy ice cream. The haze you got from sipping cold beer by your parents’ pool which made you want to do reckless things like you’d done in New York before you realized that the beady eyes of your parents would be all over you if you tried. Reckless things like tell Joel Miller you’d wanted to fuck him for years.

Every time you’d come home from school, and he’d be there you could have sworn he’d just gotten more and more attractive. The last time you were home, for Christmas and New Year’s, you could have sworn he’d started at the gym, his biceps bulging in the arms of his fitted t-shirt, when your dad commented on it, he's chalked it down to particularly heavy lifting on the job he was working then. He’d had his hair cut in a way that made his face even more handsome and you’re pretty sure the last few times you’d been home he’d noticed how you’d flourished too.

There were moments where you’d catch his eyes as they drew themselves up your legs, or the time you decided to test your theory and wear a low-cut top and your best bra to a dinner party. His eyes had trained on your chest for most of the night, there was a moment where you’d stood up and leaned over the table to pick up the salt instead of asking him to pass it. He’d choked on his drink and your dad had slapped his back to try and help him. At least you knew he was thinking like you.

Neither of you had tried crossing the line though. Past the point of no return. You wanted him to make the first move, save yourself the embarrassment of rejection if it came, but it felt like waiting for Joel Miller to kiss you was like waiting for rain in the drought Texas was currently experiencing. Useless and disappointing. You wished sometimes that you could burrow into his brain and figure out what it was that he was really thinking about you. You suspected there would be some code of honour he was sticking to because you were his best friend’s daughter – sure it might complicate things, but you weren’t going to be back in Texas forever – what was the worst that could happen during the secret, torrid affair you’d been cooking up in your head since you arrived back from college a week ago?

“Did you hear me when I spoke to you?” Your mother’s voice pulled you from the daydream you were having whilst polishing the cutlery.

“Sorry mom, I was miles away.”

“I know!” She exclaims, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you since you came back, you’ve been away with the fairies,” She sighs, “I said, once you’ve set the cutlery out back can you help your dad with filling the fridge with the beer, please?”

You hum in agreement which is enough to send her back to the endless chopping she seems to be doing at the kitchen counter. It was just a cookout with the Millers and few other family friends to celebrate your return, but you think your mother thinks she’s catering for a garden party at the White House with the number of sides she’s preparing.

You make quick work of the rest of the cutlery, wanting to avoid any more questions about why you seem miles away all the time – you can’t exactly tell your mother it’s because you’re thinking about how Joel might eat your pussy.

“Need any help, old man?” You greet your dad in the garage, he’s on his knee’s pulling out bottles of Budweiser to stack in the fridge.

“Here, grab these and start putting them in,” He’s smiling, he’s always been an overly happy and laid-back man, “I hope we’ve got enough in.”

“How many people are you expecting?” You chuckle, taking a bottle from him to add to the growing number already stacked on the shelves.

“Probably ten or so,” Hu shrugs, “But one of those people is Tommy Miller and he’s not changed a bit since you’ve been away.”

“Between your drinks and mom’s sides we could host the entire neighborhood.” You joke.

You continue to fill the fridge up with drinks until there’s no room left. Your dad stores the leftover crates next to it for refilling throughout the evening, “Now, go and make yourself look nice, everyone’ll be here soon.”

You’d be lying if you said that you hadn’t picked your shortest and lowest cut dress for the evening. It was a pale blue colour, with pink flowers dotted about the material. It fell to your mid-thigh and you had to keep reminded yourself to kneel down instead of bending over, in case people who you didn’t want to look caught an eyeful of the scant lace covering your ass.

There are a few people milling around already, cold beers in hand, mainly some of your dad’s older friends, who have all congratulated you on graduating and then moved on to talk about mundane neighborhood gossip.

“Now, where is that smartass?” You hear from the sliding doors; it’s Tommy and he’s bounding over to you to give you a hug.

He scoops you up into a bone breaking hug, “Congratulation’s girl, your dad said you graduated top of the class!”

He’s set you down and you can see Joel standing awkwardly next to him, “He’s exaggerating, I wasn’t top, although pretty close to it,” You turn to Joel, “Hey there.” He bends down to give you a one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek.

“Good to see you back, sweetheart.”

“Good to see you too, Joel,” You chirp in response, “Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s at camp for the first part of the summer,” He explains, “Back in a couple’a weeks, she’ll be thrilled to see you again.”

“Boys!” Your dad’s booming voice interrupts your conversation, “Good to see you both!” He turns to you, “Why don’t you go and get these two some beers, I need to speak to them about fixin’ up the attic.”

You turn quietly and head for the garage. Of course, you’d become waitress at your own welcome home party. It takes no time at all for you to come back with three beers, two for the Miller brothers and one for yourself. You hand them off wordlessly, but you don’t miss how Joel grips the bottle just above your fingers, brushing against them. Of all the places for him to grab the bottle, that couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

The rest of the evening goes by as expected. You spend most of it running around helping your mom set the food out, fetching more beers for everyone and trying to field questions from everyone about what you’re going to do in Texas with an MA in Archival Studies. You bite your tongue every time, and reply with something like, “I think I’ll probably work in an archive.”

The night is winding down, your mom already in bed having finished her wine too quickly, your dad sat outside in the quickly fading sunlight with Joel and Tommy and a few other stragglers. It fell to you to make aa start on the dishes, which is what you were currently doing. Rinsing them off over the sink before stacking them in the dishwasher, pausing long enough each time to take a sip of lukewarm beer.

“They got you tidyin’ up your own party?” You hear from behind you. It’s Joel.

“I’m the only one sober enough not to break anything.” You shrug without turning around to face him.

“Seems a little unfair if you ask me, sweetheart.”

“Well, why don’t you make yourself useful and help?” You counter, “Then I can be sat outside drinkin’ beer with you all.”

You hear his boots on the floor and then he’s next to you, reaching around to grab the pile of cutlery on the side, he opens the dishwasher further to put the cutlery in their designated tray and then stop, “Has no-one ever taught you how to stack a dishwasher?”

You pause in your rinsing to look up at him for the first time, “What do you mean?”

“This is awful sweetheart,” He chuckles, “You’ve got the bowls and plates in the wrong place – you’ll be doing three washes if you carry on like this.”

“Well, go on then, maestro, show me how to stack it.”

He’s unloading everything you’ve put in so far, apart from what you suspect he thinks was his expertly placed cutlery, and you’re watching as he’s stacking in completely differently to you. Annoyingly he’s not wrong, the way he’s doing it means you’ll likely fit everything in at once, “Can’t believe you’ve lived on your own for five years and didn’t learn how to stack a dishwasher.”

“Joel, I was in a dingy studio apartment in the ass end of New York, you think I had a dishwasher?”

“Well, consider yourself taught now, I don’t ever wanna see a dishwasher looking anything less than perfect, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Mr Miller.” You watch as his eyebrows raise at your new greeting, oh. He liked that.

He picks up your almost empty beer bottle and hands it to you, “Go on, down the rest,” He’s grinning, “Then go and sit down and I’ll get you a fresh one.”

You decide to push it a little further, “Yes, sir.” You watch as he swallows deeply at your words before you’re brushing past him, far too close than necessary to go and sit down.

It’s another hour of sitting around in the garden before everyone else is gone – Tommy is finishing off his beer and telling Joel he’ll be heading to his to crash.

“I’m going to call it a night too,” Your dad says, “Stay and finish your drink though Joel, there’s no rush, I’m sure this one can keep you company with her stories from New York.”

And then you’re alone with him, finally. He’s taking a long drink from his beer bottle, which you mirror, realizing suddenly that you didn’t eat much, and you’ve drunk far more than you probably should. You’re not drunk, but there’s a pleasant buzz through your body that’s making your eyelids a little heavy.

When the light goes off in your parents’ room, you figure it’s safe, “I’ve seen you staring at me, you know.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, “You make it hard not to, sweetheart.”

“Do you want me, Joel?” You don’t know where you’ve come from all of a sudden, but this confident girl isn’t someone you recognize.

“It ain’t a question of wantin’ you sweetheart, it’s a question of doin’ the right thing.” You watch as he rubs his hand over his forehead in frustration.

“But you do,” You push him, “Want me?”

“Course I do,” He’s swallowing thickly again, just like he did in the kitchen, “But I can’t have you.”

“Says who?” You pry.

“Says the fact that I’m one’a your dad’s best friends, not to mention far too old for you.” He’s looking at you and taking another big drink from his bottle, like if he finishes, he can leave you alone.

“No-one has to know,” You shrug, “Could be our little secret?”

“You been readin’ too many of them romance novels,” He snorts, “It don’t work like that, if they find out they’ll fucking kill me.” He’s tilting his head to the window of your parents’ room.

You stand from your seat opposite him, walking around the table to stop just in front of Joel, “Come on Joel, have a little fun for once.”

There’s a moment where you can see the cogs whirring in his brain, trying to weigh up being shot for touching his best friend’s little girl and finally satisfying the craving he’d wanted for a while now. Then, he’s putting his bottle down on the floor next to the chair he’s sat in. You watch closely as he shifts his position to sit more towards the edge of the chair, before one of his hands reaches out to grip the back of your thigh, just above the crease of your knee.

“You’ll be the death of me,” He mumbles before he looks up at you, “C’mere.”

He’s pulling gently on your leg as he shifts back in the seat, guiding you so your hips are straddling his. You try not to press yourself too fully into him just yet, letting your clothed heat rest above his lap. One of his arms comes to wrap around the back of your waist, the other tangling in your hair at the back of your head whilst he looks at you with eyes that say he wants to devour you.

“You gonna kiss me, Mr Miller?” You ask, innocently.

“Oh darlin’, I’m gonna do so much more than that.”

His head is tilting to the side and looking up at you from your higher ground, perched on his lap. Then his lips are on yours and God all those years of longing were worth it. They’re pressed tentatively against your own, but you can feel they’re slightly chapped. His hand resting in your hair grips a little tighter and he’s moving your head slightly so that when he opens his mouth against yours it’s the easiest thing for you to open yours right back and let his tongue into your mouth.

You let out a gasp, swallowed into his own mouth when his hands drop back to your thighs before they’re trailing up the small skirt of your dress to cup the cheeks of your ass, “You wear this for me?” He pulls away, speaking before he’s trailing his lips along your jawline, “Thought you’d get me worked up in this tiny little thing, naughty girl?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He huffs a breath out of his nose as if to say, of course it did. He’s trailing his hot mouth down your neck now, dragging his teeth along your skin before licking with his tongue to soothe any red marks he might leave. Your head is thrown back as his hands drag you down so you’re sitting flush against him. You can’t help but notice the bulge in his jeans when your clothed pussy makes contact with him.

You’re whining as his hands are on your hips under your dress, the hot skin of his hands setting fire to you, “What do you want, pretty girl?” He asks, his tongue trailing down to the valley between your tits.

“Fingers,” You rasp, “Make me come with your fingers Joel.”

He lets out a low chuckle against your skin, “Needy little thing, already beggin’ me to finger fuck her.”

But he’s already obliging your request, one of his hands is moving down from your hip to the front of your panties, running his thumb over the material from top to bottom, “God, I can feel how wet you are already,” You look down and he’s grinning, “I’m gonna take these off, sweetheart, but you gotta promise to keep quiet okay?”

You nod in agreement before you’re lifting your hips up, just enough for Joel to hook his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and pull them down enough so his hands can touch you. He mimics the same movement he’d done over the material, this time his fingers touching the bare skin of you seam and he’s groaning when he feels the slick gathered near your tight hole.

“God, you really are wet, aren’t ya?” He chuckles, a flush creeping over your cheeks, “Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about sweetheart,” He reassures, “Means I’m doin’ somethin’ right.”

You feel one of his thick fingers slip inside you, just a little, before he’s dragging the slick he’s gathered up to run light touches over your clit. You bite down on your lip to keep you from crying out into the dark, hips bucking into his hand to try and get more friction from his fingers. He takes the hint and is pressing his finger more firmly into your bundle of nerves and it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to keep quiet.

When Joel’s hand drops from your clit you almost cry from frustration, put then he’s sinking two of his fingers straight into your soaking pussy and the relief is palpable. He’s moving them in and out of you, curling them in just the right way that has your hips moving in time with him, literally fucking yourself on his fingers. You let your head fall into the crook of his neck, placing kisses to his skin as you ride his fingers.

“This what you wanted, pretty girl?” He asks, his free hand coming to cup the back of your head against his neck, at least this way you could make some noise – testing out your theory you let out a throaty moan, listening carefully as his skin muffles most of the sound.

“I need… god Joel, my clit, please.”

With his fingers still buried inside you, working you to the edge, his thumb moves to your clit, resuming the circles his finger had been drawing over it before, “I can feel your pussy gettin’ tight around my fingers,” He’s turned his head so it’s buried in the hair at the side of your head, “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

You push back from him a little, looking down between your bodies where you can see his hand working you and that’s really all it takes. Your legs are shaking and you’re biting down on your lip hard enough that you can taste blood as pleasure bursts through you – not even you had made yourself come like this. Ever. Joel’s fingers have stilled inside you, but he’s still tracing your clit with gentle movements of his thumb, reveling in the way you jerk through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Did so well for me, pretty girl.” He coos at you once he’s pulled his hand from your pussy.

You’ve collapsed onto his chest to catch your breath, but you’re already subconsciously grinding your hips into his, God you want more. You’re about to reach for his belt when you can feel something vibrating in the pocket of his jeans.

He’s mumbling an apology, lifting you just enough to fish his phone from his pocket. He answers without looking at who is calling. You can hear Tommy’s voice through the phone from your place, draped over Joel’s lap.

“You just turn it to the side, jackass,” Joel is mumbling in answer to Tommy’s question on how to work his shower, “You’ve used it a million times,” Tommy say’s something you can quite make out, “No, not that one, the one underneath it,” Joel is sighing, “You were not this drunk when you left, if I find you’ve finished the good whiskey I’m gonna kill you,” Another sigh to a question you couldn’t quite hear, “Fine, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Disappointment is pooling in your stomach. You don’t want him to go, not when there’s so much unfinished business here, “I gotta go, sweetheart.” He’s mumbling, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“But what about this?” You ask, reaching between you to cup his cock through his jeans, “Let me help you.”

His hand is gripping your wrist, “I would love nothin’ more, but I gotta go before Tommy floods my house,” Another kiss to your lips, “Next time.”

“You want to do this again?” You ask, almost surprised.

He takes the hand that had been buried in your pussy not minutes before, lifting the fingers he’d fucked you with to his mouth before sucking them right in front of your face, “Now I’ve gotta taste for you, sweetheart?” He raises an eyebrow, “Of course I wanna do this again.”

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sorryimananti-romantic · 9 months ago

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thoughts on this choi san?

(quality is low but)

quality may be low but that's the highest quality ultra 4k hd man ever to exist on this earth and i'm so down for him-

and in this fit?? biker san??? i've got cute little collection too hehe

you wanna know my thoughts? biker san, bad boy of the neighbourhood who comes across you by chance when you're out with your camera, trying to capture a photo of the landscape in the golden hour for a little competition- nothing fancy, you just finally managed to gather the guts and enter a competition with this new skill/hobby.

you can't seem to get the perfect shot. like everything is perfect- the sun looks absolutely breathtaking with the pastel hues of the sky, the saturation is perfect, the main road is mostly empty- lack of traffic which might be what's making this shot look empty. the road is reflecting the sunlight beautifully too, but you just need a little something-

you were so focused on changing the settings of your camera and sulking that you almost didn't hear the sound of the heavy bike rolling behind you until it came to a pause and you realised it wasn't bg noise. you weren't sure what you were expecting but this was not it- the flashy jacket and helmet threw you off.

"looks like you're having a little trouble," the man said as he took off his helmet and you internally wowed when he stopped ruffling his hair and finally looked at you- all sharp angles and perfectly sculpted that softened into something sweet when he smiled a little. "couldn't help but find your sulking cute when i stopped by the signal."

"oh," you finally exhaled, not realising you had been almost holding your breath. "yeah, um... yeah," you looked at the camera and then back at him, finding him grinning at you and you felt flustered- he must be finding your inability to form a proper sentence quite funny. you straightened, "i'm just trying to take a shot of the golden hour but it looks empty."

"i see," he looked in the direction you pointed. "i don't know much about photography, but is there any way i can help? i could take you to a better location if that's what you want."

"that's a kind offer... but i'm not sure i would want to get on a bike with a stranger," you politely declined.

"of course," he nodded, understanding.

"but..." you scratched your chin. "there's another way you could help. do you mind being a model for my shot? i'd like to capture your silhouette- it would look perfect."

he raised his brows, wondering if there was a compliment hidden somewhere there. "uh... i haven't tried that but i think i could pose with your help?"

"yes, thank you," you sighed in relief and he finally relaxed. you asked him to just stand in the middle of the road when he's sure it's safe and there's no traffic, and to simply look in the distance. take off his helmet. play with the bike. surprisingly, he was quite good at it and you wondered if this was a flirting tactic in his book.

but you soon got your answer- when you showed him his photos and he reacted with surprise, you knew then that it was his first time actually posing with the bike. "it's definitely you, it can't be me."

"i only clicked a photo, you were the one who made it pretty," you told him for the umpteenth time, cheeks hurting from smiling and laughing as you scrolled through the photos and chose the best shot. you told him about your competition entry just now and he got all anxious, saying if you had told him earlier he would have tried better but you insisted he did a great job anyway.

"tell you what- if i win this, even 2nd or 3rd prize... i'll treat you to dinner."

"on one condition," he smiled.

"what?"

"if you like me by the end of the dinner enough to trust me a little, let me drop you home on my bike."

you considered him. was it something he was used to offering people?

"i get to be your first model, and you get to be the first passenger," he told you. you found yourself smiling at that and you nodded slowly, both of you caught in a trance as you stared at each other, lost in trying to process a gazillion thoughts in your heads. you finally broke the silence and asked for his contact number.

"your name?"

"choi san."

suddenly, you're frozen in your spot and you manage a weak smile, praying he didn't detect that little pause. because there's no way he's the choi san. the 'bad boy' you've heard so much about from your friends-- just what had the told you? something about him being a biker, yes, and then?? you can't seem to recall and you internally curse yourself for tuning them out whenever they ranted about boys. you wished you had actually paid attention, but all you know is that he's not supposed to be good news.

but here he is, with his innocent smile and curious eyes. is this a facade? a trap? you can't tell, because you genuinely don't recall what you've heard about him. you've def seen him ride his bike around- it was odd how many people rode bikes here, you thought when you moved to the neighbourhood a few months ago. if he's the playboy they say he is, you'll have to tread cautiously.

"thank you again," you grinned at him, the suspicion in his eyes disappearing. "i'll text you when they announce the winners."

"you did a great job," he patted your shoulder. "if you don't win, i'm treating you anyway."

you laughed at that- a genuine laugh. "offer accepted."

you might regret that phrase. in the week that followed, you got closer through texts and you learn more about who he is (with you). and then on the day they announce the winners, before you text san, you finally call your friend and ask him about the infamous biker so when you sit before him, you know who you're facing.

but learning that he's a notorious playboy who's way too messy to get tangled with doesn't stop you from having a good time at the dinner you treat him to. and when you get on the bike with him, you think it's the most thrilling moment of your life as he races through the streets and alleys. so thrilling that you ask him to take the longer route and he obeys, showing you how the river looks at night- a blur of colourful lights being reflected on the surface, something you'd like to take a shot of. you tell him that when you make him drop you outside your block.

"can i take you there then, when you decide to go?" he asks. "as an assistant this time?"

your smile is his answer.

[bonus]

#badboybiker!san x photographer!reader #i might make this a full oneshot who knows?#i've been thinking about this san for a while now tbh #there you go hehetmonne thanks for triggering me to write this little blurb hehe #choi san #choi san x reader #san x reader #san scenarios #san imagines #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #yumi.asks

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flaggermuser · 1 month ago

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Take Me Out to the Ball Game

1,452 words || Fluff, GN Reader, Doctor Reader, Parent & Child Relationship, Parent & Child Attachment, Casuallander ||

Previous Tawny fics: When You Loved Me, Home Is Where His Heart Is & They Took My Sunshine Away

Tawny is used to mean parent, as reader is GN

Also, thank you to @homeb0ys for being perfect and always having the picture I need <3

This is also unbeta'd so we are dying like kings

Homelander feels stupid.

The most recognisable man in the world stands in the spare room of your home, staring at himself in the mirror. He’s dressed in civilian clothes for the first time in his life.

It’s a regular outfit: jeans, a T-shirt, a hoodie and a baseball cap.

“They fit,” you say with pride, standing beside him. “I was so worried that they wouldn’t. I could always return them to the store and get a new size. How do they feel? I tried to get at least 95% cotton so they wouldn’t irritate your skin.”

“They’re fine,” he replies, smiling softly as you adjust them.

You’re fussing over him; he loves it when you do that. It’s such a parental thing to do, like making sure he looks perfect for one of those ‘First Day at School’ pictures that you’ll spam all over your social media with a cliché yet heartfelt caption.

Yet he knows you can’t do that without risking backlash from Vought.

Instead, he knows you’ll set up the digital camera he bought and snap a picture, printing it out and putting it in another ornate frame to join the others on the mantle.

“Come on then,” you say gently. “We should get going before the traffic gets bad.”

Traffic - something that never bothered Homelander.

He could fly and reach anywhere in the world in seconds, but today, he wasn’t Homelander.

It was a simple offer you’d made causally one day when he came for Sunday lunch, as he always did. He’d been in a foul mood, complaining to you about the Seven and Vought, exclaiming that he’d just like to be John for once in his life.

“Well, if you’d like, I can take you to a baseball game one day. I’ll buy you some regular clothes, we can take my car. Just spend some time together outside of this house.”

The wave of joy those words sent through him was something he’d never experienced before.

Now here he was, just John, going to a baseball game with you.

Homelander stands beside you on the porch, watching you turn the key in the various locks on your door, ensuring your house is secure before you leave.

Part of him doesn’t understand why you have so many; after all, you live in a slightly affluent neighbourhood with a low crime rate, but, at the same time, he would burn down the world if something happened to you.

When you reach the car, you open the passenger-side door, and a neighbour approaches you as he enters. He knows this person; he’s done extensive research on everyone within a ten-mile radius of your house.

“Who’s this then?” They ask, gesturing towards Homelander.

They’re snooping in your business, and not for the first time if the look on your face is anything to go by. However, it’s refreshing for Homelander not to be recognised instantly, but that might result from crumbling eyesight.

“This?” You reply. “This is my son John.”

‘My son John.’

Homelander falters for a millisecond, the words swirling around his brain, the urge to break down in tears growing. The words he thought he’d never hear left your lips without a hint of hesitation.

The tears blur his vision, and his lips tremble. He forces his head down to conceal the overwhelming weight of his emotions. He doesn’t mind crying in front of you; after all, you are his haven of safety. It was this old busybody he didn’t want to see.

“You never told me you had a son.”

“You never asked,” you’re annoyed. “We’ve only recently reunited, not that it’s any of your business.”

You close the car door quickly, walking around and entering the driver’s seat. You put on your seatbelt and reach across to do the same to him.

“You might be the strongest man in the world, but we always put our belts on in my car.”

The journey begins in silence. You’re focused on driving while he does his best to keep himself together, but it gets more challenging by the second. It isn’t until you’re stuck in traffic on the freeway that he finally speaks.

“When they asked you who I was, you said I was your son.”

“I did,” you admit. “Because in my mind, you are. Do you remember what I said that night when you had that nightmare?”

“You have no idea how happy I was to see you again. It was like I was given a second chance, to be there for you, to love you like my own son.”

He nods, sniffles, and wipes his cheeks with his hand, only for you to offer him a tissue, which he gladly takes. He looks at you, and you give him that reassuring smile.

“Even if it is too many years late, you are my son, John. Whether you’re Homelander or John, you’re my son.”

Homelander had been to baseball games before.

Usually, he’d be standing in Vought's box, pretending to watch the game as he stood around with the other Seven members, tolerating their existence.

But today, he sits in a slightly secluded part of the upper stands, giving him a more prominent taste of anonymity. Surprisingly, no one has noticed it is him under these clothes; he isn’t covering his face entirely, and he’s sure maybe one or two people have recognised him. But if they did, they didn’t say anything.

It was a warm and sunny day, so you got seats somewhere in the shade.

Although you know he can’t get burned, you still cover him with suncream and make sure he knows exactly where your seats are so he doesn’t get lost when he returns from the bathroom.

For a few minutes, he sits alone, looking at the field and the players, recalling all the different positions and who is who, fiddling with the free lanyard he’s been given.

“Here we go!”

You return carrying some food and drinks, your little picnic courtesy of the Stadium’s overpriced concession stands that you spread out on the empty chairs beside you. He’d tried to give you some money, just a little something to help with today’s costs, but you’d refused.

“This is my little treat for you,” you scolded him sweetly. “All you have to do is enjoy it.”

So he does.

He focuses more on you than the game, picking up on all your little reactions and determining who your favourite player is and how that ball should have been a foul. It’s these little things he treasures most when you’re spending time together.

Things he knows others take for granted.

It’s the most fun he’s ever had at a sporting event, not only because he gets to experience it with you but because he’s not there out of some bullshit obligation; he’s here because he wants to be.

“Are you having a good time?” you ask sincerely. “Are you hungry? Do you need something to drink?”

“I’m okay,” he replies with a smile, taking your hand. “I’m just�� living in the moment. Thank you for this, Tawny.”

“You’re very welcome.”

It’s early evening when you finally get back home.

Homelander has had a great day. Being able to be John for a few hours has made him so happy, and he’s not willing for the day to be over yet. He’s already sent Ryan a message to say he won’t be home until tomorrow morning because he’s spending the night here.

“Have you had a good day?” You ask sweetly, remaining in the car for a few minutes. “We can always do something else, like go to the zoo.”

As soon as you utter those words, your face changes, and you turn away from him, staring down at your lap. He places his hand on your forearm, squeezing gently.

“I'm sorry,” you sigh deeply. “You're the Homelander,, and here I am offering to take you to the zoo, treating you like a child.”

“But I want to go to the zoo,” he replies. “I want to go to all the places you would have taken me as a kid, do all the things we would have done. I don't care that I'm older; all that matters is that I'm with you, I’m with my Tawny.”

You look back up at him, and he smiles; it’s warm and genuine. If only you truly knew how happy you make him and how calming your presence is after a bad day.

“Do I need to ask if you’re staying?”

He chuckles at that, shaking his head. “No. It’s been a great day, and you tucking me into bed tonight is the one thing that would make it perfect.”

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #antony starr #the boys #the boys spoilers #homelander x gn reader #homelander x gn #season 4 spoilers #the boys season 4 spoilers

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bansuvs · 1 year ago

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#ltns #low traffic neighbourhoods #ulez #active travel #traffic control

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painted-bees · 11 months ago

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[cw: explicit content🔞]

March 18th 2009

The top floor balcony of the humble recording studio overlooked a small backroad. It was just high enough to grant a view over the roofs of surrounding buildings, out towards the mountains, across the harbour. But thick cloud cover and the darkness of night collaborated to hide the Rockies from sight this evening. Instead, Raf’s gaze washed impassively over the array of city lights that extended across the harbour and disappeared into the distant North Vancouver neighbourhoods. He took a sip from the bottle of water in his hand and invited the evening chill to sober him up.

Behind him, the din of party revelry outcompeted the exterior ambiance of late-night city traffic. Hi-Note wasn’t usually so lively this close to midnight. Its business hours only ran until 8pm at the latest, and, save for the evenings when he used to jam here with Magritte, Raf usually had the place vacated and locked up within that same hour.

Today was a special occasion. It was the junior technician, Herbie’s, birthday. Since he had little where else to celebrate, Nels had hosted a surprise party for him in the studio. It wasn’t the first birthday Herb had celebrated in Vancouver, but it was the first birthday following a rather heartbreaking split with his once-steady girlfriend. The usually jovial lad had been, understandably, a lot more quietly introspective over the past few months. Once Nels had gained the knowledge that Herb had no big, exciting birthday plans this year, the rest was inevitable.

Raf had driven to work, and wholly planned to drive back home. Towards that end, he enjoyed his drink and smoke early, cut himself off early, and was now finally feeling clear minded enough to collect Margie and call it a night. Intending to do exactly that, Raf turned towards the sliding door of the balcony, downing his last gulp of water. And–discovered that Margie had found him first.

A smug grin and a playful wave preceded her sliding open the door. She stepped out onto the balcony, pulling the door shut behind her. “Ey, nice hiding spot, Ephrem!” She rubbed her hands together, watching her breath hang in the chilly air as she approached him.

Raf relented to leaning back against the balcony railing as Magritte dropped her elbows on it, beside him. “I was just about to go in and get you.”

She sighed and looked out across the harbour. “Past your bedtime?”

��Nah, the party’s winding down anyway. But I kinda wish I found you out here sooner. This view is really nice.” She sighed wistfully. “Glittery.”

He provided a self-depreciating smirk. You could set your watch to Raf’s night time routine and, typically, if he wasn’t in bed between eleven and eleven-thirty, he’d be grumpy if there wasn’t a good reason for it. A birthday, he supposed, was as good a reason as any.

“If you’re not ready to head home yet…” He allowed his easy capitulation to hang unspoken in the space between them.

Raf made no motion to herd her back inside. Instead, he placed his empty water bottle down by his feet and then settled further against the railing. He wasn’t worried about waiting much longer out here. Magritte had a low tolerance for cold, and the chilly March breeze would chase her back inside within a reasonable amount of time. Still, he didn’t want to give her the sense he was in any kind of hurry. Genuinely, he wasn’t.

“Yanno, this is the weirdest place I’ve ever worked at.” Magritte furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “Just a bunch of guys being pals, but also…not weird about it. And stuff gets done. And I–” She turned to look at him, “I help with that. Like, actually!” She turned her back to the landscape, electing to mirror Raf’s posture. “Okay, this sounds stupid but like…I’ve never felt good at a job before. Not just that, I’ve been proactive? I get to do stuff before someone has to ask me to do it? And, I do it properly? Wild. Nels even likes me!” She beamed up at him. “He called me ‘Supergirl’ today after hearing the vocal mixing I did for Cybele Fray.”

“Yeah…” Magritte pressed her palms against her cheeks and smooshed her face in a pensive gesture that wasn’t intended to look as silly as it did. “I’m worried I’ll lose interest and pitter out eventually. But until then, I’ll just enjoy feeling useful. And smart.”

Raf favoured her with a smirk, and wrinkled his brow in substitute for a shewed shrug. “Nels loved you the minute he saw you. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the first job you feel competent at is the first job that has you working with audio and such. You’re doing what you like doing.”

And, Raf thought, employed by someone who actually knows how to manage you.

It’s true that Hi-Note made excellent use of Margie’s savant-like skills, but not all of it had been absolutely enthralling to her. A bored Margie was difficult to keep on task, but somehow Nels had managed to navigate her ‘on again, off again’ pattern of productivity. Largely, Raf noticed that Nels cycled her off monotonous tasks before they had a chance to bore her–no matter their state of completion. And then, he’d put her back on it as soon as she looked ready to smooth her brain on something simple and repetitive again. Raf had taken that observation–and applied it at home. Very quickly, he helped her build a habit of taking just one dish out of the sink, washing it, and putting it away, any time she found herself in the kitchen during a moment of aimless roving. Not always, mind you…but often enough. One thing at a time, and the order of it doesn’t matter.

Raf considered whether or not he ought to affirm to her for the umpteenth time that she was one of the most brilliant people he had ever met. But the window of opportunity closed when she continued talking.

“Life’s been really…easy this year, so far. Like, the easiest it’s ever been. I like it. A lot.” She turned her eyes up to him with an unspoken question that he couldn’t quite read.

“Same.”

“Really?” Her questioning gaze pressed further.

Raf measured her for a moment.

Yet–there she was.

Until she showed up, he had been living alone in a two bedroom, downtown apartment; a feat of luxury by Vancouver standards. He’d have described it as a relatively ‘small’ space; each room was big enough to fit a bed, a dresser, a night stand, and little else. But, two bedrooms were still two bedrooms. Near Yaletown, no less. Truth be told, the income he was making at Hi-Note would not have been enough to afford it, if he had to rely on it alone. But he had been rather uncompromising about having a spare room for guests–until Magritte moved in. Now, that room was hers; guests be damned.

It was a bit strange to think about. Generally, Raf preferred being alone. He found that living with anyone else always came with more stress than it was worth; whether it was with a steady romantic partner, or a family member. He was fairly certain that he’d never lend himself to the horrors of rooming with a friend who barely knew him. The very idea had felt like a violation against the sanctity of his home–the one place he could withdraw and hide into when he needed the peace and quiet to sort himself out. He didn’t trust family nor lovers to respect his space when he most needed it. A roommate as impersonal as a friend would have been much worse, and for absolutely nothing.

He had first invited Magritte to crash at his place on an impulse. Though he feared the precedent it may have set, she didn’t overstay her welcome. In fact, she had barely stayed at all. That hadn’t surprised him nearly as much as his resulting disappointment had. And so, he invited her again. And again. And again. And each time, he confirmed for himself that she was simply…good company. He slept easier on the nights she occupied the guest room. His mood each morning felt buoyed by her presence, even before she emerged to greet him in the kitchen. He just liked talking to her. The baseline of her mood seemed to always be several levels more pleasant than his own, and the way she carried her joviality made it infectious, not grating. Even on the mornings when she had shuffled into the kitchen muttering a preemptive apology for her irritable mood, she had been sweet about it.

Magritte did something to his brain chemicals that medications just couldn’t compete with. But what that was exactly, he had no god damn clue. The only other thing he could think of that would come close to eliciting the same kind of response from him–might have been something like…having a box of fluffy kittens gently dumped on him. Maybe that’s what she was to him; a box of sweet, soft, wobbly kittens–personified. It would certainly explain the cuteness-aggression she often provoked; that overwhelming desire to just scrunch her up into a little ball and tear her apart with his teeth…affectionately.

Oftenly, so did she.

Now she had her own key to the apartment and, over the winter, the guest bedroom had slowly been transformed into her disorderly, war-torn little nest. A true nightmare to behold for all the clutter and chaos; clothing haphazardly strewn across every inch of floor, and a plethora of dirty cups and plates on–and around–the nightstand by her bed.

Strangely, it didn’t bother him. She had warned him of her negligent cleanliness habits well in advance. In fact, she had initially cited it as her reason for not wanting to overstay at his place. In response, he had given her the room to do with as she pleased–on the sole condition that she kept the door closed and ensured her mess never breached containment. If he didn’t like it, he simply didn’t have to look at it. Aside from leaving dishes in the sink (and occasionally on the living room coffee table), Magritte had been pretty good at maintaining her end of the bargain. By and large, her messes stayed confined to her room.

When it came to the matter of Raf coveting his peace and quiet, Magritte had proven to be no trouble at all. That was remarkable, considering how loud she was in almost everything she did. But, most evenings after work, she straight up ignored him. She spent her time holed up in her bedroom, playing music and browsing the internet. Raf had once expressed appreciation for Margie’s unobtrusiveness–and was met with a mixture of disbelief and tremendous relief from her. Apparently, most others hadn’t found the same kind of comfort he did in a roommate that happily kept to themselves. She had grown accustomed to worrying that her ‘shut-in’ behaviour was excessive and inconsiderate, because if someone didn’t come and pull her away from her hobbies, she was liable to get lost in her solitary activities for hours. For Raf’s part, he was just content knowing she was there if he felt in need of company, but rarely did he feel compelled to call upon her for it. He liked her little routine of being present in the mornings, joining him for lunch, winding down with him for an hour after work, and then emerging once more for dinner before they both disappeared to their respective corners of the apartment for the rest of the evening–until bedtime.

While Magritte spent the days in her room, she developed a habit of spending most of her nights in his bed. He accepted the blame for that. Generally preferring to sleep in cooler temperatures, he neglected to consider that his love for a brisk chill wasn’t universally shared. To his quiet horror, he learned one morning that Margie’s feet were often corpse cold. The nail beds on her toes would turn purple from poor circulation, she’d get sensitive little blisters under the skin, and the ache of being chilled through the bone would keep her awake at night. Genuinely, the bones in her feet were colder than the ambient temperature. He wouldn’t have thought it possible if he hadn’t felt the impossible iciness of her skin with his own hands.

She had laughed, telling him that this was just how things always were for her during the winter months. It’s why she so greatly preferred the sweltering heat of summer. And that’s when Raf offered to let her cosy up in his bed. He always felt too warm at night, and she had literal ice blocks for feet. The solution seemed pretty obvious to him.

And so, she had spent most of the winter nights with her feet pressed against his back, tucked behind his knees, or sandwiched between his legs. That same arrangement led Raf to discover that sleep came easy when he had something–or someone–to curl his arms around at night. And just like that, over the course of three short months, Magritte had nearly extinguished his reluctant dependence on sleeping medication.

As far as roommates were concerned, Magritte was…an unusual one. If he had tried to explain any of the peculiar details about their mutual arrangements to literally anyone else, he knew what it all sounded like. He had considered that maybe he was attracted to Margie; head-over heels in love with her. The problem was, he had been in love before. It made him stupid. And it made him unmanageably paranoid. Weird elation tangled with exhausting, antagonising suspicion; the highest highs and lowest lows. Margie didn’t make him stupid nor particularly paranoid. In fact, he had been able to navigate her with a level of clear-minded ease that was somewhat unusual to him. Perhaps it was in the way she spoke plainly and honestly with him. Despite how hard he looked for it, there was never any hidden nuance to the things Magritte said, wanted, or felt.

Paranoia still sunk its hooks into him the same way he had grown to expect it–but a different part of him, a voice of reason that he had been working hard to cultivate, granted him a very small, very rare sense of satisfaction when he turned it to Margie’s defence. So he cared for her, at the very least. But she didn’t burden him with the dizzying gauntlet of infatuation. He wasn’t in love with her.

But she was easy to be with. And, under her influence, life had felt much kinder.

“Yeah, really.”

Raf watched relief wash over Margie’s features, and she let out a little chuckle. “Oh, good. ‘Cus, yanno…usually, if I’m having a good time, it’s ‘cus someone else is running themselves ragged for it. And I don’t want you to–”

“I promised I’d tell you if things ever started feeling off,” Raf cut in. “It’s been weird, but not off-putting. I’ve liked it, so far.”

Her eyes held him with an expression he couldn’t quite identify, something close to tearful. But there was a delighted, grateful reverence in her gaze that wounded him in a peculiar way. He felt compelled to soothe it.

“Hey.” Impassively, he pushed himself off the balcony railing to stand and turn towards her. “Can I try something?”

Her mouth twitched upward in a quizzical smirk. “What?” Raf tilted his head to one side, and leaned in just enough to spur a response from her, “Oh-! Yeah? Yeah!? Ok, yes!”

He kissed her.

If he liked it? If it made him uneasy? If it did anything for him, at all?

It was a soft, gentle, fleeting little gesture; he didn’t hold it for more than a second. It was just a taste, to see–

To see what?

He lingered as he considered it, and just barely had time to register the broad grin on Magritte’s face before he felt her warm hands cup his jaw. She pulled him into another, far more impassioned kiss of her own–and he met her lips with the energy to match.

As her fingers snaked around the back of his neck, he felt his hair raise beneath her touch. He leaned into her more bodily, bracing against the railing with a firm, steadying grasp. He hadn’t intended anything more than a chaste little peck, but he felt Margie’s soft lips part to invite his tongue, and was loath to leave her wanting. Her fingers ran up the back of his head, combing through his hair, and then curled back down to tenderly caress behind his ears.

A thrill of warmth originating from her hands shivered through his body–to his groin. It coaxed a surprised purr out of his throat, and he caught it in his mouth before turning into a snort through his nose. He broke the kiss, pulling away from Magritte’s grasp to drop his forearms onto the cold balcony railing beside her, curling over himself to rest his forehead atop them.

There was a moment of silence as Raf found himself more thankful than ever for the chill evening breeze. And then Margie’s tentative voice met his ear.

“S-sorry. I got…I got a little carried away.”

Raf reluctantly lifted his head to shoot her a self-deprecating smile. “Not just you.”

He watched her brow furrow with concerned bewilderment for a brief moment before the combination of details clicked in her mind.

“Oh-!” Her eyes grew wide with mischievous delight, “I gave you a boner!” The exclamation came as hushed as she could manage, but her triumphant grin spoke volumes.

He shut his eyes in a beleaguered wince. “Don’t sound so pleased.” He opened them again when he felt her lean against his arm.

She tilted her head to catch his gaze, and wore a cheeky smile. “We can go home and do something about it, if you want.”

Hold on, now. “Nnn…”

Well, maybe?

He cast her an incredulous look.

“Or not!” She pulled back with an exaggerated shrug. “I know people get weird about that kinda thing–or–maybe I’m weird about it. I dunno, I’ve never been bothered by, uh…” The sentence dissolved into a weak chuckle, and her cheeks flushed pink under the faint, warm lighting that emanated from within the studio.

Raf had never been one for casual flings. Some manner of romantic attachment had always been prerequisite before the idea of sex could carry any appeal to him at all. But then again, he never had a friend as openly straightforward as Margie before. She was as uncomplicated as they came, and Raf recklessly wondered if that would at all be compromised by taking up the offer she had just presented to him. It felt irresponsible to even consider it, but…

Your stupid fingers in my hair got me feeling some kind of way.

Embarrassing, how easily he had been turned on. But then again, it had been a fair few years since anyone had touched him like that and, woe betide him, a man was still a man after all.

It was wrong about Margie. And if it wasn’t, well.

And then there was the matter of Margie’s confidence. He liked the kiss–he obviously liked the kiss. Her ensuing proposition wasn’t a wholly unwelcome one, either. But, for someone who claimed she wasn't able to read between the lines with people, she was an expert adept at reading far too much into anything that could be perceived as a rejection. She had escalated things, but he had started it–and he didn’t want her to feel shame for reciprocating the way she had. The awful, feral part of his brain that he loathed screamed like a banshee; the usual chorus about ulterior motives and emotional manipulation. It was wrong, of course. It was always wrong.

Except for when it wasn’t.

If I die, I die. Fuck.

“Sure, let's try it on.”

Margie stared up at him with those wide, blue eyes, but her brow was tense with uncertainty. “Really?”

He provided a small shrug. “We already share a bed. This’ll just be another weird thing we do in our growing list of weird things. Maybe we’ll change our mind on the way home. But at the very least, I wouldn’t mind another kiss or few.” To illustrate his point, he leaned in and pressed his lips sweetly against her forehead.

When he pulled away, Margie stood up straight and bounced on her heels, holding her face in her hands. “Okay, okay! Yeah!” She darted towards the door and slid it open. “I’ll go get my coat, and–!”

She stopped short of scurrying inside, and turned to ensnare him in a tight little hug. Raf didn’t have time to close his arms around her in response before she broke away from him again to scamper down the hall. He stared after her for a bewildered moment as she disappeared around the corner, towards the stairs.

By the time he caught up with her again, she was already downstairs saying her farewells to the Hi-Note crew. She wrapped Herb up in an energetic hug that he happily reciprocated.

A large hand clapped Raf on the back before a familiar voice behind him asked, “Everything good?”

He turned to see Nels favouring him with a warm smile.

“Yeah, I was just…” He pointed a loose finger towards the ceiling, “taking a moment.”

Of everyone in the room, Nels was the only person who knew about Raf’s disorders. He was the first glimpse Raf ever had of what a ‘proper’ father was supposed to look like. The man was raising three daughters at home and brought that same air of patient, fatherly responsibility into the office with him each day. Raf, in particular, had been adopted by him as a kind of nephew. Nels was a best friend to his Uncle Bill, and Bill trusted him to help Raf settle into a good circle of friends and acquaintances. Raf had been reluctant to grow familiar with anyone who wasn’t his Uncle, but with a significant amount of encouragement from both his Uncle and his therapist, Raf stuck it out with Hi-Note through the several occasions he had been tempted to quit on a bad vibe, misinterpreted comment, or fearful hunch. So far, it had been working out favourably for him. The pay wasn’t great, but Raf didn’t need the income of a steady job. Rather, his therapist had been right to say that getting out of the house and expanding his ‘library of positive experiences’ was much better for his health than isolating himself at home, rotting under the grimey weight of his paranoid assumptions and suspicions.

“You got a piece of cake, right?” Nels fished for an excuse to keep Raf around.

“Nah, Margie scarfed down enough for both of us.”

Reeling back with a dissatisfied but good humoured growl, Nels insisted, “Oh, you gotta try this one. The icing is–”

“Too sweet,” Raf cut in with a defusing laugh. “I had a bite. It’s good, but a taste was plenty.”

“It’s already midnight,” Margie’s voice interjected, “If Raf had it his way, he’d have been in bed an hour ago. Cake ain’t gonna fix that.”

“Bah!” Nels waved them both off, defeated. “Fine, go. Get out of my building, you kids don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

“Fun? In this economy?” Margie clutched imaginary pearls before her expression of mock dismay dissolved into a grin and she opened her arms for a parting hug.

Nels swooped down to envelop her, and for a moment his broad body fully eclipsed her from Raf’s view. “Drive safe, be good. See you on Monday.” He pulled away from Margie, turning his gaze to make sure the sentiment landed with Raf as well.

Raf provided a lopsided smirk and a gesture that was something between a wave and a salute. A chorus of goodbyes followed him and Margie out the front doors of Hi-Note studio, and Margie waved back over Raf’s shoulder until the doors closed behind them.

“I like them,” she said with a happy sigh.

“Yeah.” Raf led the way to his little, dark blue sedan parked against the street curb and watched her shuffle gleefully towards the passenger side. “They like you, too.”

Hard not to.

He got into the car and turned on the engine.

–

The ride home was tricky for Magritte as she tried hard to temper her expectations. Raf was a skittish person by nature, and she had to be very careful about not overwhelming him or applying too much pressure with her eager enthusiasm. Any time he felt like he had put himself into a corner by overpromising or obligating himself too irrevocably to something, his instinct was to escape it–no matter what ‘it’ was. But there was nothing irrevocable nor obligatory about her offer to sleep with him tonight. Not ‘sleep’ in the literal sense of the word, for once. No, if he let her, she was going to suck his spirit out through his dick and fuck him into the ground. Good god, she had been wanting this for months.

But Raf, being Raf, was liable to change his mind at the very last minute. And if he did, she wasn’t going to take it personally. She wasn’t. Nor would she be upset, nor disappointed, nor in any way disparaging about it. The most she could do was make sure not to push the topic too eagerly on the way home, and to avoid offering up any obstacles that might serve to dissuade him.

…Which made it very difficult for her to bring up one particular topic of concern before they had passed by the last 7/11 and it was too late.

“I guess, um…Should we pick up condoms? I can run in and get them.”

She held her breath as she watched him consider the question for a moment.

Funnily enough, it wasn’t a matter of protecting against diseases. They both had a clean bill of health, and came to know that about each other when she experienced a rare episode of anxiety regarding the last guy she had stayed with. In her weird panic, she greatly overshared a plethora of details to Raf. He had been remarkably cool about it, and walked her through the entire process of getting tested–something he was no recent stranger to.

Rather, she didn’t want to tempt fate on getting knocked-up; not when life was just starting to become enjoyable again. The idea of pregnancy was a lovecraftian horror to her, and the stress of dealing with something like that to any extent just wasn’t worth the gamble. She was on the pill, yes…but even that wasn’t guaranteed protection. And, with how often she forgot to take it, she wasn’t sure it protected her at all.

“I mean…” Raf began, hesitantly.

Magritte spared him the trouble. “Or not, if it’s a pain in the ass.” She shrugged with a disarming little laugh. “It’s a bit out of the–”

Raf cut her off. “No, it’s fine, we absolutely can. It’s just that I’m–” Without taking his eyes off the road he produced a scissor-snipping motion with his fingers.

Margie stared for a bewildered moment before her brain picked it up. “Wait, what? Really? Why?” She had leaned towards him with that last question before realising it was probably a shitty thing to ask.

But, if it bothered Raf, he showed no sign of it. “I don’t want kids, and I had…an unpredictable ex.”

“Oh!” Margie had the good sense not to press him further, and leaned back into her seat. She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Well, lucky me.”

She delighted in the humoured snort she coaxed from him. His easy smile and relaxed posture assured her that he wasn’t grappling with any second thoughts.

That won a sidelong glance from him. “So..?”

“Straight home, garçon!” She chopped one hand into the palm of the other with mock urgency. “The minutes are precious!”

And indeed, though he had kept his hands to himself for much of the ride home, and in the elevator up to his apartment, Magritte found herself pressed between his body and the door to his flat as he warmed her with a voraciously weighty kiss. She received it gratefully. The heat of him, the molten softness of his lips, the scruffy, tickling hairs of his chin–

She hadn’t realised that his free hand–the one not curled amorously around her body–had been busy unlocking the door. She’d have staggered backwards when it opened, had Raf not preemptively braced her with the arm that held her.

He broke the kiss in order to assure that their half-stumble into the apartment didn’t devolve into a full stumble. But still, he kept a steadying arm around her, and she rewarded the preservation of closeness by pressing a string of kisses down his neck and towards his collarbone. Her hands had found their way beneath both his jacket and t-shirt, the flesh of his torso hot against her forearms and fingertips.

She heard the door close shut behind them, and the familiar sound of the keys dropping onto the counter before the hand that had been holding them cupped the side of her head. She felt his lips press against the opposite temple.

She had been able to kick off her shabby, loose-fitting boots without pause, but she reluctantly peeled herself away from Raf in case he wanted to take his sneakers off with a little more care. And, perhaps…to give him some space to think. Taking the opportunity to remove her jacket, she chucked it haphazardly across the couch.

Raf was measuring her with a gaze when she turned back towards him.

“Second thoughts?” Her smirk carried a cheeky confidence that worked hard to cover the self-conscious tone in her voice.

“No.” His bewildered inflection and raised eyebrows explained plenty; he had expected to turn against the idea by now.

“It’s a bit impulsive,” Magritte conceded.

Raf provided a slow nod, “It is…”

“I’d really like it, though.”

“I want you to.” He seemed to chew on that for a moment, as though it had answered something for him.

There was an awkward standoff while neither of them moved, and in that brief moment, Magritte deeply regretted putting the space between them. Finally, Raf approached her and placed a kiss onto her forehead while his hands gently teased the elastic tie out of her nest of auburn curls. She wrapped her palms around the back of his neck as she felt her hair fall loose from the messy bun it had been wrangled into.

“Promise me this won’t fuck anything up.” His voice was low and quiet in her ear. The pleading tone was only amplified by the lingering manner in which his cheek rested against the side of her head. His warm breath against her slightly chilled skin inspired goosebumps.

She pulled back to look him squarely in the eyes. This was far from being her first tryst with a friend, and she knew herself well in this regard. “I promise it won’t! Not for me, but…” She offered an apologetic half-smile. “I can’t promise it won’t change things for you; I don’t control how you react. So, really. Really, really, really–if you’re not sure, then I’d rather…not. I like things the way they are. I like doing things with you. To me, this is just another thing I like doing that I think would be really fun to do with you. Not at the expense of anything else, though.”

He searched her features with a scrutinising stare, and she didn’t shy away from it.

“Nothing changes,” He asserted, “we’re just friends.”

“Good friends,” she offered back with an impudent grin.

He mirrored her expression with a scoff and a lopsided smirk of his own. “The friendsiest friends.”

“But, friends just the same.”

Her conviction was rewarded with another kiss, his lips melting against hers as she felt the tension in his muscles evaporate through a sigh. Her hands glided up his arms, over his shoulders, and around to the back of his neck. As she gently combed her fingernails through his hair, she remembered that delightful little noise she had coaxed out of him on the balcony. What had done it? Was it the kiss? Or…

Her fingers traced the contours of his scalp and, as she curled them towards her palm, they lightly caressed the back of his ears. Her thumbs smoothed over the muscles of his jaw, but before she completed the gesture, he broke away from her.

“Alright, friend.” He curled his upper lip to flash teeth at her in a playful snarl. “Get your lily white ass into the bedroom before the last brain cell navigating my good manners is starved of oxygen.” He turned her toward the hall, and a pat of his hand against her butt provided her with all the motivation she needed to oblige his request.

She whisked herself down the hall into his room, and left the door just slightly ajar for him. She knew he wasn’t going to follow her right away. He had his evening habits to tend to; checking the door, setting the thermostat, turning out the lights, and taking his meds with a tall glass of water. It would have been silly of her to think that the promise of tits and ass would throw him off routine.

Magritte took the opportunity to shed her clothes, throwing off her shirt and wiggling out of her tight tank top–a personal compromise for her disdain for bras. She shimmied out of her denim shorts and leggings both in the same gesture. Her underwear, though, was of a cute, boyish design and she decided she’d give Raf the satisfaction of peeling them off her, if he so wished to.

Wait, just the underwear? Is that weird? She considered putting the tank top back on, and failed to gather the motivation for it. And so, she settled upon a better idea. Grabbing one of his t-shirts out of the second drawer of his dresser, she pulled it on, over her head. Hell yeah, guys love this shit.

No sooner had she put on his shirt than he walked in to see her wearing it. She turned to him with a sheepish grin, tugging the bottom hem over her thighs.

Taking a sip from the glass of water in his hand, Raf clocked the shirt and favoured her with a humoured hum. “Comfy?”

She provided a coy nod, and, before she could do much else, he abandoned his glass on the top of the dresser to close the distance between them. His arms caught her up into more of a ‘scrunch’ than a proper hug, and he came down on her with a frustrated growl, burying his entire face into the side of her neck with the sound of exaggerated chomping. The combination of lightly grazing teeth and his rough chin against her skin elicited a startled yelp from her before sending her into a fit of uncontrolled giggles as she was effortlessly bowled over onto the bed.

“I changed my mind.” He snarled, “I’m gonna eat you, instead. Hungry, horny, it’s all the same.”

“It’s not, though!” Her words were barely intelligible, warbling with laughter.

As she struggled in vain to wedge a hand between the soft flesh of her throat and his coarse goatee, his mock gnashing softened into playful kisses. Regaining her composure and chasing away her giggles by clearing her throat, she snaked her hands beneath his shirt.

“I’m worth more to you undevoured, I promise.”

“Remains to be seen,” Raf muttered into the hollow beneath her ear.

“Well…let's see.”

Her thumbs smoothed over the trail of body hair from belt line to belly button, before her palms passed broadly over the front of his stomach, around his sides, and up his back. Digging her fingers into his shoulder blades, she tilted her chin back and drew in a long breath as his lips travelled down her neck, towards her collar bone.

Distracted by the pleasant textures of his mouth, Magritte’s attention hadn’t followed his travelling hands–until she felt the heel of his palm press broadly against her clit through the fabric of her underwear. Instinctively, her thighs tightened around him, and her hands abandoned their near-completed task of unbuttoning his jeans; grasping the waistline instead. She coiled into his touch as his palm lifted away to drag his fingertips lightly up, towards the top hem of her panties. From there, they slipped easily under the close-hugging fabric to sink into the warm folds between her legs.

Raf’s firm, steadying grasp around her ribcage slid up to appreciate the soft, pliable curves of her breasts hidden beneath the fabric of her shirt. His fingers teased the hardened nipples while she manoeuvred her lower body beneath him. She freed her legs out from under his lap so that her thighs hugged around his hips and, in swift order, she ghosted her hands down to find his belt. As she worked to unbuckle it, his mouth caught hers. His tongue teased her lips apart and she welcomed it with her own.

His kisses had a soft, buttery quality reminiscent of a girl she once loved, and it was a feeling she treasured. His lips, smooth and warm, melted against the tense contours of hers in a sensasion she could only describe as ‘creamy and comforting’.

She felt his fingers tease her apart, and they traced the contours of her sex with gentle confidence, exploring her geography. Though his mouth worked fervently against her lips, throat, and collar bone, his touch between her legs was restrained and methodical. She had expected him to plunge knuckle deep into the first hole he found–as men in her experience were typically inclined to. But his fingers only teased her entrance before gliding back up her moistened crease to find–

“Oh-!” Margie flinched as a shock jolted her body. Not painfully, but in a manner comparable to having an icecube suddenly pressed against her, unexpected.

Raf stilled the moment she had tensed.

“Sensitive.” His observation was murmured into the crook of her neck before he purred more audibly into her ear, “Sorry, love.”

She paused. His fingers had begun to work firm, broad circles around her clit in a way that, at first, didn’t feel like it was doing anything special for her. But quickly, she felt a building pressure begin to heat her core.

Sensitive?

She wasn’t, though. In the past, complaints had been made that she took too long to get off. Her previous fling had joked that only a jackhammer could provide the adequate stimulation she needed. When it came to sex, she knew herself as a veritable puzzle box of distractibility and dulled senses. It meant excellent stamina and fun sensations, but a proper orgasm delivered in a timely manner required her own effort more than the effort of her partner.

“No, no,” she began placatingly, “you didn’t–”

That same heat rose up to prickle her chest and cheeks. Margie pressed her mouth against the top of his shoulder to muffle a reverent, “Motherfucker.”

That was not the appropriate choice of words to praise him with, but that’s what forced its way out of her throat. He had found that sweet spot almost as easily as she might have found it herself, which led her to the realisation that she had been robbed–robbed–by previous lovers. What the everloving fuck.

She couldn’t help but let out a confounded little chuckle into the fabric of his shirt, and he responded with an amused little “Mmh.”

Without even meaning to, she had tensed her grip around him. Her arms held him tight, with handfuls of his shirt balled into her fists. Her legs had constricted around his waist and the leverage they provided allowed for the needy manner in which her hips writhed to meet his firm and steady touch. It was a greedy moment while she abandoned her attempts at reciprocation, intent on appreciating the way Raf kneaded her between his fingers. Her long drawn sighs of pleasure slowly devolved into a breathy panting–which fell into near perfect synchrony with his purposeful, hastening strokes between her thighs.

If she had been paying attention to her breathing, if she had noticed when her voice began releasing a single, ragged note every few breaths, she might have asked for pause. But, she hadn’t been paying attention to anything other than the growing warmth between her legs and the tense swell of pressure gathering in the very pit of her stomach. And it grew, hotter and hotter, with each purposeful, dexterous stroke of his fingers. Oh–she was sensitive, now. Between her thighs, she could feel every small vibration that met her. The way his fingers worked pleased not just her clit, but the rest of her aroused sex as well. Every small movement he pressed into her, she felt across the entire organ. Her thighs closed around his waist as she lifted her hips to find her pleasure against his fingertips. She felt the muscles of her stomach draw tight.

A sharp gasp preceded a short, trembling “Ah-!” that escaped with her breath. All that tension, that gathering pressure, broke like a wave through her body. It had built up so quickly that the orgasm took her by complete surprise, and she writhed against Raf’s fingers as she rode it out; her face buried into the crook of his neck, eyes shut tightly.

She didn’t relax her body nor lift her head as the ripples of pleasure subsided, but she felt Raf’s fingers withdraw from her.

“Hey.” Raf’s voice crooned in her ear, and his hands on her waist pressed her lightly back, coaxing her to release him from the death-grip she held him in.

Reluctantly, she unfurled from him, uncoiling her arms, and dropping her knees to hang off his outer thighs. The rough texture of denim against the back of her calves reminded her that he still had his pants on. She came, and he was still wearing pants.

She hazarded a sheepish glance up towards his face, and was met with a modestly small smile, made very smug by the upward arch of his eyebrows.

“That’s what you get for the balcony boner, you little shit.”

Raf lifted himself off her, but she grabbed the front of his shirt with flustered defiance. “We’re not done!”

“You sure?” His incredulity wasn’t the least bit sincere. “Because it seemed to me like you–”

“No!” She scrambled to sit on her knees atop his bed and jabbed a demanding finger towards his waist. “Take your pants off!”

He hesitated, and for a moment, Margie genuinely worried he’d say ‘nah’. But instead, he leaned in for another kiss and obliged her command. The sound of his belt clattering outcompeted the sultry feeling of his lips for her attention, and her eager gaze turned automatically to assess what she was working with.

She had expected to see an aching erection. Usually, by the time the pants came off, guys had been hard as hell and ready to go. Instead, the man who had just rubbed the easiest orgasm she’d ever experienced out of her appeared lightly fluffed at most. For a brief second, she wondered if her playful brattiness had ruined the mood. And then, she considered…that possibly…she just wasn’t attractive to him.

She returned her attention to their kiss as she chewed on that thought a bit. As far as girls went, she was a bit of a gremlin. A goblin, even. She wouldn’t dare call herself a ‘woman’ nor even a ‘lady’--those words gave her gender expression far too much credit. But even so, she was mostly comfortable with her appearance. Regardless of that, sloppy tomboys weren’t everyone’s preferred cup of tea, and it didn’t have to be. She had slept with people she didn’t personally find attractive before and it had been fine and dandy, all things considered.

You can be ugly and still give killer blowjobs.

She smirked to herself, and, as she combed fingers through Raf’s hair with one hand, she allowed the other to travel down his torso until her palm curled around the soft, warm skin of his shaft. Her fingertips coiled along the underside of it, tracing a firm, straight line towards the base of the glans, and she massaged the head against the ball of her thumb with gentle, coaxing strokes.

His body responded to her touch; the malleable flesh stiffened in her grasp and filled her hand substantially. In return, her caresses grew more broad and firm; the heel of her palm only abandoning the sensitive tip for the brief intervals when her fingers endeavoured to tease and cradle his sack.

She felt Raf’s fingertips trace lightly up her spine, beneath her shirt, in a manner that provoked goosebumps. Once they found the loose curls of her hair, they followed her locks up to the nape of her neck, and brushed passionately over the base of her scalp. He hadn’t pulled his lips away from her, except to nip lightly at her jaw and ear.

A small “Hmm” escaped him, sounding more contemplative than pleased, and it prompted her to pull her gaze back and assess his features. He only mirrored her measuring glance before bestowing a sweet little kiss on her nose.

"We good?" She asked as cooly as she could manage.

"Yeah?" His response warbled on a laugh, and it coaxed a reassured smile out of her. "I'd say so."

“...Gave you another boner."

"Oh." He glanced down and said with a sardonic tone, "Shit, thanks for telling me. I'd have never known."

By the time his gaze returned to her, Margie met it with a stony, straight face.

His amused expression wavered. "...What?"

Holding his gaze, she pressed down on his erection with a forefinger before turning her eyes to watch it as she let it spring upward in a marvellously undignified display of structural tension. The juvenile mistreatment of his manhood left Raf at a temporary loss for words and Magritte stifled her laugh into a snort. Before he could chide her, she shoved both hands beneath his shirt and lifted it, intent on freeing him of the garment completely. With a muffled exclamation, he complied, lifting his arms and finishing the job of pulling it off, over his head.

Taking the opportunity to plant kisses across his chest and down his torso, Margie didn’t glance up to see his expression as her mouth dragged hungrily past his belly button and over the strip of body hair that led her down, towards the prize waiting for her between his legs. She rested her cheek against him, atop the unruly patch of honey coloured pubes that crowned his crotch, and closed her hand around the length of him. She was hopeless at measuring the size of anything with just a gaze, but he filled her grasp with a satisfying heft and was certainly longer than her hand. Favouring him with a well-appraising hum and a few loving strokes, she lifted her head to face her challenge. She peeled back the foreskin with a tender downstroke, before kissing the sensitive pink tip.

The scent of him was far from unpleasant; a heady musk that excited her senses goaded her to take him into her mouth. Slick moisture met her lips when they pressed against his flesh, and, when they parted to draw him in, her tongue was quick to receive him. She held the head of his cock in her mouth as her tongue swirled and lapped hungrily over its smooth contours. He provided texture more than taste; his scent informed the flavour perhaps more than anything else. Inside her mouth, he was velvety, warm, and gratifying to explore. She pulled her lips back over the gentle curves until they came together to kiss the tip again. Her tongue flicked out to lap the head’s underside before the rest of her mouth followed, and she drew him in deeper than before.

She repeated that course, cherishing every bit of him with her tongue before pulling back to kiss the tip, and then drawing him into her mouth deeper with each successive round. Her thumbs had run up his inner thighs until they found the silky skin of his sack. She held and massaged it gently, appreciating the supple texture beneath her fingertips.

Initially, Raf’s fingers had teased and entwined themselves in her nest of curls somewhat languidly. But slowly, his hands grew tense against the back of her head, occasionally clenching into fists around handfuls of her hair. She thought–and hoped–that he’d start pulling, but any time he came close to doing so, he quickly released his grip. She could have lamented that, but she appreciated the same restraint applied to the motions of his hips. As a precaution, Margie placed a steading hand around one side of his waist, but she knew from experience that this was poor defence against an overeager thrust. Under her palm, she could feel his muscles tense and flinch. That, coupled with the slight, uneven rolling of his hips, betrayed his urge to buck against her mouth. For his considerate efforts, she rewarded him by trying to decipher and match the pace that his rigidly subdued movements suggested to her.

“...Christ.” His breaths had been coming up deep and steady and the muttered profanity was barely audible to Magritte, but she caught it with a thrill.

In response, she closed her eyes and pulled him into her throat so that her lips were flush against the hot skin of his lower abdomen. Her throat constricted uncomfortably around the intrusion that had smoothed over her tonsils, and she pulled back before it forced her to gag. Taking a deep, steadying breath through her nose, she allowed herself a precious second before swallowing him again. Her throat was no happier for it, but making a man's dick disappear was her favourite little party trick. Raf’s fingers brushed over her jaw in a gesture that permitted her to release him, but she ignored it in favour of challenging her gag reflex a third time.

“Margie–!” He cupped her face more firmly, and this time, she obeyed what was clearly a request, not a suggestion.

She pulled back, hollowing out her cheeks so that he left her mouth with an audible *pop*, and turned a sheepish smile up to him.

He met her gaze with a mix of awe and incredulity.“Holy shit, warn me next time.”

Providing him with an unrepentant shrug, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Too much?"

“I mean, not if you’re trying to get this done and over with real quick.”

To that, Magritte flashed her teeth in an impish grin. “Finish him!”

Her poor yet unmistakable Mortal Kombat impression caused Raf’s brow to crease quizzically before a bark of laughter escaped him. “No, why are you like this?”

He flattened his palm against her face, and she let out an ineffective chihuahua-like snarl as he irreverently pushed her backwards so that she laid flat on her bed. She landed with a fit of giggles, and she felt his thumbs hook into the waistband of her panties. He slid them down past her knees and Magritte was able to wriggle the garment down, off her ankles. Kneeling between her legs, Raf grabbed her by the waist and playfully dragged her towards him so that her hips met his.

As he descended upon her with a flurry of kisses, she felt his erection lay flat across her stomach–the slick coat of moisture it wore from her mouth cooled on her skin. She couldn’t help but writhe eagerly beneath him; one hand in his hair while the other grasped and clawed needily along his lower back. His hands worked much more purposefully. One arm coiled around her shoulders to brace the both of them as the other snaked down her belly, fingertips finding the warm, damp flesh between her legs. He teased apart her lower lips, pressing a firm thumb just above her clit and massaging it gently. His middle and ring fingers skated easily downward to find her opening; tender and wet with her arousal. He pressed a careful finger into her and, when it sunk in with ease, he inserted another. With gentle strokes and twists, he acquainted himself with her; winning pleased hums and a determined roll of her hips as he felt the boundaries of her interior. His breath came up in heavy sighs as he kissed, bit, and sucked the flesh of her neck. She was aware, too, of how his hips rolled against hers with a neediness that mirrored her own.

His fingers withdrew from her and, for a moment, so too did his lower body. With keen anticipation, Margie wrapped her legs firmly around him for leverage, sinking her heels into the back of his calves as she lifted her hips up to receive him. He didn’t leave her waiting. She felt his cock press against and part her flesh to make space for itself. Swollen with arousal, her body provided pleasant resistance before surrendering to envelop him. He sank into her with gratifying ease; fitting comfortably between her legs. A delighted gasp escaped her when he drew his hips flush to hers, eliciting a ripple of pleasure that radiated out from her inner flesh, down into her toes. Her muscles clenched around him instinctively, and her knees lifted to hold him as closely to her as possible.

At the sound of her breathy little mewl, a chuckle rose from Raf’s throat followed by another one of his contemplative hums. This time, though, an unmistakable satisfaction boiled in the low rumble of his tone.

In Margie’s opinion, this was one of the best parts of sex; the initial feeling of having that aching, hungry gap between her thighs filled the warm, hefty girth of her lover. But there was something uniquely gratifying about hosting Raf in this manner, and the reason wasn’t a mystery to her. Without question, he was the most good looking man to ever find himself between her legs. From the first day she met him in Granville Station, she had been charmed by his lopsided smirk, dorky goatee, and aloof demeanour. His torn jeans and goofy dollar store sunglasses hadn’t been able to outcompete the easy charisma and gentle kindness he carried with him. He had a handsome face, a nice body that he took care of, and a mindful confidence that belied the tumultuous anxieties that plagued him. As she had gotten to know him better, she only adored him more.

‘Adored’. Hah, who am I kidding.

She loved him, no revelation there. He didn’t have to rub an orgasm out of her and stick his dick in for her to realise that. She loved easily, and recklessly, and had known she was pooched after their very first jam session. He had been fun to play with, gave her kind praise and honest feedback, and made her feel like he genuinely enjoyed spending time with her. That and a pretty face was really all it took to win her loyal affections.

But he was a skittish creature, and she loved him enough to find joy in whatever form their relationship took. Otherwise, she’d have overcrowded and overwhelmed him, and he–like all the others before him–would have grown to resent everything he initially claimed to like about her. She likened herself to salt; best enjoyed sparingly, and never on its own. It’s why she had been so reluctant to move in with him, despite wanting to spend every minute of her time with him. Too much salt. She feared becoming unpalatable.

Well, now he’s balls deep in me, purring comfortably in my ear–which means I’ve got no choice but to make him cum so hard, he sees stars.

She had tried to moderate her behaviour and failed. She failed the very moment she accepted the keys to his apartment. She failed when he sweetly offered to let her snuggle him in bed so that he could help warm her feet. There had been mornings when she woke up to the maddening feeling of his stiffness pressed against the small of her back. She had remained very still and very quiet so as to not let him know that she had been awake before him, but good lord every muscle in her body had wanted to squirm against him. Without fail, the very moment he woke up, he’d carefully–very carefully–untangle his limbs from hers and turn away before getting out of bed to start his day. And without fail, she’d spend the consiquent morning too cumbrained to even see straight.

Just like she couldn’t say no to an apartment key and nightly snuggles, she couldn’t say no to a kiss. She couldn’t help but push it to see where it’d go. And now she was here. Remarkably. Unregrettably.

‘I couldn’t help myself,’ said the scorpion, ‘it’s in my nature.’

A bit too late, Margie realised that Raf’s satisfied rumblings in her ear had been forming actual vowels and consonants.

“Hm-?” She returned to the present moment with a flinch she hoped he didn’t notice.

“I like your little noises,” he replied.

“Oh.” Magritte blinked, running fingers through his hair. She used the back of her heel to caress the curve of his butt with irreverent affection. “Well then, giddy up, Mister Ephrem, and I’ll give you a cacophony!”

She felt him grin against her jawline before grazing it with his teeth and providing an affirmative little growl.

His hips withdrew, only to rock forward into her again. His first few strokes were of a careful, measuring pace until he repositioned his knees further apart and closer to her body. Dropping his forehead down onto the mattress, over her shoulder, he grabbed her waist with two firm hands and pulled her up closer to him. He curled his torso to plunge into her more deeply. The angle of his cock struck a pleasing cluster of nerves inside her body, and she inhaled sharply as it retreated over her swollen flesh to slam back in against it in steady rhythm. Each time, his dick slid out of her until she was empty save for the stretch where they met; the lips of her cunt covetously hugging the contours of the cock’s head. And then he’d part her walls again with a forceful, hungry thrust; smoothing the mounds of velvety muscle that constricted around him and resisted his departing strokes.

Every few thrusts forced a note of pleasure out of Magritte’s throat, carried on ragged huffs of breath. At first, her punctuated little cries only had to compete against the sound of Raf’s deep, steady breathing and the faint creaking of his bed. But, as her thighs became sticky and sodden from her arousal, the percussive sound of flesh on flesh began to drown out her little moans. Like the true musician he was, Raf searched for the right fingering to coax the sound he wanted out of her. His thumb pressed against the flesh right above her clit and rubbed it in quick, small circles as he continued to drive his cock into her.

The feeling of being kneaded firmly between his fingers and his dick provoked a strangled cry that bubbled out of her mouth before she even registered it. A sharp, quavering breath preceded another ecstatic wail, and then another. She curled her arms tightly around the back of Raf’s neck and attempted to muffle the chorus of her euphoria against his shoulder.

The mounting tension caused her muscles to clench. The way his dick pushed against the walls of her cunt as it constricted around him only intensified the pressure that welled up inside her.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck.” They were barely words, carrying the same quaking tone as her blissed-out yowls.

In response, Raf reached up to roughly smooth her hair back and cradle her head. He buried his nose into her hair, and pressed clenched teeth against her temple in a gesture that might have initially been intended as a kiss. His thrusts had grown desperate and uneven, but the hand that worked her clit remained fastidious in its efforts, bringing her so, so, so achingly close.

“Good girl.” His voice was a breathy growl against her skull. “Come on, now…”

Her legs had been wrapped around him so tightly that her muscles ached. But it provided the leverage she needed to buck against him with fervent need. He drove into her with short, rapid thrusts, barely withdrawing to slam as deeply into her as their bodies would permit; hitting up against her tightening core–until the dam of pressure burst to release a flood of sensation across every part of her. In the seconds leading up to it, Margie had fallen completely silent, drawing in a long breath that she held in her chest until the crashing wave of her orgasm forced it out of her. She felt the pulses of pleasure throb in her lower abdomen, caressing the man inside of her in a way that she never consciously could.

At some point during her climax, Raf’s hands had both found her waist again, gripping her rapaciously as he chased his own pleasure. His breaths came up in short, uneven bursts, and the undeliberate groans being drawn out of him composed the greatest piece of music she had ever delighted in hearing.

She writhed her hips to meet him at every feverish thrust. Slowing to longer, powerful strokes, he slammed into her once, twice, and with a quiet growl, he buried himself as deeply as their bodies would allow. His strong grip pressed her hard against him, holding her firmly in place as the force of his orgasm punched the breath out of his lungs. As he came inside of her, his hips strained against her body with the feral desire to empty himself deeper.

This, too, was one of the best parts of sex, Margie decided. She’d never gone about it without a condom before, and while the thrill was almost certainly a psychological one, the verdict was in; she very enjoyed the feeling of having her insides painted lovingly white. She liked it a lot. With the covetous squeezing of her thighs and abdominal muscles, she made it known to him.

The two of them remained locked together in a hot, messy, panting heap on the bed for an immeasurable moment before Raf nuzzled his face into the crook of Margie’s neck with a long, bodily sigh. She drew a hand up to affectionately caress his neck and the back of his head.

“W...we good?” Her voice came up raspy, cracking on the second word, and she couldn’t help but exhale a little laugh at herself.

“Mmh,” was the most Raf could conjure for a long while before he muttered semi-intelligible, “Magnifique.” He echoed her laugh with one of his own before bringing his arms forward to prop himself up, off of her.

As she allowed him to decouple from her, she curled her hands under her chin, reluctant to sit up with him…for reasons relating to gravity and fluids.

Sitting on his knees with her legs across his lap, Raf provided a mollifying grin that favoured one side of his face. “I, uh–shit.” He dropped his face into one of his palms with a self-deprecating laugh. “Ejected some of my brain cells there, I think.”

“A shower might help with that,” Margie offered with a broad smile that flashed her teeth. “I’ll take one with you.”

–

It had been as though they spent the evening doing any other typical thing. It could have been a night of board games, for how casually Magritte navigated the aftermath of their activities. Raf had expected some manner of uncomfortable, condolatory discussion that went long into the early hours of morning; how they had liked it, whether or not they’d do it again, what it meant for their relationship, if it meant anything at all. But that conversation never occurred.

Margie had made her enjoyment known while she shared a shower with him, and bestowed easy praise on his ‘excellent fingering’. In turn, he confessed that he could grow quickly addicted to the adorable little trills, yelps, and moans he had been able to coax out of her. Not to mention the other things she could do with her mouth. Dieu, mon fucking dieu.

The rest was clear enough to be obvious without discussion. Sex could just be another thing they did together when the mood struck–if it stuck at all. It hadn’t come with any promises or expectations, not any more than playing music or snuggles in bed had. It was the best Raf could have hoped for.

Magritte seemed wholly uninterested in applying the pressures of romantic commitment onto him. If there was ever anything she wanted, she could never help but to edge it into conversations one way or another–he knew that much about her. Instead, she seemed entirely set on making sure she didn’t bring up anything even approaching the matter. She said she liked things the way they were, and, while his brain could question the truth in that–or in anything she said–he was of much the same opinion. Perhaps they had both come to the same understanding. Something about love, especially romantic love, brought out the worst in people. It had always seemed like a battle of wills; two people trying to deconstruct and reshape one another to fit the impossible moulds that would ensure the longevity of their relationship. How could anyone endure that kind of transformation without poisoning the relationship with resentment? He’d never know. He didn’t have to find out.

Laying in bed at three in the morning, showered, satisfied, and cosy, with Magritte purring tiny snores in his arms, he couldn’t have asked for more. Whatever it was that he and Margie were enjoying together–friends with benefits?–suited him, so far. For all it mattered, she could decide to move across the sea next week, and he’d be unharmed by the decision so long as they remained on friendly terms. And that felt safe.

What they had…it felt safe.

#hi-note #rafael #magritte #it's balls oclock and no one is awake #post smut #I've never written a smut before lmfaoo I am so sorry about this

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estellan0vella · 17 days ago

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Sunshine's Guide To Murder│Lee Minho

Chapter Nine: Out SS: 4 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 2.6K Content Warnings: Mingi being a creep (sorry!), mentions of an inappropriate faculty and student relationship Previous Next Masterlist

The mood inside Minho’s car is thick with tension as they drive through the grittier side of the city, heading toward Song Mingi’s apartment. Jisung stares out the window, his fingers restlessly fiddling with the recorder in his hands, while Felix leans back in his seat, arms crossed tightly, the muscles in his jaw twitching. Jeongin, usually the lighthearted one, sits unusually quiet in the back, his foot tapping anxiously against the floor.

Minho grips the steering wheel with a white-knuckled intensity, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as the clean, modern skyline gradually fades into a worn-out stretch of older buildings and graffiti-tagged walls.

As they pull up to Mingi’s apartment building, a crumbling relic of the past, Jisung lets out a low whistle. "Jesus," he mutters, shaking his head. "What a shithole."

Felix leans forward to peer through the windshield, his eyes narrowing. "This looks like the kind of place where people get murdered and no one asks questions. Sketchy as hell."

Minho smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Or somewhere someone goes to disappear."

The building in front of them is falling apart. The brick exterior is covered in layers of grime, windows either boarded up or barely visible through the haze of dirt.

Graffiti decorates the walls in aggressive strokes, and the few people loitering nearby give the car a wary glance before turning away. It’s the kind of place that breeds suspicion and secrets, where no one looks too hard at their neighbours.

Minho parks, and they all step out, the air around them tense as they exchange quick glances. The neighbourhood is unnervingly quiet for this time of day, with only the occasional sound of distant traffic or a muffled shout in the background.

They make their way to the building entrance, the heavy door groaning as they pull it open. Inside, the stairwell smells like mildew and stale cigarettes, and each step up the creaking stairs feels like a warning.

When they reach Mingi’s door on the third floor, Minho doesn’t hesitate. He pounds on the door, the sound reverberating through the narrow hallway. The silence that follows is almost suffocating, but after a moment, the door creaks open.

Song Mingi stands in the doorway, his dishevelled appearance giving off the same aura as the building. Unkempt, rundown, but with a sharpness behind his tired eyes. He’s wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, and there’s a lazy smirk on his face that immediately sets everyone on edge.

"Well, if it isn’t Han Jisung," Mingi drawls, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Lia said you might stop by for a little visit."

Jisung grits his teeth, glaring at Mingi. "Then you know why we’re here."

Mingi’s smirk widens, his eyes flicking over the group before landing on Minho, sizing him up. "Looking into Yuna’s death, are we? Quite the crew you’ve assembled."

Felix leans in slightly, muttering under his breath, "This guy’s a real piece of work."

Jisung ignores the comment, his jaw tight as he pulls out the recorder and flicks it on. Mingi steps aside, waving them in with exaggerated politeness. "Come on in. No need to stand out in the hallway like lost kids."

The inside of the apartment is as grim as the building itself. The air is thick with the stench of stale smoke and old alcohol. Empty beer bottles litter the floor, and the furniture is mismatched and worn down, as if no one had cared enough to replace it in years. There’s a suffocating heaviness in the atmosphere, a claustrophobic sense of decay that clings to everything.

Jeongin looks around in disgust, wrinkling his nose. "Lovely place," he mutters, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Mingi doesn’t bother to respond, collapsing onto a threadbare couch and gesturing for them to sit anywhere. Minho, however, stays on his feet, arms crossed, his eyes locked on Mingi, watching every movement like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

Without wasting time, Jeongin speaks up, cutting straight to the point. "We know Yuna was seeing an older guy. Was it an affair?"

Mingi’s eyes gleam with amusement, like he’s enjoying the show. "Eh, you could call it that," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "Yuna seduced one of the professors at the university. Don’t know which one exactly. Then she started blackmailing him for money. They used to meet up at the chapel near campus."

The revelation hits the room like a gut punch. Jisung’s grip on the recorder tightens, his knuckles going white, while Felix’s face twists into a grimace of disgust. Jeongin, usually unshakable, narrows his eyes, taking in the information with a growing sense of unease.

Felix is the first to speak, his voice tight with restrained anger. "What do you remember about the night Yuna disappeared?"

Mingi leans back into the couch, clearly relishing the attention. "Not much," he says lazily, as if discussing the weather. "She left to meet that guy, like she usually did. Next thing I know, cops are at my door the next day, asking questions."

Minho, his patience wearing thin, steps forward, his eyes dark. "That was one of your infamous parties, wasn’t it? What were you doing that night?"

Mingi’s smirk never falters. "Looking after your friend," he says, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. His eyes flick to Jisung. "The girl who’s always stuck to your side."

Jisung’s stomach churns, a cold wave of dread washing over him. "Hayun?"

Mingi nods, still smirking. "Yeah. She drank way too much that night. Passed out pretty early."

Minho’s expression shifts instantly, his eyes narrowing with barely controlled rage. He steps closer to Mingi, his voice low and deadly. "You, a twenty-year-old, were alone in a room with a fourteen-year-old girl?"

For the first time, Mingi’s smirk falters, just slightly, his eyes narrowing in response to the accusation. "I was looking after her," he says defensively, his tone growing sharp. "I wasn’t the only one there. All kinds of people came to my parties. I was doing the right thing."

Minho’s lip curls in disgust, his voice dripping with venom. "A real saint, aren’t you?"

Mingi glares back, his arrogance flaring again. "You wanna accuse me of something? Get proof."

Jisung steps in quickly, sensing the tension about to boil over. "No one’s accusing anyone," he says, trying to keep the peace. "We’re just trying to figure out what happened."

Mingi relaxes slightly but remains on edge. "Good. But I’ll tell you something. Yuna wasn’t just buying from Yeji. She was dealing for her too."

Felix’s jaw drops, his eyes widening in shock. "Wait, what? Yuna was a dealer?"

Mingi nods nonchalantly, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. "Yeah. She dealt for Yeji on the side. Made decent money, too."

There’s a stunned silence as the group processes this new information, but Mingi doesn’t seem fazed. His eyes flick back to Jisung, a smirk creeping onto his face once again. "Speaking of, where’s Hayun? You three are usually inseparable with that podcast of yours. Did she finally get sick of you?"

Jeongin jumps in quickly, his tone light but firm. "She’s got strep throat. Nasty case. She’s resting up."

Mingi chuckles darkly, clearly not buying it. "Sure she is. Well, tell her to drop by once she’s feeling better. Now that she’s legal, I’m sure we could catch up."

Minho’s entire body tenses at the comment, his eyes flashing with barely contained fury as he steps forward again. "Yeah, that’s not happening."

The tension in the room spikes, thickening like a suffocating blanket. Mingi leans back, clearly amused by the reaction he’s provoked. "Well, if there’s nothing else, you know where to find me. Don’t forget to say hi to Hayun for me."

Jisung, face set in a hard line, clicks off the recorder. "We’re done here."

As they head toward the door, Felix mutters under his breath, "What a fucking creep."

Jeongin nods silently, but Minho lingers by the door for just a second longer, his gaze burning into Mingi’s smug expression. "We’ll be back," he says, his voice cold and threatening.

Mingi just laughs, the sound echoing through the grimy apartment. "I’ll be waiting."

The door slams behind them as they leave, and the cold night air hits them like a slap to the face. Minho’s fists are clenched tightly, his jaw locked, the anger radiating off him in waves as they walk back to the car.

Felix shakes his head, his voice low. "That guy’s bad news. Worse than we thought."

Jeongin finally speaks, his voice quiet but determined. "We need to dig deeper. Something’s not right. We’re not telling Hayun that Mingi said hi or that she should go over, right?”

Jisung doesn’t even hesitate, immediately scoffing as he turns in his seat to look at Jeongin. "Are you out of your mind? Obviously not, pabo," he mutters, smacking Jeongin lightly on the back of the head. "She’d freak. No way in hell are we telling her that creep even mentioned her."

Felix, uncharacteristically quiet for most of the ride, finally speaks up, his voice low but tinged with disgust. “There’s something seriously off about that guy,” he mutters, his eyes hard as he stares at the headrest in front of him. "I don’t know what it is, but... he gives me the creeps. Like, real bad vibes."

Minho’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles white as he navigates through the dimly lit streets. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, but his mind is clearly elsewhere, churning over the events of the evening. "Even if he wasn’t involved in Yuna’s murder or Chaeryeong’s, he’s hiding something. And whatever it is, it’s not good."

Jisung shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing out the window as the city blurs by, his brow furrowed. "And I think Hayun knows exactly what it is," he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Jeongin turns his head, casting a glance at Minho. “Minho thinks Mingi’s got some kind of blackmail on her,” he says quietly, his tone not quite asking for confirmation but seeking clarity.

Minho doesn’t even glance at him, but his jaw tightens as he nods slightly, his voice clipped. "I asked her. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. Her silence was enough."

Jisung lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair, the tangled mess reflecting his own jumbled thoughts. "What the fuck could he have on her that’s kept her quiet for five years? And why wouldn’t she tell us? We’re her friends."

Felix leans forward from the backseat, twisting to face them, his eyes dark with worry. "It’s gotta be something bad, right? To keep her quiet for that long. She must have been scared out of her mind. She still is."

Jeongin, chewing on the inside of his cheek, finally speaks up, his voice quiet but thoughtful. “Mingi’s not going to admit anything. And I doubt Hayun’s gonna come clean about what’s going on anytime soon. She’s always been good at hiding her shit. Way too good.”

Minho’s eyes flash with anger as he changes lanes, weaving through the thinning traffic. His frustration is palpable, barely contained. “Chan and Changbin have been asking around campus. Every time they bring up Mingi’s name, the women they talk to just shut down. Like they’re scared of even being associated with him.”

Jisung frowns, leaning forward in his seat, the tension in his body almost unbearable. "What the fuck did that guy do that makes the female population of campus terrified of him? This isn’t normal."

Minho glances at him for a second, then looks back at the road, his voice dropping. "You should probably ask your sister, Jisung. Lia was close to Mingi. Closer than any of us."

Jisung’s face darkens at the suggestion, his lips pressing into a tight line. His hands ball into fists in his lap as he stares out the window. "Lia wouldn’t keep something like that from me. She’s not that kind of person," he says, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as the others.

Minho’s tone softens, but there’s still an edge of frustration. “If telling the truth would implicate her in something, she would. We’ve all kept secrets, thinking it would save our own skin. And your sister? She’s good at keeping secrets, isn’t she?”

Jisung leans back against his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, the tension in his posture clear. “Yeah, she’s good at keeping secrets,” he admits grudgingly. "I won’t deny that"

Felix shifts uncomfortably, his brow furrowing as he pieces things together. "You think she’s hiding something else? Something bigger?"

Jisung’s gaze flickers with uncertainty, but there’s a hardness in his expression. “I’m not gonna say Lia’s innocent in all this. One thing we’ve learned from doing the podcast is you don’t assume someone’s innocent until you’ve eliminated all the possibilities. But..." He pauses, shaking his head. "If we go in assuming she’s guilty of something, she’ll shut down. We’ll get nothing."

Minho nods, his voice low and calculated. "Exactly. You make the person feel like they’re helping, like they’re on your side. Then they’ll open up."

Jeongin looks between them, the wheels in his mind turning. “If Lia’s hiding something, and it’s connected to Mingi or Yuna, then it’s probably the key to unlocking all of this. She was too close to both of them to not know more than she’s letting on.”

Jisung’s eyes harden, his voice taking on a determined edge. “I’ll talk to her. But we can’t just go in guns blazing. We need to be smart about this. If she’s hiding something... I’ll find out.”

Felix leans back in his seat, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “This is getting messier by the second. If Lia knows something about Mingi, or Yuna, or both, and she’s keeping it from us-”

Minho’s gaze stays fixed on the road, his voice cold but steady. “We’ll figure it out. One way or another.”

A heavy silence settles over the car, the weight of the situation pressing down on them all. Each of them is lost in their own thoughts, the puzzle pieces swirling in their minds but refusing to fit together.

The investigation, once thought to be a simple dive into Yuna’s death, is becoming more tangled with every passing day. Secrets are piling up, and it feels like every lead drags them deeper into a web of lies and danger.

Jeongin breaks the silence again, his voice quieter this time. "You know Hayun’s not gonna talk to us about Mingi unless something big happens, right?"

Jisung sighs, his head dropping back against the headrest. “Yeah, I know. But she’s not safe as long as we don’t know what’s going on. I don’t trust that guy to leave her alone.”

Felix nods in agreement, his expression grim. "The way Mingi talked about her. It wasn’t just creepy. It was dangerous."

Minho’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "She’s not going near him. Not while I’m around."

Jisung lets out a long, tired breath. "We need to watch each other’s backs. If Mingi’s involved in Yuna’s death, or Chaeryeong’s, or even something worse, he’s not going to go down without a fight."

Minho doesn’t respond, but the fire in his eyes says everything. They’re not done with Song Mingi. Not by a long shot.

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