#and his last words were calling out for you

[gutsby]

Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: You and Joel make a mess of things—again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Creampie. Age gap. Breeding kink. Period mishap / mentions of blood (!) Eepy Joel is eepy but always down to hit it raw 🤝 Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—for complete content warnings, please read this post!

Word count: 11.5k

Things changed.

You woke up snug in someone’s arms and didn’t move.

You couldn’t blame the warmth or the comfort of the bed—yours was a Twin XL, and your sheets were all tangled through your limbs in crude, haphazard fashion—for why you had. You just did. Like breathing, the decision not to leave this time around was as reflexive as it was freeing.

You buried your nose in an old, familiar neck and inhaled.

Joel.

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

That voice was childlike and selfish: Don’t leave me here.

For once, you weren’t the one pushing him away; you were begging him to stay and let the scent of him linger on a little while longer in this too-small bed, in this too-cramped dorm, on this too-cold campus in a town over two thousand miles away from the one you called home.

He’d already spent every minute of the weekend here—Parents’ Weekend, of all things. After the initial shock and consternation of his surprise visit wore off and you’d finally had The Talk about what this thing between you was, you’d accepted that Joel loved you. You accepted that you loved him back. And not a second had passed since the end of that night where you didn’t want to be by his side. It hurt to think he’d be leaving you so soon, so of course, he’d offered to extend his stay to Monday.

The motel Joel had booked wouldn’t let him add an extra night, though, so that was how you ended up here: in the confines of your altogether new-and-nice-but-ridiculously-tiny dorm room that you shared with your roommate. Lucky for you, Aly had slept over at a friend’s. Unlucky for Joel, the only bed you had to offer him might as well have been built for a nine-year-old—his hulking frame nearly swallowed the whole thing, and his weight all but toppled the mattress off its risers. You’d only laughed your ass off a little when you saw it happen.

“Me and my old back need Tempur-Pedic, sweetheart,” he’d grumbled in your hair before drifting off to sleep.

“Tempur-Peepaw,” you’d murmured back, and could’ve sworn you felt his grip tighten while you nodded off too.

Now, your gaze was darting to the only source of light in the room—a digital clock between your bed and Aly’s.

5:11 A.M.

Why the fuck were you awake?

Your stomach hurt. Your head ached. You could’ve easily attributed both to the heaping plates of seafood you’d downed with Joel, Aly, and her family the night before. Dallas had picked the last place you went out to eat, and of course, his choice was fucked. While he swore up and down that this was the spot for him and his friends, the rest of you were wary of how hygienic the restaurant’s practices were. You all had felt a little queasy afterward.

But no, this wasn’t nausea you were feeling right now. It was worse, almost. There was a churning in your gut, an airiness in your head, and a searing warmth between your legs, too hot for even your box fan to combat.

You swallowed hard and stared into the darkness.

Were you…

No, no you were not.

No way were you horny at 5 AM.

But you most definitely were.

You hated yourself for it.

You kicked your foot in that muted self-loathing and huffed—you couldn’t move much else with Joel’s body blanketing yours. But you stirred what you could. It wasn’t fucking fair. You knew yourself, and you knew your body, and you would bet a million bucks that this feeling wouldn’t ebb until you’d thoroughly fucked yourself or someone else to a toe-curling, earth-shattering climax. In the next fifteen minutes.

Joel was fast asleep.

Your hands were currently plastered to your sides under the weight of one of the man’s big, tanned, hairy arms, and you didn’t have a hope of moving it more than an inch without waking him. Your gut twisted in despair.

I. WANT. TO. FUCK.

“Shut up,” you silently chided the fiend between your two shaking, slick thighs. And—oh fuck, were they wet.

This was like your own personal hell, not having access to the release you so desperately needed. Not having Joel to roll over with a knowing, crooked grin and a ‘Missin’ me already, honey?’ before a hand dove under the waistband of his boxers to retrieve what you wanted.

No, he needed to sleep.

He had a two-day drive back to Texas, and it would be unspeakably selfish for you to ask for dick right now.

But you needed reprieve from this awful feeling.

You’d rub your legs together. Dull the ache. Take a worn edge of your comforter and hump the thing like the world was ending today. That wouldn’t be weird.

It also wouldn’t be possible, you learned within minutes.

Try as you might to grind your hips and your desperate cunt through cotton without disturbing the man beside you, you quickly realized that the effort was fruitless: you couldn’t make a single seesaw motion back-and-forth without shaking the whole fucking bed. The old thing creaked and screamed worse than the one in the motel.

While need blossomed in your belly and your head swam with unsated desire, your mind hummed with new ideas.

Stupid ideas.

You shifted in place. Joel grunted and hugged you closer. Ordinarily, your heart would’ve melted at the gesture, but in your present bearings, with these pressing urges, you wanted nothing more than to push it straight off. The thought was slowly taking shape in your mind’s eye that maybe you could pull this off—perhaps you could get off without Joel’s noticing if you just…slid down.

If you slunk under his bicep and ever-so delicately pulled your right arm out from underneath his ribs, if you got his leg to stop draping so heavily over your thigh, you could slide down further. Try not to jostle him much.

It was doable.

With the right maneuvering, you could sneak off the bed.

Pleasure beckoned. Success was well within reach when you scooted your butt down the mattress and past the python-grip of Joel’s upper body. Before you knew it, your ass was gliding down, down, down, and then your torso was twisting, your knees shakily planting themselves closer to the foot of the bed. You sat up.

And as soon as you did, the first thing that greeted you through the darkened room was a wide, toothy grin.

“Climb on then, cowgirl,” came Joel’s gravelly invitation.

In the otherwise biting chill of the room, you felt your cheeks burn a hundred degrees. Your stomach flipped.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” you hissed back.

Those words were followed by a little smack to his arm. Joel took the hit in stride and simply stretched both hands behind his head on the pillow, eyeing you lazily.

“I was. ‘Til you started humpin’ my leg like a dog.”

“I did not.”

Your nostrils flared, and your words nearly rose to a whisper-scream. You still couldn’t make out Joel’s expression in the dark but sensed that it was smug.

“Did too.”

“Did n—”

“Baby, this was what the bed just felt like.”

To illustrate his point, Joel rocked his hips the tiniest bit. With the force of two thrusts, the whole frame screeched like a banshee. It seemed you’d been too horny to hear it.

“That’s not—” you started, voice tight.

“Just admit it. You needed to cum.”

He might as well have stuck his tongue out after.

You would’ve been irked beyond words if you’d had half a mind to channel the feeling. As it was, though, your brain was fried off a fucking need like no other, and your limbs were driven on pure impulse. You couldn’t be bothered to carry on this petty fight with your peri-geriatric partner right now; you needed release. So, hanging your head in shame for no longer than a moment, and working your panties down your legs while you did, you finally nodded.

The movement was slight. You’d only tipped your chin up once before those instinct-driven limbs were clambering quick to straddle Joel’s lap. He was lying supine on the bed, but you couldn’t see much else. You felt his smile stretch bigger as you lowered yourself onto him, though.

He was tired, you could tell. You normally weren’t one to rebuff an offer to have Joel inside you, no matter the hour, but this felt greedier than usual. You felt needy.

Which was why you didn’t immediately reach for the bulge in his boxers when you’d first mounted him.

Instead, you reached to touch yourself.

You were soaked as you’d ever been.

“I— I can get myself off in a minute,” you found yourself stammering out the second your index and middle fingers connected with your wet, throbbing clit.

And it was true. The sensations you felt were so sharp they almost stung, with sparks igniting across your lower half in just one brush against that pulsing bud. You’d scarcely completed one circuit with your fingers when Joel’s hands were gliding up to find your hips, grip firm.

He swiftly adjusted your seat. Made you rub him harder.

Amusement tinged his voice while he mumbled, low:

“Only place you’re gettin’ off is my cock, got that?”

You hated how quickly you nodded in response.

Okay. He was letting you be selfish. He wanted to help quell your thirst, no matter how early it was or how long of a drive he had. That realization only made you wetter.

You were practically dripping between the legs when Joel slid his boxers down and let his cock spring free.

You knew what to do. You didn’t need his assistance, but still, ever the caretaker, Joel palmed your backside with one hand and held the base of his cock with the other. He guided your heat to his tip, and in the dim, dull gloom of your dorm room, you could feel him watching. What his eyes couldn’t see his mouth elucidated in words.

“You ready for me, baby?”

He nudged just the head between your weeping folds and let you take the lead. You whimpered. “Yes, daddy.”

Desperate as you were, you didn’t wait for the right moment to move. You didn’t bother readying yourself, because you already knew what you needed. You sank down, and your walls parted without protest. You took him in and gripped him tight and all but choked Joel’s length with the soft, hot, and needy clutch of your body.

“Fuck, honey—”

“Feels so good,” you panted, lips parting as he filled you. You rolled your hips and whimpered again. “So— oh—.”

Your words split on a shriek. You hadn’t even meant to let it out, but the stretch of Joel’s girth felt unusually tough. It almost hurt. But, rather than shy away, you leaned into it. You braced your knees and bore down harder, relishing the sting of his throbbing cock as you slid up and then collapsed again. Pleasure surged through your veins.

The bed groaned and creaked. Your motions didn’t slow. Joel grunted, feeling you clench again, and in an effort to curtail his own need, evidently, starting kneading at the flesh of your thighs. He moved them inward, touch soft.

“Hon,” he breathed, tone just as gentle, “you’re soaked.”

You were restless, too. You anchored your knees a little deeper and leaned back, allowing Joel access to the space between your thighs that was sticky-wet with residue. He swept his fingers through your nectar and thumbed at your clit. You whined with hypersensitivity.

You felt delicate everywhere. Joel was so big inside you, stretching your most precious, sensitive parts and making room for himself. He was throbbing. Leaking. Reaching up and smearing your own wetness across your face while a grin no doubt spread across his own—‘There’s a good girl. Ride my cock. Take what you need, baby’—and you could tell he was just as invested in your pleasure as you were, if not more. He relished whatever remnants of your arousal he could find and praised you with it. You wished you could see him while he did it all.

If light wouldn’t allow you that view, you would take matters into your own hands, you quickly decided. Prying your lower half off of Joel with a grunt and a sigh, you squeezed his legs. You patted his thighs, gently.

“Need you closer,” you mumbled. Your hands slid up his front, and you smiled when you felt him snag your wrists.

Joel pulled you up. Kissed your palms. Kissed your cheeks. Drew you into his lips and, at the same time, flipped you over so that he was on top. His shaft was slippery as it bumped and rubbed between your folds, and you couldn’t help but let out a moan into his mouth.

“Where do you want me, sweetheart?” he said, panting.

In answer, you took the base of his cock in one hand and guided it closer to your center. Joel rutted his hips, and his length pushed up—it glided across your lower belly, smearing the plane of skin with your combined fluids.

He was teasing you. Canting his hips as if fucking someplace deep in your cunt. Biting back a laugh.

“You dick,” you breathed out, both a warning and a momentary reprieve from the severity of wanting.

You gripped his cheek with the same hand that had just held his length and drew him closer to your face. You kissed him and wrapped your legs around his hips, knowing the effect it would have. Joel grunted.

And, though you knew it would amuse him to no end to have you begging for his cock, you also guessed that he wasn’t quite as resilient as he made himself out to be. He couldn’t keep grinning forever—the second your legs nudged him back and the tip of his dick notched in, again, he moaned in pleasure. It ended in a whimper.

Joel was just as fucked-out and desperate as you.

You couldn’t see his full expression, but you could sense it would show he was right on the brink, same as you.

You kissed him deeply. You let his length glide back inside your needy cunt, squeezing every inch of the way.

“Gonna cum for daddy now? Make a mess of this cock?”

In a breath, you could tell he was already there. His balls began slapping rhythmically against your ass, and his stomach muscles clenched. Tufts of grey and black in that thatch of wiry hair at his base kept rubbing your mound, prompting you to squirm and beg for more.

“I-I’m close, Joel,” you told him. Your toes curled.

The bed frame all but shrieked beneath the weight of your body and his, now that Joel was on top and delivering thrusts hard and fast. You braced yourself.

If the bed broke, it broke. You’d gladly pay to have it fixed. Explaining the unusual charge on your student account to your dad was a separate question, though.

“Fuck,” you keened, just as a stroke to your most sensitive spot inside had stars flashing before your eyes.

“Right there,” Joel grunted, going again. “Just like that.”

His forearms bracketed your head, and his face was close. His thrusts were relentless. The little tendril of pleasure coiling up through your gut was just then beginning to take root—two more thrusts and it felt fit to burst. Your arms wound around the back of his neck, and your breaths sped up while Joel kept plunging in and out

In and out.

In and out.

“Gonna let me cum inside?” Joel grit through his teeth.

You nodded, braindead as you’d ever felt before.

“Gonna let me breed this pretty little cunt?”

Oh, fuck.

You came. You didn’t have a say in the matter. It simply swelled and flowed and expelled like a water’s stream, coating the front of Joel’s stomach and your own as well. Your eyes rolled, stomach clenched, walls pulsed and squeezed and flooded your whole body with pleasure.

At the tail end of the sensation, and only dimly grazing your present cognition, you felt his spend unload in ropes. They painted your insides and sent your head spinning, half-feral with the idea of him marking you in this risky, forbidden way. You wanted him spurting so far up your body you could taste him in your mouth. Your hips rolled one more time and your lips brushed with his.

“I— I love you. Fuck, I fucking love you,” Joel groaned.

His cum continued to pulse out from his tip.

“I love you, too,” you panted back.

When Joel collapsed, you feared the bed might split right down the middle with the force of it. Dizzy with pleasure, bliss, and more love than you thought was possible for just one person, you didn’t worry for long. You stroked the back of Joel’s head, silently thanked the bed frame for lasting as long as it had, and inhaled the man’s scent.

It was gonna hurt like a motherfucker when he left.

You weren’t going to think about that now.

Instead, you locked your legs tight around his hips and held him as close as you could. The head of his cock nudged somewhere deep inside you, and his face tilted sideways. Joel nuzzled your cheek. He kissed it softly.

“You alright, honey?” he checked in.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t a total lie.

You felt as content as you could be laying between the soaked sheets of your bed with Joel draped overtop. For several minutes, you did just that: laid back and emptied your head of any thoughts of leaving. You hugged him. Buried your face in the crook of his neck and sighed.

Alright, get up.

Go to the bathroom.

It’s 6 AM and you’re about to cry.

Attempting to get out from under Joel and off the bed proved futile—you would’ve had better luck punching a hole through a brick wall—but luckily, he eased up. He let you stand from the bed once he decided he’d doled out a sufficient number of kisses, then you rose on shaky legs.

You flicked on the light. You rubbed your too-tired eyes.

And just as you were about to scour the floor for some clothes and get ready to head outside, you heard a strangled sort of noise from the bed. You paused.

Joel cleared his throat.

“Hey, uh, honey…”

You turned.

FUCK.

Your bed looked like a crime scene. Joel was trying to sit up, though it seemed he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands, as half the fucking mattress and sheets were all but soaked through with blood. Your stomach turned.

No. No. Your period wasn’t due for another two days. You hadn’t been caught off guard with a bloody mess like this in years. And in front of Joel? All over Joel, from his groin to his chest to his neck to his chin—you’d been touching him a lot in the dark—and now he was looking on at you in muted horror? You didn’t want to know what you looked like. You wanted to hurl yourself out of the window, if it meant you didn’t have to face the repercussions of this. Joel must be disgusted.

“I am…so sorry.” Your words came out mostly muffled through your fingers. Your hands shielded your face.

Before you could think, you were stumbling toward the sink. Your eyes were burning. He’s leaving. He’s leaving now, in an hour or two, and the last thing he’ll have to remember you by is your menstrual blood on his dick.

Just shoot me.

Make it quick.

“Sweetheart?”

Again, Joel’s voice was soft as he approached from behind. You had a hand towel thrust under a spray of water that was slowly going warm, and your bottom lip was clamped between your teeth. Your fingers trembled.

“Baby…” He said it like a harsher-spoken word might fairly split you in two. That only made you feel worse.

You still weren’t thinking completely straight when you yanked the towel out, wrung it once, and then turned to Joel, almost smacking him in the belly with it as you did.

Scrubbing his blood-smeared tummy seemed like the most logical course of action to take in the moment, so that was what you did. It was just that small matter of having your hands shaking so much you could hardly hold the towel that made it tricky. And Joel’s own warm, callused touch closing in over your fingers, squeezing.

“Hey, look at me,” he urged you gently. You wouldn’t, or couldn’t, so he tilted your chin up to his to make you meet his gaze and momentarily halt your motions.

His eyes were far too soft for a man drenched in blood and preparing to take a thirty-hour road trip that day.

The smile was too sweet for someone leaving you here.

“This is so embarrassing,” you blurted out, heart clenching. “I’ve— it’s never happened…like that.”

With a man, yes. On the person you love, even more so.

You were about to try and start scrubbing the blood again, wanting to rid yourself and him of this mess, when Joel’s smile stretched wider. It seemed almost like a grin.

“Honey, you’re fine,” he said, reassuring. Pressing at your wrist again. “It’s just a little blood. We can rinse off in the shower. Wash the sheets. No need to be embarrassed.”

Easier said than done.

Your brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry, Joel.”

The man in front of you took the towel from you then. He tossed the rag in the sink and cupped your likely-blood-smeared cheeks in his hands before meeting your gaze. His palms were warm. His eyes, as usual, were soft. Kind.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly.

With words like those and a look as serious as his, you couldn’t help but relent. Your muscles relaxed. In the glance you stole toward your floor-length mirror, you might’ve caught a glimpse of your own tousled, bloodied exterior for a second, but that memory didn’t last long.

Joel was reaching for a bigger towel. Wrapping you up. Grabbing another for himself and then nudging you over to the door, where you knew you’d need to sneak out and down the hallway to make it to the communal bathroom. Silently, you cursed yourself for opting to live on-campus that year, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Behind you, Joel secured a bright pink, polka-dotted towel around his hips and tried not to smirk.

“Never thought I’d be doin’ this again,” he murmured.

You shot him a look over your shoulder.

“Sneak out of any other girls’ dorms lately, Miller?”

Joel eyed you right back, undaunted.

“Yeah. About a decade before you were born.”

And neither one of you possessed the sense to control it: you had to laugh, and Joel had to elbow you playfully and tell you to respect your fuckin’ elders, kid, and your amusement only grew as you approached the door. His arm hooked around your neck before pulling your back against his chest. Your giggles turned to squeals as he nipped the skin just below your ear and kissed you in a manner more akin to tickling. You begged him to quit, but the grin on your face said you wanted it. Joel gripped the doorknob in his free hand and was about to pull it back, when the thing jumped forward, at you both.

The door opened, and light from the hallway poured in.

“Wh- oh! Hey. Woah. Hey.”

Dallas Ingram’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, but a smile was as quick to form. He eyed you both—up and down.

And almost as swift as his smirk was to appear:

“Gettin’ busy, huh?”

You stared back slack-jawed, covered in blood, and frankly wanting to die a little bit as your roommate’s brother looked on with the biggest, dumbest grin.

Evidently, your undercover skills needed some work.

Despite your best efforts all weekend, Dallas had come to learn that you and Joel weren’t actually stepdaughter and stepfather by the end of breakfast early Saturday morning, and it wasn’t because his sister had snitched. He’d seen Joel smack your ass en route to the bathroom in the dining hall and swiftly surmised that there was more to the story than either one of you were letting on.

He hadn’t been shocked to find you and Joel in your dorm that morning after Aly had asked him to stop by and pick up her gym bag, but he had seemed relatively intrigued by the blood. He’d asked if you and Joel had been fighting or fucking—or both—and you’d rolled your eyes so hard they’d nearly hit the back of your skull. Joel had looked like he either wanted to deck the kid or laugh with him. You suspected by the smirk that ensued it was probably the latter. His face had still flushed a little bit.

Now you were showered, dressed, decently groomed, equipped with enough tampons and pads to supply a city, and perched in the passenger seat of Joel’s Bronco.

“Take a left in half a mile. Onto Kirkland,” you dictated.

Joel squinted to see your phone screen.

“That ain’t right,” he replied.

He made a pass for the phone. You pulled it out of reach.

“I know where I’m going, Joel,” you said, directing his gaze back to the road. “I’m here every other weekend.”

“I’ve been here, too. You go straight on Prescott, take a right by the bank, keep going past the food trucks—”

“No, no, this is Putnam. You’ve got it all fucked up.”

You pointed out a street sign as if to say, ‘See?’

“That ain’t the same one we saw comin’ in.”

“It is. Open your eyes and maybe we’d—”

“My vision’s just fine, kid. Seriously—”

“Seriously? We’ve been circling!”

“It’s called finding the right—”

“—HERE, RIGHT HERE—”

“That ain’t th—”

“Miller!”

The Bronco barreled right past Kirkland Street, along with the diner the two of you had been trying to find for the last twenty minutes. Every time the navigation on your phone had directed you one step closer to the spot, Joel had insisted that his memory served him better.

It hadn’t.

You missed your turn for what felt like the fiftieth time that day, and you were one wide, jerky U-turn away from just throwing yourself out of the moving vehicle. That was how bad Joel’s navigational skills and your level of frustration were at the moment. Add to that a stabbing pain in your stomach and you were truly ready to jump.

Joel cut the wheel and headed back in that direction.

“‘M’sorry,” he said. He glanced your way, where your knees were pulling up to your chest on a particularly tough cramp, and he reached for you. Squeezed your leg. “I’m sorry. That was on me. I should’ve…listened to you.”

“No shit.”

You winced—in pain and in shame for sounding so mean.

“I mean,” you returned, quickly recovering yourself. “Sorry. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

Watching Joel’s side profile, you saw his lips twitch.

“‘S’alright. I like you feisty.”

You bit your tongue.

Sure, he did.

You were just then pulling into the parking lot of your favorite brunch spot in town, and the air outside was cold. The tips of your toes still prickled at the memory of a crisp, frigid trek from your residence hall to the car, and for a moment, you dreaded going inside to eat at all. You wished your body had timed its monthly implosion a little better and your last hour with Joel wasn’t spent in half-agony and agitation, but that was life, you reckoned. With a resigned sigh, you reached for the door handle.

Your boots were back on the floor and about to heave your body out when Joel stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait here,” he murmured.

He motioned for you to stay.

You turned to ask why; the driver’s side door was already slamming shut behind him. Through the windshield, you saw his broad, hunched form round the front of the car. He paused a moment to draw his jacket tighter about himself, and shortly sidled up and swung your door open.

He offered his hand to help you out of the Bronco.

Then, to your surprise, he retracted it even faster.

His eyes had just landed somewhere inside and flashed with recognition, as if remembering something big. Joel reached in, past you, mumbling softly—‘Shit, I meant to give you these earlier. Forgot I even bought ‘em’—and he looked contrite. He opened the glove compartment and tugged out a box. Before you could try and ask what it was, Joel had its contents out. He stepped closer, casting a quick look over his shoulder and frowning.

“Here, why don’t you scoot over? I’m gettin’ you cold.”

He gestured to the wind overhead and moved in nearer like he meant to climb in. You slid across the bucket seat, not entirely sure of what he intended to do, but let him shut the door after himself again and go in all the same.

Shortly, Joel held up what looked to be a heating pad.

His gaze flitted to your stomach, and he nodded once.

“When I first got here you mentioned you were expectin’ your— your, uh…time of the month soon, so I went out and got these. Forgot I bought the pack of ‘em. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s frown grew, as if chastising himself. You blinked.

“If you just lift your shirt a bit…maybe tuck it right—” He pinched a belt loop to tug the denim out from your waist. “—under the band here. I don’t know if it’ll stick, but—”

His words trailed off in your mind—you’d caught a glimpse of what was stuffed in the glove box along with the heating pads, and you saw a trove of other items: Advil, chocolate, your favorite trail mix, saltines, jerky, fucking chamomile tea, like he knew exactly what you needed. All because you’d said in passing—actually, right before you’d begged him to finish inside you Friday night—that you were going to be starting your period soon.

And you’d just chewed the poor guy out for his driving.

You blinked some more, not saying a word because you didn’t know what else to tell him, and your throat ached.

Thank you for being sweet.

Sorry I’m so damn mean.

Please don’t leave me.

Slow, steady breaths warmed your cheeks, and a hand tugged your shirt up. Another touch smoothed the heating pad over your belly. Joel wriggled your waistband a second, trying to fit the thing snug underneath it, and all the while, you said nothing.

“I had to text my brother. That’s how clueless I was.”

Joel breathed a laugh. It was soft and sheepish. In contrast to how taciturn you were, he couldn’t seem to keep quiet—like filling the silence with words might make him feel less nervous or awkward about this.

“He’s been seeing this girl, Maria. Well, Tommy’s always been better’n me—much better, I’d say—with, y’know, bein’ in touch with his feminine side, I guess. He’s had more girls than me, friends and girlfriends alike. Anyway, I just needed all the help I could get buyin’ this stuff, and he and Maria gave me advice on what to do. I hope it—”

“Miller,” you cut in.

“Yeah?”

Your breath hitched.

“Have you ever…had a girlfriend?”

The words tumbled out before you could rein them in. Joel had just finished pressing the heating pad flat across your stomach and was pulling your shirt back down when his gaze jumped to yours. For several seconds, it was his turn to be silent, staring at you.

Your insides burned like you’d doused them in kerosene.

“I haven’t…really…” he started again, speaking slow.

Why the fuck were you doing this? Why now?

“Would you…want me to be your girlfriend?”

For whatever reason, your voice cracked.

You hated the sound of that with everything in you, but it was too late to stop the surge of word vomit coming out.

“Even if I’m…mean, and I’m needy, and I— I— I can’t—”

“Sweetheart.” Joel’s expression visibly softened.

“And I can’t show love like a normal person should. I don’t…know how to be good like that. Or receptive to affection. And just knowing that pisses me off so m—”

“You aren’t.”

“What?”

“Mean.”

“Wh—”

“Or needy.”

Joel’s gaze skated from your eyes to your lips, and in a fraction of a second, you could see something threaten to tempt his own. He looked back up instead, smoothed your hair out of your face, and then cupped your cheek.

“Kinda thought you already were my girlfriend, honey.”

It sounded like a confession and a stunt, almost—how could the man be so assured when a reality like that scarcely seemed plausible to you? He was fighting a smile as if he knew something you didn’t. He had to.

“And I love you, you know that?” He said it gently.

You blinked.

You still weren’t used to hearing it.

“You do?” Your voice was small for some reason.

For some reason, it was like you were a child all over again, wishing your father would reach out and hug you sometimes. Approaching adolescence and missing your mother. You’d never felt it, much less heard it from the mouth of someone else in a way that seemed weightless. Joel said it like loving you was as easy as drawing breath.

Then he said it again:

“I love you, sweetheart.”

You said it back, and meant it.

You said it another time while strolling hand-in-hand into the diner. Felt it rumble through Joel’s chest when you took your spot beside him in a booth by the window. Heard it in his tone. Sensed it with his looks. Tasted it on his lips, if only for the briefest of moments while you sat and picked out breakfast together. Your knuckles brushed and your shoulders bumped with damn near every other bite of the meal, but neither of you minded. There was comfort and security in every touch. There was home, and then there was Joel—even though Austin would stay 2,000 miles away as long as you stayed here, he was all you needed to feel safe and content right now.

You didn’t want him to leave.

Back on campus, standing in the parking lot behind the dorms, you told him as much. You hadn’t cared how sad or desperate it made you seem—you were those things—and when Joel hugged you tight, you didn’t regret saying it. He held you close and kissed the crown of your head.

And when it was time for him to leave, you could tell he couldn’t help himself when he leaned down even lower, lips grazing the shell of your ear. Grinning. You felt him.

You heard the words he’d murmured but almost couldn’t believe what he said when he’d said it. You’d discussed it some over eggs and cheesy grits that morning, but still.

It was scary.

Unsettling.

Maybe exactly what you needed, judging by that smile on his face when he finally leaned back and pulled away.

“Just…think about it, OK?” he said, tone encouraging, “We can take this as slow or as fast as you wanna go.”

You nodded that you would.

You knew this could wait.

But still, as you headed back inside and waved the Bronco off for another long spell of time apart—your boyfriend was going home, and taking a piece of you with him—your muscles tensed. Your stomach stirred with uncertainty just shy of a pain, and it wasn’t your cramps that you could reasonably blame this on now.

Your steps were slower; your legs were leaden. The impression of Joel’s last words were still fresh in your mind, and though the prospect was thrilling in some ways, in others it chilled you to your core. While you walked, his words echoed again and again and again:

“I’m ready to tell your dad whenever you are.”

Time passed, and the days wore on.

One minute he’d had you wrapped in his arms, and now you were gone. Every day. It felt like a weight, though nothing, no one, was there, and Joel found himself loathing it more and more with each passing day.

He called your phone more often than he should.

Without a doubt, you had a busy life in college. Finals were drawing close on the horizon, you had at least five different projects and essays and whatever the hell else those fuckass professors decided assigning last minute, and Joel wasn’t too much of a jealous man, but he also craved your time. Your touch. Your voice. When distance deprived him of your presence, he sought any means to be with you, even if it meant looking lame and pathetic.

He was.

He worked evenings. Whenever he saw your name pop up on his phone screen, he’d walk out on just about any task he had and take your call. He kept the old device in his breast pocket just so he could feel you when you did.

Joel Miller was in way too fucking deep, and he knew it.

So, in an effort to curb the fixation, he took to housework during the day. Real, manual labor. It wasn’t for his own home but his granddad’s, and it had been something he’d promised to do for years—him and Tommy both.

The old man had been gone for over a decade now, but the home had stayed in the family. It was in a constant state of disrepair, rarely saw a hint of human life outside of the occasional visit from either brother just to ‘go and check the place out,’ but he and Tommy knew they’d have to do something about it soon. Inspiration just hadn’t struck for what that ‘something’ might be.

Today he was cutting grass. Cleaning out gutters. Pulling weeds—lots and lots of weeds, the sheer mass of which he hadn’t been able to fathom at first glance of the yard.

And he felt a little guilty for just how bad he’d let this place get over the years. The fact that it had taken him an all-out infatuation with a girl he couldn’t get his head or heart off of just to haul his ass over here and work.

Something rustled in the bushes. Joel groaned.

And just as he was about to cup his hands around his mouth and shout, ‘GET THE HELL OFF’A MY PROPERTY!’ you called. He picked right up.

But he couldn’t help the huff in his voice on ‘Hello?’

“Everything alright?” You sounded confused.

“‘M’fine. Just tired of fighting this beast.”

“Beast! What beast?”

“This fuckin’ rat.”

He heard you pause, as if trying to recall when the last time you’d seen a rat yourself, and then you laughed.

Joel momentarily brightened at the sound of it.

“Yeah? Is my big, strong man scared of Stuart Little?”

And then his frown was back. He nearly rolled his eyes.

“I am not,” he returned in protest. He stalked over to the bushes where the sounds had just come from, and he shook a few errant branches. Hard. “Go on, get out!”

“Alright, I’ll go.”

Joel could hear your chuckle through the line. He didn’t need to see your face to know it had broken into a grin.

“Funny. Y’ever consider bein’ a comedian, sweetheart?”

“I’ve toyed with the idea. Now what the hell have you got going on with a rodent on your granddad’s property?”

“It ain’t a rodent.”

Another pause.

“Well, what’s—”

Joel didn’t hear the rest. He’d just shook the bush as hard as he could, and out flew the beast he’d been after. It scrambled on its paws and hightailed it across the yard

“AND STAY OUT!” he yelled after it.

Now you were invested. Your stifled giggling had turned to queries—‘What the fuck are you doing, Miller? What is it?!’—and Joel scarcely had the energy to answer. His back hurt. Hell, it ached. And his knees weren’t doing so hot either. At length, he turned to face wherever that damn critter had gotten off to, and he squinted out into the mid-afternoon sun. It was cold, but his efforts had worn him out. Warmed him up. He’d broken a sweat.

“It’s just…a dog,” he heaved at last.

A little gasp sounded through the phone.

“A puppy?!” you squealed. “Joel, you bastard!”

Joel scowled. He wished you could see it.

“Why am I a bastard? She’s trespassin’.”

“It’s a goddamn dog, Miller! C’mon.”

The man wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Yes, it was a dog. A yellow blond beast of a thing that tore out and around the farmlands like he owned every acre of it and shit exclusively in his backyard. He’d stomped through four big, soggy gifts of this kind in the last week alone. He was sick of the thing, and determined to find out who she belonged to.

“Is she OK?”

Your voice was soft. Joel had to do a double take.

“OK? ‘Course she’s OK, she’s got a big, pretty yard to drop shits in, a loud and yappy bark to wake the whole—”

“Food, I mean. Has she eaten? Is she coming back?”

Now Joel really had to take a beat. Were you sympathizing with the beast he so despised?

He put a hand on his hip. He winced, instantly, feeling a strain in his back the size of Texas itself. He slowly lowered the hand and started off to the house.

“I don’t think you’re hearin’ me. This creature is ruining my property. My grandfather’s property—just soilin’ it.”

“Because you and your brother have done such a bang-up job of keeping that place fit for human habitation.”

“Hey,” Joel huffed, “I’m tryin’. Been here all week.”

“I know.” You took a second yourself. Probably smiled. “I’m just teasing. I’m glad you’re out there to fix it up.”

Then, before he could reply, you were jumping back in:

“So, what are you thinking of naming her?”

By now, Joel was approaching the back porch. The toe of one boot had just struck the bottom step, all molded, old, and rotten straight down to the tufts of grass below. He halted in place and shifted his phone to the other ear.

He frowned deeply.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I naming her’?”

“All that screamin’ and hollerin’ you’re bound to do while you try and evict this poor thing from your property. Might as well give her a name if you’re gonna yell.”

“You yell at me plenty and rarely use my name.”

“That’s not true. I do use your name.”

“‘Dickhead’ doesn’t count.”

He was walking up the steps now. Hearing them groan and creak beneath the weight of his body and hoping the porch wouldn’t split in two before he reached the door.

“I’m serious, Miller,” you continued, unfazed. “Give her a name. Leave out some treats. Let her get comfortable enough to where you can check her collar, or else pick her up and take her to the shelter. See if she’s chipped.”

Joel didn’t have the heart to tell you that most dogs out here didn’t have little luxuries like microchipping, and the odds of finding this thing’s owner that way were slim to none, but he also just wanted to say something sweet. Ease your mind before changing the topic to more important things—like when you planned on coming home and how he could persuade you to make it a day or ten sooner. He heard the screen door slam shut behind him, and he was heading straight for the sofa. He sighed.

“Alright, sweet pea. Why don’t you think of some names for me, and I’ll start asking around the neighborhood if anyone knows whose she is. How does that sound?”

“I’ll need to meet her first,” you answered shortly.

“What?”

Joel dropped to the couch and kicked off his shoes. On the other end of the line, he heard shuffling, like you were preparing to relax a bit yourself. You cleared your throat.

“Yeah. Can’t fairly name a dog I haven’t even seen.”

“I’ll send you a picture if I catch the little shit.”

“Nope. Gotta be in person. You know that.”

“No, I don’t. And we ain’t keepin’ her.”

“We’ll see about that, dickhead.”

“Honey.”

That last word was both a term of endearment and a warning—‘We are not, under any circumstances adopting this dog.’ For some reason, as he said it, the protest already seemed futile on his lips. Like you weren’t hearing a syllable of what he was saying.

“Okaaaaay.”

“Sweetheart.”

Another warning. Another beat of silence.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his grip.

For a second, he was confused. Who the fuck would be texting him other than you? His brother and friends were all serial phone call fanatics—too Boomer-adjacent to use texts as a common form of communication. He pulled his phone from his face and put you on speaker. He swiped his thumb down to snag his new notification.

And nearly choked on the spit in his mouth.

You’d texted him. He’d opened it.

Attached to the message you sent were several different pictures of you, all in various states of undress. They were taken seconds ago, if Joel had had to guess.

“Fuck me,” he groaned.

His cock was already hardening in his jeans. He could hear you stifle a laugh across the line but didn’t care.

“Weird name for a dog, but I’ll take it,” you said.

Mutts were the furthest thing from his mind.

He wasn’t shy to tell you as much as his hand slid down to the button and zip of his pants and undid them both.

“Put on the…the…Face��book,” he muttered, low.

“The what now, Joel?” you cackled back.

“The Face-whatever. Video call. Wanna see your face.”

“FaceTime, Miller. FaceTime.” You were teasing now.

You should’ve known damn well a man as old as him wouldn’t know what the fuck a FaceTime was, but you poked fun anyway. Joel reminded himself to make you pay for that later, and then took his cock in his hand.

He let go to spit in his palm. He grabbed it again.

“Put those pretty tits on FaceTime or I’m tellin’ your old man all the sick, depraved things you’ve been lettin’ m—”

“You’re insufferable, Miller.”

He grinned to himself.

“You love it.”

He knew you couldn’t argue with that. In a minute, he heard you sigh, felt you betray a little smile of your own as you got to shifting around in place again. Preparing.

“I’ve got class in twenty minutes.”

“Won’t need but five, sweet pea.”

His phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime.

Today was the day.

Well, almost the day.

Tomorrow you came home, but it was close enough to midnight now that Joel could pretend that it was today.

He was seated at a bar, both elbows planted on the sticky wet surface of a tabletop that was rarely cleaned. By now, he knew Mando’s sports bar like the back of his hand, and he could tell when certain staff weren’t around to clean spills. He could smell it, with the stench of a coconut-flavored rum wafting up to his nostrils and invading his brain. It took him back to his college days. Meanwhile, a mob of plastered bachelorettes were gathered six stools down and only getting louder.

“Kill me now,” your father grumbled beside him.

Joel hadn’t meant to say yes when he’d invited him out.

In fact, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight, but your dad was unimaginably persuasive. He’d also offered to pay for Joel’s drinks at the bar, so really, this was just an opportunity to exercise his liver with an old friend, for free. Nothing dangerous about drinking with the guy whose daughter he was secretly dating.

Nothing dangerous at all.

Joel swallowed another draught of his jack and coke and stared harder at the wall of spirits in front of him, like a long enough look might save him from having to talk.

He’d never felt more awkward around his friend in his life. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to die or just confess.

Hey, man, I’m in love with your daughter, by the way.

We’ve been having filthy phone sex for weeks now.

Regular, old fashioned fucking for even longer.

“I need to take a leak,” Joel told him instead.

“Really? That’s your fourth piss in the last hour, Miller,” your father observed, almost clinically. He was drunk. “Sure you ain’t got one of them…UTIs, or whatever?”

The man had a smirk on his face when he said it.

He went on: “Catch a little somethin’ from whatever girl you screwed on vacation a couple weeks back, maybe?”

Of course, he meant the time he’d visited you at school.

Of course, he didn’t know it was you he’d gone to see.

He would, eventually. Not now. Not here. Not with eight of the most obnoxiously intoxicated women flailing limbs and lip syncing to Shania Twain just a dozen feet away.

When Joel returned from his bathroom break—another stupidly long pit stop like the last three taken before it—one of the octet had wandered over. She moved closer to him. Joel had only just slid onto his barstool and ducked his head to drink when a voice broke in, high and shrill.

He ignored her. Like the sound hadn’t even registered for him, he completely disregarded the wasted twenty-something, though it was obvious her eyes were on him.

“Ain’t feelin’ too friendly tonight?” his friend ribbed him.

Your dad didn’t seem to be seeing her either, while her fingers splayed over her hips and she slurred something more about needing some of that Southern hospitality.

Joel could smile. Nod his head.

That should get his friend off of his back.

But the moment he did, it was like a siren went off.

“Why don’t you buy her a drink, Miller?!” the man barked.

And Joel declined. Didn’t even lift his gaze in the girl’s direction and took another sip of his drink, hoping that she would leave. She did, eventually, but only after your dad had bought her and her friends a round of green tea shots, and the group had shrieked with satisfaction. His friend grimaced, but Joel could tell he was also amused.

“Never seen that before,” the man hummed.

“Seen what?” Joel took another swig of his drink.

“Never seen you so disinterested in gettin’ ass, Miller.”

Joel cringed hearing that. Not just on account of you, but knowing how crude your father could get when he was drunk. How forthright and unfiltered he’d become.

“Yeah. Just not that into…that,” Joel finished lamely.

“I’ll bet.”

His friend flitted a look from him, to the bachelorettes, to him once again. He seemed to appraise him in his seat. Then he leaned in closer and bumped Joel’s shoulder.

“Hear the way she screamed when I bought ‘em drinks?” His grin was smug. “Think she’d sound the same if y—”

“Why don’t you do it, then?” Joel said suddenly. He turned toward his friend, then nodded to the group. “Eager as you are to get some tail, go tell ‘em hi.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt. His tone was clipped, with an edge that said that he was annoyed with this conversation. Admittedly, he was, but he didn’t need your father asking why. He took a slow, steadying breath.

“Because I’m a taken man, Joel Miller. You ain’t.”

Right.

Right.

Fucking his ex-wife’s best friend was a real special thing. One could only imagine how well that would turn out.

Without thinking, Joel glowered down at his drink.

“Shit. You’re empty,” his friend slurred a little. “Sadie?”

Sadie, the bartender, had their drinks replenished in a second—she knew her regulars and didn’t talk much.

Your dad could learn a thing or two from her, Joel mused.

Then, as if reading his mind and deciding to push his luck even more for the hell of it, the man spoke again:

“Don’t worry, Joel-y. I’m sure you’ll get there someday.”

He was sneering faintly. His breath smelled of whiskey.

“Oh yeah?” Joel shot back. Sharp. “Get where?”

He couldn’t help it.

Too late to channel his own inner-Sadie now.

His companion raised his glass to his lips and smiled.

“A relationship, Miller. With the woman you love.”

“And here I thought you just liked fucking her.”

A silence stretched after he said that, and Joel couldn’t tell if it was his friend taking his time with his cocktail or really resenting his words. He hadn’t meant to be rude.

Well, no, maybe he had.

Maybe he was tired of talking about Helen like that ‘relationship’ they’d had wasn’t the reason his friend’s marriage had gone up in flames decades back and you’d grown up most of your life without a mother. Joel didn’t have the whole story—couldn’t fully gauge what had taken place all those years ago, or why she’d left—but he could guess that this wasn’t the right move for your dad.

Or for you.

Just knowing what he knew, and what he’d failed to do when his friend had first told him, was enough to piss him off. Which was why he went on, futile as it seemed.

“You really think it’s love…with Helen? I didn—”

“Yeah. I do.”

His friend’s reply sounded a little barbed, at last.

There it was. The first tinge of annoyance—a rare sight for a man as indefatigably cheerful as your father—almost made Joel smile. He could see how he really felt.

His friend was clearly drunk now.

As the man’s emotions had a tendency to take wild, arcing swings whenever the drinks had gone to his head, it appeared he was nearly there. He’d eased off on the nonsense about Joel’s hypothetical sex life and directed the discussion inward. Joel could handle these musings.

For the first time, he leaned in closer and spoke lower.

“Last time we talked, you said Helen Foley was a fling.”

His friend’s eyes widened the slightest bit. He swallowed whatever whiskey was in his mouth and shook his head.

“You don’t…Don’t even say that.”

“Say what? That was all you.”

Joel’s gaze goaded him on, and he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to. It felt like the right thing to do, though, given how otherwise tight-lipped his friend had been about his former mistress and the fact that he was flaunting it now. As drunk men often liked to do.

“I never said she was a fling, Miller. I just…”

Another shake of his head, eyes glazed.

“Just what?” Joel pressed.

“I just said I liked her. A lot.”

“You said you liked the sex.”

Joel was being crass. Crude, like his friend had been before. He knew it would provoke a reaction out of him.

And just moments later, Joel’s wish was nearly granted.

Your dad blinked. He cleared his throat and tapped his now half-empty glass on the bartop before peering up.

“You’ve got it wrong,” your dad said, low. Hoarse.

“You said—”

“I say a lot of stupid shit, Miller. You know that.”

He did.

“So what is it then? Is the sex that good that—”

“No.”

“And it wrecked your whole fucking marriag—”

“Don’t,” your dad cut in, again, harsher now than before.

His speech was slowed, sluggish, and palpably agitated. The whiskey had hit his brain. He wasn’t as in control of the words flowing out of his mouth; Joel could see it.

“So you don’t feel guilty at all for cheating with her—”

“Because I loved Helen first!”

In spite of the raucous din of the bar all around them, your father’s voice carried surprisingly fast. Loud. Sadie cocked her head from a sea of new patrons huddling in at the entrance, lifted one brow, and scanned them briefly, as if trying to tell if a fight might be brewing.

It wasn’t. Your dad just got loud when he was plastered.

And once he started something, he had to keep going. Joel was listening, but he had to admit that the drinks were beginning to affect him, too. He set his down.

“What are you talking about?” he asked him.

Your dad dropped his glass with a little more éclat.

“I’m saying,” he started. Pausing to swallow once more. “I knew Helen first. I loved her first. This was before…”

He swallowed again, and Joel could see the effort there.

“…before I ever even met Amy. I swear.”

Amy. Now that was a name Joel hadn’t heard in awhile. It had been mostly an unspoken rule between them both never to bring up his ex-wife’s name, much less mention her like this. But there he went. Six drinks in and he was reminiscing on your mother. Joel felt trouble simmering.

“But you and Amy were married—” he started, slower.

“Exactly eight months before our daughter was born,” his friend grit out. Something like ire flashed in his gaze. “How’s that for one big fuckin’ coincidence, huh, Miller?”

Joel hadn’t even thought about it. He hadn’t known your father or mother back when they were first married—though Tommy had worked with the former, and had been friends with the couple a bit longer than he had.

Joel had only seen the ugly end of the marriage. It never occurred to him to inquire when—or how—it had started, just that it pissed his friend off whenever Amy became a topic of discussion. Mostly, it was in the context of regret

He saw that again, presently.

“Nobody even knew that was a thing because we were…casual. And real private about it, for a little while. Then the pregnancy came outta left field and I thought I was doin’ the right thing, y’know? Gettin’ married and growin’ up and all. But Amy wasn’t ever really in it any more than me. She knew I’d always be in love with somebody else.”

Helen?

Her best friend?

“Then why weren’t you with her?” Joel couldn’t hope to control the fervor that warmed his tone. He was enrapt.

He’d never heard this side of the story before.

His friend shrugged like it was nothing to him.

“Timing. Life,” he answered, duller. “We tried it out for a little while when she was in college, but Helen was so…young. And full’a big notions of gettin’ out of town, doin’ something else and stayin’ someplace else. I didn’t fit.”

He sounded deflated as he said it. He went on.

“I was damn near ten years older than her. I didn’t know the first thing about keepin’ a girl her age interested, or givin’ her what she needed. Had me mad for the longest time— which was why…I guess…” his friend trailed off.

“Amy,” Joel answered for him.

“Yeah. Amy,” your dad confirmed. Something more passed behind his eyes, though Joel couldn’t quite tell what it was. If he had to guess, he would say it was guilt.

The man kept going, evidently emboldened by his present state of intoxication and ready to say the worst. He ground his molars and rolled his lips like there was something bad he was itching to say, and Joel could only stare back. Wishing he was a little more drunk himself.

“I never meant it to be serious, Joel. I was young and dumb and trying to make the girl who rejected me jealous by screwin’ her best friend, and Amy knew it just as well. She knew I was sleepin’ with other people, too.”

His words were coming out quicker now. He planted one hand on the tabletop beside him, but he was facing him.

“Amy and I were both sleepin’ with other people, Joel.”

Then he paused a moment, and Joel wasn’t sure what the man was trying to say. Shortly, it dawned on him.

His eyes widened.

“You mean…?”

Your dad swallowed. Then shrugged. Then looked away, like he was suddenly ashamed of what he’d said. Knowing what it implied for himself, his ex-wife. For you.

“I’m— I’m almost positive she’s mine, there’s just…”

What? A possibility that you weren’t his daughter?

How could the man live with something like that?

Joel’s heart thudded a little louder in his chest. He wasn’t sure why; it just felt like something strange and momentous and bizarre for him to know before you.

Did you know?

“Does she…” He found it harder to finish his sentences.

Your dad’s eyes darted back to his. He blinked rapidly.

“No, no. God, no. I’d never tell her somethin’ like that,” he answered, fast. “It— it don’t even matter now, she’d always, always be my little girl. I just found out years after there was a chance she might be…someone else’s.”

Someone else’s.

Suddenly, Joel didn’t feel like he was fit to be told any of this. He felt like he was intruding. For your father to confess all of this—sharing such heavy news—it was all he could do to keep his blinking and breathing in check.

“See, Helen was never ‘the other woman.’ Amy and I were long checked out of our marriage before we ever split, and we…I mean, I went back. To Helen. I loved her.”

Your father paused again.

“I still love her, Joel. We tried making things work again, back then, too. We’d grown up a little bit. But my divorce was too new, my daughter was too young. It— it just didn’t happen. But now she’s here, and she wants to try again. I want to try again, and see if maybe— I dunno.”

“But then…” Joel thought of you. “Your daughter.”

“She thinks I’m the piece of shit who blew our family up on account of some affair. And I’m fine with her thinking that, if it keeps her from diggin’ into the past and learning her mom and I weren’t— that I might not be…”

Joel closed his eyes a moment. He sucked in a breath.

This was the last thing he needed to learn the night before you were supposed to be coming back home.

How could he tell you something like this? Should he?

It almost seemed as if the walls were closing in, and he was faced with the same dilemma as he had before—cope with a lie or cause more pain by telling you the truth. But now it really didn’t feel like his place to tell. It felt heartless and cruel to even bring it up, and somehow worse if he didn’t. If he withheld the truth from you again

And just as he’d endeavored to get his head around the idea, to try and make sense of it, a new bomb dropped.

“But if she ain’t mine, at least I’ve got an…idea of who the father might be. Silver livings an’ all,” his friend said. The smile he flashed him was as weak as it was sardonic.

“Who?”

“There were a few—rumors, I mean. Nothing for certain. Just heard she was seeing Dave York and Javier Peña…”

Those made sense. Joel knew the guys from work.

“Marcus Pike and that dude who used to live a little ways out of town—Ezra something, I forget. You remember?”

He didn’t.

Joel was racking his brain for names, and the last two sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place their faces.

“Dieter Bravo, that actor guy…Reed Richards—shit, it’s been a minute since we talked to him, ain’t it? Damn.”

Your father kept rattling off names like this was the most normal thing in the world—he’d probably done it often over the years—but with each new pronunciation, Joel felt himself growing sicker. He didn’t want to hear more.

But he’d have to, unless he made up an excuse to leave.

Another bathroom break might do the trick.

Okay, he could slip out easily that way.

Just as Joel was clearing his throat and preparing to make his fifth restroom announcement of the night, he had to stop. He heard another name drop from your dad, and he almost choked. Then he did choke, in a second.

“And Tommy, maybe…”

“Tommy?!”

The lone word punctured the air like a strangled breath—it came from the labor of his own two lungs, at hearing his brother’s name raised in connection with all of this.

What could Tommy have to do with any of that?

“Yeah,” your dad answered, nonchalant at first. Then, seeming to recollect his senses as he realized what he’d said, he smiled sheepishly. “I mean that’s—that’s a long shot, Joel. I heard some whisperings Amy and him might’ve gotten on and hooked up once or twice back then, but it was nothing serious. The odds of him bein—”

“Your kid’s father?!” Joel spit the words out like poison. He couldn’t help it. His heart had jumped to his throat.

He couldn’t be hearing his friend correctly.

He had to have been mistaken with that.

Joel’s brain short-circuited momentarily. It felt like his heart had leapt from his throat to his head and he could sense every sick, throbbing pulse of the thing thrumming sporadically through his skull. It was deafening to him.

Your father was continuing on, but it was hard to hear.

“…Tommy must’ve been, what, twenty-two? Same as Amy. I think they had some mutual friends besides me—must’ve been a casual thing. I don’t think he even knew we were hooking up back then, too. I don’t blame him…”

The man might as well have been speaking French, because Joel didn’t understand the first fucking thing coming out of his mouth except ‘Tommy’ and ‘Amy.’

His brother and your mother.

Having sex? When the fuck had that happened?

There had to be some misunderstanding. No way could his baby brother have done something like that and not…

Fuck. It had been twenty-two goddamn years since then.

What if he didn’t remember?

What if he couldn’t remember?

What if—oh, fuck, there was no fucking shot.

“Don’t look so shocked, Miller.” Your father grinned, and for the first time in a while, through the bulk of this whole conversation, it was genuine. He thought this was funny. “You know Tommy got around back then. Shit happens.”

Then, as if to rib him again:

“What, you scared of bein’ my kid’s uncle or somethin’?”

Joel was ready to throw up.

No, not ready—he was going to retch.

Jack and coke could’ve easily taken the blame for that, but anyone with half a brain and an ability to see the situation for what it was would’ve known better.

Joel knew better.

He had to shake his head. Say something. Otherwise he would be stuck, staring at his friend and looking as if he might spew chunks all over the front of his shirt at any given moment. There was no way you two were related.

“Hey, if you are, I’d say you’d make a damn good uncle anyway. You and her have been close for awhile, right—”

Time to vomit.

Time to leave.

Time to abandon any scant sense of self-respect and simultaneously lose the last six drinks he’d consumed into the closest sink or toilet. The room was spinning.

‘Gotta…piss’ was all he remembered saying. That should’ve been enough. If it wasn’t, well…that was no longer his problem. He was gone in the next second.

In his semi-drunken state, it amazed Joel just how far he was able to disgorge his dinner. As he expected, it was mostly liquid. It was like the second he stepped into the bathroom, all bets were off, and he was heaving like he was on the brink of death. What the fuck was all that?

This didn’t feel real. Wiping his mouth, running the sink, watching the liquid trail down, down, down until there was nothing left for him to see but a concave block of porcelain staring back. Its surface was surprisingly bright, shiny, and slick. It made him want to barf again.

But this was no time for fucking around.

If anyone needed to be spilling their guts now, it was someone else. Joel couldn’t rest until he reached him.

So, pulling out his phone with sweat-damp, noticeably shaky hands, he blinked harder. He focused his gaze. For the first time in what now felt like years, he turned the device on without the intention of texting, calling, or FaceTiming you. He scrolled through his long list of contacts until he reached the name, then winced.

This wasn’t real.

This wasn’t real.

He dialed the number and grew nauseous all over again.

Tommy Miller, answer your motherfucking phone.

[velarisdusk]

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about. 

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you. 

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath  artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin. 

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.  

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort. 

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You. 

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor. 

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away. 

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs. 

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her. 

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night. 

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream. 

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd. 

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night. 

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised. 

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine. 

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect. 

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed. 

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant. 

You think you catch the ghost of a smile. 

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen. 

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads. 

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you. 

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that. 

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way. 

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face. 

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered. 

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot. 

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it. 

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be. 

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music. 

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you. 

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating. 

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all. 

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure. 

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

He doesn’t have to. 

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit. 

And just like that, you fall into step with him. 

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way. 

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth. 

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy. 

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth. 

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry. 

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass. 

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur. 

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin. 

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go. 

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice. 

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it. 

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before. 

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are. 

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap. 

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended. 

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once. 

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months. 

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not. 

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again. 

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin. 

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are. 

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends. 

Still not in love. 

Definitely not. 

Probably. 

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. 

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move. 

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting—years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going. 

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now. 

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it—because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger. 

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.” 

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress. 

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms. 

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache. 

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. 

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips. 

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last. 

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide. 

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket. 

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

[flux1563]

FIRST OF ALL

tags : squirting, anal, pussy gaping, ass gaping, golden shower, kidnapping, gangbang

Words : 9k

Kim Minju was a picture of poise and elegance as she stepped onto the crimson carpet. Her heart raced in time with the flashing bulbs of the paparazzi cameras. She had spent hours perfecting her makeup and selecting the right dress, a delicate dance of silk that whispered around her legs with every step she took. The air had excitement, the kind that only comes from a night of glitz and glamour.

Minju's eyes searched the sea of faces, looking for her manager, Mr. Park. He was always there, guiding her through the labyrinth of smiles and small talk that made up these events. Tonight was no different; the award show promised to be a pivotal moment in her career. She had been nominated for Best Supporting Actress, and the buzz surrounding her performance was electric.

As the final award was announced, Minju felt a strange sense of calmness wash over her. It was almost as if the world had gone mute, the only sound being the rhythmic beating of her heart. Her name wasn't called. She forced a smile and clapped for the winner, her thoughts racing. Was she disappointed? Yes. But she also knew she had given her all. It was a learning experience, another stepping stone in her journey.

Mr. Park, noticing her expression, gave her a reassuring pat on the back as they exited the venue. The cool evening air was a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of the auditorium. She took a deep breath, the scent of her favorite gardenia perfume lingering faintly on the breeze. The car was waiting, a sleek black sedan, its engine humming quietly.

When Minju opened the door, she was shocked to find four men already inside, leaving only one seat for her. They were strangers, their faces unfamiliar and expressions unreadable. Panic began to creep in as she scanned the vehicle. One man, tall and broad-shouldered, took up the entire backseat, his arms crossed over his chest. Another, with piercing eyes and a sharp jawline, sat next to him, his legs stretched out, filling the space. The remaining two were in the front, both dressed in black suits, one driving, the other glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

Mr. Park's voice was firm, but not unkind, as he urged her to sit down. "Just for tonight, Minju," he said, his eyes holding a glint of excitement she hadn't seen before. "I've arranged something special to cheer you up." She hesitated, the situation feeling eerily wrong, but his assurance washed over her like a warm blanket, and she found herself slipping into the car, the door closing with a soft thud that echoed through her mind.

The man with the sharp jawline leaned closer and placed a cool, damp cloth over her eyes. "Don't worry, Miss," he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "This will help you relax." The scent of mint filled her nose, and she felt a gentle pressure on the back of her neck. Her eyes grew heavy, and she didn't fight it. The last thing she heard was the soft rumble of Mr. Park's voice, promising that she'd be safe.

When Minju's eyes fluttered open again, the world was a blur. Her senses slowly returned, and she realized she was no longer in the car. The scent of the mint cloth lingered, but it was replaced by the faint smell of fresh paint and new carpets. She felt the cushioned leather beneath her, and the murmur of distant voices grew clearer. Her head swam with confusion as she tried to sit up, her body feeling weightless and disoriented.

The man with the piercing eyes and sharp jawline was the first to come into focus. He offered her a warm smile, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something off about the situation. "Welcome to your surprise, Miss Kim," he said, his voice now a gentle purr. The room she was in was dimly lit, with walls lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes she knew she would never read. The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the twinkling lights of the city skyline, a stark contrast to the cozy cocoon she found herself in.

"Where am I? What's going on?" she asked, her voice wavering with uncertainty. The men exchanged glances, and Mr. Park stepped forward, his own smile a little too forced. "You're in a safe place, Minju," he assured her. "We're just taking a small detour from the usual post-show festivities." The room spun, and she had to grip the armrest of the chair to steady herself. "But why? Where is everyone else?"

"Tonight, you're ours," the man in the backseat said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him, watching her with a hunger she couldn't place. "We've got a special evening planned for you."

Before Minju could protest, two of the men had moved swiftly and grabbed her hands, their grip firm and unyielding. The other two approached her from either side, and with a quick jerk, they began to rip at the delicate fabric of her gown. She gasped as the dress gave way, revealing her bare skin. The material fell around her in a pool of silk, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. A part of her wanted to scream, to fight, but she was paralyzed, her mind racing with the implications of this nightmare unfolding before her.

Her attempts to struggle were met with laughter from the men, their grips tightening around her wrists and ankles as they easily overpowered her. Despite her training in self-defense, she found herself utterly helpless. The man with the sharp jawline leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "You're not going anywhere, Miss Kim," he whispered, his fingers digging into her skin. Panic set in, and she tried to pull away, but her efforts were futile against their collective strength.

The AC in the room hummed softly, blowing cold air across her exposed skin. Goosebumps prickled along her arms and legs, and she shivered. The two men who had been holding her hands moved to her sides, each placing a hand on the clasp of her bra. The anticipation was palpable, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. With a flick of their thumbs, her bra fell away, leaving her bare and vulnerable before them. The cool air from the vent kissed her skin, making her nipples peak, and she felt a warm rush of embarrassment spread through her.

The man with the piercing eyes and sharp jawline leaned in and captured one of her nipples in his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive flesh. She gasped, her eyes flying open. The shock of his touch was like a bolt of lightning, sending a jolting mix of fear and a strange, unwelcome arousal through her body. The tall, broad-shouldered man on the other side of her followed suit, his mouth moving down her stomach to the edge of her panties. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down her spine, and she tried to squirm away, but the other two held her firmly in place.

"Please stop," she managed to whimper, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I'll do anything." The men laughed, their grips tightening even more as they continued to explore her body. The man at her breasts bit down gently, and she felt the sharp sting of pain followed by a warm wetness as he sucked. Her body responded despite her mind's screaming protest, and she couldn't help the soft moan that escaped her lips.

The man between her legs spoke up, his voice gruff with excitement. "It's getting wet here, are you sure you don't want to do this?" The question hung in the air, thick with malice and lust. Minju felt a rush of cold dread as she realized the gravity of her situation. Her body was betraying her, her arousal growing against her will. She knew she had to find a way out of this, to regain control.

With surprising strength, she jerked her legs up, catching the tall man off guard. He stumbled back, cursing under his breath. The man with the sharp jawline released her nipple with a wet pop, his eyes narrowing. "Feisty, aren't we?" He said, smiling wickedly. Before she could react, the two men holding her down had torn away her last shred of dignity, leaving her panties in their hands. They tossed them aside, revealing her shaved pussy to their hungry gazes.

The second man, the one who had been watching her struggle with a twisted smile, leaned in and whispered in her ear. "Wow, you treat your pussy so well, Minju. It's like a sweet, ripe peach." His words were like a slap in the face, a cruel twist to the knot in her stomach. She had never felt so exposed, so violated. Yet, she couldn't ignore the way her body responded to his voice, the way her clit throbbed at his words.

The first man's wild suckling grew more intense, his teeth grazing her sensitive nipple, sending jolts of pain and pleasure through her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, the taste of blood mingling with the mint from the cloth. The man between her legs chuckled, his breath warm and humid against her inner thigh. "I can see why they call it a peach," he murmured, his tongue tracing the delicate folds of her sex. She felt his rough hands spread her open, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to be anywhere but here.

Minju moaned "ahh..." as the second man's tongue replaced his fingers, delving into her with a fervor that made her toes curl. His expertise was clear, his touch calculated to elicit the maximum response from her traitorous body. Her hips bucked, trying to escape the sensation, but the men held her in place, their laughter echoing through the room. She could feel herself getting wetter, a betrayal that only served to fuel their excitement. The man at her breasts took his cue, his teeth nipping at the soft flesh before his tongue soothed the sting.

"I can't, please stop," she gasped, the words barely coherent. She felt the man holding her hand tighten his grip, his thumb stroking her palm in a mockery of comfort.

"Are you going to cum, Minju?" he asked, his tone a blend of amusement and demand. Her heart raced as she felt the pressure building inside her, the man's relentless mouth on her sex pushing her closer to the edge she desperately wanted to avoid. Her body was a maelstrom of conflicting sensations, each touch and kiss sending waves of both fear and arousal crashing through her.

"Noo," she whimpered, trying to pull away, but her body was a traitor. Her hips bucked upward, seeking more, and she could feel the wetness of her pussy smearing against the leather chair. The man between her legs took this as an invitation, his tongue swirling around her clit with the precision of a maestro. The sensation was overwhelming, and she knew she was going to come.

"It's so much, I can't take it," she gasped out, her voice trembling. The man's mouth was relentless, his tongue flicking and stroking with a ferocity that had her nails digging into the armrest. The man at her breasts took the opportunity to bite down harder, the sting of pain sending her spiraling into a whirlwind of sensation. She felt the first wave of her orgasm building, her breath hitching in her throat.

The dam broke, and she squirted, her juices spraying out like a fountain, drenching the man's face and soaking the chair beneath her. Her legs shook violently, and she screamed out her climax, unable to hold back any longer. The men laughed, their grips loosening slightly in amazement. The one who had been teasing her clit looked up, her fluids dripping from his chin, a look of triumph in his eyes. "Look at that," he said, his voice thick with lust. "Our little peach is ripe for the picking."

The room spun as Minju's body convulsed through the orgasm she hadn't wanted to give them. She felt their hands on her, touching her everywhere, their breath hot and ragged in her ears. Her mind was a tumult of thoughts, a mix of horror and unwanted pleasure. "You're such a squirter, Minju," the man whispered, his voice a mix of awe and disgust. "And a slut." The word hung in the air, a knife twisting in her gut.

Her legs felt like jelly, but they released her, and she collapsed onto the floor, her ass up and her face down. The cool leather was a stark contrast to the heat of the room, the heat of her body. She trembled, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the fabric of the chair sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. The men stepped away, giving her a moment of respite, their eyes still hungry as they took in the sight of her exposed body.

Minju's mind raced as she lay on the floor, her body still quaking from the forced climax. She knew she had to find a way out of this nightmare, but her limbs felt like lead. The sound of a zipper echoed through the room, and she felt the panic rising again. Before she could even process the thought, the man with the sharp jawline had scooped her up and placed her on the chair, straddling him. Her legs were shaking, but she felt the unyielding grip of the other man as he stood behind her, his erection pressing into her back.

The tall, broad-shouldered man took position in front of her, his own arousal evident as he unbuckled his belt.

Minju's eyes widened in horror as she saw the massive erection sprouting from his pants, the tip glistening with precum. He mustered a twisted smile as he took his cock in hand and began to stroke it, his eyes never leaving hers. The sight was overwhelming, a monstrous spectacle that made her knees go weak. The thought of that thing inside her was unbearable, but she knew she had no choice. She braced herself, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt the first man's hands spreading her thighs wider. The head of his cock nudged against her wetness, the sheer size of it making her quiver with dread.

With a cruel chuckle, he pushed the tip in, stretching her pussy to its limits. She bit her lip to hold back a scream, her eyes watering as the pain shot through her. The man's girth was unbelievable, and she couldn't fathom how much more of him there was to come. The room around her grew fuzzy, the pain consuming her, as he inched his way deeper and deeper. The stretch was agonizing, but she knew that the worst was yet to come. He took his time, relishing her discomfort, his hands gripping her thighs tightly as he watched her face contort in pain.

"Ahh, so tight," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. Minju's nails dug into the man back as she tried to push herself away, but the other men held her in place, their hands roaming her body. The man behind her leaned in, his breath hot against her neck. "You're going to love this, baby," he whispered.

The first thrust was like a punch to the gut, the pain stealing the breath from her lungs. She felt herself stretch around him, the invasion both terrifying and exhilarating. Her body trembled, her pussy clenching around the thick, unyielding intrusion. Yet, amidst the horror, there was a spark of something else, a flicker of the pleasure that had betrayed her earlier. Her mind screamed for her to fight, but her body was already responding to the rhythmic motion, her muscles contracting around him in a desperate attempt to escape and yet, paradoxically, to feel more.

"Already orgasm?" The man with the sharp jawline mocked, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and disdain. "We didn't even start yet, you're such a slut." His words were like a slap in the face, a cold reminder of her helplessness. He began to move, his hips rising and falling with a brutal precision that had her teeth gritted. Each stroke sent a new wave of agony through her, but it was tinged with a dark, unwelcome craving. Her body was a traitor, her pussy greedily devouring every inch of him as he pushed deeper.

Minju's mind was a battleground of fear and arousal. She didn't want this, didn't want any of it, but she couldn't deny the way her body was responding. Her voice, shaky and desperate, broke through the cacophony of her thoughts. "Please move, I want it," she whispered, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. The room grew quiet, the only sound the wet slap of flesh against flesh, the ragged gasps of the men holding her down.

The man with the sharp jawline took her invitation and began to pound into her with a ferocity that made her eyes water. Each thrust sent shockwaves through her body, the pain melding with the pleasure until she could no longer tell them apart. She felt the man's mouth move to her nipple again, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak before he sucked it into his mouth. The sensation was intense, a symphony of pleasure that washed over the agony of the intrusion below.

"Ahh, yess," she found herself moaning, the words slipping out despite her best efforts to remain silent. "So big, fuck..." Her voice was a hoarse whisper, a plea that she didn't even realize she was making. The man's hips ground against her, his cock filling her completely, stretching her to the point of pain. But it was a pain that she was beginning to crave, a pain that seemed to hold the key to some twisted form of relief.

"Suck my nipples more," she begged, arching her back as the pleasure began to build again. The man took the cue, his teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before he took one peak into his mouth, sucking hard. The sensation was exquisite, a sharp contrast to the brutal pounding she was receiving. She could feel the man's erection pulsing against her back, and she knew he was getting off on her suffering. But she didn't care anymore, she just needed the release.

The second man's breath was hot on her neck, his hand moving from her hip to the small of her back. His fingers began to trace the cleft of her ass, teasing her puckered hole. The sensation was alien and terrifying, but it sent a thrill through her body that she couldn't ignore. He chuckled darkly as she tensed, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. "You're so tight here too," he murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against her asshole. "But we'll loosen you up, don't worry."

Minju's voice was a desperate whisper. "No, no, not there," she pleaded, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to ignore the way her body responded to his touch. The first man took a moment to admire the look of fear and need on her face before resuming his relentless assault on her pussy. "Please," she gasped, her voice hoarse with need. "I can't, it's too much."

But the man didn't care; he kept trying to push his dick deeper into Minju's asshole. His thumb circled the tight ring of muscle, applying pressure that made her body spasm. She could feel her own wetness mingling with his spit, the slickness of it making her skin crawl. "You're going to take all of us," he said, his voice a promise of more torment. "And you're going to love it."

"Ahh, it feels weird," she whined, her body tensing up as his thumb breached her ass, the sensation foreign and overwhelming. The pain was intense, a stark contrast to the pleasure still pulsing through her pussy from the first man's relentless pounding. She could feel the head of the second man's cock pressing against her, the blunt pressure a stark reminder of the new violation that awaited her.

But then, something strange happened. The pain began to morph into something else, something that made her toes curl and her breath hitch. The pressure grew, building into a crescendo that matched the rhythm of the man's strokes inside her. Her pussy tightened around him, desperately seeking more, and she felt her orgasm start to crest. "Ahh, no," she moaned, her voice a mix of agony and ecstasy. "I can't take it, I'm cumming again, ahh, ahh, ahh..."

Her body convulsed, her pussy spasming around the thick cock that filled her so completely. The man's grip on her hips tightened, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he felt her climax. She could hear his grunts of pleasure, the sound of his balls slapping against her ass with each plunge. And then, as if on cue, the third man grabbed her head, his grip like a vice as he pushed his own erection into her mouth. "You're talking too much, Minju," he grunted, his voice low and menacing.

Her jaw ached from the stretch, but she took him in willingly, the taste of her own juices mingling with the saltiness of his cock. The sound of her own slurps filled her ears, the obscene sounds of her mouth working his shaft almost as degrading as the pain in her ass. "Glukkk glukk glukk," she moaned around the thick meat, the words muffled but clear in their meaning. She enjoyed it, the feeling of being used, of being their plaything. The humiliation only served to heighten her arousal, a dark thrill that she never knew existed within her.

For what felt like an eternity, the three men took turns using her body, their rhythmic thrusts becoming a symphony of depravity. The man in her pussy pounded with a relentlessness that was almost soothing in its consistency, filling her up completely. The man in her ass took his time, stretching her open with each slow, deliberate push until she was taking his full length, her cries of pain muffled by the cock in her throat. And the third, the one who had claimed her mouth, fucked her face with a vigor that had her eyes watering.

"I think I'm gonna cum, Minju," the man in her ass grunted, his grip on her hips tightening until it felt like he was trying to split her in two. His words were a declaration, a warning of the impending climax that she could feel building within him. And as if on cue, the man in her pussy sped up, his strokes becoming more erratic, his breathing ragged. She knew she was close too, the tension in her own body coiling tighter and tighter like a spring about to snap.

The room was a blur of movement, the men's bodies a tapestry of sweat and power as they used her. The pain was a living thing, pulsing through her, but it had transformed into something else. Something that made her body beg for more. And when the man in her mouth finally came, his hot seed spurting down her throat, she felt a strange sense of accomplishment. It was as if she had been given a role to play, and she was playing it to perfection.

The man in her pussy grunted, his hips bucking wildly as he reached his climax. He pulled out just in time to shoot his load all over her stomach, the hot, sticky fluid spattering her skin. The sight of his release only made the man in her ass more eager, his thrusts becoming more demanding, more primal. He grunted and pushed in deeper, the pressure building until she felt his cock swell and throb inside her. And then, with a roar, he came too, filling her up with his seed, the sensation so intense it brought tears to her eyes.

Gasping for air, Minju felt the men pull out of her in unison, their cocks slick with her juices. The sudden emptiness was almost as intense as the fullness she had just endured, and she couldn't help the whine of protest that escaped her lips. The sharp-jawed man chuckled, stroking her cheek with a gentle touch that seemed almost tender in the aftermath of the brutal assault. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his voice a dark caress that sent shivers down her spine.

She could feel their eyes on her, their gazes raking over her trembling form, assessing her reactions. "But we're not done yet," he said, his voice a promise of more to come. "Each one of us gets a turn in every hole. That's the deal."

Minju's body felt like it had been wrung out like a wet towel, her muscles quivering with exhaustion. Yet, she couldn't deny the need that still thrummed through her veins. She didn't know if she could take it, if she could handle the onslaught of pleasure and pain that awaited her. The men seemed to sense her hesitation, their smiles growing more predatory as they looked at her.

The sharp-jawed man took a step back, his cock still glistening with her juices. "Time to switch places," he said, his voice a low growl. The man who had been fucking her mouth stepped forward, his own erection bobbing eagerly as he took position behind her. He didn't bother with any pretense of gentleness, pushing into her ass without warning.

The pain was immediate and intense, but she found herself pushing back, her body craving the fullness she had just felt moments ago. The man behind her took the hint, his strokes growing faster and deeper until she was crying out around the cock that filled her pussy. The man who had just her pussy come to her mouth, stroking his member as he watched the scene unfold before him. "Look at her," he said, his voice thick with lust. "Such a good little slut."

The second man's grip on her pussy was like iron, his thumb pressing against her clit as he drove into her ass. She squirted again, the force of her orgasm surprising her. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she felt the warmth of his cum fill her, his grunts of pleasure echoing through the room. And then, it was the third man's turn, his cock sliding into her pussy with a wet, gasping sound. She felt so full, so stretched, that she thought she might split apart.

But she didn't. Instead, she took it, her body moving with the rhythm of their abuse, her hips rising and falling as she was used in ways she had never imagined. The man in her ass began to spank her, each smack sending a shockwave of sensation through her. She could feel her orgasm building again, her pussy clenching around his cock, her ass tightening around the other. The sharp sting of the slaps only heightened the pleasure, sending her spiraling closer and closer to the edge.

And then, with a roar, the man in her ass came, his cum flooding her bowels, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. She felt his cock jerk inside her, the pulse of his release sending her own orgasm crashing over her. She screamed around the cock in her mouth, her body shaking with the force of it. The man in her pussy took his cue, his thrusts growing more frantic, his grip on her hips almost painful.

And when he came, it was with a snarl, his cum spurting out in hot, thick ropes that coated her inner thighs and dripped down to the floor. The man who had been watching stepped forward, his own erection now fully restored. He pulled out of her mouth, his cock shiny with her saliva, and moved to take his place in her ass.

The cycle continued, each man taking her in a different combination of holes, their pleasure becoming a symphony of grunts and slaps, moans and whimpers. She was theirs to use, to fill, to claim. And as the night went on, Minju realized she didn't just want them to cum inside her; she needed it. The thought of their seed filling her, marking her as theirs, was intoxicating.

With each new thrust, she felt herself slipping further into a dark, depraved world that she had never known existed. But she didn't care. All she cared about was the feeling of their hands on her body, their cocks inside her, the taste of their desire. And when the last man finally came, his hot cum spurting into her mouth, she swallowed it down greedily, her eyes never leaving his.

"Good girl," he murmured, stroking her cheek. And in that moment, she knew she was theirs. She had been broken, reshaped into a vessel for their pleasure. And she liked it. She liked it more than she could ever admit. The room was a blur of satiated bodies, their breaths heavy with satisfaction. But Minju's mind was already racing, planning how she could get more of this twisted game.

As she lay there, her body trembling from the exertion, she felt a hand on her chin, tilting her head up to look into the sharp-jawed man's eyes.

"How many squirt do you have for us today, Minju?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

Her eyes searched his, desperation melding with the haze of pleasure that still clouded her judgment. "I don't know... maybe 10 or 15... I can't think," she replied, her voice a soft whimper. The idea of being able to squirt that many times seemed impossible, yet her body had already proven it could handle more than she had ever thought possible.

The sharp-jawed man chuckled, his hand moving to cup her chin. "Good, because we're not done with you yet," he said, his voice a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "We're going to drain you, Minju. Every last drop of cum you're worth."

The fourth man, who had been watching the whole time with a mix of envy and anticipation, stood up from the couch. He was the most muscular of them all, his broad chest heaving with excitement as he unzipped his pants. His erection sprang out, thick and veiny, a testament to his desire. He stepped forward, the smirk on his face growing as he took in the sight of her used body, glistening with their cum.

Minju's eyes widened as he approached, her mind reeling from the sheer size of his cock. It was easily the biggest she had ever seen, dwarfing the others that had already claimed her. A bolt of fear shot through her, but her body, now a willing accomplice in her degradation, responded with a fresh wave of arousal. "No, no," she whispered, her voice a mix of fear and lust. "It won't fit."

The sharp-jawed man leaned in closer, his smile cold and cruel. "Just shut up," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Because you can't run anymore." His words sent a chill down her spine, a stark reminder of her captivity. She was theirs, and she knew it. The fourth man stepped closer, his hand stroking the length of his erection as he looked down at her with a hunger that was almost palpable.

With trembling hands, Minju reached up and took the head of his cock in her mouth, feeling it stretch her lips to the point of pain. He was so thick, so much more than she had ever had before, and she knew it would be a challenge to take all of him. But she was determined to try, her need for their approval overriding any sense of self-preservation she might have once had.

Her tongue swirled around the tip, tasting the salty precum that had begun to leak out. He groaned in pleasure, his hand coming to the back of her head to guide her movements. His grip grew firmer, pushing her down further, and she felt the head of his cock touch the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she took a deep breath through her nose and relaxed her throat, willing herself to accommodate his monstrous size.

The fourth man's eyes lit up as she took more of him, his hips starting to rock gently, pushing deeper with each stroke. "Ur throat is so tight and wet," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. His words sent a shiver of excitement down her spine, the praise fueling her determination. She took him as deep as she could, her throat convulsing around his shaft as she fought the urge to gag.

The sharp-jawed man watched with a sadistic grin, his hand moving to fondle her breasts as he whispered, "Good girl, take it all." The words were a command, and she obeyed, her mouth moving up and down the thick length of the fourth man's cock. His hands tightened in her hair, pulling her closer, his strokes growing more forceful.

The pressure built in her throat, the taste of him becoming more intense with each passing second. She could feel him swelling, his cock growing even bigger, and she knew he was close. "Aghh, fuck," he groaned, his hips jerking as he buried himself deep into her mouth. "I'm gonna cum, don't you dare spill it out." The threat was clear, and she responded with a muffled moan of understanding, her eyes watering as she braced herself for the onslaught.

And then, with a roar, he did. His cum shot into her throat, hot and thick, filling her mouth. She swallowed convulsively, her eyes squeezed shut as she focused on not choking. He pulled out, his cock still twitching as he stepped back, panting. "Look at her," the sharp-jawed man said, his voice filled with amusement. "Such a good little cockslut."

Minju felt a twisted sense of pride at the words, her cheeks flushed with a mix of arousal and embarrassment. The men around her chuckled, their eyes gleaming with lust. "Now, let's see if you can handle this," .

This one was different, she realized with a sinking feeling. His cock was longer and thicker than the others, a weapon of pure pleasure and pain. She tried to sit up, her body already feeling the strain of the previous assaults, but the sharp-jawed man pushed her back down. "No more games, Minju," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You're going to take him, and you're going to enjoy it."

The fourth man took position between her legs, his cock bobbing as he stared down at her trembling form. "Please," she whispered, her voice a hoarse plea. "I can't..." But it was too late. With a brutal shove, he plunged into her pussy, the sound of her wetness mingling with her whimpers of pain. Her body was so sensitive, so overwhelmed, that it was all she could do to not scream.

He began to move, his strokes long and deep, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Please, no more," she whimpered, her pussy clenching around his cock. But he paid her no heed, his focus solely on his own pleasure.

"You're too tight," he grunted, his grip on her hips tightening as he pushed in harder.

The sharp-jawed man leaned in, his hand moving to her clit, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You'll get used to it," he whispered, his thumb circling the sensitive bundle of nerves.

And then, with a suddenness that took her breath away, the pain disappeared, replaced by a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable. Her body arched off the bed, her eyes rolling back in her head as she came again, her pussy contracting around the invading cock. The fourth man took her through the motions, his strokes growing more forceful, more demanding. She felt like she was being split in two, the sensation so overwhelming she didn't know if she could handle it.

But she did. Each thrust sent her spiraling higher and higher, until she was a writhing mess of pleasure and pain, her body a canvas for their depravity. "Fuck me," she moaned, the words slipping from her lips unbidden. "Fuck me harder."

The sharp-jawed man chuckled, his eyes gleaming as he watched her degradation. "Look at you," he said, his voice thick with lust. "You're loving this."

The fourth man took her words to heart, his strokes becoming more punishing, his cock stretching her pussy to its limits. She felt herself climbing again, the pressure building until she was on the edge, her body trembling with the effort to hold back. "Agh, I'm gonna cum," she screamed, her voice raw and desperate.

He pulled out suddenly, leaving her feeling empty and exposed. "Do it," he said, his voice a demand. "Squirt on my cock." He stroked himself, his cock slick with her juices, and she could see the challenge in his eyes.

With a trembling hand, she reached down between her legs, her fingers finding her clit. It was swollen and sensitive, the slightest touch sending a jolt of pleasure through her. She began to rub it, her eyes locked on his, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. The sharp-jawed man leaned in closer, his hand moving to her hip, his grip firm and possessive. "Come on," he urged, his voice low and hungry. "Show us how much of a slut you really are."

The pressure grew, her body coiled like a spring about to snap. With a final, desperate cry, she let go, her pussy clenching around the fourth man's cock as she squirted. The sensation was like nothing she had ever felt before, a deluge of wetness that soaked the bed beneath her. The men cheered, their eyes alight with excitement as they watched her body convulse with pleasure.

The fourth man leaned in, his hand moving from her hip to her chin, tilting her head back so he could kiss her. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting the remnants of the fourth man's cum. "Keep going," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "We want more."

Her hand moved faster on her clit, her hips rising off the bed as she felt the next orgasm building. The sharp-jawed man's cock was back in her mouth, his movements growing more urgent as he felt her body tighten around his shaft. She squirted again.

Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably now, the intensity of her orgasms threatening to overwhelm her. It was as if her body had taken on a mind of its own, the need for more pleasure an insatiable beast that demanded to be fed. "It's too much," she gasped . "I think I'm gonna collapse."

But the fourth man just chuckled, his eyes glinting with malicious excitement. "No, you can't," he said, his voice a dark caress. "We're not done with you yet." He reached down, his hand grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You're going to keep squirting for us, no matter what."

With a grunt, he pulled her to the edge of the bed and flipped her over, so she was ass up and face down. Her cheek pressed into the wet, sticky mattress, she could feel the coolness of the spilled cum against her skin. The sharp-jawed man stepped back, watching with a cruel smile as the fourth man took his place. His cock was still hard, still thick and demanding, and she knew what was coming.

He didn't bother with preamble, simply pushing her legs apart and sinking into her pussy with a ferocity that took her breath away. Her squirt had only made him hungrier, and now he was going to feast. The first few thrusts were so hard she thought she'd pass out, her body unprepared for the intensity. But she didn't. Instead, she felt her pussy stretch to accommodate him, her walls tightening around him as she took him in, inch by brutal inch.

The sharp-jawed man watched, stroking his own cock as he observed the scene with a sadistic smile. "That's it," he encouraged. "Make her squirt like the slut she is." The other men murmured in agreement, their eyes glued to her ass as it bounced with every punishing thrust.

The fourth man's strokes grew more erratic. With a snarl, he grabbed her hips, his cock slamming into her with a force that made the bed shake. "Do it," he grunted, his voice strained. "Give me your squirt."

And she did. With a scream that was equal parts pleasure and pain, Minju's pussy clenched around him, sending a jet of fluid shooting out, soaking the bed even more. He groaned, his movements becoming more frenzied, his grip on her hips bruising. The sharp-jawed man watched with a mix of fascination and hunger, his own hand moving faster on his erection. "So good," he murmured, his voice tight with his own need.

The fourth man's rhythm grew erratic, his hips slamming into her ass with a force that made her teeth chatter. She felt his cock swell, the pressure inside her building until she thought she'd burst. And then, with a final, guttural roar, he came, his cum filling her to the brim. She could feel it leaking out of her, running down her thighs, mixing with the mess that was already there.

"Yes, yes," she moaned, her body shaking with the intensity of her own orgasm. She had never felt so used, so completely owned.

The fourth man's cock twitched inside her, the final pulses of his cum filling her until she felt like she would overflow. The feeling was indescribable, a mix of fullness and satisfaction that she had never experienced before. Her pussy quivered around him, the muscles clenching involuntarily, eager to milk every last drop.

It's so full," Minju murmured, her voice muffled by the pillow she was face-first in, her body still shaking from the last round of brutal ecstasy. The fourth man's cum was still dripping from her pussy, leaving a sticky trail down her thighs as she tried to catch her breath. The sharp-jawed man took a step closer, his cock still standing at attention despite the depraved scene that had just played out. "Look at what a mess you've made," he said, his voice a mix of amusement and disgust.

The fourth man chuckled, his hand moving to her hip as he pulled her back onto her knees. "Don't worry, baby," he said, his voice a sickly sweet promise. "I've got plenty more where that came from." His grip tightened, his cock, which had only just begun to soften, now growing hard again with the renewed interest in her body.

The sharp-jawed man took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face. "You think you're special?" he sneered. "You think we won't use you up and spit you out?" His hand came down, slapping her ass with a wet sound that echoed through the room. "You're nothing but a cum dumpster to us."

The words stung, but Minju couldn't deny the truth. She was theirs to use, their toy to discard when they were done. Yet, the thought only made her more eager, her body begging for another round of their brutal attentions. "No," she whispered, the word barely audible. "I'm not... I can't..." But she knew she could. Some twisted part of her wanted to, needed to prove she could take it all.

The fourth man grinned, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the challenge. He bent down, his grip strong as he picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he positioned his cock at her soaking entrance. The sharp-jawed man moved in, his hand reaching for her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "You're going to take it all," he said, his voice a low growl. "Every drop ."

With a roar, the fourth man thrust into her, lifting her off the bed as he began to pound her from behind. The sharp-jawed man held her hand, their fingers entwined as he watched the scene unfold, his own arousal evident in the tight grip and the way he licked his lips. She could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes raked over her body, and it only made her more wet, her pussy clenching around the thick cock invading her.

"Ahh... yes," she moaned, her voice a desperate cry. "So good, I'm cumming again." The words were torn from her as she felt the familiar tightening in her belly, her muscles contracting as the orgasm built. It was a sweet agony, the kind that made her want to scream and beg for mercy, all while pushing back against the man inside her, urging him to go deeper.

The fourth man's grip on her hips tightened, his own hips slapping against her ass as he drove into her with renewed vigor. "That's it," he grunted, his voice strained with his own approaching climax. "Squirt for me, baby. Squirt like the slut you are."

Minju's body responded to his words, the muscles in her pussy clenching around his cock as she began to squirt uncontrollably. The sensation was overwhelming, her body seemingly having a mind of its own as it sought to please the men who had so completely claimed her. The sharp-jawed man's eyes widened in amazement as he watched the spectacle, his hand moving to stroke his own cock faster. "Fuck, look at her," he murmured, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief. "She's like a fucking fountain."

The fourth man's eyes glazed over with pleasure, his strokes becoming more erratic as he felt his own climax approaching. "Yeah, baby," he grunted. "Come on, let's do it together." His hand moved from her hip to her clit, his thumb rubbing the sensitive nub in time with his thrusts. "I'm gonna fill you up so good."

Minju's body responded to his touch, the sensation of his cock inside her combined with the pressure on her clit pushing her closer to the edge. She could feel another orgasm building, the tension in her abdomen tightening with each passing second. "Yes," she moaned, her voice barely recognizable. "I'm gonna cum again."

The sharp-jawed man's grip on her hand tightened, his eyes never leaving hers as he whispered, "Show us, baby. Let us see it all." His words were a command, one that she desperately wanted to obey. She felt her pussy clench around the fourth man's cock, her body begging for more, for the release she knew was just a heartbeat away.

"I think this is my last squirt," Minju gasped as the fourth man's cock swelled inside her, his cum shooting into her with a force that made her entire body shake. The sensation was indescribable, a mix of pain and pleasure that left her gasping for breath.

And then, with a grunt of his own release, the fourth man pulled out, leaving her pussy gaping and empty. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to the floor, her body trembling uncontrollably. The sticky wetness of her squirt and their combined cum coated the floor beneath her, a stark reminder of her newfound role.

Minju's eyes had gone blurry, the world spinning around her in a haze of pleasure and pain. She felt like she was going to faint, the intensity of her orgasms leaving her dizzy and weak. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving with the effort to fill her lungs. The sharp-jawed man stepped closer, a look of dark satisfaction on his face. "Look at you," he said, his voice a mix of amazement and contempt. "So fucking pathetic."

The other men chuckled, their eyes glinting with lust as they watched her collapse. The fourth man reached down, his hand wrapping around her arm, and hauled her to her feet. "Come on," he said, his voice gruff. "You're not done yet." He tugged her along behind him, her legs wobbly and unsteady. She could feel the warmth of the cum running down her thighs, a sticky mess that seemed to cling to her skin.

They brought her to the bathroom, the cold tiles a stark contrast to the heat of the room she'd just left. The sharp-jawed man flipped on the lights, and she blinked against the harsh brightness. The room was large, with a claw-footed bathtub in the center and a gleaming chrome shower in the corner.

The fourth man held her up, his grip unyielding as he positioned her in front of the mirror. She looked at her reflection, not recognizing the woman who stared back at her. Her makeup was smeared, her dress torn and stained, her eyes swollen from crying. She was a mess, a shell of the glamorous starlet she had been just hours ago.

"Look at yourself," the sharp-jawed man said, his voice a mix of amusement and disgust. "You're nothing but a used cum rag now." The words hit her like a slap in the face.

Minju's knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold, hard floor. Her legs felt like jelly, her body utterly drained from the onslaught of pleasure and pain she'd endured. She lay there, her eyes unfocused, staring at the reflection in the mirror. She could see the bruises already beginning to form on her hips and thighs, the marks of their possession etched into her skin.

The men formed a circle around her, their cocks still hard and glistening with her juices. The sharp-jawed man stepped forward, his expression a twisted mix of amusement and cruelty. "Time to clean up," he announced, his voice echoing in the bathroom. And with that, they began to piss all over her. The warm streams of urine rained down on her body, washing away the cum and sweat that coated her.

Minju's eyes widened in horror, her body tense with humiliation. She had never felt so degraded, so utterly used. Yet, as the urine hit her skin, she felt a strange sense of relief, as if the sting of it was washing away the last remnants of her dignity. The smell was overpowering, the stench of piss mingling with the musky scent of sex that filled the room. She tried to look away, but the sharp-jawed man grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze in the mirror.

"Look at yourself," he said, his voice cold and mocking. "This is what you are now. A dirty little cum slut." His words sent a shiver down her spine, even as her pussy clenched around the emptiness inside her. It was as if her body had been rewired to crave their degradation, to thrive on their contempt.

As the last of their piss rained down on her, she felt herself slipping away, the world going dark around the edges. Her breathing grew shallow, her vision swimming as she teetered on the brink of consciousness. The sharp-jawed man stepped back, his smile fading as he took in her condition. "Looks like she's had enough for now," he said, his voice deceptively casual.

The fourth man chuckled, zipping up his pants. "Let's leave her here to clean up. Maybe she'll learn to appreciate her new role." The others laughed, their footsteps echoing through the room as they left, the door slamming shut behind them.

Alone, Minju lay on the cold floor, her body a map of bruises and cum stains. She could feel the stickiness between her cheeks, the result of the fourth man's merciless assault. The smell of piss hung heavy in the air, a humiliating reminder of her submission.

Her vision swam, and she felt the room spin as the last of her strength gave way. With a final whimper, she passed out, her body giving in to the relentless waves of pain and pleasure that had overtaken her.

When she awoke, it was to the harsh light of morning filtering through the bathroom window. The floor was cold and sticky beneath her, and she could feel the crust of dried cum and piss on her skin. Her eyes felt gritty, and her throat was parched, the taste of bile and semen still lingering in her mouth. She tried to sit up, but her body protested, the ache in her ass and pussy a stark reminder of the night's events.

With a groan, she managed to push herself onto her hands and knees, her head spinning as she took in the room. The bathtub was stained, the floor around it a mess of cum and urine. Her reflection in the mirror was a horror show, her face puffy from crying, her once-pristine dress torn and stained beyond recognition. The sharp-jawed man's words echoed in her mind, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of disgust and shame.

Mr. Park's voice grew louder as he approached the bathroom door, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. "Minju," he called out, his tone one of forced concern. "Are you okay in there?" The sound of his voice was like a knife in her gut, a stark reminder of the betrayal that had led to her current state. She didn't bother to respond, knowing that her voice would only betray her.

The door swung open, and he stepped inside, his eyes immediately going to the mess on the floor. His expression shifted from concern to one of cold calculation. "You've made quite a mess," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. She could see the disgust in his eyes as he took in the state of her body, cum spurted from her ass and pussy like some grotesque art project.

Minju's eyes fell to the floor, unable to meet his gaze. She felt a tear slip down her cheek, the only sign of the turmoil inside her. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. But she knew that sorry wasn't enough. Not for what she'd done, and not for the way she'd let them treat her.

Mr. Park sighed, his eyes scanning the room before returning to her. "Look at you," he said, his voice a mix of pity and revulsion. "What have you become?" He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to touch her face. She flinched away, the simple contact feeling like a brand of ownership she didn't want.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I can't..."

"You can," he said, his tone firm. "You will." He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "This is your new life now. Get used to it."

Minju felt a spark of defiance flare up inside her, but it was quickly snuffed out by the weight of his stare. She knew he was right. She had no choice but to submit to their desires, to embrace the slut that she had become. With a heavy heart, she nodded. "Yes, Mr. Park."

The week passed in a blur of pain and pleasure, the men taking her whenever and however they wanted. Her body was a playground for their desires, a canvas for their depravity. Yet, amidst the pain and humiliation, she found a strange solace in her new role. Each time she squirted for them, each time she took their cum, she felt a sense of belonging, of purpose.

When she finally returned to work, she was a different woman. She walked with a newfound confidence, her eyes downcast in submission. The other employees whispered about her, wondering what had changed. But she knew. She was theirs, their little cum slut, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

One night, after a particularly grueling session with the sharp-jawed man and his friends, she sent a message to Mr. Park. "Thanks for that surprise," she wrote, her thumbs moving over the screen with surprising ease. "Right now, I know the truth about myself. I am a slut for a big cock."

The response was almost instant. "Good girl," he texted back. "Keep that in mind. We have more surprises in store for you."

Her stomach fluttered with a mix of excitement and dread. She knew she had no say in the matter, that she would take whatever they gave her and ask for more. And she liked it. The thought of it made her wet, her pussy clenching with anticipation.

The next week at work was a blur of meetings and shoots, each one more grueling than the last. But she never forgot her message to Mr. Park. It played on repeat in her mind, a constant reminder of who and what she was. And she liked it. The idea of being used by those powerful men again, of feeling their cocks fill her up and empty her out, was a thrill she couldn't resist.

On her lunch break, she found herself in the bathroom, her hand slipping into her panties to touch her still-sensitive clit. The thought of their next meeting had her pussy soaked, and she couldn't help but wonder what they had planned for her. Would it be more of the same, or would they find new ways to break her, to make her squirt for them?

The anticipation was almost too much to bear. But she knew she could handle it. She had to. She was their cum slut, after all.

[no-144444]

the oscars- o.piastri

꩜ summary: you bring your own oscar to the oscar's!

꩜ pairing: married! oscar piastri x actress! fem! reader

꩜ a/n: just realised i never posted this and it has been sitting in my drafts for over a month and a half ish lol

I want you to come with me. 

Those words had run through his head like a fucking jack-hammer for weeks. What did that even entail? Acquiring a tux, sure. He could do that. Learn all the names of the people he could potentially meet, any celebrities or old co-stars he’d probably met but didn’t remember. Again, he could do that. Sit beside you all night and let you be your wonderful self as he got a first class seat and bragging rights about the fact that he was yours, he did that all day everyday. 

So why did this feel so different? He’d been to award shows before. Not the award show, but motorsports ones. You’d come as his date. The world knew about you two. He’d gone to the BAFTAs with you one year. He should be fine. He knows he’s just there to hold your hand all night and make sure you don’t forget to eat something, but this just feels… different. This was the Oscars. The one night all of Hollywood steps out in their very best, hoping to get something back. And you were nominated in 3 categories. 

“Fix your bowtie,” Hattie fussed over him as he rolled his eyes. You’d even invited his whole family. You weren’t super close with yours and they hadn’t really supported your career, but the Piastri’s had. Nicole went to every premiere you offered her, sometimes flying last minute just to be there to support you. He remembered how touched you’d been when she showed up at your Cannes debut, you called him crying that night, not even knowing what to do with yourself because you thought it was just so nice. You were 14 then, but you were 24 now, and you weren’t just his girlfriend, you were his wife. You were officially part of the family, even though you had been from the moment he’d brought you home. He started playing with his ring, a nervous habit he’d picked up since getting married. 

“It is fixed,” he snapped back as she fiddled with it. “Mum said it looked fine-”

“I wasn’t looking at you when I said that!” she called from the other room. Oscar rolled his eyes again. 

“Your eyes are on swivels today,” Mae teased, looking up from her phone. Oscar fought back rolling them again, and instead went for a scoff. 

“I’m the only reason you guys are even coming,” he scoffed, Hattie still fixing his tie. Mae’s jaw dropped in offence. 

She gasped. “Excuse you! I think Y/n would still invite us even if you guys got a divorce.” 

A shiver went up his spine at that thought. Leaving you?  He couldn’t do it. He knew in his bones he’d adore you until he was old and grey, and probably a while after that too. 

“She definitely would,” Eddie added, walking in. “Plus, she’s dressed now, if you want to see her.”

Oscar tried to pull away from Hattie, but he just got choked by his bowtie, resulting in a fit of coughs and a gaggle of laughter from his sisters. 

He heard a chuckle he knew all too well and he turned his head. You were radiant. A burgundy formal gown, your hair exactly the way you loved it, and that wonderful look in your eyes. The one he saw when he woke up next to you. The one that made him blush no matter how long you’d been together. “You alright there?” you questioned.

He chuckled and Hattie finally finished with his bowtie, so he turned to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours as he lifted you off the ground- just slightly. You grinned against his lips and he felt the panic that had been building completely subside. You pulled back as your feet reached the ground again, and chuckled. “Do I have lipstick?” he asked, a question he asked most days. You nodded, but Mae got up to take a photo, giggling at her brother with you. It didn’t bother him. You finally just wiped it off and smiled at him. 

“What do you think?” you asked, pulling back and giving him a spin. You showed off the low back and he knew he’d be ripping this dress off of you tonight. He swore the breath was knocked from his lungs every time you looked at him, but truly, you were breathtaking. 

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Oh yeah?” you smirked. He nodded. 

“Oh yeah.” 

The Red Carpet was as overwhelming as usual, but he enjoyed watching his sisters interact with the few fans of theirs that were there. He watched you with so much love and pride in his eyes, so much so that Tim had to nudge him to remember to walk on and not just stand in the back of your photos looking at you lovingly. When you finally finished up, you grabbed his hand as he led you into the auditorium. 

“You still have my speeches?’ you questioned. He tapped his chest, signalling that it was in his breast pocket. You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he smiled back. “Forever.” 

As soon as your moment began, it ended, because Nicole pulled you away to go talk to people and fucked off to the dinner table. He watched as you worked the room, animatedly speaking to people as he watched on from his seat at the table, thoroughly enjoying his food. 

It was his dad who pulled him out of his daze, asking how he was feeling. 

“I’m fine,” he nodded, only slightly lying. 

Chris smiled. “She’s going to win ‘em, I bet you.” 

“She will,” Oscar nodded. “Her work has been incredible this year.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckled. “I cried for three days over the Outrun.”

Oscar laughed out loud as his dad shook his head. “I know what you mean.”

Just then, Oscar caught your eye from the other side of the ballroom and you smiled at him, waving. He waved back. You were a vision in burgundy. He swore to go he was going to get heart palpitations from how beautiful you were. 

“Starting soon now,” Tim clapped his hands on Oscar’s shoulders. “Better be ready with those acceptance speeches.”

Chris smiled at Tim. “Took the words out of my mouth,” he chuckled. “Also have to practice your shocked face. Even though we all know she’s going to win every single one of them,” Chris tapped his leg. “Like how she pretends to be shocked when you win.” 

Oscar laughed, his cheeks going red. Why was he being embarrassed by his own father and step-father at the Oscars right now? He wanted you back, you could always calm them down, make them less… whatever they were. 

“Busy?” you asked, coming up to the table, your question directed at him. He stood up immediately. 

“Not at all,” he shook his head, the boys behind him chuckling like schoolgirls. He took your hand and you led him to the foot of the stage, squeezing his hand. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, leaning to his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.” 

“I'm so proud of you,” he smiled, his hand sneaking around your waist to pull you closer. He loved this. These quiet moments between all the hustle and bustle of your own lives. The room melted away behind you as you both stared at the stage you hoped you’d end up on tonight, but he knew you would. “I’ll always come.”

You chuckled. “You said cum.” 

He rolled his eyes, the soft moment between the two of you, now abruptly over due to his choice of words. He looked down at you and you laughed at his unimpressed stare. “I love you?” you offered, cupping his cheek. 

“I guess I love you too,” he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours gently, but quickly- as to not get lipstick all over his mouth. 

“And the nominees are; Anora, written by Sean Baker. The Brutalist, written by Brady Corbet, Mona Fastvold. A Real Pain, written by Jesse Eisenberg. , September 5, written by Moritz Binder, Tim Fehlbaum; co-written by Alex David. The Substance, written by Y/n Y/l/n,” the crowd cheered and he felt your hand squeeze his just a little tighter. “And the winner is… Anora, written by Sean Baker!” 

Despite the loss, you stood and clapped for him. Oscar joined you, though he thought you should’ve probably won. You both sat back down as his speech began and he took your hand again. “You alright?”

You nodded beside him, your eyes fixed to Sean and his speech. “There’s still like 4 hours left, don’t worry.”

He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your hand. Ever the positive person. 

“And the nominees are; Anora, Sean Baker. The Brutalist, David Jancso. Conclave, Nick Emerson. The Outrun, Y/n Y/l/n. Wicked, Myron Kerstein,” you tensed beside him. “And the winner is… Y/n Y/l/n, The Outrun!” 

And the room stood for you. He felt like he was in slow motion. You both stood up at the same time, a bright smile on your face (he was sure he looked ridiculous), and you turned to him and you hugged him. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered. He smiled back, nodding. 

“You fucking did it,” he cheered as he pulled the speech out of his pocket. “Go accept it.” 

You nodded and started your descent down the stairs. The entirety of Hollywood was on their feet for you. You’d been working in the industry since you were a kid. Everyone knew how wonderful you were. Only he got to see it everyday. He watched, pride practically spilling from every pore as you stood up on that stage, taking the award in your hand, the sheet of paper in your hand. You looked up, a teary smile on your lips. “Wow,” you breathed out, looking at the room, but your eyes immediately met Oscar’s, and you both smiled again. “Hello, and thank you,” you started. “Umm… alright, speech- yes!” you unfolded the piece of paper in your hand and took a deep breath. “Well… first of all, I’d like to thank the academy, because this-” you held up your award. “Is incredible. And next, I’d like to thank my family. Nicole, Tim, Chris, Hattie, Eddie, Mae,” Oscar was already tearing up, and he was sure his mom was at the floodgates stage of it all. “You’ve been so incredibly kind to me over the past decade. You took me in when I was just a random 14 year old your son or brother was dating, and you gave me a family, and I'll always be grateful. Next, I’d like to thank my husband-” he felt a tear fall down his cheek and he knew there were about twenty cameras on him. There were a few cheers from the crowd. “- Oscar, you’ve made me insanely happy, and you’re my everything. But you’re also the only person I’ll ever let in my editing room. I love how curious you were at the start, and now, how effortlessly you help me. Truly, this is half yours-” you chuckled, and so did he. “No matter what. Whether you were coming in from a race weekend, totally exhausted, or just come back from a run, you’ll sit beside me in silence and help me make it all work. I don’t think you understand how much that means to me, so, thank you. I love you all, thank you!” you finished off, just wiping the small tear that had fallen away, as the crowd rose for you again. Oscar was a goner, tears falling freely as he tried to wipe them away. God, you were too kind. He adored you. 

The night ended at 3am, you walked away with two Oscar awards, and one Oscar. He was grinning the whole time, too. Couldn’t stop. You won Best Editing and Best Supporting Actress. His family were elated and you giggled on the way back tot he hotel as you watched videos of them react to you winning, since they weren't sitting beside you.

Both you and Oscar were exhausted, so you fell into bed, immediately tangling with each other and knocking out. 

He ran a hand through your hair as he lazily closed his eyes. "Y/n?"

You hummed against his skin, sign enough that you were slightly conscious.

"I adore you," he whispered, the silence of the room seeming even quieter in the dark. You looked up at him through tired eyes, a soft smile on your lips.

"I feel it," you smiled. "And I love you too."

Best night ever.

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[softaestluv]

Nine Lives

Simon Riley posts an ad for a stray cat he does not want, and you answer.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! Reader

Tags: fluff, short n’ sweet, eventual romance/smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2 | ao3 | mlist✎ᝰ.ᐟ

It has to be some form of trauma. A hallucination. A dream. Anything but that stupid fawn-colored cat outside his door.

Scratching. Meowing. Terrorizing him.

He ignores it for as long as he possibly will. Turns the volume of his TV up, washes clothes to drown out the sound, pretends for a while longer that he doesn’t know what’s waiting for him just outside his wooden door. That it doesn’t have a tail and four legs.

But he can’t push it away forever, he’s a man for fucks sake. He doesn’t flee and cower in the face of a threat. A small one at that, curled on his skull mat, waiting for the moment he accepts his fate and opens his damn door. A hostage in his own home.

So, he cracks his door open— just a smidge.

Looks to see if the animal is really there or if the voices, cats, inside his head are playing a cruel joke on him. And sure enough, there it is, licking its paws leisurely as if it fucking belongs there.

A part of him had been hoping he was going crazy, that he was just imagining the high-pitched meow. He could deal with crazy, preferred it actually.

What he couldn’t deal with was the cat outside who seemed convinced he was its home. He’s grateful he hasn’t deleted your contact yet, for multiple reasons now.

It’s easy to ignore the cat, even easier to shut his door in its face, deny it access to his home. Now, as he remembers the events of last week, he thinks he should bring it inside. He’s not entirely fond of the idea, but he’s even less fond of roaming the neighborhood for a second time for the cat.

This is how he finds himself staring at it with a scrutinizing squint and crossed arms on his kitchen counter. It stretches, two front legs reaching out while its hind raises in the air. Simon has to ignore the fact that it’s dirty paws are on his kitchen counter and that it’s fur doesn’t fly in the air as it shimmies itself into a sitting position. He’ll have to bleach the spot and purge the area of any remnants of the pest.

The cat doesn’t seem to sense his aversion because it just stares back, slowly blinking, tail whipping behind it like it’s happy, content. Staring affectionately at him like he hasn’t spent the last several months doing everything in his power to get rid of it.

When you arrive, he begrudgingly takes it into his arms, opens the door to an anxious smile and more fuzzy socks. He dangles it between the two of you with both hands around its torso.

You squeal at the sight, “Churro! What are you doing here, huh? It’s a long distance, pretty lady! It must have been a very dangerous adventure.”

Simon watches you talk to the cat like it can understand you, watches the way your brows pinch, and a small frown forms on your lips in actual concern for its safety. It’s confusing that you would care so deeply for such a thing, but it makes the corners of his lips twitch.

Churro just meows, rubbing her nose and forehead against your cheek. This makes you coo, smiling gently at her, pressing your cheek against hers in turn.

You haven’t even turned your focus to him for a second, no ‘thank you for watching the demon,’ no ‘hi, how are you?’ Just more kisses and sugar-spun words to your precious kitty.

“Was the big scary man mean to you?” You ask, staring at it with beady eyes, “Did he call you the devil again?”

Oh really, cat lady? That’s how it’s going to be? He supposes teasing is better than you being terrified of him.

He scoffs, “Did no such thing.”

You finally look at him, giggling softly as you pull Churro back against your chest, “I’m sure you were nothing but generous to her.”

“I was. Treated the damn thing like royalty.” He grumbles because he was. Carried it into his home even though he wanted to do the complete opposite just so you could have your bloody cat back. And all he has to show for it is you ignoring him for the likes of the cat.

“Well,” You say, nodding your head, “I’m sorry you had to deal with her again. I left her inside before leaving for work, I’m not sure how she managed to get out.”

That was the first time it happened, and of course, it wasn’t the last. Nothing seemed that way with ‘Churro’ because the following week she made her appearance at his house again.

It became a routine. Once a week Churro made her way over to Simon’s like she was visiting him, Simon messaged you— ‘The demon is here.’

Sat Churro on his counter and watched her with pinpointed eyes while he waited. Then you arrived shortly with snuggles and apologies. A new explanation each time; you closed all the windows, checked twice, even locked them! Same with your doors, there was no way for her to get out, but somehow she always managed to escape.

Simon didn’t entirely mind the whole ordeal. Didn’t mind you, quite frankly, he liked opening his door to Tasman slippers, a glimmer in your eyes, and a soft noise of excitement. Pretended as if it was because of seeing him and not the stupid cat in his hands.

Except somewhere along the lines, Simon’s hatred for Churro morphed into something else completely. Ignoring her for as long as he could turned into letting her in after the first scratch. A glowering scowl shifted to furrowed brows. Crossed arms and balled fists became relaxed and loosened at his side. Helicopter supervision simmered into free access, let Churro roam his house while they waited for you.

That wasn’t to say he liked the damn cat because he didn’t. Tolerated her at most. For you, at least.

Irritation still burnt his lungs when he watched you coddle her, when you ignored him as you took her into your arms and rocked her back and forth, when you cuddled her close to your chest and hummed tender words to her instead of him.

Simon wasn’t exactly sure what it was or what it meant. Not when he deprived himself of anything of the sort, thought he had buried it six feet under and sealed it with a cross. But that was the thing, he couldn’t exactly mourn the loss of something when he hadn’t fully committed to severing it of himself completely, held on to it with a thin thread.

It became painfully apparent when he texted you not to come to pick up Churro one day; it was pouring rain, storming, and as much as he didn’t want to have the damn cat overnight, he’d much rather keep you from being stuck in a storm. Still, he opened the door to drenched clothes, shaking fingers, and chattering teeth. His temples pinched, ushering you inside instantly.

Maybe he shouldn’t care, shouldn’t invite you inside, but he does anyways.

“Bird,” He sighed, “Told you to stay home.”

“I know,” You shivered, petting Churro with a wet palm, “But I felt guilty. I know you don’t want Churro here and we’re just inconveniencing you.”

“Not an inconvenience, I don’t mind doing it for you,” He grumbled, “Stay right here. You’re not going back until the storm stops.”

You looked up at him with wide eyes, mouth parting slightly, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, leaving you standing there in shock before bringing back dry clothes for you, a black sweater, and gray sweats.

“Here,” He grunted, handing you the clothes, “You can change in my bathroom.”

“Oh no! It’s okay, I can just go home,” You argued, attempting to push the clothes back in his grasp.

Simon levels you with a sharp look, makes you pull the clothes to your chest because he won’t take no as an answer for your safety.

“Okay, yeah,” You nod your head, “Yeah.”

He makes tea on the stove while waiting for you, Churro jumps on the counter in the meantime, with a soft chirp, plopping her way over to rub her body against his forearm.

“Oy, be careful,” He chastises, pushing her away, “Stove’s bloody hot.”

“So you do care about her!”

Simon turns around to find you standing in the doorway of his kitchen. There’s a smug look on your face, but he doesn’t focus on that, can’t focus on anything other than how you look in his clothes. You swim in the material, sweater sleeves hiding your hands completely, sweats pooling at your sock-clad feet. He has to pinch the inside of his cheek to hide his smile at the sight.

It’s cute. Endearing. Makes his teeth ache in his mouth, fingers twitching against the pot on the stove in a strangely possessive way. He doesn’t even care that he’s been caught caring for the damn pest when something warms curls in his chest.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lies.

You laugh, padding your way over to his side, “Oh, whatever. Now I know why she keeps coming over here to see you.”

“And why’s that? I can’t for the life of me figure out why she won’t stop botherin’ me.”

“Maybe she has a crush on you,” You joke, cupping Churro’s face in your palms, “Huh, pretty lady? Do you have a crush on the big scary man?”

He snorts, “Not likely.”

You lean towards him as he hands you a cup of tea, “Maybe she thinks you’re her dad.”

Simon stares at you a little dumbfounded, watches you turn to talk to Churro again, asking if she thinks Simon is her dad. He tries to submerge the overwhelming feeling underwater, drown it, and wash away the insinuation, but it’s almost impossible when you’re adorned in his clothes, oversized fabric hanging off your smaller frame.

Excuses himself by clearing his throat, throwing your soaked clothes in the dryer to distract himself from the drowning.

The storm lasts for a little while, so you sit on his couch with Churro curled in your lap, purring quietly to sleep. Simon tries to scavenge a meal for you, but he doesn’t have much in his fridge, wishes this was planned, so he could cook you something worth eating. You don’t mind, shushing him when he apologizes with an assortment of snacks on a tray, giggling softly at his poor attempt to feed you.

“It’s okay,” You reassure, smiling pleased at him, “I’m not really hungry anyways. Next time we can prepare more.”

Yeah, next time.

When the storm relents, the two of you are preoccupied, finishing a movie you wanted to watch. Some rom-com, he doesn’t entirely know, can’t focus much when he’s sitting next to you on his couch. There’s a measly cushion separating the two of you, sitting on either end of the couch, but it still claws at the back of his mind no matter how much he tries to rationalize it.

In his home. Sat on his couch. Wearing his clothes.

He tries not to be greedy, claim you as his own, but it only gets worse when you pull your feet up, leaning your head against the back of the cushion, snuggling deeper into his couch, and making yourself comfortable. He’s sure you don’t even realize that the storm ended or when you turn towards him and ask if he liked the movie.

He doesn’t mind that you stayed after the rain stopped, doesn’t even mind that Churro made her way to his lap halfway through the rom-com. You don’t point it out either, just flicker your eyes with a knowing smile.

Did he like the movie? He honestly can’t recall a single line.

@lighthousebats @cococococ @sai-int @tessakate @starboykel @imrandomstuffsblog @your-internet-tenshi @glossy01 @orangegreensun @uriahs-burn @ye-olde-trash-panda @akkahelenaa

thank you to my sweet @bunnybeaches for the cat name ‘Churro.’ 🐇🤍

[ghstzzn]

—so confusing

☹︎ because being just friends clearly isn’t working out anymore.

or, your best friend going from avoiding you to letting you dry hump him after an emotional confession.

pairing: yang jungwon x f!reader genre: smut/suggestive, f2l

tags/warnings: smut/suggestive, dry humping, weed usage and mentions, nobody gets too high, completely consensual and he cums in his pants, fluffy shit, he calls her a brat a few times but in a cute way :) MDNI! barely proofread! lmk if i missed any mistakes :3 3.8k words

💭 : yeah its fluffy. idk man. it was supposed to be nasty but i got really emotional.

jungwon was living in the prime years of his life. 

a full ride scholarship in one of the best universities in the country, a tight knit group of friends, the professor’s favorite… and yet, here he was, sitting alone in some basement at a party he should’ve skipped out on as he smoked someone else's weed.

you and jungwon had entered this college together, being study buddies bloomed into something deeper and now you both were each other's treasure— best friends. 

jungwon never once wanted to stay just friends, in fact, he used to have a crush on you when you first became friends. but you were dating someone— someone shitty, who could never treat you the way he could.

but it didn’t matter now that you both were adults, and in college.

he’d watch as you pranced around from boy to boy with a smile, acting as if it never bothered him. he’s moved on from his silly crush. but the feelings linger deep inside of him.

but it’s only gotten worse for jungwon. 

you became confident when it came to him. he was your best friend, the closest friend you had, so of course you came to him when you needed help with boys. when you asked what type of girls his friend jake liked, or if sunghoon had ever talked about you before.

everything went downhill when you accidentally sent him a picture of you in your tiniest bikini, “hows this?” he tried to ignore it, he really did. but it was hard. every time he closed his eyes, he saw your tits squished together and barely covered by the black bikini top. jungwon almost drove himself to the nearest church after he shoved his right hand in his pants while his phone sat in his left.

jungwon was losing his mind.

his feelings grew along with your own popularity. you became a trending name within the university and the parties that were thrown. people started to adore you, they seeked you out in a crowd of people. you were sweet and charming, a rather large friend group but of course—only one best friend. 

the male has been avoiding you since you sent that picture. of course you bugged him, asking if you did something wrong or begged him to just talk to you. even though jungwon was avoiding you, he couldn’t deny the burst of pride he felt in his chest when he knew you seeked him out the most out of everyone.

he avoided you so much that he lost track of your daily routine, he had no idea you were coming to this party tonight.

when jungwon saw you skip around in the living room of the large house, he almost started choking on the drink he was ingesting. the small skirt you were wearing was a centimeter away from revealing the panties you were wearing. 

he was torn between throwing a jacket around your hips or lowering his chair to catch a good glimpse. both would surely get his ass kicked.

and so he escaped, barely noticing the glance you threw in his direction.

he jogged down to the basement of his friend's ridiculously large house, plopping down on the couch with his head in his hands. 

he was fucked, so fucked. jungwon had told you last week that he’d be stuck at the library all night tonight, which is why he turned down your invitation to hang out. he didn’t want to be alone with you on a friday night. 

his phone dings, once or twice. your contact name flashed on his screens for a few moments before it turned off, only showing jungwons reflection. 

all he can hear is charlie xcx vibrating through the upper floorboards of the basement. he’s never felt this confused in his life. he was sure he was over the small crush he had on you, so sure. he went almost three years without a single romantic thought. now his mind was flashing with images of your lips, plush tits and your thighs.

jungwon’s feelings only confused him more when he found himself getting irritated the more he thought about you. he truly did not know if he hated you or if he was in love with you. 

every thought consumes him as he leans back into the couch cushions. your parents loved him, it took awhile for him to gain their trust but he finally did. but now they see jungwon as your protector, a brotherly love, someone who could cherish you but never cross any lines. he wasn’t good enough to be a boyfriend nor a husband like they want, and he was sure that sleeping with you and breaking your heart would result him to be shunned away leaving behind a broken relationship that could never be fixed.

reaching over the coffee table with a huff, jungwon picks up a pre-rolled joint from an unlabeled container. he wastes no time before lighting it and deeply inhaling. 

just to pause his mind.

he closes his eyes, listening to the muffled music as he holds the joint to his lips. soft thuds coming from the staircase rips jungwon from his short meditation session. as soon as his eyes open he’s greeted by you skipping down the stairs, turning your head differently directions as if you were searching for something.

when your eyes land on his lazy figure, they widen and you let out an excited “oh!”

jungwon clears his throat, trying not to choke on the last hit he took and attempts to sit up but you had already appeared directly in front of him.

“jake said you were down here?” you start, slightly out of breath. “i didn’t know you’d be here? didn’t you hear me call for you upstairs?”

he shakes his head, blowing the smoke from his mouth away from you. you quickly take a seat next to him, your legs resting against his. it takes everything in him not to push your legs off of his and run away. 

“do you hate me?” he might. you take a deep breath, toying with the string sticking out from the seam of his pants. “did i do something, won?”

you’ve never really sat down and figured out your feelings for jungwon until he started avoiding you. it started out as a tiny crush on the guy you used to study with, but when he started hanging around more often, your stomach would flutter. 

there was an attempt to get rid of the foolish feelings you had for him. it just would never work between the two of you. your best friend has a smile brighter than the sun, he has aspirations bigger than the both of you  and a pure heart—surely he was interested in someone else.

and the way he looks at you now just hurts. and it hurts worse than the ways he tried so hard to avoid you.

you tried going for his friends, ones that you knew were good guys, cute boys that could easily take your mind off your best friend turned love interest. but if anything, it all got worse. 

every person you turned to had talked about jungwon. it was like you couldn’t escape and you were forced to face your true feelings for him.

so when you saw him tonight, after days of radio silence, you were excited. not just because of your feelings, but because to you—he’s still your best friend.

“you didn’t do anything.” his voice is monotone, dry and weak of any emotion. yet it drives a stake straight through your heart.

“you’re not mad at me?”

he shakes his head.

“were you busy?” 

you only wished he told you yes.

“i wasn’t busy.” jungwon sighs, exhaling the smoke from his mouth. and for the first time tonight, he really looked at you. 

your hair looked softer than usual, it’s probably the new hair product you showed him in a message he never responded to. he can smell it along with your perfume—one that he picked out. he thinks the scents are too strong but he likes them on you.

“are we still friends?” his heart almost breaks in half when he sees the pout forming on your face. the fact that your glossy eyes and downturned lips were because of him, made him hate all of this even more. what was he even doing?

he can feel the high take effect, it’s subtle yet the room still spins around him as he studies your sad expression.

“i could never hate you.”

you glance up at him, locking eyes. 

“but i don’t think i can be friends with you anymore.”

your heartbeat quickens and you feel your hands get clammy. the regret of showing up tonight was starting to sink in, by now, you were wishing he really was stuck at the library for the night. “what?”

“no, don’t say anything.” he sighs and leans forward, stubbing the joint in the ashtray. “i like you. it’s getting to a point where it’s too much for me to handle.” jungwon practically vomits up that sentence, feeling the weight be lifted from his shoulder. “i can’t be around you. it’s like, you control my body and emotions when you’re near me and i just— i can’t pretend to be your friend when you make me feel like an entirely new person.”

you swallow hard at the sudden confession. you want to say something but you feel stuck in your spot.

“i don’t expect you to return my feelings but i need to be honest with you and myself,” he continues, facing away from you because god, he would rather die than see you reject him face to face. “i want you in ways you can’t imagine and i want to be the only one you look at. and you have a right to know this.”

“jungwon, please look at me.” you sigh, pleading with him.

“i literally can’t.”

you roll your eyes and grab his arm, tugging it closer to you which forces him to turn his head. he feels his heart stop when he sees the gummy smile on your face. “i want to ask you to be my boyfriend but only if you’re looking at me.”

“excuse me?” jungwons voice is full of disbelief. 

“what? you just confessed to me as if i’m dying or something,” you giggle, studying his furrowed eyebrows. you could tell this was tearing him up inside. “i want you to be my boyfriend but not if you’re gonna be all gloomy about it. i like you too, stupid.”

jungwon couldn’t even hide the smile growing on his face. it’s take everything inside of you to not lunge at him and kiss every inch of his face. the way his dimples are on display and his eyes crinkle as he smiles makes you melt into the couch. 

you lean forward onto your knees and cup his face in your hands. “you’re the bravest person i know yet you couldn’t even tell a girl that you liked her?”

“not when that girl is you.” his voice is soft and his face is flushed. 

“i’m nothing special,” you respond, leaning close enough so that your lips are ghosting over the tip of his nose. “and i like you a lot.”

jungwon wastes no time pulling you into his lap, earning a giggle from you. it was music to his ears. “and what do you like about me?” 

“well, for one, you’re hot.” he laughs, shaking his head at your response. you smack his shoulder lightly. “i’m serious. and, you’ve got such a broad personality—you’re comforting to be around. i can be myself and not feel bad about it.”

“really? all i do is smoke weed and study.”

“shut up and let me finish,” you cut him off, poking his forehead. he reaches up and grabs your wrist, bringing it down and interlocking his hand with yours. “you make me feel so good about myself, you protect me even when i think i can handle myself and you’ve just always been there when i needed someone. you make me feel safe, won.” 

this was not what jungwon had in mind for the night. never did he think he would be confessing to his best friend at some random college party after a few hits of a blunt. nor did he think she would be the one to ask him out instead.

“so yeah, i fucking like you a lot. and if you ever ignore me again like that, i’m going to tell my mom because that really hurt, won.” 

he lets out a nervous chuckle, “i’m not usually like this.” you nod in agreement, causing him to roll his eyes. “seriously, you know this. i just… didn’t know what to do.”

“well, it doesn’t matter now.” you hum, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck. “okay, boyfriend?”

“mhm… girlfriend.” the room has stopped spinning for jungwon. now, all he could hear was the soft bump of the music upstairs and your breath. he glances up at your eyes but quickly realizes you were focused on his lips. a small smile forms on his face. 

“but what about jake? 

“seriously? i’m about to kiss you and you’re asking about jake…?” 

jungwons eyebrows raise, “i’m just wondering beca-“

you slam your lips onto his, effectively cutting him off. he immediately falls into the kiss, letting his hands wrap around your hips to pull you closer. months of tension had built of to this moment, and it dissipates with every needy pull at his lips.

he starts to regret every minute he spent avoiding you as he holds your body close to his, feeling the warmth against his own. jungwon could lose himself in you, and he wouldn’t mind that at all.

and he’s not sure if it’s the lingering high that's making his stomach flutter as you deepen this kiss or his pure longing for you, but what he does know is that he needs you now.

jungwon pulls back slightly to say something but you peck his lips again, “stop talking.”

“i just wanted to say how pretty you look right now.”

you blush at his words. it was finally sinking in that your best friend returned your feelings, and that you were here in his lap, kissing him as if it were your last night on earth. “are you high?”

he gives you a lazy smile, “a little bit. but that’s not the reason for any of this.”

you purse your lips and shrug. his hands were tight on your hips, rubbing slow lazy circles into your skirt with his thumbs. it sent shivers down your spine. the moodiness of the room plus how good jungwon looked under you was pulling you into a trance.

he looked mesmerizing.

“can you kiss me again?”

his question makes you melt. you nod your head before gently placing your lips on his again. it turns more passionate with every passing second. his tongue brushes against your lips, seeking entrance to your mouth and you let him in.

“‘m so lucky,” he mutters into the kiss. you smile, gripping his hair in your hands as you suck the words out of his mouth. “you’re so pretty… and all mine now.”

you pull back, slightly out of breath. “i’m all yours, so act like it.”

“i promise.” he lifts one hand and pulls you against him once more, this time taking charge of the kiss.

jungwon trails his hand slowly down your side, reaching your lower back. you arch in his touch, rolling your hips against his lap in the process. he lets out a soft groan that makes your ears perk and your heart flutter. 

you release his lips and plant soft kisses around the corners of his mouth, against his cheek and down his jawline. giving soft kitten licks against his jawline as you trail down his neck. he leans back and lifts his head, giving you full access. jungwon takes this as a sign and begins gently moving your hips with his hands, guiding you into grinding against the crotch of his sweats.

you pull back, grabbing his hands as you rut against him, just like he wants. “you’re so cute, won.”

“cute?” his voice is breathy, on the verge of breaking. “you think this is cute?”

“i think you’re very cute when you want something,” you whisper, your lips ghosting over his. he nods his head, his breath hitching as you grind against his hardening length. 

“i told you earlier how badly i wanted you. i wasn’t lying.”

you giggle, pecking at the corners of his mouth. you’re grateful he wore sweatpants to a house party. “i can tell.”

he groans and leans his head back against the cushions. his cock is twitching against the fabric of his sweats, and the fact that your only wearing panties under your skirt isn’t helping him at all. jungwon could practically feel your warmth and it was killing him that he couldn’t be inside you right now. 

“you’re killing me.” his voice is strained, and you can see his jaw tighten with every roll of your hips. 

you situate your position in his lap, making sure you’re directly on top of his length. he sucks his breath in and lifts his head, staring down between both of your laps, wishing he could just move your skirt from his view. 

“but you don’t want me to stop, do you?” 

jungwon shakes his head, gripping your hips tighter and lifting the fabric of your skirt up just enough to see the lace you were hiding beneath them. 

“fuck…” he practically moans out. “please don’t stop.”

you bite back a whimper, every word caught in your throat now. “g-good… because i really don’t want to.”

he lifts your skirt higher, bunching it at your hips so he could watch as you grind down onto his clothed dick. the view is mesmerizing, and the sight of it makes him want to bust right there, especially when his eyes catch the damp patch you were leaving behind on the grey material. 

“just couldn’t wait, could you?” 

you let out a deep exhale, hips stuttering when you hear his voice, deeper and strained. “no… couldn’t wait for this.” 

“baby…” 

“you think that bikini picture was an accident?”

upon hearing those words leave your mouth, he can’t help the way his hips jolt upwards against you, causing you both to let out some form of whimper. 

he lets out a dry laugh and looks up at you, “you’re kind of a brat. all of that was on purpose?”

“i don’t think you know how badly i’ve been wanting you, won.” you admit through breathy whines. “it was all for you.”

“fuck—don’t say that to me, i might cum.”

you lean closer, resting your forehead against his as you quicken the pace of your hips. it was tiring, but hearing that made you gain a burst of stamina. 

jungwon groans loudly, trying to hold your hips still but you push against him. “did—did you not hear me?”

“please jungwon.”

it was pathetic how easily he gave into your pleas. it wasn’t an exaggeration when he says he would do anything for you. but when he hears that whiney voice paired with his name, it wasn’t hard to give up anything. so what if he cums in his pants like he’s never been touched before.

that’s how you made him feel. 

“i-i missed you so much,” you whine against his lips, feeling his hips meet yours, his cock perfectly nested against your cunt despite the fabric of his sweatpants restricting you from completely feeling him.

“i know, i’m sorry, baby,” jungwon responds, voice breaking as he inches closer and closer. his stomach is tense, holding back his oncoming orgasm just for you. it was hard, he shouldn’t have smoked beforehand knowing how sensitive he gets. but god, this was everything he wanted and he did not want to stop. “i won’t do it again, i promise you.” 

you slam your lips against his, eating up every groan and whimper he gives you as you rut against him desperately. and he lets you. jungwon lets you completely take over, he lets you get yourself off—dry humping him with pure need and desire.

his hips stutter and his stomach tenses up, “baby… please s-slow..” his cock is throbbing, begging for release. 

“just let go…” you purr, grinding downwards, feeling his cock practically jump at the action.

and he does. he cums embarrassingly quickly just from your words. 

jungwon holds you against him, burying his face in your chest as he cums against the fabric of his sweats. the throbbing never goes away and the sounds he lets out are no less than pathetic but neither of you care, both desperate for release. 

your own hips stutter when you feel the warm liquid seep through, soaking your thighs and ass. 

“won…” you softly cry out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. this wasn’t at all what you planned for the night, but you aren’t disappointed. even as your own orgasm washes over your body, all you can think about was getting back to his apartment for more. 

his hips jolt in sensitivity, he pulls back and lifts your hips from his lap. “god, please stop…” 

you watch as he throws his head back, eyes shut from the pleasure. a smile takes over your face when you see his chest rise and fall, watching as he tries to recompose himself.

“it’s not funny,” he lifts his head ever so slightly, squinting at you. “just wait… when we get back.”

“don’t over exert yourself, wonnie.” 

your giggles only spur him on. 

“you might be pretty but you’re a fucking brat.”

jungwon lifts his head and lets you fall back to your original position, wincing when you don’t even try to land softly on his crotch. you lean forward and kiss him once, then twice, traveling to his ear. “don’t talk to your girlfriend like that.” you whisper before nibbling on his earlobe. 

“yeah?” goosebumps spread across his skin and he squeezes your ass in response, causing you to pull back and smile widely. 

“yeah. especially when you were so mean to her by ignoring her like she didn’t exist for weeks.”

jungwon tilts your head. you weren’t wrong, but he knew why you kept bringing it up. 

“then i guess i should take you home and make up for all that time missed, huh? as an apology?”

you tap your finger against your chin, humming as you pretend to be deep in thought. “hmm… i guess you could. just don’t cum in your pants before we get home again.”

he shakes his head, scoffing playfully. “seriously. you’re a brat.”

[goorgeousz]

overtime | aaron hotchner

overtime | aaron hotchner

18+

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!female!reader

summary: based on this request! hotch calls you into his office after hours about a missing report but you know the real reason behind it

content/tw: unprotected sex, p in v sex, office sex, semi-public sex, use of y/n, dom!hotch, sub!reader, hotch puts you on a headlock (sexually), choking (reader being choked),

word count:

a/n: this was supposed to be a porn without plot situation but I’m a whore for background story… anyway, thank you for submitting, my requests are open <3 I hope you enjoy it!

after hours au masterlist (aaron hotchner x reader series)

main masterlist

This had to come to an end. 

This thing between you and Hotchner — whatever that was — had been going on for months now. The mutual pining, stolen glances, longing touches. 

You liked it. At first, it was too subtle. The rush of trying to get a moment alone. The butterflies in your stomach not knowing if it was real or happening just in your head. ‘Did he want to touch my waist or was it an accident?’ ‘Did he get coffee for everyone else or was it just me?’ ‘Was he looking at my lips or I’m seeing things?’

But enough is enough. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. And even though the longing were fun and exciting, it had to come to an end, otherwise would be just torture. Fantasy.

You were stubborn, you’d admit it. But Aaron? That man was a fucking wall. 

A few weeks ago, you thought he was going to break. It was a dinner party at Rossi’s. A lot of wine later, he offered to give you and JJ a ride. He let her home first, and you were alone in the car. Your dress had slipped up, you could see his eyes staring holes at your thighs from the driver seat. But as you waited for him to make the first move, he just parked and offered to walk you to the door, not even waiting for you to invite him to come in.

And then, in the last case you had, you felt him uneasy. He was shifting on his seat, fumbling with his fingers, his tie seemingly too tight, and he stared at you more than usual. Late at night, on the plane home, after everyone was asleep, you asked him what was wrong. He was nervous, but he was going to tell you. He really was. Finally. But the jet entered a turbulent area, and it woke everyone up. When you arrived, after packing your things to go home you went to talk to him again. Just the two of you. But the moment was gone, and he’d become distant again.

That’s when you decided: today was the day.

You didn’t typically wear tight outfits, or anything remotely short. Your day to day outfits were consistent: pants and a shirt. Maybe a sweater, maybe long skirts. You valued a good closet, choosing carefully your clothes — you loved feeling well dressed —, your goal to be the most comfortable possible. 

But it was summer, and hotter than usual. You didn’t think much of it, just picking that dress because it was possibly the only item you owned that wouldn’t overheat you. It wasn’t anything inappropriate, really. Just not what you usually went for.

It was a tight dress, stopping mid thigh, with a v-neck and ¾ sleeves. Nothing fancy, but it hugged your curves just right. You felt beautiful walking out, but you didn’t think people would notice it.

Man, were you wrong.

It started with Morgan, who playfully barked as soon as you walked into the bullpen. You laughed at him, playing and giving him a twirl. They all complimented you, and only then you realized you could use that to your advantage.

The team had a meeting, and you made sure to arrive early at the conference room, to be alone with Hotch and see if he would give you a reaction.

A reaction was given.

Hotch looked up from his papers when he heard your footsteps approaching the conference room. You smiled politely, greeted him with a good morning and grabbed a cup of coffee, making sure to spend as much time standing as possible.

More than seen, you felt his gaze on you. He looked at you like a man starved, not even bothering to greet you back. His eyes roamed your whole body, his breath hitching when you swayed your hips, walking slowly to sit next to him.

He didn’t pretend he wasn’t looking at your chest, your breasts pushed together under the cleavage, making him thirsty. His eyes found yours, and you realized you had him.

Before anything could happen, Spencer and Emily walked into the room, followed a few minutes later by the rest of the team. The interruption didn’t bother you in the slightest. You leaned back, trying not to grin too wildly while he started the meeting, not so subtly averting his eyes from you.

… 

It was a matter of time. You didn’t know when, you didn’t know how. But nonetheless, you knew.

Not even 10 minutes after, you got a text. Before you even got your phone, you knew it was coming.

From ‘Hotch’: Y/N, come to my office as soon as possible.

Feeling all too pleased with yourself, you chuckled and stood up, fixing your already perfectly smoothed dress, and climbed the stairs leading to Hotch’s office.

You knocked at the door and waited for a response. He authorized you to come in, his voice muffled by his soundproof walls.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, managing to seem oblivious.

“Yes.” he nodded, grabbing one of the files at his table. “It’s about your paperwork.”

“Is there something wrong?” you asked, knowing damn right there was nothing wrong. 

“Not with the ones you submit. There are a few reports missing.”

“Yes, I was going to do them tomorrow, when I’ll have more time. Since they’re too important, you know? Didn’t want to end up messing them up.” you explained, crossing your arms.

“I understand. But I’ll ask you to start doing those first.” you arched an eyebrow at that “It’s important to improve your production organization, just as much as the work itself. For example, if tomorrow we end up having a case, your focus should be on the case, not on the previous paper work. Even though there are only a few reports missing, they are the most relevant ones. So I suggest…” he interrupted his speech, clearly annoyed at you “I don’t see this is so funny, agent.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, sir.” you said, trying and failing miserably to suppress your grin. You didn’t even bother to sit.

This was ridiculous.

He leaned back on his chair, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows at you.

“Care to explain?” 

“It’s just that… I’m waiting for you to tell me the real reason you called me in here.” he looked dumbfounded at you.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not that what you’re saying isn’t important, it is. Very much so, I understand that. But you never told me about it. Not once, since I joined the team. I’ve always managed my paperwork just fine, never missed a report. Case or no case. And it didn’t affect my performance in the field, not in the slightest.” you explained, resting your hips at the back of the chair before you, glancing at him on the other side of the table. 

“This is not true at all.” he said, fixing his tie. You laughed.

“It is. You know it.” he did. But he wasn’t ready to admit it. “So you called me in just to talk about my reports?”

“Precisely.”

“And you had to wait for everyone to leave to talk with me about my reports?” you got him.

“I didn’t realize it was that late.” at that you laughed.

“Come on, Hotch. I see you staring. You can’t keep your eyes up. You try to, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s a very serious accusation, agent.” he muttered.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply stating facts.” you sighed “It could be so much easier if you just admitted.”

“How so?” he didn’t deny, so you took it as a sign he was close.

“You and I both know what’s going on. And neither of us want to break first. But I know I don’t just speak for myself when I say it’s becoming unbearable.”

“I don’t know if I agree.” he said, but his voice sounded hoarse and his pupils dilated.

“Oh but you do.” your tone a mocking sweetness “I bet you spent hours just figuring out a way to call me here. Something reasonable enough so it would be pathetic. It didn’t worry, did it?”

“Are you calling your unit chief pathetic, agent” he arched an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I’m calling pathetic men who let pride stop themselves from getting what they truly want. Are you pathetic, sir?” you asked, blinking your eyelashes at him.

Whatever smile he may have vanished at that.

He sat up straight, his eyes darkening with something dangerous. 

“Careful.” he warned, scolding.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. You thought this was over. It was starting to piss you off.

Any amusement you may have felt just vanished.

You were so over this. It wasn’t funny anymore. It was ridiculous, humiliating. This game you two were playing was long overdue.

That’s when you decided to give up. It was now or never.

“Fine, Hotch. Do you want me to leave?” you asked, looking at him blatantly, your emotions displayed openly in your eyes like they were a shining outdoor.

He hesitated.

That motherfucker.

Hotch looked at you in the eyes once more, deeply. Like he needed to confirm something before he chose his next move. Like a chess player. Pacient. Deliberate. Analytical. Whatever he was looking for, he found it. And he made his move.

“No.”

No.

How could a single, monosyllabic, two-letter word could carry the weight of the whole world?

One word that changed everything.

It was a crime. A sin. A dream.

Everything you ever wanted, but not nearly enough. 

You really wanted to say you remember everything, every detail. But your mind must’ve blanked out, because you had no idea of how and when you moved, but the next second you were standing right next to each other. 

His hands reach out to you to pull you closer, like you weren’t fast enough, and he needed you now. Out of all times, now. He held you by your waist, you gripped tightly on the lapels of his expensive suit. He stopped for a second. Without hesitation, but reverence. Like he wanted to savour every single detail of this, of you. You wanted too. Wanted to feel him, to see him. 

To enjoy the last seconds of the before. Because after that, nothing would ever be the same.

Despite the strength of his grip, when he kissed you, it was gentle. Kind. Devoted. Like he waited long for this (he did). You hoped, dreamt, fantasized about it even. It didn’t even compare.

His lips were gentle, kind, steady. It grounded you, it brought you back to this moment. He tasted like coffee and mint. Weird on the paper, but felt like heaven. He kissed you languidly, like he wanted to devour you. Like he was starved, and you were his only saving. He was an expert – of course-. It was surprising but not really. He was so good at it, but again, he was good at everything.

His hands rested on your waist and on your lower back, touching you like you were his holy grail.

You pulled back slightly, just to look at him again. To check if this wasn’t another cruel joke of your mind, a fantasy developed by your subconscious to punish you for its lack of rest.

It wasn’t.

You smiled at him breathlessly, biting your lower lip in delight. You stared at his wet lips like they held the secret of life behind them. You tasted it, you knew what he felt like. It was sweet, caring, and beautiful. Something to tell your kids, your grandkids. But still, not enough.

So you leaned in again, hungrier this time. So determined he was caught by surprise, stumbling back a little. He held you tighter and balanced his stance. He hummed in delight, you swallowed the sound like it was water.

“God” you muttered between kisses, and you felt his lips turning into a smirk.

“Wrong.” he teased, racing his hand lower and gripping tightly on your hips. You hummed in satisfaction, gripping the hair on the back of his neck and pulling on it. He groaned, pressing you closer against him. “So pretty.” you chuckled.

“If I knew all it took was a tight old dress I would’ve worn it way sooner.” you teased, biting on his lower lip. He stiffened. His grip remained strong, but he wasn’t pulling you into him anymore.

“You think that’s what this is about? Your dress?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. He was confused, a bit worried even.

“You can’t fool me, I saw you staring.” you gave him a pointed look. He arched an eyebrow at you.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was. But this is not about your dress. Or none of your… attributes.” he said, glancing at your chest while sliding his hands to the curve of your ass. You held your breath unconsciously. “It’s about your eyes.” 

Huh?

“What?” you managed, your voice hoarse. He smirked. The bastard. “The way you looked at me today. So determined. You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” He was right, of course.

Normally, you would’ve lied, teased. But the attentive gaze he held you under didn’t let you. He was so close, his brown eyes staring so deeply into yours that you knew you couldn’t lie to him. Even if you wanted to.

“Yes.” you breathed. His smirk only grew. “You knew it all along. Played me like a toy.” 

“No, I- I wouldn’t say that…” you stuttered. He chuckled, amused. “Thought your little dress would make me crumble, right?”  he teased, leaning in, his lips brushing your ear “I was already long gone. But nice try, sweetheart.” you moaned – actually, moaned – at the sound of his voice.

He could’ve laughed at you. He should’ve. Damn it, you would’ve laughed at yourself, if it wasn’t for the crushing desire burning you and all your moral thoughts inside out. But apparently, he was suffering just the same, because your moan just ignited something in him. Like a switch, his teasing demeanour vanished, taking its place an animalistic one. He wasn’t tasting you anymore. He was taking from you, taking everything you had to give him. Your lips, your teeths, your tongue. Oh, your tongue. He sucked on it, licked it, grazed his teeth along it. He played with it like a pro, and you were ready to cut it off and hand it to him on a silver platter, if he asked you to.

Hotch grabbed your hips and crashed them onto his, and you could feel his hard-on right under his expensive suit pants pressed against you. Both of you hummed at the contact, thirsting for more.

He started to back you up against his desk, your thighs pressing the edge of the dark wooden desk. He leaned over while kissing you, pushing you firmly until you were seated on his desk. Fully seated, you opened your legs for him to stand between them. You pulled back, batting your eyelashes to him.

“Aren’t you going to push the files off the table?” you teased the cliche setting. He smirked, leaning closer to bite your neck “I’m taking you over right on top of it.”

Thank God you were sitting, otherwise you would’ve felt down. Now that would be humiliating.

“Hotch” you murmured, hooking your fingers to the waistband of his pants, pulling him closer “Please”.

“Anything you want, Sweetheart.” he said in fake compliance “Just have to tell me what it is.” he grinned, wickedly. You groaned, needy.

“You, Hotch.” you said. He chuckled, “I’m right here.”

You rolled your eyes, but he held you closer, placing his hands on your thighs and squeezing them harshly. It didn’t hurt you, the sting going straight to your core. You moaned in response, instinctively arching your back and spreading your legs further apart.

He kissed you hungrily, pushing up the hem of your dress until it barely covered up your cunt, groaning every time your nails grazed the nape of his neck. You wrapped your legs around his hips, grinding into him like your life depended on it. He held your hips steady, stopping you from moving, making you huff in frustration. With his other hand, he held you by your jaw, his hand easily covering it entirely.

You looked up at him, his hand holding you in place. Metaphorically and physically submissive for him. It turned you on so bad.

“I’ll ask again, Sweetheart.” he whispered, trying not to grin too much “What do you want?”

You didn’t hold back in the slightest “Fuck me, Hotch. Please, just fuck me.” you begged. He smiled slowly, predatorily. Leaned in gently and left a chaste peck on your lips. It confused you. Until it didn’t.

In a mere of seconds he stepped away, stood you up and spinned you around, pushing you again against the dest, making you lay in your stomach, your ass pressed directly into his crotch.

He pulled the rem of your dress up, letting the fabric mound around your waist “Of fucking course” he muttered at your navy-blue lacy panties. His hands roamed around you, your back, your asscheeks, your thighs. He kissed it, licked it, sucked on your flesh like he needed it more than he needed to breathe.

You pushed yourself back, needing him so much it was starting to ache “Hotch, please” you whined, not even caring if you sound desperate – which you did. Surprisingly, he heard you, standing up and unbuckling his belt. The sound made you moan in anticipation, all your bossy facade disappearing completely. 

You glanced back, ogling at the sight of him pulling himself out of his briefs, hard, long and ready to fill you up. He looked at you, smugly smirking at you. He squeezed the red tip, groaning with the feeling, and stroked himself once, and then twice looking at your cheeks thrown at him. You made sure he had the best view, arching your back and pushing it back in his direction. He held your hips and spanked your cheeks with his shaft, chuckling to himself at your neediness.

Hotch eventually took pity on you, spreading your legs further apart by nudging your feets with his. He slides your underwear down, taking it off and hiding it his poked with a grin. His fingers teased your entrance, spreading your wetness and pushing one finger in. He thrusted in you a few times, your moan confirming to him you were ready for a second finger. And then a third. When you were clenching around his fingers, needy and ready for him, he took all of them off. You whined while he used his wet fingers as a lub, stroking himself again and aligning his shaft with your entrance.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse. You hummed. “Words, please.” “Yes, Hotch. Damn it, I’m…” your bickering soon turned into a strangled moan as he thrusted in you, his length and girth stretching you deliciously. He slowly bottomed out, his breath heavy and shallow, trying to control himself.

The moan he let out when you pushed your ass back, thrusting into him, was guttural. Animalistic. Feral. He held your hips and started thrusting into you, his tip reaching your spot so many times it made your head light.

“Doing so good for me, sweetheart.”  he praised. You moaned. “S-so good.” you managed to say, your words cutting short by his thrusts. He chuckled “So monosyllabic now. Cat got your tongue?” “Fuck you” you muttered “Is that the way to speak with your boss?” he teased, tangling a hand on your hair in a makeshift ponytail and pulling you towards him, your back sticking to his chest.

The new angle made him reach even deeper, both of you panting in sensibility. He reached one hand to your clit, pressing tiny and light circles in it, making you moan even louder. With his other hand he roamed at your body, pulling your breasts out of your cleavage, squeezing them. The callus in his hand adds to the addictive feeling, and pushes you further on the edge.

Hotch kissed and sucked your neck, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and licking right after to sting the pain. It was hell and heaven all at once. So many sensations, his cock deep inside you, his breath hot on the shell of your ear, whispering praises and groaning until you couldn’t hear anything but his voice and the sinful sounds of your wetness being filled by him.

His hand climbed up at your throat, squeezing it gently.

You tried to hide it, you truly did.

You weren’t embarrassed about your moaning, your begging. You were way past that.

But to have your boss knowing how much you got off on being choked — the very same way you saw people get killed on a daily basis — was a different kind of humiliation.

So you tried to hide, to muffle. But your body got the best of you, clenching and letting the most pornography moan you could at the minimum pressure on your throat.

He laughed. Not smiled, not chuckled. Laughed. Pleasantly. Like he found a treasure, the key of the universe.

And honestly, he felt like he did.

He gripped on your hair tightly, pulling you harder with one hand and using the other to spread across your stomach, keeping your body flush against his.

“Got you.” he hummed drunkenly right next to your ear, biting it hard. The hand on your stomach lowered until it found your clit, pressing his thumb on your bound tightly. You were close and he knew it. 

With his free arm he did the unthinkable. He engulfed you on a one-arm hug, putting you on a headlock, his biceps squeezing you deliciously. You clenched around him, pushing your hips out and fucking him back.

“Hotch… So… Close” you warned him between huffs, your lungs failing you. The burn makes your eyes water and your legs shake.

“I can feel just how much you’re enjoying this. Clenching me so fucking tight.” he grunted, his own thrust becoming erratic and clumsy “That’s all you wanted all along, right? Teasing me for months just to be choked by me. Next I’ll choke you with my cock down your throat.” he hissed, and you felt your orgasm coming.

“Hotch, I’m…” you couldn’t finish it, your orgasm hitting like a truck.

“So pretty coming around me. ‘M gonna fill you up so fucking good.” and just like that you felt his dick twitching inside you, spurting his seed deep on your cervix.

He thrusted until you stopped shaking, too sensitive for any more contact. With a hiss, he pulled out of you, chuckling with the sight of your juices combined sliding down your leg.

He cleaned you up, peppering your face with kisses. He fixed your dress, your underwear long gone — you couldn’t find it in yourself to care — and redid his pants, almost like it never happened. Besides the hairs clinging on his face with sweat and the blush of his cheeks. And you, lying lazily on his lap like a renascent painting.

“So… next time, huh?” you teased, trying to ease up the tension — created by your own intrusive thoughts only — and lightly bring up the question that lingers on your head as soon as any coherent thought managed to linger on your mind for more than three seconds:

 Was this a one time thing? You glanced up at him, and relief rushed through your bloodstream. If the relaxed, adoring and glowing smile he had on his lips meant anything, you had nothing to worry about.

[msfantasy-comics]

Head [18+]

Batboys x Reader

Request: Giving mind blowing head to the Batboys

Warning: Smut

Bruce Wayne

The birds sing in celebration of the rising sun

as the morning dew glistens off the green grass.

The crisp air is keeping most at bay in their warm welcoming beds. But whilst most were snuggling up in their nests of blankets.

Your husbands hands tangle in your hair, gentling pulling the stands in pure bliss as he groans out at the feeling of your mouth pulling his soul from his cock.

You’ve performed fellatio on your beloved husband hundreds if not thousands of times by now.

And each time, the act is still as mind blowing as the last.

Your bouncing head draws all nerves towards his groin as all of his senses turn off. Only to feel how your tongue seems to dart, lick and massage at all sensitive nerve spots.

Finding new ways to have him involuntarily twisting himself like a pretzel despite your wandering hands grazing up and down his firm body.

Bruce believes without a shadow of a doubt that you give the best head.

Dick Grayson

“Dickie? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” You say, to your fiancé as you round the corner. Into your shared living room.

An unusual scowl pressed onto his face.

He raised his arms and crosses them over his chest with a pouty huff, his head turning back to the TV. You walk up behind him, your palms rubbing his shoulders, his tensed shoulders slowly becoming relaxed under your touch.

“I’m still mad at you.” Dick huffs, turning his eyes back to Season 2 of Charmed.

“You were away for 2 weeks and I was dying to know what happened next!” You defend but Dicks eyes widened with an accusatory stare.

“I don’t care about your excuses— you don’t watch OUR show without me!” He retorts, turning back to the TV. With a little humph.

Whilst it was a little endearing to see your big, hunky fiancé carry on like a teenage girl— you really don’t want to deal with his crankiness for the next few hour’s.

“Dickie~” You call out with that voice. Leaning down to his ear your sultry invitation sends shivers down his spine. “How about I make it up to you with that thing you like me doing?” You add suggestively.

Dick snaps his head up to you- his eyes scrutinising your own, as if to reassure your offer is genuine- gauging if he can get as excited as he’s already starting to feel.

His playful voice is gone, replaced with that deep bravado voice that gives you goosebumps. “Come mere’ baby, make it up to me.” He invites, tapping one hand on his lap, and the other hand being extended out for you to hold as you climb over the back of the couch and into his lap.

Dick was never one for being quiet.

But whenever you give him head — he’s screaming singing your praises.

“Uh- baby- just - just like that!” He praises, his loins quivering in pleasure as you roll around his balls in your mouth, sending dull waves of pleasure lapping down his thighs and up his stomach.

His head luls back in bliss, his arm now thrown over his eyes as he wheezes and strains, in ecstasy.

“Uhh— please baby — s-suck me off already.” He groans out as you smirk up at his sprawled out state, not that he could even see you with his head tilted up to the evens speaking praises upon your skill set.

Your antics have barely begun, and your fiancé was already puddy in your hands.

Jason Todd

Well that escalated quickly.

One moment you’re drunkenly slurring your bragging rights as a woman who’s brought men to tears with her skilful tongue.

The next Jason was scoffing at your proclamation, throwing yet another empty beer can over his shoulders into the pile you two are making in the Outcasts hide-out.

“Listen here lil-lady,” Jason hiccups, “All head feels fucking heavenly— yours aren’t special, ya’know that?”

Well, Jason was eating his words now, nothing surpassing his lips were close to co-herent.

Each drag of your head down his cock made his body shiver. Your tongue slithering up and down the underside of his shaft with each drag. Your hollowed out cheeks hugging his sides. Your throat constricting around his tip.

The alcohol making his reaction slow. So when your pace began to pick up, his delayed brain was slammed with endorphins when the sensation of your god-sent mouth begins to suck his soul right from his cock.

He cradles your head as his knees involuntarily jerks up in the air.

Your hands snake around the underside of his thighs, anchoring them back to the ground.

You look up through your lashes. Jason an absolute writhing mess, his head lulling around, you feel the spasm of muscles twitching under your hands until his eyes screw shut.

“Ah Princess, ah baby, ah doll—“ Jason begins to spill through nicknames until his voice cuts off when he spills his essence onto you tongue. His abs clench harshly, causing Jason to curl forward, still cradling your head as he continuously unloads into your moth.

When air finally filters through Jason’s lungs, tears begin to pour out of the crease of his star filled eyes.

Tim Drake

You are the best damn assistant in the whole universe.

Most secretaries organise their bosses days and bring them meals.

Some secretaries went the extra mile to assist on personal life chores to ensure their bosses days run a little bit more smoothly without letting their mind wonder to dwell on personal life chores.

But you really went above and beyond.

You manage everything in Tim’s life.

Your day usually starts with arriving at 6am to Mr. Tim Drake-Wayne’s home to act as a human alarm. Shaking your boss awake and handing him a croissant and coffee as you walk to the bathroom to place his towel, walking to his wardrobe to unzip his dry cleaning for the week and matching cologne, cuff links, watches, belts, suits and shirts for the day.

As soon as he jumps into the shower you collect his hero suit to send off to the Wayne manor for cleaning.

And that’s only the first 10 minute of the day.

But today you’re growing restless as the clock ticks over to 6:56am.

You didn’t need to wake up your boss since he’s already writhing in bed, masturbating.

On one hand you should just stay put and let him come to completion on his own.

On the other hand he has an essential 8:40am meeting at Wayne enterprises and he’s already behind schedule…

It’s not like you be the first secretary to offer a little more than what is office appropriate but after all these years— it honestly wasn’t that much more of an overstep.

“Mr. Drake-Wayne— I’m sorry to interrupt but we really don’t have time—“

“Wait! I’m not decent!” He yells across… as if you didn’t already know that, you’ve had to listen to him for the past 57minutes.

“I’m aware sir, but you really don’t have time for ‘personal’ activities sir…” You say, hearing the growls of frustration. “Would you like a hand?” You offer, but your met back with silence.

“I can’t ask you—“

“You’re not — I’m offering.” You reassure. “Trust me sir — it’ll be a lot quicker if I—“

“Okay.” He agrees quickly, much to your surprise.

You open the door, your familiar form filling the doorway with your red bottom stiletto heels, pencil skirt, and tight top.

“We really must make this quick.” You say, pacing quickly on the bed where Tim is half leaning against the head board, pink tinging his cheeks. You begin to crawl up the centre of his bed, pulling down the blankets that covered him, where his member sprints to life. The tip is a roaring red colour, and his cock looked awfully swollen.

The air is filled with sweat and musk.

You look down at the slit of his shaft, where a pearl of pre-cum collects. You give a few tested strokes as Tim begins to whimper.

“Sir, if you need help, than you can just ask me. Otherwise I can organise a proper escort service to—“

“No!” Tim quips quickly, “I’m fine with your assistance for as long as you care to provide it…” he says to which you nod. Sliding down onto your stomach to provide some kitten licks to the tip, to test the sensitivity.

With how vocal Tim is being, this really won’t take long. Your mouth captures the tip as Tim throws his head back, your left hand moving to capture Tim’s balls to play with as you move your right hand to press just below Tim’s navel, his Ren 4 pressure point.

“Ugh—god—ah—what’re you doing? F-f-feels good!” Tim praises, huge heavy breathes heaving from his chest as your head bobs along his cock, drinking in his cum as he releases down your throat with a cacophony of moans to follow. Tim looks down at you with his blissed out glassy eyes.

He’s never cum that hard or so quickly before.

A sense of dread pulls at his heart strings knowing he shouldn’t have done that, and that he shouldnt repeat this again. But already, he’ll beat off to this memory for years to come.

“Sir — you really have to begin showering now. And please.” You say, crawling off the bed and fixing your skirt. “If you needed help, it’s faster if you just ask me.”

Damian Wayne

This was just meant to be a quick and easy task.

You wanted to drop off some baked goods to the Wayne manor.

Showing up unannounced was out of your character— but hell, it would’ve been rude to not say a quick hello to your best friend Damian Wayne.

Besides, any excuse to see your crush was a good excuse.

But just as you got ready to excitedly knock and see that handsome face, you were taken aback by the sounds that came through the door.

“Ahh~” Damian hisses.

Your face begins to heat up, hearing the familiar wet skin sounds.

“Uh— fuck.” He groans, almost frustrated. You stand stock still, unable to tear yourself away, listening to your crush touch himself. But before you knew it— you were pushing past the door when you unmistakably heard your name roll through the air— followed by a moan. “Oh—shit!” Damian scrambles at your sudden appearance, his mouth opening and closing. For the first time ever Damian Wayne doesn’t have a single word to say.

You couldn’t help but smirk at Damian’s failed attempts at hiding himself.

“I heard my name— I thought you were inviting me in~” You coo, sliding down to your knees in front of Damian’s chair. “Can I help?” You ask.

Where Damian’s skeptical eyes remain narrowed on you. “Don’t you know how to knock?” He scolds, making you click your tongue in annoyance.

“Fine— I’ll just go—“

“I suppose if you insist— you can make it up to me.” Damian concludes, quickly. Receding his hands back to the arm rests of his chair, his head leaning back in relaxation— waiting for you to take matters into your own hands.

And my word— did you.

Because as soon as Damian relinquished control to you, your tongue makes a sudden and abrupt appearance right at the base of his shaft, licking the underside of his shaft until you reach the top, allowing your tongue to swirl the head until you begin to suckle the tip.

“Ah-hmph!” Damian grunts, your tongue sending an electric shock up his spine where his brain begins to fizz endorphins.

Oh—shit, do that a couple more times and Damian will be spurting down your throat and you’ve only just begun!

Your eyes lock onto Damian as your cheeks hollow out, taking him in.

His fingers clench harshly at the arm rests.

He can’t cum so quickly. You’ll think he’s a two pump chump!

Just as Damian’s resolve to hold out is built up, your head bobs up, and on your decent dawn your tongue begins to slug along the underside causing his nerves to shoot bolts of pleasure along his loins.

Damian’s hand shoots to the base of your skull, grabbing a fist full of your hair, ready to rip you off before he completely unloads his balls down your throat.

But as soon as you feel Damian’s family jewels accent. Your head shoots forward, making sure to swallow every drop he had to offer as he releases the most ungodly moans you’ve ever heard.

Duke Thomas

“No” Duke protest, “Babe let me— oh god” His knees buckle under the weight of your heavenly mouth encapsulating his tip. “Let — me — ahh”

Your boyfriend screws his eyes shut, attempting to tip back the scales of pleasure before it’s too late.

But just when he thinks he’s in control of his pleasure centre, he looks down at you.

Kneeling into a cushion you strategically placed.

Your lingerie clad form looking so pretty with the way your hips are sticking back and the way your chest is looking so full.

Your hair cascading behind your ears, ready for a fistful to be taken.

But the lewdest image made Dukes mind go blank as your eyes collect tears at the corner from taking something so big. You mouth sucking in until your cheeks hollow; as you slide down— not daring to take your eyes off your man as you account for every movement, making sure to repeat actions that make his eyes roll, his face twitch, or the way his mouth slowly opens.

And just like that— he spills into your mouth, unloading everything he has in that moment whether he wanted to or not.

“AH — Baby!” He calls, throwing his head back, his whole body vibrating in ecstasy.

He didn’t even notice you have gotten onto your feet as you press kisses into his neck. “Happy Anniversary, Love.” You greet sweetly, as if you didn’t just suck his essence out three seconds prior.

But if you thought you were getting away with your shenanigans— than you’d be dead wrong.

Duke lifts you up by the bottom of your thighs, throwing you onto your back as he sinks to his knees right were he belongs.

[rafesheaven]

how i met your mother જ⁀➴♡

warnings — fluff, strangers to lovers, story of how rafe & reader met, being set up on a date, reader & rafe both being stood up, light teasing, rafe making reader easily flustered, the entirety of this is the past & the present is under the heart divider. a/n — reuploaded valentine's event fic (originally posted 2/10)

"why did i agree to this again?" you mutter, wishing you were home. yet here you are, waiting in a restaurant for your date to arrive. you had only agreed to this date because there was no use in arguing with your friend, who decided to set you up on a date with one of her co-workers. you knew she was only looking out for you and didn't want you sulking to yourself in your apartment, but you were dreading the date after being broken up with on valentine's last year.

you huffed as fifteen minutes passed, and there was still no sign of your date. you reached for your phone to thumb through your messages in case he sent a text about running late before placing your phone onto the table when you found zero messages. your eyes scan the dimly lit restaurant before propping your chin onto the palm of your hand. your fingers drummed against the cloth, frowning at the sound of laughter from couples surrounding you. "happy valentine's day to me," you stared at the empty seat.

the hostess made her way over, and you could see the pitiful look on her face as she made her way to the table. "i'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to give up the table." your shoulders slumped, wishing the ground would open and swallow you whole, "oh…um, can i stay a little longer? in case he's running late?" she gave you an apologetic smile, "i'm really sorry, i hate doing this. if it was up to me, i would let you."

"no, it's okay, you're just doing your job. i understand, but thank you," you gave her a small smile, grabbing your phone to slip into your purse. you stood up, throwing your purse over your shoulder, and exited the restaurant. frustrated, you pulled your phone out to call tyler, who was supposed to be your date, when you bumped into someone. "shit, i'm sorry, i wasn't looking where i was going," you ushered an apology. "it's okay, it was partially my fault," rafe chuckled, picking up your phone.

"hey, are you okay?" your eyes snapped to the man in front of you, "yeah, i'm fine, just ready to be home. it's been a long night," you muttered. “yeah, tell me about it,” rafe snickered, "i was walking up to the restaurant to meet my date, only to see her leaving with her ex-boyfriend." his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you your phone. you couldn't deny he was attractive, which made it hard for you to believe his date just up and left him, "if it makes you feel better, i was stood up."

"you’re telling me someone decided to skip out on a date with you? not only is he a dumbass, but he’s clearly blind." rafe snorted, shaking his head. he was just as confused as you were when he told you his date left him. “yeah, it seems like i don’t have luck with valentine’s day,” you joked, hoping he wouldn’t notice how easily flustered he made you. rafe noticed how you avoided eye contact with him, “i guess we should change that, huh? you know…i still have ten minutes till my reservation, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“i-i don’t even know your name, and we’re going on a date?” your cheeks grew warmer by the second. “oh, so it’s a date, huh?” he hummed, enjoying the way your eyes widened as you struggled to find words. “n-no, that’s not what i meant–i just–” you stuttered. “getting all shy on me already? you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he teased.

“n-no,” god, you wish you would stop tripping over your words. you can’t even remember the last time someone made you this nervous. “rafe,” he laughed, “huh?” you furrowed your brows. “my name is rafe. i figured i’d tell you my name if we’re going on a date,” he grinned, knowingly using your words against you.

“that’s the story of how i met your mother,” rafe kissed the crown of your daughter’s head, bouncing her up and down his leg. you smiled to yourself, pushing yourself off the doorframe, “no more stories for tonight, you have school tomorrow.” rafe stood up, carefully setting her down in her bed to tuck her in.“i’m glad your dates didn’t show up,” your daughter yawned. “me too, baby,” rafe chuckled, his eyes already fixed on you before planting a kiss on your cheek.

taglist + moots: @anacamofficial @chrissturnslovergirlx @dollyfiles @heartsforvin @ilovefiction4lmen @littlelamy @memoirofasparklemuff1n @nemesyaaa @rafesbabygirlx @rafesangelita @v3n1ce-bxtch @kild4re @rowdydevs @cameronsprincess @faiyaz555 @rafeyscumangel @rafeysangelbaby

[rosemaryhoney27]

“Meet the Parents (And Their Armory)”

When Danny said, “You guys should meet my parents,” the Batkids had collectively paused.

Jason: “Aren’t those the ones who tried to dissect you?”

Danny: “They got better.”

Damian: “You are very casual about attempted vivisection.”

Danny: “Welcome to the Fenton family, baby.”

Dick: “This can’t possibly go wrong.”

Steph: “Famous last words.”

FentonWorks — Amity Park

The Batkids stepped out of the Fenton RV, staring up at the lime green, Frankenstein’d-together house with a giant ectoplasmic turret on top.

Tim whispered, “That building violates every safety code I’ve ever studied.”

“Which means it’s perfect,” Jason grinned.

The front door burst open.

“DANNY-BOY!” Jack Fenton roared, charging out in a hazmat suit and hugging Danny so hard he phased to avoid cracked ribs.

“And these must be your little friends!” Maddie beamed. “Are they in your ghost hunting club? Vigilante group? Paranormal protection gang?”

Jason: “...Yes.”

Inside the Lab

Danny’s siblings (by chaos, not blood) stood in awe-slash-terror as Jack proudly showed off the Fenton Arsenal��.

“We’ve got Ecto-Blasters, Specter Snare Cannons, the Ghost Gabber 9000—”

“That one doesn’t do anything,” Danny stage-whispered. “It just yells ghost puns.”

“—and of course, my favorite,” Jack said, hefting a glowing, bazooka-sized monstrosity, “The Fenton Anti-Creep Stick™!”

“Can I hold it?” Jason asked immediately.

Danny: “You really, really shouldn’t—”

Jack: “You absolutely can!”

Danny: “—oh god.”

Jason grinned like a kid in a candy store as he hoisted the Anti-Creep Stick and blew a crater in the backyard. “I LOVE YOUR DAD.”

Gift Time

“So!” Maddie chirped. “We made each of you a custom ghost-defense item!”

Danny: “...Please be small.”

They were not.

Jason got a pair of twin ecto-revolvers — glowing green, sleek, with ghost-seeking tech embedded in the handles. He was in love.

Tim got a pocket-sized spectral scanner that unfolded into a full laptop. (“It hacks through dimensions,” Maddie said proudly. Tim nearly cried.)

Damian was gifted a miniaturized spectral scimitar. Jack added, “It sings your theme song when it powers up!” Damian smiled — a terrifying, sharp little smile.

Steph got an ectoplasm glitter bomb launcher. She immediately set it off in the kitchen. Maddie was delighted.

Dick received ecto-infused grappling hooks that let him swing through walls. He hugged both parents on the spot.

Later That Night

The Batkids lounged on beanbags in Danny’s room, covered in marshmallow goo from Fenton family s’mores night.

Steph: “Your mom tackled a ghost into the barbecue pit.”

Tim: “Your dad gave me a hug that cracked my ribs.”

Jason (stroking his new guns lovingly): “I’m moving in.”

Danny: “You’ll regret that at 3AM when the fridge starts screaming.”

Damian: “Your father attempted to high-five me. I allowed it. Once.”

Danny snorted. “He’s gonna cry from happiness later.”

Meanwhile, in the Fenton Kitchen

Maddie sipped her tea. “They’re good kids.”

Jack nodded, eyes misty. “Do you think if we adopt them too, we can finally start that Ghost Hero Team I always wanted?”

Maddie smiled. “Let’s give them snacks first.”

Group Chat: [Batfam + Phantom of the Groupchat]

Jason: Can I call your dad Pops?

Danny: ...I literally do not have the power to stop you.

Steph: i want to go back next weekend. ghost dodgeball rematch.

Damian: I defeated the kitchen specter with honor. Fenton called it a “heckin’ good whack.”

Tim: I still don’t know how the toaster is haunted.

Dick: Best parents. A+++ would let them arm me again.

Danny: they’re already building a tank for you.

Bruce: WHAT DO YOU MEAN "A TANK"

Danny: Too late B. You’re a Fenton by association now 😎

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 6: Truth or Dare

series masterlist

Chapter Summary: “What about me?” asked Pride. “Shut up,” replied Jealousy. Lust laughed hard. You finally get that you can’t run from your feelings anymore, but what the hell? Or are you too late?

Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time.

Chapter Word Count: 12,5k, oops I did it again!! HOT (SMUT) CHAPTER ALERT! , feelings!!! fluffy, rom-com, lust, passion, jealousy, dirty talk.

authors note: Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

Getting out of bed in the morning was a total struggle. The memories from last night felt like a heavy weight, making you feel crushed. You thought you knew how you felt, but then again, you weren’t so sure. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

You definitely needed to talk to someone, or maybe even see a therapist.

But you couldn’t chat with Zoe yet; you’d come home late the night before, and now you had to rush off to work. Perhaps you could catch up with her when you return later that evening.

Zoe was still sprawled out on the couch, her ankle too painful to even rise for a bathroom break. You made her a sandwich before heading out.

As you walked to the subway, you found yourself scrolling through relationship advice sites on your phone. You knew it was a bit silly to seek guidance online, but what could it hurt to take a peek? After sifting through a bunch of silly sites and endless ads, a social Q&A platform caught your eye. One question stood out:

"How am I supposed to tell him I love him too, but I'm not ready?"

Ah just what you were looking for.

You scrolled to read all the answers.

clickcrazecreations

It is okay to not return the statement, to say “thank you but I'm not ready”, to tell the person that you are not ready to be shackled by their love and affection.

But that wasn’t your issue—you were ready;-almost ready- that wasn’t the real problem.

wanderlustchronicles

Seriously, think twice! If you can't answer, it might mean you're not really in love, girl! It's okay to move on and find someone who makes you happy!

Hey! Who said you didn’t love him? And you knew he made you happy.

oprahwindfury

Wait, you found a guy who told you he loved you first, and you couldn't reply? Seriously? In this day and age with dating being tough, that's wild! You need a good kick in the ass. You bet I will.

That comment scared you a little and made you feel weird. Why did she sound so angry?

hopelessromantic

Is he handsome? I'll say yes to him. Give me his number.

What the heck? Those online comments were really getting on your nerves.

fartnroses

It’s pretty simple, come on! Follow your heart instead of... No, I’m not talking about that squishy thing!

You were just closing the page when you realized the most sensible comment.

agnespire

Love requires Courage. Take a hard look at your fear of saying these words to him. Then, if you love him, tell him so. Good communication is key in a relationship. This means pushing yourself into situations that may not be so comfortable at first. It’s called growth. Grow together. Share your feelings. Honor your feelings for him. Most of all, confront fears you have about anything and everything, and acknowledge that all negative emotions stem from fear. Kill it! Choose Love.

Choosing love.

Maybe it was that simple. 

Courage. 

Maybe that's exactly what you need.

The elevator bell chimed as Oliver stepped into Harry's apartment on the 72nd floor. His phone rang just then, and he answered it while scanning the room for Harry.

“Damn gossipmongers, they don’t waste any time. Get that story taken down from every site and warn them we’ll sue their asses if they keep running with it,” he said, fuming as he ended the call. His eyes continued searching for Harry, darting toward the bedroom but finding it empty.

He ventured into the living room and discovered Harry in the last place he expected: sprawled out on the couch, one leg dangling over the side. Whiskey bottles littered the floor, and the heavy scent of alcohol mixed with something else—cigarette smoke.

What the hell?

He’d quit smoking almost a decade ago.

This wasn't good.

Oliver leaned in and gave Harry a gentle nudge on the shoulder. “Harry? You okay?”

Harry mumbled something incoherent. Oliver leaned closer, trying to catch it, and realized he was murmuring your name.

Sighing, Oliver stood up. “Seriously, Harry! Wake up!” This time he poked him a bit harder.

Harry blinked awake and sat up, coughing as he tried to shake off the grogginess.

“Cigarettes? Really?”

“I have my reasons,” he replied, still half-asleep and grumpy.

Placing his hands on his hips, Oliver surveyed the scene. “Dude, last night... I thought you and her had it all figured out, but apparently not.”

“Harry! Ollie!” Maria called out as she rushed in from the elevator, her eyes widening in shock. “Sweet Jesus!”

“Good morning to you, too,” Oliver said, smiling sheepishly.

“What the hell happened here?” she asked, grimacing as she took in the chaos. “I thought…”

Oliver shook his head. Maria sighed in frustration.

Harry, nursing the terrible headache from his night of heavy drinking, pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and temple. His hair was a mess, and he was still in the same tuxedo pants with his bow tie nowhere in sight.

“That dress. Isn’t it—” Oliver pointed to the black dress Harry was loosely holding, not even realizing he was still clutching it.

Suddenly aware, Harry sheepishly placed the dress back on the couch.

“The dress she gave back,” Oliver concluded, looking astonished.

“Are you kidding me?” Maria said, staring at him in disbelief.

Harry frowned, holding the dress back up to his nose. “Smells like her, okay?” he murmured, looking like a kid with his favorite candy.

“That’s fantastic! Bravo!” Maria clapped her hands together mockingly. “Who are you, and what have you done to my buddy Harry?”

Harry, ignoring the banter, picked up a pack of cigarettes and searched for any left inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver snatched the pack from his hands.

“Give it back!” Harry barked.

“Stop it! You’ve been clean for years; you can’t start again now.”

A tug-of-war began as Harry reached for it again.

Maria crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “You guys are acting like kids fighting over a toy.” She glanced at her watch. “Just so you know, it’s Monday,” she added, putting extra emphasis on her point.

Oliver suddenly froze.

“Give me a break today,” Harry whined, seizing the moment to grab his cigarette pack. He pulled one out and stuck it between his lips. “Where’s that damn lighter?”

“Harry, it’s 7:40 a.m.”

“I’m in no shape to go to work. Just email me the presentation details, and I’ll get to it when I’m feeling better,” he said, finally spotting the lighter under the pillow.

Oliver yanked the cigarette from his lips. “Dude, it’s Monday, and the housekeeper’s coming to clean your place at 8 o'clock. You get what I mean?”

“Oh, so now you get my point, huh, you geniuses?” Maria mocked.

Harry stiffened and murmured, “I can’t let her see me like this.”

“Can’t let her see you like this? She shouldn’t see you or any of us here, man! The whole thing will be revealed!”

“Well, it was bound to happen. Let it be,” Maria chimed in.

Harry squinted at her and stood up, but dizziness swept over him. “Whoa, I think I’m still feeling the effects of last night’s drinks.”

“How much did you even drink?” Maria scolded.

Oliver grabbed his arm and glanced at Maria. “Come on, help me out. We need to get this big guy out of here.” “Are we really going to kidnap him from his own apartment? Seriously?” she whimpered, but she slipped under Harry’s other arm to assist him. “Ugh, you smell like an ashtray, hermano.”

They made their way to the elevator, and Oliver pressed the button. “You hold him up, and I’ll grab his things.”

“Get that dress out of sight!” Harry called. “She can’t see it.”

Oliver nodded and dashed back inside.

“Are we in high school or something? I’m a 42-year-old mother; I’m too old for this. You need to come clean to that girl already,” Maria muttered.

“Stop whining. You’ve been in worse situations. Have you forgotten how many times I’ve pulled you out of a mess?”

“Hey, that was when I was in my 20s! Plus, I’ve never been as pathetic as you!”

“Yeah? Who was the one crying on that married ship captain’s doorstep for hours? I got slapped in the face by his wife because of you.”

Maria swallowed hard, averting her gaze. “You really do have a good memory for a drunk.”

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Oliver said as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.

When they hit the ground floor, they rushed toward the exit, but when Oliver spotted you approaching through the glass door, he froze again. “She’s coming! Turn around now!”

“There’s no other way out,” Maria snapped.

“The other elevator!” Harry pointed.

“That makes sense,” Oliver agreed.

They hurried to that elevator and hit the button. Luckily, it was on that floor, and when the door opened, they slipped inside. Oliver grumbled as he pressed the buttons in a frenzy.

Unaware of everything, you stepped inside the apartment. Just as you turned to look in that direction, you heard the elevator doors closing. Oliver, Harry, and Maria breathed a sigh of relief as you walked straight to the staff's quarters to change.

Oliver kept his finger on the door-close button, waiting.

“I think we’re safe,” Oliver grinned.

“What a morning,” Maria muttered.

Then someone called the elevator to the tenth floor, and it started moving.

“What are you doing, man? We need to get out of here now!” Harry grunted.

“What can I do? I can't keep pressing the button every second!”

When the elevator arrived on the tenth floor, the doors opened to reveal a little boy frowning at them, school bag slung over his shoulder. "Were you the ones keeping the elevator busy? That’s so wrong."

Harry and Oliver shared an awkward glance, embarrassed.

“Sorry, little buddy,” Harry forced a smile.

“Going to school, huh?” Oliver asked nervously.

“Well, I was, but now I’m going to be late thanks to you!” The boy sniffled, shaking his head. “Drunks, seriously.”

Maria covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. The little boy stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor.

After an awkward ride down, they finally stepped outside. Maria turned toward her car and said, “All we needed was to get scolded by a little kid. Thank you, Harry, for this wonderful morning."

“I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous,” Oliver laughed.

“Come on, get in, you big babies,” Maria said, pressing the key fob to unlock her car.

“Where to?” Harry asked, opening the door.

“To get scolded by another kid.”

“Your place?”

“Well, if you can’t stay in your own house, what choice do you have? Get in, sneaky ass.”

Before hopping into the car, Harry glanced up at the top floor of the building—his apartment. A sense of sadness washed over him, knowing you would have to clean up the mess he left behind.

“Oh, my God…”

As you stepped into the apartment, the sight—and the smell—caught you off guard. What on earth had happened here? Did they throw a party last night or something? Clearly, the owner had his share of trouble, maybe he was not so innocent after all.

First things first, you rushed to the windows, flipped the hidden lever, and let some fresh air flow through. Taking a deep breath, you grabbed a big garbage bag and started clearing the floor of empty bottles and cigarette butts from the overflowing ashtray. As you cleaned, your curiosity kicked in. It couldn’t have been a wild party; only one couch was askew while the others remained untouched and tidy. The kitchen showed no signs of food; just a multitude of empty glasses scattered around.

You scanned the room—no lipstick on any glasses, no hair on the floor, so it was obvious no woman had crashed here. Maybe the two guys just shared a few drinks and chatted? Or maybe the owner just got dumped or something.

You smiled yourself and shook your head.

"Just do your job, girl. It's none of your business," you muttered.

Meanwhile, Harry sat in Maria's living room, staring blankly at the screen. "What are you, Sherlock Holmes?" He smirked.

"Is she suspicious?” Oliver asked.

“She was at first, but I think we're good,” Harry said, flopping onto the couch.

“For now,” Maria chimed in, pouring herself a glass of water. “But she’ll figure it out sooner or later and give you a good kick on the-- Oh, is someone awake?"

Maria’s daughter, Mia, came into the room, spotted Harry, and smiled. “Uncle Harry!”

Harry sat up and patted her head. “What’s up, darling? How’s it going?”

“Fine, but are you sick or something?” she asked with concern.

“Just a bit tired,” he replied, stretching out on the couch.

"Or hangover?" she grinned.

Harry chuckled. "Smart girl."

“What’s up, sweetheart?” Oliver said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Same old, school stuff,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Mia, eat your breakfast; I’ll take you to school,” Maria said, pointing to the plate on the counter.

“You skipped work, so I should get to skip school too, right?” Mia muttered.

Maria frowned, “Who said we skipped work, smartypants? Now hurry up, or you’ll be late!”

Mia huffed but sat down. “If you didn’t skip work, why are you both here while everyone else is working? And why’s Uncle Harry in Dad’s shirt?”

Maria chuckled, “Because he got kicked out of his own apartment.”

Mia took a big bite of her toast and looked at Harry inquisitively. “Oh! Did you leave your key inside? Mom did it once.”

“Thanks for bringing that up, kiddo,” Maria said, rolling her eyes. “Come on, we’re late! Just eat that on the way,” she added, grabbing her school bag and urging Mia to finish her juice.

“Good luck at school,” Harry waved as Mia headed toward the door.

“Catch you later, princess,” Oliver called back.

Mia waved goodbye, and as Maria followed her out, she turned back to Harry. “You’d better be in better shape by the time I get back, Romeo,” she warned before closing the door behind her.

Oliver turned to Harry, “She’s right, man. You need to pull yourself together; you look worn out. Even a shower didn’t lift your spirits. Want me to whip you up something to eat?”

Harry let out a deep sigh. “No, thanks. I don’t have an appetite.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Okay, that has me worried. There’s definitely something you’re not saying.”

“Well, I couldn’t say it in front of Maria, but I’ve got an issue,” Harry finally admitted.

“Yeah, I can see that. But it looks like you’ve got more than one thing going on,” Oliver said, grinning. But then he noticed the seriousness in Harry’s face and softened. “What can I do? Just tell me what you need.”

Harry huffed, swallowing hard. “I need her.”

“Dude. Tell me something I don't know."

He huffed again.

"Okay, she’ll come around if you just give it some time—”

“You don’t get it,” Harry snapped, sitting up to face Oliver. “I...really...need...her,” he emphasized, his breathing steadying as he spoke.

Oliver frowned, sensing the weight of his words. “Go on,” he urged gently.

“Every thought I have revolves around her. That night in Paris haunts me…her skin, her scent, her...”

Oliver raised a hand to stop him. “Whoa. I get it, man. No need to go into detail.”

“The memories consume me, and they’ve left me in a real bind,” he said frankly. "It's like a unique kind of erotic film that continuously plays in my mind, and she is the only actress. But I can't do anything; I'm just watching in awe."

“Can't do anything? But, I mean, come on. You—surely you’ve tried—”

“Everything. From the erotic to the pharmaceutical.”

Oliver chuckled, unable to help himself. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny, but this is just bizarre, man. It’s oddly romantic too,” he said, laughing again.

“I guess it's because I’ve never faced rejection before. All I can think about is her. Maybe that’s how my body reacts, and maybe I’m—”

“In love.”

A short silence hung in the air. “Yes, I am,” Harry admitted.

“Well, If you ask me, you haven’t really tried everything yet,” Oliver suggested.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, curious.

“Listen, it doesn’t have to be about hooking up with her to solve your mechanical issues, you know? There are plenty of women out there who would be interested—like through escort services or sex workers.”

“No, never!” Harry barked. “I can’t cheat on her. Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

“Cheating? Is she your wife? You’re not even dating! That’s not cheating, man.”

“It wouldn’t even matter. It wouldn't work. I can’t think about anyone else. I just want her, only her.”

“Alright, but I’m out. You’re asking me to help with something I can’t fix. Plus, that girl you "want" is super stubborn. It’s definitely not going to be easy.”

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up,” he grumbled.

Oliver stood up, shrugging. “Try to get some sleep. Maybe that’ll help clear your head.”

Harry nodded and flopped back on the couch, opening his tablet to check what you were doing. Oliver shook his head when he caught sight of the goofy smile spreading across Harry’s face.

Once he stepped into the garden, he pulled out his phone and called Maria. “Hey it's me. Listen, Harry's got a bigger problem than we realized. I think you need to step in now.”

After finally wrapping up the cleaning of the apartment, thoughts of Harry filled your mind as you stepped outside. He had been on your mind all day, especially since he hadn’t reached out with a text or call since last night. You couldn’t shake the feeling of how much you missed his playful messages.

The nagging worry that you might have upset him echoed in your mind, driving you a bit crazy.

But how could you express your feelings when you weren't fully ready?

When the moment to speak your truth arrived, you wanted to pour your heart out.

You shouldn’t have brushed it off as if it didn't matter, right?

As you walked down the street, the happy couples around you caught your attention, casually dropping “I love you” into their conversations. In the past, you would have thought little of it, but now it felt like a constant reminder of what you were missing. Another couple strolled by, murmuring those same words. Then, on the subway, a woman sat next to you, holding hands with her boyfriend or husband. And there it was again—“I love you.”

Feeling unworthy, you got up and told the guy that you would get off at the next stop anyway, nudging him to sit next to his partner. You felt like you didn't deserve to be there next to them, especially when you couldn’t even tell the man you loved that you loved him back.

They seemed to express their feelings so effortlessly, while you struggled, so you decided it was better to step aside as a form of penance.

Yeah, you were really losing it.

When another cheerful couple boarded the train, and more declarations of love surrounded you, you reached your breaking point. You hopped off at the next station, even if it meant getting off three stops early. The heaviness of guilt was the last thing you needed, yet it hung heavily on your shoulders.

It felt as if your mind was caught in a tug-of-war, much like a dull quiz show. 

Congratulations! 

You've won yourself a lengthy walk home as a consolation prize!

Once you got home and recounted last night’s events to Zoe, her reaction was immediate. “He told you he loved you, and you did what? Just walked away?” she exclaimed. "Girl, are you crazy? You’re in love with him, for fuck sake! Call him right now and say you want to talk."

From the corner of the couch, you frowned at her. “I told you I’m not ready yet.”

Zoe rolled her eyes as if you had just said the most absurd thing. "If John told me he loved me, you'd be surprised how quickly my panties would fall down."

You grimaced. "Ugh, slutty much?"

"Stubborn much?" she shot back. “Don’t come crying to me if you lose him to someone else because you overthink everything.”

You let out a huff and stood up. “I’m heading to my room,” you muttered. “Good night.” 

"Think about what I said! Tell him you love him before it's too late, you silly!" 

Ughhhhh.

It was as if she was inside your head. You knew that if you didn’t speak up, other women would be swarming around him like a pack of hyenas. 

You flopped onto your bed, feeling as though you were collapsing under the weight of it all, and sighed deeply. Checking your phone, you noticed there were no messages. You opened Instagram, scrolled through his comments on your photos filled with heart emojis, and couldn’t help but smile, even giggling like a little girl. Then you clicked on his profile and browsed through his pictures one by one. That’s when your heart began to race. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

Perhaps it was simply your body’s instinctive response. 

Screaming. 

It certainly seemed to convey your feelings more effectively than your words ever could.

You turned off your phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. 

It was time to come clean. 

You missed his messages, longed for the sound of his voice, craved his smile and his touch, and you knew that if this dragged on for another day, you’d toss your pride out the window without a second thought. 

The next day?

The next day was even worse. You had hoped for a cheerful morning message from him, but when you picked up your phone and flipped it over to check the screen, all you found were a few advertisements—nothing from him.

Frustrated, you sat up in bed, seething with anger.

Why were you so upset?

Why did this feeling of abandonment weigh on you?

Your emotions took a turn, and frustration morphed into remorse.

Great!

In a fit of anger, you snatched your pillow and flung it against the wall. Just then, Zoe opened your door and stumbled in.

“What on earth is going on here?” The pillow landed at her feet. “Hey, do you want me to injure my other ankle too?”

You jumped out of bed and grabbed her arm, checking her ankle. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

“I think so, but you definitely don’t seem okay.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. 

“Yeah, right. You’re just great,” she teased. “And this pillow must be flying in from all the happiness.” 

“Alright, that's enough. I need to head to the hotel,” you muttered as you opened your wardrobe to get ready.

“Oh, by the way! While you’re out, can you grab some ointment from the pharmacy?” 

You rolled your eyes as you put on your pants. “Let me guess, you’ve used it all up, haven’t you?”

“What else am I supposed to do? I want to heal fast; I’m so over staying at home.”

"You gotta take it easy, sweetie. Just be patient."

“Well, I’m not as patient as you are, sorry.” She shot back with a grin.

"Just like that, and nobody got a clue, and the wedding went off without a hitch."

You were chatting with Bruno about how you managed to save the wedding cake at the last minute.

"Ah, cara mia, you’re great. Taking risks is crucial if you want to grab those chances. Being brave and going for it, no matter how it turns out, is what really counts, even if you mess up at the end," Bruno said proudly. He leaned over the counter and winked at you. "Just kidding, but seriously, try not to mess it up,” he added with a chuckle.

You laughed, but his words lingered in your mind, making your smile fade.

Being brave and going for it, no matter how it turns out.

Wasn’t love worth that risk?

Absolutely, it was worth it.

He was worth it.

Lost in your thoughts, you finally heard the waitress calling your name. “Huh? Sorry, what was that?” you asked, pulling yourself back to the moment.

“I was just saying that Mr. Finnegan's girlfriend and her friends are here, and she wants to see who made the dessert — which is you,” the waitress replied.

“Oh look, my assistant is on her way to becoming a chef,” Bruno said, grinning as he continued slicing the cheese.

“Or on the path to getting fired,” you muttered under your breath.

You were quite sure that Lucy didn’t like you at all.

As you walked into the dining room, you couldn’t help but let out a deep sigh when you saw Lucy and the two women sitting across from her. Lucy flashed a tight smile that didn’t do much to ease your discomfort. The other women were giving you the once-over, evaluating you from head to toe.

“Here’s the person who made this delicious dessert, ladies,” Lucy announced, with a fake smile.

“But isn’t that the waitress who danced with Harry Castillo at the wedding?” one of the women said, looking totally shocked.

“Aren’t you that maid?” the other woman added with growing astonishment. “The one who hacked our system, impersonated someone else, and embarrassed us in front of all our customers? How many faces do you really have?”

“Seems like she’s trying to snag both Castillo and Finnegan,” one of them remarked, glancing at Lucy with a knowing look.

"A gold digger for sure."

All three women were looking right at you, as if you owed them some kind of explanation. Even the people at the next table were tuning in, throwing you judgmental looks that only made your embarrassment and anger worse. You gripped your apron tightly, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

Just then, Maria entered the dining room, her eyes narrowing at the scene unfolding before her. She shared in your anger.

One of the women pushed her plate away with a grimace and said, “I can’t eat this. It’s making me feel sick.” With a little shove, the plate slid off the table and hit the floor. “Oops! Well, lucky we’ve got a cleaner around. What are you waiting for? Clean this mess up!"

You shot her an incredulous glare; this was too much.

“Looks like someone’s itching for a fight,” Maria muttered as she strode confidently towards their table. “That’s not a cleaner, that’s a maid, you illiterate bitch,” she snapped.

Everyone shifted their attention to her, including you.

“Maria—” Lucy froze, taken aback.

The woman looked annoyed and shot back, “Who the hell are you talking to?”

Ignoring her, Maria turned to the other woman, the matchmaker. “It wasn’t her who hacked your system; it was Melanie and her minions. Why are you taking your anger out on this girl? And what kind of system collapses at the slightest breach? Everyone should steer clear of this matchmaking company,” she declared, her voice rising for all to hear. “If their tech team is so incompetent they can’t protect customer credentials, consider what they’d do with your credit card info! Scammers would be the best-case scenario.”

Trembling with fury, she hissed, “And who even are you—”

“Me?" She adjusted her hair in a swift move. "María Elisa Rivera Armada,” she replied coolly, crossing her arms defiantly.

A hush fell over the room; they clearly recognized her name, her connections, and her influence. The two women exchanged nervous glances before rising to leave.

“I’d better go,” one of them muttered under her breath.

Other one joined her.

Maria stepped in front of them, her expression serious. “Are you really going to leave without apologizing to her?”

Both women turned to you, quickly avoiding eye contact. “We’re sorry,” they mumbled.

“Look at them,” Maria shot back, clearly disappointed. “You were loud enough to throw insults but now I can barely hear you.”

Lucy opened her mouth to say something but held back, choosing to steer clear of a fight with her. The women repeated their apologies and hurried out.

Maria took Lucy by the arm as she stood up. You couldn't hear over their conversation while you helped the waitress clean the floor.

“I didn’t confront you earlier for what you did to Harry, because I was caught up in my own divorce and dealing with depression." Maria said to Lucy. "But let me make this clear: if you ever mess with her again, I’ll step in before Harry ever does. Got it? Just a heads up, the crazy bitch is in town and ready to kick some ass."

Lucy narrowed her eyes defiantly. “I didn’t say anything she hasn’t done. Besides, I really don’t care if Harry likes her; I just want her to stay away from Alan.”

Maria laughed cruelly and leaned in closer. "Maybe it’s Alan who needs to keep his distance from her, don’t you think? Why don’t you go and tell your boyfriend about it and see how he reacts?"

Lucy’s face flushed with anger as she stormed out of the room.

A soft murmur spread among those eating; some must have known Maria. Unbothered, Maria took a seat in the chair left vacant by Lucy and looked at you. “Don’t just stand there like a scarecrow; come sit,” she said.

“I could have handled them too, you know,” you muttered as you settled at the table.

Maria pulled Lucy's untouched dessert plate towards her. “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have to stoop to their level. You’re too good for that.” She glanced at you and winked. “You’re like an angel; keep that up.” Then she took a big forkful of dessert. “Oh, this is fucking delicious.” She took another hefty bite.

You chuckled. "Bon appétit, Mrs. Rivera. By the way, thanks for that; I wasn’t sure how to respond. I mean, I’m used to getting scolded, but those accusations were a bit much."

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. It’s been a while since I’ve acted like that, and it felt so good,” she said with a laugh.

“You were really cool,” you replied with a smile.

"I should be a bit tough on you too, you know. You deserve it," she said, eyeing the dessert.

You were taken aback. "Me? Wh-why?"

Maria shot you a serious look. “Oh, you know very well.”

Silence hung between you for a moment as you averted your gaze and sighed.

“Look, I’m not great at lying, and I’m pretty upfront, even when trouble’s on the horizon. So here’s the deal,” she said earnestly.

You nodded, sensing what was coming next.

“Listen,” Maria sighed. “I’m not going to beg you like 'He loves you—just tell him you love him back, please'. No. Let’s just cut to the chase. Are Harry’s feelings mutual or not? I need to know. Is there any hope? Because he’s like my brother, and I can’t bear to see him suffer like this. Do you understand?” she added, her tone sincere.

“Maria, I don’t want him to hurt either, but is he okay? He hasn’t called me for days,” you replied, worry creeping into your voice.

Maria smiled softly.

“I don’t really know what to do anymore. I never meant to hurt him; I would never intentionally do that,” you admitted, lowering your head.

Maria’s smile turned into one of satisfaction. She had found the answer she sought. “He’s fine,” she said coldly, wiping a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth. “Well, he will be; I’ll make sure of it as his friend.” She stood up suddenly. “But I wish you had been there; by his side, it would’ve made everything much better. But again, it’s all right.”

You stood up too, trying to grasp what she meant.

“Remember. No one is irreplaceable, not even you.”

You frowned slightly. “That’s a bit—”

“Bitchy? It’s just my protective side coming out. Harry is family to me, and I tend to be overprotective of my family.” She leaned in and spoke in a lower voice. “Here’s a warning for you: you’re on the verge of letting him slip away, so you’d better act quickly.” She winked at you before turning on her heel, leaving you in awe as you watched her walk away.

Maria hopped into the car waiting for her, Oliver was in the driver’s seat, giving her a curious look. 

“Well?”

“Good news, she’s totally in love with Harry,” she said with a grin. 

“Then she’ll tell him, right? That’s awesome!” he replied, looking relieved. 

“Hmm, I don’t think so. Not anytime soon, anyway.” 

“What? Why not?” 

“She just needs a little push.” 

"Alright, we need to bring them together. Should I arrange a date?"

Maria rolled her eyes. “What’s it like in that little head of yours, Ollie? You men are really simple creatures."

Oliver frowned. “What does that even mean?” 

“Never mind. I’ll handle it,” she said, pulling out her phone to text. 

“How? What’s your plan?” 

“I’m going to give her a little nudge, get her emotions going, and light that fire.” 

“I’m not sure I follow.” 

“Jealousy, Ollie. Jealousy.” 

Oliver leaned in to take a look at her phone. “Stella? Oh boy, Harry’s not going to like this.”

“As long as he doesn’t find out, we’ll be fine. So you’d better keep your mouth shut.”

“But what if she ends up hating Harry instead of feeling jealous? How can you be sure?”

Maria shot him a glare. “My seventy-year-old grandmother divorced my grandfather out of jealousy after fifty years of marriage. It’s one of the most primitive and powerful emotions a human can experience; it activates everything within you. Trust me—our little cat will turn into a tiger.”

It was yet another dreary morning, and you had to admit—another day without his good morning text was not going well at all.

Then there was Maria's comment. She must really have a knack for manipulation.

What did she say again?

“No one is irreplaceable.”

Did Harry actually say that, or was it her idea? No, Harry wouldn’t say something like that.

Would he?

Who knows?

He hadn’t been around for three days; maybe that’s what he thought now. You rolled over in bed, burying your face in the pillow and letting out a frustrated growl.

Why did it hurt so much?

It just made you mad. You felt like there was nothing you could do, like it was too late. You hated that feeling.

The door swung open, and Zoe peeked in. "If you're going to smother yourself, you should probably put your head under the pillow instead."

You shot her a glare. “Oh really? Why don’t you come show me how it’s done?”

She let out a wicked laugh. “So, you still haven’t called him, huh? Babe, you’re way past the ‘he should call first’ phase, don’t you think?”

You sprang up, fired up. “Don’t start on me too, Zoe! I’ve got enough people coming at me!”

She narrowed her eyes at you as you stormed out of the room. “Who else is coming at you? Although I shouldn’t be surprised! Your stubbornness must be famous!” she shouted after you.

When you got to the hotel, things just went downhill from there. You were so distracted that you messed up a bunch of things, and Bruno had to tell you to head home early. You were actually relieved because you really weren’t feeling up to working. On your way back, all you could think about was Harry. You typed out a ton of messages but ended up deleting them all before hitting send. You were itching to get the scoop about his house from Oliver so you could figure things out. You were desperate to see him. You couldn’t tell if he was just playing games or if he actually wanted you to chase after him.

But you knew you had to do something.

Just then, waiting at a red light to turn green, your phone buzzed.

Mr. Ol’man sent you a photo.

You opened the message quickly, and your heart raced as you did so without thinking.

Once upon a time, you used to have pride.

You saw the photo he sent you and froze in the middle of the crosswalk.

There was Harry, enjoying drinks in a bar with a super-hot, blonde woman, clinking glasses and laughing at the camera.

Laughing.

Happy.

With a woman.

In a bar, drinking.

Harry.

The man you loved.

The man who told you he loved you a few nights back.

Suddenly, the blaring horn of a car jolted you back to reality, realizing you were still standing in the street. You hurried across and leaned against a nearby wall to catch your breath. Your heart was pounding now, but it was all anger. It felt like fire was coursing through your veins. Then you got another message, and it only stoked the flames.

“Sorry, I sent it to you by mistake. I meant to send it to Stella.”

Stella.

Oh, come on! Seriously?

You felt a wave of anger and hurt, your body shaking as if jolted by a live wire. It took you a minute to think straight. This had to be some sort of game. There was no way it was real. It was just his way of messing with you. But what if it wasn’t?

No, you couldn’t think clearly; your mind was clouded. One emotion dominated your thoughts, taking control of your entire being.

Jealousy.

You were furious and incredibly jealous.

Tears of anger streamed down your face as you walked aimlessly down the street. While wrestling with what to do next, another message pinged on your phone.

It was from Maria.

“The King Cole Bar. Better hurry, sis; this skank’s all over Harry.”

That was the last straw.

You had to go there.

But how? You knew that place was fancy; there was no way you could walk in looking like you were right then, or in any of your clothes, honestly. In that moment, you did something rash, something that felt immature, and you’d probably regret later, but anger and jealousy took charge.

You didn’t care about the fallout.

You called her on your phone, the one saved under “trouble.”

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” you muttered under your breath. Sharing a limo with Melanie and Nate, and unintentionally overhearing their steamy chatter was too much to bear.

“God, just end my misery,” you thought grimly.

“Hey, we skipped our program for you tonight,” Melanie hissed. “How about a little gratitude?”

“So you two are together now? That's more disgusting than the most disgusting thing I can think of.”

“You really,” Melanie grunted.

Nate's hands were all over her. “Never mind her, baby, she's jealous of us.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh yeah! I'm dying of jealousy!”

“Maybe not us, but you're insanely jealous of your boyfriend,” Melanie giggled. ‘’I see what you are doing, that's a lame excuse.”

“Mind your own business,” you barked.

“Exactly, honey, let's mind our own business,” Nate licked her neck.

Ugh, you looked away and ignored them, feeling nauseous.

At least Melanie, annoying as she could be, had brought you a dress and shoes.

Of course, it wasn't for nothing.

You promised to talk to Jack about her in return.

The limo pulled up near the bar and you got out. No, you jumped out, because the two of them were getting into it. You hurriedly told the limo driver to get lost, the two of them didn't even look back, they were too busy.

You sighed as you read the name of the bar from the elegant logo above the black entrance door. “This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done,” you muttered. People were looking at you with interest when they passed by the bar. Oh that's right, Melanie and her dress sense, she liked to look like a little slut.

So the red halter dress you were wearing was not so short but a bit revealing, with a deep slit on your right side that shows off your thigh with every step. You felt like a neon sign flashing, “Look at me!”

Thanks a lot, Melanie.

Did it really have to be red?

You tugged at the tight black jacket, trying to cover yourself up, but it wasn’t working. The doorman checked you out, grinning as he happily welcomed you inside.

As you stepped in, all eyes were on you, and you felt your cheeks heat up.

Just perfect.

You chose the corner table and sat down immediately, trying to ignore the stares. You covered your face with the menu and looked around.

Where the hell were they?

The stares were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. After all, you were stunning, dressed to impress, and scanning the room as if you were searching for someone special. Who could say what thoughts were running through their minds?

Finally, you spotted them—Maria, Oliver, and Harry sitting at the bar. But where was the woman from the photo he sent? You looked again. There were no blondes in sight—just a couple with other people, none that looked like her. What’s going on? Just then, your phone buzzed. It was a text from Maria.

“Looking for Stella? That photo was from last year, honey.”

You shot her a quick glance, and she winked at you with a sly grin.

Seriously?

Had she played you?

Maria nudged Harry to look your way, and the moment he turned, you quickly looked away.

The instant Harry noticed you, he nearly choked on the whiskey he was sipping, looking utterly stunned.

But honestly, you couldn’t care less; they had all been playing games with you, and you felt like a total fool.

You got up in a huff and tried to leave, but as luck would have it, you bumped into a guy. Of course, he was holding a glass of scotch, and the impact sent it splashing all over you—on your jacket, your chest, everywhere. The cold liquid, still icy, made you shiver when it hit your skin. Some even dribbled down into your expensive bra—the one you had saved up for.

Just fantastic.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he said, looking younger than you, his eyes glued to one spot—your breasts. You were the one who bumped into him, but he was the one needing to apologize, yes he should. He grabbed a napkin from the table, still staring at your chest like he was talking directly to it. “Can I wipe that up, p-please?” he asked, way too eager.

Seriously, was he a fucking teenager or what?

You instinctively pulled back, trying to cover yourself with your arm. “No thanks,” you replied tersely.

In that moment, three things happened at once. Maria dropped her bag right on the guy's head, Harry yanked your wrist and pulled you behind him, and Oliver stepped up next to you, giving that guy a fierce look.

“Are you a creep or what?” Maria shouted.

“How dare you touch her?” Harry barked.

“Who the hell are you people?” the guy shot back.

“I’m her boyfriend, so what?” Harry replied.

“And I’m her sister,” Maria jumped in.

“And I'm her brother,” Oliver added.

Wow, here's your saviors.

That’s when you figured it was your moment to mess with them. “Excuse me, but I don’t even know you guys, so you can sort this out on your own,” you said, not bothering to look at them. You couldn’t help but enjoy the shocked looks on their faces as you turned and headed for the exit.

“Where do you think you're going?” Harry yelled after you. He bumped into the guy, causing him to stumble, and ran after you.

Once you stepped outside, you purposely took off your jacket, making sure your wet top was on full display. “My jacket is ruined,” you said, glancing up at Harry.

People walking by stared, even whistling. Harry growled, took off his own jacket, and wrapped it around you. “You think that's funny? Are you playing games now?”

“Look who’s talking,” you shot back, frowning. “You messed with me, so we’re even now.”

He raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Messed with you?”

You gave him a swift kick with your high heel, aiming right for his leg, and he groaned. "Ahh, what the-"

“You made a fool out of me; I won’t forget that.”

He bent down, rubbing his leg where you kicked him. “What are you talking about?” he asked, gritting his teeth.

With a sigh, you took your phone from your bag and showed him the photo and text that Maria had sent.

Harry’s face went from surprised to narrowed. “Maria… Now that makes sense. She took my phone and kept telling me not to call or text you.”

Just then, Maria and Oliver came out of the bar and walked up to you. Harry turned to her, clearly angry. “How could you do that?”

“Hey, I was just looking out for you! I had to step in a little, but guess what---it worked!”

Then he looked at Oliver. “You’re in this too?”

“I told her not to,” Oliver replied, sounding nervous.

Maria glared at him. “You sold me out, you cabrón.”

“Come on, I told you this wouldn’t end well,” he said.

You turned to Maria, upset. “You tricked me. Seriously, how could you?”

“Come on, you two are totally into each other. And you girl, you are dying to be with him! Just admit it!”

“Don’t you dare show your face around me again,” you said, eyeing Harry. “You too.” Then, you turned on your heel.

“Stop right there, sweetheart; you are not going anywhere,” he said, blocking your path. “We need to talk, and this time you’re not running away.”

You looked at him, surprised. “I’m not running away,” you mumbled. “If you want to talk, fine, but not out here; I’m freezing.”

He nodded, “Come here,” he said softly, putting his arm around you. “Oliver, give me the car keys.”

“Are we heading to your place?” you asked.

“No!” Harry snapped, making you jump a little.

“Not there,” Oliver added, looking uneasy.

“Oops,” Maria giggled.

What the hell was that?

You shot them a skeptical glance. “Seriously? Are you living in some kind of secret Batcave or what?" 

Harry chuckled. “Very funny. The thing is, we can't go to my place because…” 

“Because?” 

“There’s a bit of an insect invasion,” Oliver chimed in. “The house is being fumigated, so…” 

It seemed like a weak excuse, but perhaps it was the truth; you decided to stop probing. “So, where are you staying now?” you asked.

“Just at the hotel, of course,” Maria replied casually.

“Right, the hotel,” Harry mumbled.

“I’ll drive you there; you’ve had too much to drink, you can't drive,” Oliver said, heading for the car.

You turned to Harry, catching a glimpse of something strange in his expression but didn’t dwell on it. The thought of being alone with him was actually appealing.

Fuck all your pride and stubbornness.

Yeah, it was definitely time to follow your heart.

“Memories, huh?” you mutter as the elevator smoothly ascends to the top-floor suite.

Harry's gaze was locked onto you, his breath coming in steady but heavy bursts. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, tilting his head slightly to the side.

Was he checking out your ass?

It didn’t really matter; he could look all he wanted, and honestly, you wanted him to do more—like touch you, everywhere.

Right, why wasn’t he?

What was he waiting for?

Oh right, those damn cameras.

As you walked into the room, he clasped your hand tightly. When you reached the door, he pulled the card from his pocket, swiped it, and the door swung open. “Ladies first,” he said with a gesture, inviting you inside.

His voice was a bit shaky, making you bite your lip to keep from giggling. He followed you inside and closed the door with a firm click, almost as if he was making sure you were alone. You took off his jacket and handed it back to him, trying to keep a straight face. “Thanks for the jacket—”

And he lunged at you. He threw the jacket angrily and wrapped his arms around you, pulled you to him and captured your lips with his mouth. He kissed you passionately, longingly, hungrily, like you were his oxygen and he was underwater in a sea of lust. 

“Harry," You breathed trying to break the kiss, but his lips closed in on yours again before you could utter another word. You sighed softly against him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. As your hands slid down to his biceps, you clung to him, feeling the undeniable strength beneath the fabric, lost in the intensity of the moment.

"I thought we were just going to talk," you said mockingly, tilting your head to the side. His gaze remained fixed on your chest.

"Later, baby. With you dressed like that, I might not be able to concentrate. You look exquisite," he breathed, his voice laced with a seductive tone that made you weak in the knees.

A smile broke across your face, “You’re looking quite handsome yourself.”

And he truly was, his black long-sleeved shirt clinging perfectly to his well-defined frame.

The atmosphere crackled with an electric tension the moment his gaze settled on you. You craved to keep him focused solely on you, yearning for his eyes to linger endlessly. Those captivating brown eyes, glimmering like precious jewels, seemed to caress every inch of you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

"Your dress is soaking wet," he said breathlessly, his hands gliding over the damp fabric, brushing against your breasts. They instantly hardened at his touch, which they had been longing for. You bit your lower lip.

"It's not just my dress," you whispered slowly in his ear.

He darkly chuckled, fire licking at your veins from the heat of his gaze, “Is that so? So you’re saying that If I touch you, I will find you ready for my cock?” he asked, grinning.

“Why not find out for yourself?” you teased.

His hand suddenly found itself trailing a path towards your bare legs to between your thighs, making you gasp. Holding on to his strong arms, the feel of his fingers trailing over your skin was a wonderful, delicious shock that left you breathless.    

“Playing with fire would be dangerous, you know,” he growled low, so low, it reverberated through your chest. And through the partition of the dress, that slit that split mid-thigh, he caressed up your leg, towards your hip.

You almost mewled.

Almost.

“I'm not playing,” you murmured, half panting.

He chuckled again, that dark, seductive glee escaping from him in agonizing, tantalizing waves. “You decided to be a good girl then?” he stared at you, eyes molten pools of lust. “It surprises me you acquiesced, given how stubborn you are. Hmm, maybe I should reward you,” he whispered while his hand still deliciously trailed a lazy path over and around.

Who was playing now?

It sure wasn't you.

You were already past the playing part, you were dripping.

He knew, of course, he fucking knew, without even having to touch...

But he did touch, sliding his hands under your dress down to your wet panties, his fingers pushing them aside, there it was; he could feel your lips, drenched and ready.

You bucked against his palm, aching for more but he deliberately pulled away.

You frowned in response.

Damn.

He chuckled delightfully, looking at his fingers coated with your wetness, “My darling kitty, you’re completely soaked. So you were being honest, after all. Such a good girl. Are you hoping for a reward?”

“Just give it to me already,” you urged, gripping him tightly and pressing yourself against him, ignoring the feeling of a deep blush spread across your cheeks.

“Oh, I will, sweetheart,” he said with a sly smile. He spun you around, pulling you firmly against him. Before you could even process what was happening, his strong arms enveloped you, and you felt his chin just above your ear and his clothed cock pressing against your thighs; you could feel beneath the fabric; it was hard, painfully hard, and you gasped. "You drive me so fucking crazy. I want so bad to slide into that sweet wet pussy and feel it all tight and hot around me while I pound into you.” He purred, “But first, there’s something I want you to do.” He touched your lips, then chin, tracing his fingertip down the line of your throat, over the hollow of your collarbone, down to the swelled curve of your breasts. His other hand had already slipped under the slit in your dress and found your dripping pussy once more, you bit your lower lip hard. The hand at your sex continued to tease you, lazily circling your entrance.

Fuck.

You shuddered under his touch and words, your back arched, eyes rolling, moaning softly.

"Will you do what I want, baby?” he asked as if you might protest.

“Whatever you want,” you whispered, eyes closed and completely surrendered to him, it was all too much and you were helpless in the face of this torture, you were melting.

He had to do what he had to do already, he had to do it before you lost your fucking mind.

His other hand grabbed your head from behind and he tilted your head to the other side this time, you tilted your head back towards his other shoulder. You couldn't do anything, you had no choice but to let him play with you like a toy. “Tell me you love me,” he whispered in a demanding tone.

It took you a second to figure out what had just happened, then you opened your eyes and frowned. “What the hell? Are you really trying to seduce me into saying that?”

"You left me no choice. Now say it, come on, I'm waiting."

In that moment, your stubbornness flared up because he had pushed you, forcing you to say that. But those wonderful fingers stroking your pussy so incredibly slowly, damn it, it made you stop thinking.

“Say it,” he said, sounding a bit impatient this time. He grabbed the strap of your dress and pulled it down to your waist. "I know you love me, so spill it. I’m not letting you leave this room until you do."

You turned your head to him, "Wait, what did you say? You can't do that."

“Watch me,” he said, yanking the dress down off your waist until it fell to the floor. “Now, darling, you’ve got two options,” he said, pulling you closer. You tried to struggle, but there was no breaking free from his grip. “The easy way or the hard way.”

“I get the easy way, but what’s the hard way, Mr. Castillo?” you scoffed.

He  smirked, turned you around, this time you faced him. You deliberately took a step backwards, he was unbuttoning his shirt as he stepped towards you. “So you're taking the hard way?” he said huskily and kept walking towards you, and you kept going backwards.

Until your back hit the wall.

He leaned in, one hand against the wall next to you while the other gripped the strap of your bra. His gaze was intense as his fingers played with the lace. Then, feeling impatient, he quickly reached behind you, found the clasp of your wet bra, and undid it in no time. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he lifted your bra and tossed it on the floor. You could feel your face getting hot, and you bit your lip.

After that, he bent down to your level and lifted you by your hips. Your bare breasts rubbed against his bare chest, you both moaned. “Say it,” he said again, his breath hot on your skin. 

But instead of answering, you held on to him, letting your hardened breasts torture him some more. 

He growled in frustration and picked you up, carried you into the bedroom and threw you on the bed roughly making you gasp. You crawled backwards as he hurriedly took off his pants, your heart pounding in your throat, excited to see him completely naked.

Your gaze remained locked on his, biting your lip in anticipation. 

But he was still lingering while taking his underpants off.

Finally.

You let out a happy sigh, taking in how breathtaking he looked. Impatiently, you shifted to the edge of the bed, grabbed his hand, and pulled him closer to you. He leaned over and let you pull him down on the bed on top of you.

“Getting a little impatient, are we?” He smirked at you. “You can speed up the process, you know,” he said pinning you to the bed with his weight, putting one knee between your not yet fully spread legs and grasping your wrists. 

“Oh come on, this is getting ridiculous,” you muttered.

“But it’s so much fun,” he breathed out before lunging for your mouth, pulling deep, hungry kisses that leave you both panting harshly.

Proving in a way that he was an amazing kisser and hot as hell.

Needing to taste every inch of your flushed skin, he continued up the sharp line of your jaw, your wrists slipping from his grasp.

He let out a hot breath over your ear before running the tip of his tongue down the shell of it. A shiver ran up your spine, and you bit down on his shoulder, pulling a groan from his throat. You soothed the spot with your lips as your hands roamed his body, his muscles rippling under your fingers.

He made his way down your throat, kissing and nipping and swirling his tongue in all the right places, leaving goose bumps in his wake.

Next, the tip of his tongue traced the underside of your breast in a teasing, feather-light sweep, breathing out as he hovered above the peak of your nipple, almost touching it. He waited until your eyes locked and paused just for a moment before he dived down and captured you in his mouth roughly, sucking hard as he expertly used his lips, teeth, and tongue.

“Oh god,” you let slip out on a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, chest now heaving from the sudden onslaught. He let you slip slowly from his lips but added a quick kiss to the sensitive flesh, making you jump. Your fingers run through his curls as he lowers his head further.

“You’re so beautiful baby,” he hummed.

Without warning he ran the flat of his tongue over you again, causing your hips to buck.

You were on fire.

You were whimpering.

You needed him needed him so fucking bad.

“Harry…” you moaned when he finally spread your legs and made a slight contact with your clit.

Working you with his tongue, he placed lazy open-mouth kisses over your breasts. He teased your entrance with the head of his cock while sucking your nipples hungrily, relentlessly, making your eyes roll back with pleasure, your whole body tingling.

“Shit! Harry, I’m gonna--” Already worked up from all the teasing, the exquisite combination of sensations sent a jolt straight to your core, causing a small orgasm that surprised you both.

Whoa, that never happened to you before; you were still in shock.

But that wasn’t enough.

It didn't do anything to satiate you, though; it only made you want more.

What the hell got into you?

Damn it.

He snickered. “Yes, baby, say my name and say that word, and I will give you more," he hummed into your flesh.

“Are you going to fuck me or what?” you growled, almost sobbing.

“As soon as you say the damn word,” He growled back and rubbed the tip of his cock against your walls and you pressed your hips against him but he pulled back, still waiting. “Oh c’mon, tell me you love me already,” he hissed.

It was too much and frustrating

“I… Harry, I-” you panted, trying to use your words but you were failing.

“Go on,” he grunted, commanding.

It was too much and frustrating for him too.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore as his cock throbbed in agony, and with a quick and rough thrust, he buried himself inside you, but halfway through it yet was enough to make you jump and scream.

He pulled back again and sighed.

You leaned back into the pillows, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around the backs of his. Your eyes met his, with a soft caress of his cheek, you whispered, "Harry Castillo... I love you... I love you so much that I do silly things because of you. I love you so much that I don’t want a single day to go by without you."

His lips curved up in a wide, victorious smile. "That's my girl. I love you too baby.”

He began to kiss you everywhere--- your cheeks, your nose your chin, your collarbone. And you moaned a little when he finally smashed his lips on yours, kissing you hungrily, his tongue sliding across your lower lip before nipping it. “That wasn't so hard, was it?” he grinned and kissed you again.

You managed to shake your head a little, blinking up at Harry as you panted broadly against his mouth. Your cunt throbbed around his cock as he fully sheathed himself in you. His fingers intertwined with yours, raising your joined hands to rest on the pillow beside you. He rolled his hips gently, then again as you whimpered, swirling his tongue with yours. He fucked you with slow, even strokes, trading slow kisses as you moaned and panted into one another's mouths.

He then broke the kiss, pressing his face into your neck as his thrusts became harder. You gasped, sinking your nails into his shoulders as you let your eyes slide closed. The bed was beginning to shake with his movements, and the slapping of your hips slightly echoed through the grand bedroom. You felt the familiar curling sensation beneath your waist, and you slid a hand down, grasping his behind and using the grip to urge him on. He drew back just enough to get a good look at you, his eyes bright in the dim room. You sucked in a stunned breath as he reached between your legs, fingers teasing your clit as his hips pounded yours more roughly.

You were moving so wildly that he couldn't keep his mouth on you any longer.

Your head fell back and you gasped when he thrust harder, deep into your wet, heated walls, a desperate sound escaping your thoroughly kissed lips. He stroked your clit while keeping up the rhythm he knew -he remembered from the first time you had sex that night-, one that pulled insanely erotic noises straight from your throat.

A devilish grin spread across his face as he took in the sight of you, his kitty writhing uncontrollably at his touch. Unable to take his eyes off of you, he worked his hand faster, moving it in a new sinfully exquisite way.

“Oh, God! Fuck!” You cried out, slick sounds of your bodies became louder and louder with every pump of his cock as his mouth latched onto your neck. You wrapped your arms around him, gripping him tightly to your chest, needing something to hang on to desperately. He could feel your body tense and knew you were close from the sounds you were making.

Fuck, those sounds alone could be his undoing.

“Come for me, baby,” he breathed in your ear, pushing you over the edge.

And you did.

Arched off the bed, his hand never left you, gone with you, working you through it as a steady stream of curses and what could be his name tumbled from your lips. Coming back down, you pulled his face to yours as you plundered his mouth, all sense of restraint shattered. His hand started moving again in time to your kiss, trying to - oh hell no.

You needed more.

You needed him.

Surprising him, you reached and flipped his hand over, then him, still breathing hard from before. Your eyes were filled with lust as you straddled him and, without preparation, sank down onto him as much as you could take at this angle, throwing your head back while letting out a loud moan of satisfaction.

Your whole body shuddered as your hips jerked involuntarily, the feeling of him filling you so completely, almost too much but so good.

“Fuck, baby!” he choked out, his head slamming back into the pillow.

“That’s the idea,” you said, voice dripping with sex, only giving him a second or two before you start to ride him.

He couldn’t decide which was better.

Having the power to make you lose all self-control, completely at his mercy, or lying back and letting you take what you want from him.

Luckily, he didn’t have to choose.

It was like celebrating your confession; there were no more secrets, no more games, and no holding back between you two, finally.

Groaning, he ran his hands up your thighs and caressed the curve of your waist, coming around to knead your backside. Mesmerized by how fluidly you were moving, he watched in awe as your body prepared for yet another release. Rapidly reaching your peak again, he rubbed your with his thumb while his other hand tweaked and pulled your nipple. Your fingers curl, nails scraping his chest as you clenched hard around him, almost bringing him with you but he somehow managed to hold back.

Barely.

For now.

Dazed from multiple orgasms, you were not exactly sure how but he suddenly had you on your stomach, body pressed into the bed by his, the fingers of one hand interlaced with your own. He started off slowly, making sure you could handle it. He picked up the pace when you arched your back for an even better angle, giving his free hand room to sneak underneath your hips and play with you. Crushing your entwined hands together, you frantically reached out for anything else to hold on to, gripping the side of the bed with your other hand as he pounds into you from above.

Your mouth locked open, sobbed into the bed with every thrust, bringing you higher and higher until you were exploding, your whole body trembling with shockwaves originating from the epicenter where you were connected. His face was covered in sweat, cursing as he spilled into you with a deep, feral growl, finally letting go.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the tall window, you gradually roused from sleep, reluctant to open your eyes. It felt as if you were resting on a soft, fluffy cloud, completely weightless. A wave of happiness washed over you, and you silently chided yourself for not embracing this morning magic sooner. After mustering enough courage, you finally confessed your feelings for him, and Harry’s efforts truly deserved a reward.

Just then, your phone alarm buzzed loudly from inside your bag on the floor, breaking the tranquil moment.

Ugh, of course, it was Thursday.

Damn it!

Realizing you were still face down on the bed, you wished you could just stay there forever. As you swung your legs over the side and reached out, you felt the empty space next to you. Had Harry already gotten up? You yawned and looked around. “Harry?” you called out sleepily.

The bathroom door swung open, and there he was, toothbrush in hand, foamy mouth and all. He shot you a smile that made you giggle. “Good morning, beautiful,” he managed to say through the toothpaste.

“Morning, ol' man,” you teased.

He frowned dramatically and went back to rinse his mouth before returning to you. “Ol' man, huh?” he asked, sitting on the bed. You wrapped your arms around him. “My ol' man,” you replied, kissing him, and he kissed you back.

“Are you getting me back for calling you 'kitty'?” he mocked, leaning in for another quick kiss. “Maybe,” you said with a playful grin and kissed him again.

You wanted to lose all sense of time in this room with him, wrapped up in nothing but kisses, but you had to get moving. “I’ve got to go to work,” you mumbled, breaking the kiss, reluctantly.

He grimaced. “Can’t you just skip today?”

“It's Thursday, Harry. Besides, don’t you have work to get to?” you reminded him as you slid out of bed.

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you, and—” he murmured. 

“Hmm?” You looked at him. 

Just then, Harry's phone rang. 

“I’ll be in the shower,” you said as you walked over. 

He sighed and answered the call.

After using the toilet, you stepped into the shower, only for Harry to sneak in behind you. He quickly shed his pants and joined you under the warm water, wrapping his arms around you for another kiss, making you giggle.

“Looks like you were right; I guess I have to get to work too,” he said while turning on the water.

You kept kissing as the water poured over you, both of you unable to stop touching each other. Harry was super gentle as he massaged shampoo into your hair, clearly enjoying it. You returned the favor, and it felt so much nicer than just a simple swap.

As you both walked out of the hotel, Oliver showed up, carrying a bag that smelled amazing. “Here’s a quick breakfast for you,” he said, handing it over.

You glanced at Harry, who was smiling cockily. “I didn’t want you heading off to work all hungry.”

You smiled widely, leaning in to kiss him. “Thank you. And... I love you.”

He smiled back. “I love you too,” he said, giving you another kiss.

Oliver laughed, clapping his hands. “Now that’s the sight I needed to see. Congratulations. I can die happy now.”

You both shared a joyful laugh and leaned in for another kiss, celebrating your love.

Harry and Oliver offered to drop you off near the building, but you declined, knowing you still had plenty of time and weren’t running late. After saying goodbye to them, a smile crept onto your face as you made your way to the entrance.

You were now Harry Castillo’s girlfriend—something that turned out to be less daunting than you’d imagined.

Lost in thought as you approached the building, a sudden screech of brakes pulled you back to reality. Startled, you turned to find a little girl who had just fallen to the ground. You hurried to her side. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

Meanwhile, the driver of the car was shouting, “Watch it, kid! Do you want to get hurt?”

Fuming, you yelled back, “You should be the one watching out! Don’t yell at her; can’t you see she’s terrified? Come on, sweetheart.”

Once you reached the sidewalk, you crouched down to check the scrape on her knee. “Does it hurt?”

“I wasn’t scared,” she replied defiantly. “I could have handled myself against him.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, absolutely, I’m sure you could. I was just looking out for you, you know. Girls have to look out for each other, right?" You winked at her.

She laughed. "I think so too, thanks. It’s just a scrape, really."

“Let’s swing by the pharmacy for a bandage,” you insisted.

“No need; I can take care of it. I'm already where I want to be, and I’m sure there are some first aid supplies at the house,” she said as she headed toward the building where you work.

You quickened your pace to catch up. "Do you live here? I actually work here."

She glanced at you, curious. “Not really. I’m just trying to get away from my parents’ drama for a bit. I thought I’d use my Uncle Harry’s place while he’s away.”

You suddenly froze. 

No way, it couldn’t be. 

Must just be a coincidence with the name or something. 

“Did you say Harry? Does he live in this building?” 

As you headed for the elevator, the girl nodded. “Yeah, he’s on the top floor, in the penthouse.” 

Another wave of shock hit you. 

Taking a deep breath, you asked, “Is your Uncle Harry's last name Castillo, by any chance?” 

“So you know him?” she said, sounding casual. 

But you were anything but casual, your mind racing. 

Nodding, “Yeah, I know him,” you said in barely more than a whisper.

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter!

here's the taglist...

@balhoneysweetstuff @orcasoul @pedroslut4eva @lailathepedritofan @queenofodds @darkheartgatita @ccmoonshine @suzysface @javiismyhsbnd @aurorathegreekprincess @daejangandimja @longlivekingminnn @jisungandpedrolover @urlivingdeadgirl @laliceee @sincerelywithheartt @indiegirlunited @fancyyoouu @blackborndue @shinymusicpanda @her-fandom-sanctum @aegoniipascal @zanylightmilkshake @bonadeaamo @spencercmlover @heramj @pedroloverbilmemkac @churchofjoemiller @urlivingdeadgirl @thanyatargaryen @icanbringyouinhot @universallygentlemenharmony @bitchyfestnight @sukivenue @l1zzygr0nt @pedrofan @javiismyhsbnd @00honey @brittmb115 @picketniffler @javiismyhsbnd @00honey @kneelarmhstrung @zanylightmilkshake @melsunshine @inept-the-magnificent @catofash @secretlettersfromyourlove @pedge-page @speaktothehandpeasants @krystal---meth @pasc4lfuzz @brittmb115 @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @kneelarmhstrung @pedrofan @l1zzygr0nt @sukivenue

If you want me to add you to the tag list or remove you from it, just let me know! if I missed your name, I'm sorry, remind me, plz.

lots of love 💋💋❤️❤️

[honeyncherry]

all good things - joe burrow

summary in the morning light, where all good things come to an end

content 18+, smut, angst, language

You met Joe the spring he got drafted.

It was a fluke, one of those nights that wasn’t supposed to be anything special. You were bartending part-time at a rooftop lounge downtown, working your third double in a row, already dreaming about the frozen pizza in your freezer and the bath you’d promised yourself if you made it through the night. 

Despite it being late, past midnight, the Louisiana air was still hot and thick with it’s signature humidity. Your first sign something was different should’ve been the way the crowd didn’t thin out like it usually did.

He was sitting in the corner booth when you finally noticed him. Shoulders raised, baseball cap low, head bent toward the guy across from him. 

You wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the table of college girls at the other end of the bar whispering about it, zooming in with their phones, giggling behind drink menus.

You’d heard the name before of course (everyone in the city had), but you didn’t follow football and you didn’t really care. You were too busy trying to make rent, finish school, survive.

He tipped well. That was the first thing you liked about him.

He also didn’t stare at your ass when you walked away, which already made him better than 90% of the guys who came through there.

The second time he showed up, it was just him. He sat at the bar and asked if you remembered his order. You did. And when he left, he asked for your name.

By the end of the summer, he knew the shape of your bedroom window and you knew how he liked his eggs in the morning.

It was never supposed to last. You both knew that. He told you from the beginning there wasn’t room for anything serious—he was leaving in a couple months, and you weren’t the type to follow anyone across the country.

You told him you never would, like you were proud of it. Like you weren’t already half in love with the way he smiled when he was trying not to.

That was over a year ago.

Now you’re sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in a city you don’t live in, wearing one of his shirts and trying not to let your makeup smudge from the tears that won’t stop welling up behind your eyes. 

You shouldn’t have come. You told yourself that on the flight over and again when he met you in the lobby without a kiss or at minimum a hello.

The sex was good. It always is. Good enough to make you forget, for a minute, that none of this means anything. That you’re not his girlfriend. That you’ve never met his friends. That he only calls you when he knows you’re alone.

And the worst part is—you answer every time.

You let him push your hair back and call you “baby” in the dark even though he never says it in the daylight. You let him whisper things into your neck that sound too much like maybes, even though you both know they’ll never turn into anything more.

And then you get dressed and go back to your real life, pretending none of it matters to you.

You used to think you were good at pretending.

Lately, not so much.

You hear him moving around in the bathroom. Nothing purposeful, just the soft shuffle of routine. You stare down at the comforter, absently smoothing the wrinkles beneath your thighs, and try not to read too far into the fact that he hasn’t said a word since he pulled out of you twenty minutes ago.

That’s always how it goes.

You touch, and then you don’t talk.

Or you talk, and then you don’t touch.

But rarely both.

He comes back out with a towel in his hand, wiping his face like he’s hoping it’ll hide him. The glow of the city hits his shoulders just right—he looks good. Tired, but good. 

His hair is damp from sweat, flushed along the collarbone, a few faded scratches visible on his ribs. You left those. He hasn’t looked at you since he stepped into the bathroom, but he tosses the towel onto the chair by the window.

The tension between you and Joe is thick enough to chew on. His back is to you as he grabs a bottle of water from the counter and drinks half of it without stopping, his throat working in tight swallows. You watch him from your place on the bed and try not to say what you’re thinking. Try not to say anything at all.

“You leave tomorrow morning?”

You nod even though he’s not looking. “Early flight,” you say, your voice scratchy.

He hums in acknowledgment, and you can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. You don’t think he knows, either.

Joe walks over to the foot of the bed and stops like he’s not sure if he wants to sit. You think maybe he’ll say something else—ask you to stay, tell you this feels different this time, something dramatic and stupid and out of character—but he just stretches one arm across his chest and winces at the tightness there.

“Are you okay?”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

It’s not what you meant and you think he knows that, but you let it go.

The silence stretches between you. You let your head fall back against the pillows, sighing softly as your legs shift beneath the sheet. Your body’s sore in the places he touched you. Your heart feels worse.

You stare up at the ceiling.

“You know this isn’t working, right?” you ask.

It’s not a question, really. You say it too calmly for it to be a fight, too softly for it to sound like an accusation.

Still, Joe flinches.

He finally looks at you then, brows tight, mouth a little open like he’s about to say something but doesn’t know where to start.

You sit up slowly and cross your legs under you, pulling the sheet higher even though he’s already seen all of you. You hate that you feel like you need to cover up now. Hate that you always feel that way after.

You swallow. “I know we said this would be easy. That we could do this—long distance, no pressure, just when we feel like it…”

He nods, watching you carefully. You hate how good he looks to you even in this moment.

You let out a humorless laugh. “But I don’t feel like it anymore.”

His expression doesn’t change, not at first. But you see it in the way his jaw ticks. The way his shoulders roll back. The way he sets the water down on the nightstand like it’s something delicate, even though his hands are anything but.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” he says eventually, voice low.

You stare at him, blinking.

“You didn’t ask me to stay either,” you shoot back, and it sounds sharper than you meant it to.

He closes his eyes, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you say, and your voice cracks just a little. “What’s not fair is pretending like this is still nothing. Like it hasn’t been months, Joe.”

He exhales hard through his nose and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to you now. His elbows rest on his knees, hands laced together like he’s bracing for something.

You don’t know why you keep going, but you do.

“I don’t want to feel like some layover between everything else in your life. I don’t want to keep flying across the country just to fuck you in a hotel room and go home pretending like we’re strangers.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flinch and you feel your heart fold in on itself.

“I know you’re busy,” you whisper. “I know this isn’t the right time. But it’s never going to be the right time with you, is it?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, finally, he says, “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

You freeze.

Joe turns around, meets your eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe days—he looks like the version of him you almost let yourself fall in love with. Tired and a little lost, like he knows he’s fucked it all up but doesn’t know how to fix it.

You could say something. You could forgive him. You could slide closer and touch his jaw and kiss him like it’s a promise and not a mistake.

Instead, you sit there, staring at each other across the bed, letting the weight of the moment crush everything that used to feel easy and careless. 

It’s hard to say how long you two are caught like that. Long enough for the air in the room to shift. Long enough for the space between you to start feeling like something tangible.

Joe lifts his body from the edge of the bed to sit beside you. His thigh brushes yours, just barely, but it's enough to make your breath catch. He doesn’t reach for you, or touch your hand, leg, or the small of your back like he would if this were still just about sex. He sits there, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them, eyes on the carpet.

You’re quiet for a while, thinking that maybe this is where he apologizes. Where he says it’s been hard, that he didn’t mean to make you feel like this. That he missed you. That he doesn’t want it to end.

But that’s not who he is. Joe doesn’t talk when things are hard. He shuts down. Retreats inward. You’ve seen him do it on TV after a bad game—answering questions like they don’t matter, smiling without humor, eyes heavy with something that never makes it to his mouth. You should’ve known that if he couldn’t say it then, he wouldn’t say it now.

Still, you wait.

Because part of you wants to believe he’ll surprise you. That this version of him—vulnerable and two inches from the edge—might actually say something this time.

But all he says is, “I don’t know how to do this.”

His voice is low and quiet enough that you almost miss it. You lift your head slowly. His thumbs are rubbing over the calluses in small, distracted circles. “Do what?” you ask, even though you already know.

His jaw flexes. “Be something.”

You blink. “Is that what this is?”

He doesn’t answer.

You let out a breath through your nose and look away. Your throat feels tight again.

“I didn’t come here to trick you into a relationship,” you say. “I just… wanted to know if this thing we’ve been doing meant something. If it was ever going to be more than… than this.”

Joe nods like he hears you, but doesn’t say anything else. And that hurts more than if he had just said no.

You stand up, knees wobbling slightly from how long you’ve been sitting. Joe’s t-shirt hangs low on your frame and you hate how much you’ve come to think of it as yours. You open the closet, pulling your suitcase out.

“I’ll grab a ride to the airport early,” you say, more to the wall than to him. “There’s no point in staying.”

You expect him to let you go. He always has. That’s been the thing about Joe—he takes and takes and takes, but he never asks you not to leave.

Which is why it nearly undoes you when he says, “Don’t.” He exhales, long and uneven. “You don’t have to go tonight.”

Your hands hover over the suitcase, trembling just a little.

“I don’t want to wake up in the morning and feel like you’re already gone.”

You close your eyes.

It’s the first real thing he’s said all night. And that should be enough. Maybe it should feel like progress.

But it’s not a promise. It’s not even clarity. It’s just another thread in the tangle you’ve both been pulling at since last April—sweet, sincere, and ultimately useless.

You turn slowly, meeting his eyes across the room.

“I don’t want to stay because you’re lonely,” you say.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Joe’s mouth opens and closes once. He looks up at you like he wants to say something even bigger, something even truer, but it dies on his tongue.

You cross your arms over your chest, heart thudding so loud it’s hard to breathe. “I’m not asking for you to give me something you don’t have. I just—I need to know if there’s something here. Something worth staying for.”

Joe doesn’t say anything at first. He looks at you like he’s trying to find something in your face that he’s never been brave enough to name. Like he’s measuring the quiet, trying to decide if it’s safe to speak into it. When he finally does, his voice barely carries.

“There’s everything here.”

It’s not a dramatic confession but the weight of it settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected, like maybe it took more out of him than he’ll ever admit. You don’t move because you don’t trust yourself to, but you watch him, caught in the space between wanting to believe it and knowing how long it took to hear.

“I just don’t know how to let it in,” he adds, and this time the words sound smaller. Less certain.

Your throat tightens. You blink, hard and fast, but one tear slips through anyway, trailing hot and slow down your cheek. He sees it. You know he does.

He stands carefully, like even his own body might betray him if he’s not gentle with it. When he steps in front of you, he pauses. His hand lifts to your face, it’s cautious, thumb catching the tear before it can fall any further. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And you believe him.

You always do.

But it doesn’t change the room you’re standing in. Doesn’t change the months you spent pretending that crumbs were enough, that touches without words didn’t leave marks. 

The hotel is still unfamiliar and your heart still aches in the same places. But when he leans in and kisses you with a certain tenderness you haven’t felt from him in weeks—you let him. Because for now, this is what you have.

At some point, the shirt comes off. You think he takes it off you, though it’s hard to remember. It’s all hands and shifting weight and his mouth brushing the side of your neck like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. 

The sheets pull around you as he guides you backward, one hand braced near your shoulder, the other skating down your body like he needs to relearn what he’s spent the last year forgetting. His forehead rests against yours for a breath longer than it needs to. His eyes stay closed the whole time.

Later, when the lights are out and the room has settled into a deeper kind of quiet, his body curves around yours like it always has. One arm drapes over your waist, bare legs tangled beneath the sheet, your cheek pressed into the crook of his bicep. His thumb traces a slow, absent path across your stomach, like he’s touching you just to make sure you’re still there. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

His breathing evens out eventually. Yours doesn’t.

And still, you stay curled into the shape of him long after sleep should’ve taken you both.

By the time dawn cracks through and the sounds of the morning begin to crawl in under the door, you’ve already been awake for hours.

There was a softness to the room that morning, the kind that made you move quieter than usual, as if anything louder than a breath might rupture whatever peace had settled into the corners overnight.

You’d already showered and dried your hair, fingers pulling slowly through the damp strands as the sky outside changed from gray to something even paler—washed-out and undecided. The kind of light that didn’t reveal much, only dulled the edges of what it touched. 

It never quite sharpened into morning, just hovered across the room casting everything in a glow that made things look softer than they were. It slid over the floorboards, caught faintly on the edge of the mirror, and never reached far enough to feel like a reason to stay.

Standing in the bathroom in a tank top and underwear, you dab moisturizer beneath your eyes with your ring finger, watching your own reflection like she might say something first. Your skin was still flushed in certain places, warm to the touch where his hands had pressed down too hard without realizing it. You didn’t bother covering it up. You weren’t sure why, but it felt like erasing the evidence would’ve been dishonest.

Somewhere behind you, the low creak of the mattress echoed softly. Sheets shifting. A familiar breath pulling in through his nose as he stretched somewhere just beyond the bathroom door. You kept your eyes on your reflection and reached for your mascara.

When he appeared in the mirror a moment later, he moved with the kind of unhurried weight that only came after a full night’s sleep—when the body was still heavy with it, slow to catch up to the present. 

His hair stuck up slightly at the back, his jaw shadowed, shoulders broad and relaxed in the way you never got to see during the day. He crossed to the sink beside you without saying anything, brushing past your arm with the kind of easy closeness that felt instinctive now.

He reached for his toothbrush while you leaned over to sweep mascara through your lashes, your hip nudging his absently when you adjusted your stance in front of the counter. There was something oddly domestic in the way you both moved around each other, even if this was only your second morning waking up together in this hotel, this city, this version of whatever it was you kept doing.

After spitting, he rinsed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and didn’t say a word. You weren’t in a hurry to break the silence either.

You were still smoothing your fingers along your collarbone, checking for any trace of product left behind, when his hand reached for yours. His thumb brushed lightly over the curve of your arm, and in a voice low enough to get lost in the silence, he murmured, “Come here.”

You let him guide you, stepping back without protest as he pulled you gently in front of him. You stopped when your back hit his chest and your eyes met his in the mirror.

His hands settled at your hips first, palms spreading slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hold you still or simply remind himself that you were there. One hand traveled higher, skimming beneath the hem of your tank, grazing the edge of your ribs before settling just beneath the swell of your breast. You could feel his breath shift behind you and his lips hovered near your neck without touching.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

He watched you in the mirror while you watched yourself, jaw set slightly, chest rising slower than usual. Every part of your skin felt lit up under his hands, like you were waiting for something you knew you shouldn’t be.

A brush of his thumb across the underside of your breast made your mouth part on instinct. He pressed closer, his body curving around yours like the thousand times before. You could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of your underwear, his hips steady against your own.

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmured. His hands continued their path, easing your tank up and over your breasts, bunching the fabric just beneath your arms before his hands returned to your skin. 

He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t gentle either. His touch landed somewhere in between confident, like he knew what you liked, but thoughtful enough to make you feel like this wasn’t just a reaction. Like it wasn’t just about getting off this time.

Your head tilted back slightly when his fingers rolled over your nipple. He breathed in at the same time you did. You could feel the tightness building already, low in your stomach, the kind that came not from what he was doing but how he was doing it. Less like a transaction, more like an answer to your questions.

There was something quiet in the way his hands slid lower, how he dipped his fingers past the waistband of your underwear without looking down, just watching your reaction in the mirror. Two fingers moved through the wet heat between your legs, the motion of his wrist barely visible, but enough to make you shift back into him without meaning to.

His free hand flattened across your stomach, thumb anchoring just above your navel. That steady weight kept you grounded while he circled your clit in slow, purposeful strokes—just the edge of pressure, just enough to make your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

The tempo never changed. Not when his fingers slipped inside you, not even when your hips started moving in rhythm. Your eyes fluttered half-shut and your mouth fell open, the softest sounds slipping out before you could swallow them down. He held you against his chest with one hand and fucked you with the other, and all of it felt impossibly close—like there was no part of you he wasn’t inside of.

“I think about you more than I should,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Even when I try not to.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. It felt too close, too exposed. But he held you with his body flush to yours, breath uneven now as he whispered, “You feel so good like this. Always do.”

You came with a soft, broken sound, his name catching somewhere between your tongue and the back of your throat. The orgasm moved through you slowly, one long, rolling wave that left your legs shaking and your body slack against his. He didn’t stop, one arm tightening around your waist while the other stayed between your thighs, still moving, coaxing you through every last aftershock. Your head dropped back onto his shoulder, breath catching, muscles quivering, skin hot where it touched his.

He didn’t say anything but you could feel his eyes on you in the mirror, watching the way your body responded to him, the way you unraveled without a word. Like he needed to memorize it, maybe if he studied you closely enough, he might be able to hold onto something this time.

You weren’t sure what made your chest ache more—that, or the fact that you wanted him to.

He stepped back just long enough to drag your underwear down your legs, hands moving slow, fingers grazing the backs of your thighs like he couldn’t stand losing contact for even a second. Rising behind you, he pressed his chest close, his hand slipping to rest low on your stomach.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the counter, spine arching instinctively when his hips aligned with yours. When he pushed in, it was one long, aching glide that left no part of you untouched. 

He filled you like he was made for it, like his body already knew the way yours would take him. Your breath hitched on the exhale, mouth falling open, fingers curling tight around the countertop. He stayed buried to the hilt, not moving yet, just letting you take in every inch, one hand planted beside yours for balance and the other tight at your hip.

Every inch of him was inside you, and it now didn’t feel close enough.

He started to move—shallow at first, then deeper, the pace measured, like every thrust was something he’d been trying not to ask for. You clenched around him, the burn twisting into something heavier and needier, the kind of pressure that lives beneath the skin.

His grip shifted, fingers threading through yours on the counter. The other arm wrapped tighter around your waist as he drove into you again, harder, more certain, holding you open as you shuddered beneath the weight of it all. Each thrust pulled something out of you, soft and silent and old. Like the months had carved a space in you that only he could reach, and now he was trying to fill it all at once.

Through the mirror, you watched the flush spread across your chest, the way your mouth parted, how your eyes fluttered like you were trying to stay inside your body and outside of it at the same time. His hand dragged up your side, fingertips skimmed over your ribs, settling on your breast.

His thumb circled over your nipple with a pressure that felt more like a question than anything else. Not asking for permission. Just wondering if you’d still let him have it—your softness, your silence, the parts of you he doesn’t deserve.

His mouth dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing the edge of your neck.

“I don’t say shit the right way,” he whispered. “But I’m better when you’re here. You know that, don’t you?”

It would’ve hurt less if he’d stayed silent. Tears started to pool, but you blinked them back, not wanting to break the moment—not wanting him to see.

Still, you didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. Your body kept reaching for his, falling back into the rhythm like you’d never left it. His pace stayed steady, every movement felt heavier than the one before. He slid his hand down to your stomach again, pulling you back into him with each thrust, guiding your hips as if he needed the friction just to breathe.

He pressed his forehead to the side of your head, breath spilling into the curve of your jaw. There were no more words. Just the desperate sounds that tumbled out between you. Your name on his lips, his name on yours, softer and softer until you gave in to it completely.

You came again with your hands gripping the counter, voice breaking, thighs trembling as you pulsed around him, hips locking back into his. He followed seconds later, groaning into your skin, hands tightening and hips pressing in one final time as he spilled into you, holding there like he never wanted to leave.

Neither of you looked away from the mirror.

His eyes were on you. Yours were on him.

And for a second, it almost felt like enough.

One of his hands caressed your skin, the other lifted to your face, fingers curling beneath your jaw. His thumb brushed away the single tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded and let him believe it.

He kissed your cheek, then your temple, then once more just beneath your jaw.

From the bedroom, his phone rang. The sound broke the stillness in a way that felt almost nauseating.

He sighed. “Give me a second.”

The hotel room door clicked softly behind him, and you were alone again.

Your hand was still resting lightly on the edge of the counter, your other arm limp at your side. The silence felt different now. Not empty, exactly—but momentary. A pause you had to move through.

Then came the buzz of your own phone, faint against the marble behind you.

You turned your head slowly, eyes drifting to where it sat beside the sink, screen lighting up once before fading back to black.

Your driver has arrived.

No sound left your mouth, but something in your chest cinched tight. You moved before you could talk yourself out of it—pulling on a pair of jeans, not bothering with socks as you slipped into your shoes. 

The sweater you’d laid across the chair went over your tank. A charger still tangled on the nightstand was shoved into your bag. You tucked your earrings into the side pocket without much care. Everything felt half-packed and hastily folded, but in the moment, it didn’t matter to you. You weren’t planning to look back.

The suitcase handle made a soft sound as you lifted it off the floor.

And that’s when the door opened.

Joe walked in, still rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, phone no longer in sight. At first, his expression was neutral. But then he saw you, and everything changed in an instant.

He stopped short in the doorway, brow creasing as his eyes dropped to the bag at your feet.

“…What are you doing?”

You froze.

“I—I just got a text,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “My ride’s downstairs.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. “Wait. You’re— You’re actually leaving?”

“You knew I had a flight.”

“That was before.”

He took a step forward. Then another. His voice picked up—still low, but sharper now. “I thought we were good. I thought we figured it out.”

“I didn’t—” you started, then stopped. “I just… it’s already been booked. It’s done.”

“So cancel it,” he said, motioning toward your phone. “Who gives a fuck? I’ll get you another one. I’ll buy you five. Just—why now?”

The hurt was there now, pressed into the edges of his words. You saw it in the way his mouth moved, in the way his hands hung stiff at his sides. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I have to leave,” you said, forcing yourself to keep your voice level. “This is what we said we were doing. No pressure, no expectations. Just this.”

“Right. But last night wasn’t just that,” he snapped. “You know it wasn’t.”

You stared at him.

“I told you how I felt,” he said, voice breaking in places he tried to hold steady. “I showed you. I don’t say that shit to just anyone.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But you didn’t say it in time.”

His breath hitched and his eyes twitched.

“Oh,” he said, voice going flat. “Right. So there was a deadline.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He laughed once—cold, quick. “Sure it is. That’s exactly what you meant.”

You looked down, fingers tightening around the handle of your suitcase.

“You made up your mind before I even woke up,” he said, and this time his voice cracked for real. “Didn’t you?”

“I had to.”

“Bullshit.”

“I did, Joe.”

He stepped back like your words had physically hit him, hands now clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was locked, the muscles in his neck twitching with effort as he tried to hold himself together.

And then his eyes—red around the edges, shining just enough to betray him—finally lifted back to yours.

“I thought you were gonna stay.”

“I know.”

“I thought—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I thought this meant something to you.”

“It does,” you said, barely audible.

“Then why the fuck are you leaving?”

You didn’t answer.

That was when something in him gave out. His chest rose hard with a breath that didn’t sound like breathing at all, and he turned halfway toward the door, like he couldn’t stand to look at you but couldn’t walk away either.

“Fine,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Go.”

You teetered back on the heels of your feet.

“Joe—”

His hand was already on the door. “You wanna leave?” The knob turned fast under his palm. “Then leave.”

The door swung open with more force than it needed, catching the wall with a soft thud that echoed into the hallway. He didn’t look at you, standing there with his hand still on the handle like that counted as letting you go.

With your grip impossibly tight around your suitcase handle, you took a step and rolled it toward the threshold without a word.

As you passed him, the space between your bodies didn’t close—not even by accident this time. Your shoulder didn’t brush his. Your hand didn’t graze his arm. You didn’t move around each other the way you had moments ago, when it was quiet but not like this. And when your foot crossed the doorway, he didn’t move.

The hallway stretched quiet ahead of you. The undecided light from the windows had settled against the walls, clearer now—no longer undecided. It didn’t reach for you. It didn’t soften anything. It just watched as you walked past. Your footsteps landed too softly to interrupt the silence. Not loud enough to be final. Not loud enough to be forgiven.

You didn’t look back. Not once. And when the door slammed, somewhere down the hall, it didn’t startle you.

You’d been waiting for it.

And still, you kept walking.

Because last night, for the first time, he let something real slip through—words he’d never said before, touches that felt like they meant something more. And part of you wanted to believe it could finally be different. That maybe this was where the shape of things changed. But then the sun came up, the silence set in, and you remembered how many times you’d already convinced yourself that wanting was the same as having. 

He meant what he said, you believe that now. But belief isn’t the same as trust, and it’s not the same as timing. You didn’t leave because you stopped feeling anything. You left because you finally did. And this time, you knew better than to wait around hoping he’d catch up before it faded.

[firewasabeast]

this is mostly just Eddie and Tommy talking when Eddie comes into town for Bobby's funeral. It's the most pointless fic I think I've ever written. Enjoy!

A knock on the door startled Tommy. He’d been laying down for a couple of hours now, not quite asleep, but not fully conscious either.

He got out of bed quickly, but carefully, and made a beeline for the door before the knocking started up again.

He swung the door open to Eddie on the other side, fist raised and ready to bang on the door again.

“Oh.” Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed as his arm drops back to his side. “Hey, Tommy.”

“Hey, Eddie,” Tommy greeted, moving to the side. “Come in.”

Eddie stepped inside, looking around at how things had changed.

Tommy shut the door, then motioned for Eddie to take a seat on the couch. “Evan said your flight was getting in tomorrow?”

“Uh, yeah, it was, but an earlier flight popped up and I just… wanted to be here, with everyone.”

Tommy nodded, pointing toward the kitchen. “You want something to drink? I’m gonna grab a beer.”

“Sounds good.”

Tommy wasn’t gone long, returning with a beer in each hand. He handed one to Eddie before sitting down at the other end of the couch. “Evan’s asleep,” he informed him. “He hasn’t been resting much lately, but I can wake him if you want.”

“Oh, no. No, I- I know it’s gotta be hell on him right now. Let him sleep.” Eddie twisted the cap off his bottle and took a sip. “What the hell even happened, Man?” he asked, shaking his head. “I heard from Ravi first. He tried telling me what went down, but it sounded like something out of a bad horror movie. Trying to talk to Chim or Hen wasn’t much better, and then Buck’s been… well, I guess you know how Buck’s been.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Tommy took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he began. “You know about the virus stuff, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I kinda came in halfway through that emergency. Stole a helicopter-- again. Had a standoff with the FBI and the army. It was all a setup, giving Athena time to find Moira and the anti-viral. We thought…” His voice trailed off. He tapped his finger against the bottle in his hand. “We thought we were trying to save Howie. Thought that we’d, um, that we’d get him and Hen to the hospital and everyone else would be fine. But Bobby...”

“Ravi said he did it to save everyone else; that there would have been four funerals if it weren’t for him.”

Tommy nodded. “A couple minutes,” he said, taking a sip of his beer, “and everything would have been different. Everyone would have been out.”

“Sounds like you’re blaming yourself.”

“Took me too long to get away from the damn FBI.” He shrugged. “It’s not just me though. Everyone trying to stop us, all the obstacles. Two minutes, Eddie. Two minutes and everything would be fine.”

“It’s not fair, Man, but it’s not on you.”

"Mm," Tommy hummed, and Eddie could hear all the words he wasn't saying. “I don’t believe you, but I’m not giving myself time to think about it right now, so let’s let it go.”

There was silence. An awkward lull in the conversation before Eddie broke it.

“So, you’re here,” he noted.

“I’m here.”

“I guess that means you decided to stop being an idiot and get your head out of your ass.”

Tommy huffed out a laugh. “Well, tell me how you really feel.”

“Sorry, I… I shouldn’t have said that like that.” Eddie ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “I haven’t gotten much sleep the last couple days.”

“None of us have.” Tommy quickly drank down half of his beer. “And it’s fine. You’re not wrong.”

“But you two, you… you figured everything out? Got it sorted?”

Tommy stared down at his bottle, watching as it started to sweat. “I apologized for the things I said,” he confirmed, “when we were up in the chopper. He did too. A lot of misunderstandings and, well, me being an idiot.”

“So no more insane ideas about me being competition?”

“Really, really love how you two communicate everything with each other.”

“He didn’t tell me, dumbass. Chimney called last week, caught me up.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

Tommy sighed. “Should I apologize to you too then?”

“Eh, I found it kinda funny at the time.”

“Yes, well, Evan did not.”

“Yeah, because he’s in love with you.”

Another sigh. “That’s not-”

“Oh, don’t even start with me. I was there for the baking and moping and the ‘should I call him? I should call him. What if he needs me? What if he’s in trouble? He’s bubbling me, Eddie. Now he stopped. Now he’s bubbling. He stopped. He’s bubbling.’ Over and over again. Thought I’d go insane.”

Tommy squinted. “I don’t know what half of that means."

“It means he loves you, and you clearly love him, and both of you should stop acting like I’m some hurdle standing in your way. I like my ankles the way they are.”

“I’m not-”

“Don’t get me wrong, Buck’s a great friend. Love him like a brother, but we would absolutely kill each other if we lived together for a long weekend, let alone a lifetime. I always need a nap after we hang out for a few hours.”

There was a sudden sharpness in Tommy’s chest. A wave of anger he couldn’t quite place. He quickly shoved it away. Now wasn’t the time.

He set his bottle down, then leaned back into the couch. “I’m not even sure I know exactly what we are. We cleared things up in the helicopter, but we were also trying to evade the army and the FBI, so it’s not like we got to clarify where we stand.”

Eddie stared at him. “But you’re here?”

“I don’t want him to be alone right now.”

Well, I’m assuming you’re not just making yourself at home against Buck’s will.”

“What? Of course not. He asked me to stay, and I wanted to stay anyway, so I’m staying.”

“You two are both exhausting.” Eddie shook his head, “And damn near perfect for each other. Don’t screw it up this time.”

“Eddie-”

“Oh, and by the way, Buck may not have told me the whole ‘he thinks you’re competition’ crap, but he did tell me that I was a child for cutting you off when you guys broke up. See, I thought I was doing the right thing by siding with my best friend. Apparently, there were no sides and I’m a moron.”

“I didn’t really expect you to keep hanging out with me, Eddie. It’s no big deal.”

Eddie scoffed. “Not to you, maybe.”

Tommy shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “We don’t need to talk about this stuff right now anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

“Really? Because I think it matters more than ever, Tommy. You’re wasting time when you could let yourself be happy instead.”

“Are we fighting right now?” Tommy asked, eyebrows furrowed. “It feels like we’re fighting.”

“We’re not fighting. I’m just trying to stop you from being stupid. I meant it when I said you two were perfect for each other. You’re here, at this house, for a reason, Tommy. You may not wanna believe it, that he loves you, but it doesn’t stop it from being true. Might as well accept it.”

“I don’t-” A shuffling sound coming from the bedroom had Tommy snapping his mouth shut.

“Tommy?” Buck called as he started down the hall. “Wh- Where’d you- Eddie?”

Buck stood at the end of the hall, confused. His looked exhausted, like no amount of sleep would ever be enough. His eyes were red and puffy, hair a mess, and it looked like he hadn’t changed out of his sweats and hoodie in a couple of days.

“Hey, Man,” Eddie said, getting up and walking over to Buck to give him a hug. “You doin’ okay?”

“I…” Buck sighed. “No, not really.”

“I know.” Eddie gave Buck’s shoulders a squeeze before letting him go. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it for days now. Don’t really want to believe it’s real.”

Eddie opted to move to the chair as Buck walked over to Tommy. Tommy reached his hand out for him, and Buck practically fell into his side. “Thought you’d left when I woke up,” he muttered, resting his head on Tommy’s shoulder.

“No. I’m not going anywhere, Evan.” Tommy pressed a kiss to his head. “Eddie got an earlier flight, so we were just talking while you slept.”

“Chris didn’t come?”

Eddie shook his head. “Wanted to, but he’s got finals coming up.”

“What… Where’s your stuff?” Buck asked, lifting his head to look around. “Did you forget to bring a suitcase?”

“Already at the hotel. And,” he added quickly, “before you say anything, my mom had a lot of points about to expire on a credit card, so she told me to use them. I’m good at the hotel.”

Buck nodded, leaning in close to Tommy again. “Spare room’s ready, if you change your mind.”

“Appreciate it.” Eddie glanced down at his watch, taking a breath. “Chim said the whole team is going out tonight for drinks. You two are coming, right?”

“Oh, I- I don’t-”

“Come on. You can’t just stay locked away in here forever. It’ll do you both some good to get out.” Eddie pointed to Tommy, “And don’t you dare try and say you’re not part of the team. You are and if Buck’s coming then so are you.”

Buck looked up at Tommy as he thought it over. Tommy shrugged. “Might be good for us,” he said, thumb brushing up and down over Buck’s shoulder, “like Eddie said.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Just for a little bit.”

“Good.” Eddie stood, clapping his hands together. “I’m gonna head to the hotel to shower and change. I’ll meet you guys there.”

“I think I'll go shower too,” Buck replied, slow to move away from Tommy and stand. “Been moving a little slower than normal lately.”

“Understandable, Man. See ya in a bit.”

They gave each other one more hug before Buck headed back for the bathroom.

Once he heard the door close, Eddie glared over at Tommy. “You ‘don’t know what you are?’”

Tommy got up, walking to the door. “I told you, we haven’t fully talked it out yet.”

“So in the meantime you kiss his head and he snuggles you like you’re two bunny rabbits in a burrow?”

“Oh look.” Tommy reached for the doorknob, motioning with his free hand as he opened it with the other. “You were just leaving.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. When he reached the doorway, he turned back to Tommy. “Tell him you love him, Dude. Stop wasting time.” He reached out, giving Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Take it from me, life’s too short.”

“I, um, I should go check on him.”

“Mhm. Seven o’clock. Be there.”

“We will.” Tommy closed the door, then made his way to the bedroom.

Buck hadn’t quite made it to the bathroom yet. He had some new clothes laid out on the bed, but he was just standing at the window, staring outside.

Tommy leaned against the doorway, thinking over some of the things Eddie had said. That Buck could be tiring, exhausting, and that he’d never be able to live with him.

Tommy couldn’t understand that. Evan was a lot of things, but Tommy had never found him tiring. He loved Evan’s excitement for life. Loved spending as much time with him as possible. Loved… loved him.

He took a deep breath, pushing himself away from the doorframe and walking over to Buck. “You okay?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist.

Buck shook his head. “No. I… the thought of showering made me tired all of a sudden.”

“Why don’t I get it ready?” Tommy offered. “I can get in with you. I’ll even give your head a massage.”

Buck turned in his arms to face him, his eyes wet with tears. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not, Evan. But, um, before we do that, I… there’s something I need to tell you.”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Could I request where pierre and Kika forget their daughters school performance so while every other kid is going to their parents the daughter is just stood their waiting to the where the teacher had to call them and the daughter ignores them until they get home. I know it’s long sorry but if you could do it that would be great ❤️

Forgotten in the rain

The rain had started in a soft drizzle but quickly became a steady pour that drummed against the school’s windows. Inside the assembly hall, the walls echoed with the excited chatter of children and the proud applause of parents. Flashbulbs popped every few seconds as moms and dads documented every smile, every wave, every bow.

Except for one little girl who stood near the back of the room.

Yn clutched her damp paper certificate, its corners curling slightly. She had performed a poem about the seasons—her voice clear, her hands animated. Her teacher, Miss Carter, had told her she’d done wonderfully. The kind of performance that deserved a bouquet, a warm hug, a proud parent grinning from ear to ear. But instead, she stood alone, eyes scanning every adult that walked in, every couple that greeted their child with open arms.

Her dress was a soft pastel pink, chosen by her mother, Kika, two days ago. Her curly brown hair was pulled into two neat braids, and her small boots were now soaked at the soles from pacing near the entrance.

She looked at the clock again.

7:12 PM.

Miss Carter finally noticed the way Yn’s smile had faded. The teacher walked over with a kind smile, kneeling beside her.

"Sweetheart, are you still waiting for someone?"

Yn nodded silently. Her eyes were bright, but her jaw was set.

Miss Carter’s heart ached. "Do you want to come wait in my classroom while I call your parents?"

"Okay," Yn whispered.

---

Pierre glanced at his phone as he sank deeper into the couch, his legs stretched over the coffee table. "Did we ever finish that bottle of wine from last week?"

"The red one? Yeah, I think I did on Tuesday," Kika replied from the kitchen, reaching for a handful of olives.

Pierre sighed dramatically. "We’re such adults. Drinking wine on a Tuesday night."

Kika chuckled, walking into the living room. "What time is it?"

"Just past seven. Why?"

She froze.

Pierre noticed it immediately. "What?"

"Pierre."

"What?"

"Oh my god, Yn’s school performance."

He shot up. "Shit."

She grabbed her phone, nearly fumbling it in her panic. Two missed calls. One voicemail.

"It’s Miss Carter," she said, already pressing play.

Pierre ran a hand through his hair, groaning. "We’re the worst parents."

The message played:

"Hi, this is Miss Carter from Willowbrook Primary. I just wanted to check in—it’s a little past seven, and Yn is still here. She had such a wonderful performance tonight, but it seems no one came to pick her up. I’ll keep her in my classroom until you arrive. Please give me a call back."

Kika was already pulling on her coat. "Let’s go."

---

The ride to the school was painfully silent. Pierre kept glancing at the clock, tapping the steering wheel. Kika sat with her arms crossed, her foot bouncing with guilt.

They found Miss Carter standing by the school doors, holding an umbrella over Yn.

Yn wasn’t crying. She wasn’t pouting. She wasn’t doing anything. She simply stood there, looking small and still, like a little statue in a rainstorm.

When she saw them, her face didn’t light up.

Pierre jumped out first. "Baby, I’m so sorry—"

She didn’t move toward him.

Kika tried. "Yn, we—"

But the child just turned back to Miss Carter. "Thank you for waiting with me."

Miss Carter smiled gently. "You were very brave, sweetheart. I’m proud of you."

Pierre stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can we take you home now, bébé?"

Yn gave a tiny nod and walked toward the car without saying another word.

---

The drive home was colder than the rain outside. Kika turned to speak a few times but couldn’t find the right words. Pierre tried to hold Yn’s hand, but she pulled it away slowly, not harshly, but pointedly.

Once they arrived home, Yn unbuckled her seatbelt herself, climbed out, and walked straight into the house.

Pierre and Kika followed.

"Yn, baby, please, talk to us," Kika pleaded, dropping her keys on the counter.

Yn headed straight for her room.

"Sweetheart," Pierre tried, his voice cracking.

No response. She closed her door behind her with a quiet finality.

Kika sat on the couch, hands covering her face. "I feel like I just broke her heart."

Pierre sat beside her, shoulders slumped. "We really messed up."

"It wasn’t just a show, Pierre. She told us every day this week. She made invitations. She left them on the fridge."

He closed his eyes. "And we just... forgot."

They didn’t sleep much that night.

---

The next morning, Pierre was already in the kitchen by 6:30, trying to make pancakes the way Yn liked them—thin, buttery, with a swirl of strawberry syrup in a heart shape. Kika was chopping fruit, glancing at the hallway every few minutes.

At 7:10, the door creaked open.

Yn walked in, dressed in her school uniform, backpack already on. She looked fresh and neat, as if nothing had happened.

"Good morning," Kika tried, voice careful.

"Hi," Yn replied without looking at them. She opened the fridge, grabbed her lunchbox, and set it in her bag.

"We made you pancakes," Pierre offered.

"I’m not hungry."

The rejection hit harder than expected.

"Yn," Kika tried again, kneeling down, "we are so, so sorry. There’s no excuse. We forgot something really important, and you didn’t deserve that."

Yn met her eyes. "You didn’t come. Everyone else had someone. Even Noah’s dad came, and he works at the hospital."

Pierre approached slowly. "We know. And we feel awful."

"You always say I’m the most important thing," she whispered. "But you forgot me."

Kika’s eyes filled with tears. "You are the most important thing, baby girl. We just—our brains were stupid. We got busy, and we didn’t write it down, and that’s not your fault. It’s ours."

Pierre knelt beside her. "We hurt your feelings. And we’re not asking you to forgive us today. But we want you to know we’re sorry. And we’re going to do better."

Yn looked at both of them, her lips trembling.

"I stood in the rain by myself," she murmured.

"I know, mon coeur. I know," Pierre said, hugging her gently. "And it breaks me."

Finally, Yn leaned into him.

Kika joined the embrace, holding them both tightly. "We love you more than anything."

"Even more than the red wine?" Yn asked, voice muffled in Pierre’s chest.

Pierre laughed through a sniffle. "A thousand times more."

"Even more than your phone, Mama?"

Kika smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "So much more. You’re my whole heart."

Yn finally smiled.

"Can I still have pancakes?"

Pierre stood. "Absolutely. Even if we’re late to school, pancakes are happening."

As they sat together at the table, the storm from the night before seemed to pass, replaced by the simple warmth of shared forgiveness, strawberry syrup, and a heart-shaped apology made of batter.

And from that day on, every calendar in their house—paper, digital, and even the whiteboard on the fridge—had one line written across the top:

"Yn comes first. Always."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

[randombush3]

solo necesitaba estar aquí

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: some much-needed family time is had

Words: 2134

Notes: I got bored and this came to mind

You’re busy. As in, drowning in calls, constantly approached by your juniors, never-seeing-the-light-of-day busy. You don’t even remember the last time you sat down and had dinner with your wife and child. You pay a woman to replace both his mothers.

The sun has already set, the view of orange slowly dimming into darkness especially visible from your newly-obtained corner office. There must be about two more hours left on your schedule today, explaining the fresh coffee on your desk. And you’re tired, but you love this job. It’s worth it.

Your assistant — new, bumbling as he tries to grow accustomed to your discipline and efficiency — appears, phone in-hand.

“Is that New York?” is your immediate question, noting the terror on his face with slight amusement. It always takes a while for the young ones to break.

He shakes his head. The words he mouths are far scarier: it’s your wife.

You stand up.

“Give it to me.” The phone is searing hot, and you know that this is not a call of affection. “Alexia, baby, hi!”

“La profe ha dicho que somos madres terribles.”

You check the date on the screen of your laptop. “Oh, there was that meeting, wasn’t there?”

“You said you’d come.”

“I thought we’d both agreed to send Luisa?” In truth, you had. Alexia is in the most crucial part of the season, playing matches that decide her glory (and her mood during summer). “Did you go?”

“No. But at least I was home to ask him how it went.”

You rub your temples. Your assistant has taken his cue to leave, hovering on the other side of the glass door as if it will save him from the bomb that’s about to go off. “Okay. Well, what did he say? Are you with him right now?”

“Luisa’s is getting him ready for bed,” Alexia replies with a deep sigh. You gather there is no good news to give. “He told her that he never sees us. No malice intended — a simple: mis mamás son tan importantes. And the teacher took it as, mis mamás son demasiado importantes.”

“He didn’t lie.”

“And you don’t feel guilty?”

You think back to the last time you spent uninterrupted time with your son. It must have been Alexia’s last match — no, you had to leave because of a crisis in Tokyo. Maybe before that?

“We’ve spent the last seven years being parents he can be proud of. But he… doesn’t even see us.”

“You’re home right now!”

“Just in time to kiss him goodnight!”

Your breath hitches.

That’s supposed to be enough. That’s supposed to be the line that closes the argument, the past where she tells you it’s okay, that you’re trying. That your intentions are good and true and she isn’t a saint either.

But she doesn’t say anything.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hits you, and you find your desk chair, constantly warmed and broken in, and sink back into it, the city glowing behind you like a silent reprimand. You lean forwards, elbow on the desk, fingers still pressed against your temple.

She’s on speaker now. It almost feels like she’s in the room with you.

“I thought we were doing the right thing,” you say finally, quieter now. “Working this hard. Building something for him.”

There’s a pause. A cavity opens up between the two of you. Alexia no longer agrees. “He just wants parents.”

It stings more than it should. Because deep down, you knew it. You’ve known it for a while — in the drawings where Luisa is front and centre, where you and Alexia are smiling stock figures tucked away in the corner. You knew it when he started calling her mamá Luisa, without hesitation or confusion.

“He told her,” Alexia continues, voice breaking just slightly, “that sometimes he pretends we’re home. That he hears the door open and he thinks it’s one of us — and he gets all… excited, just for it to be a delivery or a friend, or the neighbours checking in on him.”

You let out a long breath, eyes falling shut. “He’s seven. He shouldn’t know disappointment like that.”

Silence. But she’s still on the line. You can hear her breathing — steady, controlled. Like she’s bracing herself to say something worse.

“I have a few matches left this season,” she says. “Then I’m home until the Euros.”

“And I have Tokyo, then Berlin. After that, a quarterly review. Shareholder summit in—”

“No,” she interrupts. “You have a son. Who misses you. That comes first.”

You want to argue. You want to say it’s not that easy, that you don’t just get to drop everything. But maybe it is that easy. Maybe the hard part is admitting you’ve made the wrong choice more times than you can count.

“I’ll clear the week after Tokyo,” you say finally. “We’ll take him to that dinosaur park he keeps asking about. No phones. Just us.”

“Both of us,” Alexia says firmly. “No pulling out last minute.”

“I promise.”

Another silence — but a warmer one, less weighted. For a moment, it’s just the two of you breathing, the world quietly changing as you make your decision.

“I miss you,” she says softly.

And suddenly, more than the job, more than the office, more than the city stretched out in front of you — you just want to go home.

…

He squeals with delight as you march through arrivals, Alexia unable to control his surge into the crowd to attach himself to you. Hands meet your leg and you scoop him up, surprised by how much heavier he is, pulling him into you as you make your way to your wife.

That conversation a few months ago has been a much-needed catalyst for change.

Tokyo was good, perfect for networking, but it wasn’t home.

It's not this.

“I missed you, campeón,” you whisper in his ear as you reach Alexia, smiling at the slight sheen in her eyes. “I’m so glad I could come home early.”

Alexia doesn’t need to respond for her answer to be known.

The next morning, you wake to the sound of tiny feet sprinting down the hallway and slamming into the door of your bedroom.

“¡Hoy es el día de los dinosaurios!” he yells, muffled through the wood like some kind of pint-sized town crier. “Y tú lo prometiste, MAMÁ. ¡LO PROMETISTE!”

Alexia groans from beside you, face buried deep in the pillow, muscles aching from the dregs of the season and the thought of the build-up to the Euros. “What have we done?”

“We’ve entered legally binding verbal contract,” you mutter, already reaching for your phone to cancel the one remaining telecon you hadn’t yet axed. You text your assistant a quick: Push everything back, I’m being held hostage by a T-Rex.

The reply comes instantly: Understood. Good luck, boss.

…

At the dinosaur park, all bets are off.

He spots a rickety, questionably-safe ‘Dino Dig Zone’ and points with an index rivalling Augustus’ ad locutio in the Prima Porta. “There. I’m going to dig for bones. I need gloves. And goggles. And snacks.”

Unsurprisingly, there’s a board listing the prices of those exact items. Alexia gives you one glance before nudging you towards the till.

You buy him the whole kit — gloves three sizes too big, a neon-green hard hat, safety goggles with actual working headlamps. He looks like a very tiny paleontologist sponsored by a very eccentric energy drink company. You and Alexia exchange a look, but say nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s not digging. He’s sitting on top of the dig site, dramatically narrating the excavation like David Attenborough. You have no idea where he learnt the technical terms, but maybe your background checks on Luisa didn’t include her supposed paleontology degree.

“Here,” he says, pointing at what is very obviously a plastic ribcage, “we find the remains of the mamasaurio, a terrifying beast who never misses football training and always scores the best goals.”

Alexia snorts. “Okay, I like this version of me.”

You’re not so lucky.

“And next to it — the dinochefejecutiva. She’s very rare to see. She lives mostly in airports.”

You choke on your iced coffee.

The gift shop is a disaster. You tell him he can pick one souvenir. He picks seven (one for every year you’ve missed, apparently — he’s a master manipulator). Alexia leans down to bargain with him while you tap out and retreat to the picnic benches outside. She emerges twenty minutes later, dazed, holding two dinosaur hoodies, a talking plush stegosaurus, a fossil-shaped backpack, glow-in-the-dark dino socks, and a hat with T-REX CEO embroidered in sparkly thread.

“He hustled me,” she whispers to you.

You smirk. “It’s not hard.”

He wears everything at once for the rest of the day, waddling around like an overburdened prehistoric fashion icon, munching on overpriced churros and announcing to anyone who will listen that today is his yes day. You and Alexia trail behind him, laughing, holding hands, slowly starting to believe you might actually remember how to do this — this parenting thing, this family thing, this loving-each-other-and-showing-up thing.

When he falls asleep in the car, surrounded by stuffed animals and crumbs and the remains of a dino tail-shaped lollipop, Alexia turns to you.

“You know,” she says, voice soft with something like peace, “I think this was the best investment we’ve ever made.”

You glance at the back seat — at your snoring, sugar-comatose son — and then at your wife, radiant even after she was forced to hold a melting ice-lolly that stained her white t-shirt.

You smile. “Returns have been excellent so far.”

Dinner that night is chaotic, but surprisingly demanded even after a day of junk food that nearly sent your two-time Ballon d’Or into a mental breakdown.

He’s still riding the sugar high from the park, sprawled across the kitchen floor in his dino hoodie, tiny plastic stegosaurus tucked into the crook of his arm like he gave birth to it. You’re rummaging through cabinets blindly — unsure when Luisa last reorganised them and finding her system incredibly confusing.

Alexia’s leaning against the counter, eyeing the situation with a suspicious mix of amusement and concern. “Are you sure about this?” she asks as you pull out spaghetti, three different cheeses, and something you think is tomato sauce but might be expired salsa.

“Yep,” you lie.

Halfway through the prep, he finally looks up from his playtime and asks, “Where’s Luisa?”

Alexia freezes mid-chop. You glance over your shoulder and smile, holding up your sauce-stained wooden spoon like it’s proof of competence. “You do know that we can cook, right?”

He blinks. Then, slowly: “Que va.”

“Excuse you,” Alexia says, squinting at him like he’s just insulted her entire bloodline. “Mamá once made lasagna so good it made grown men cry.”

“Did they cry because of the cheese?” he asks seriously.

“Emotionally? Yes,” you cut in. “Digestively? Also yes.”

Dinner ends up being… edible. Barely. The spaghetti is overcooked, the sauce has a suspicious kick that might be from Alexia mistaking god-knows-what for paprika, and the garlic bread ends up more like garlic crackers. But he eats it anyway — every bite — grinning like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re both kinda good at this,” he says between chews.

“Kinda good?” you echo, with faux offence.

“Like… Luisa would do it faster.” He shrugs at Alexia’s raised eyebrows. “But this is nice.”

You and Alexia exchange a glance over his head, soft and knowing. She reaches under the table to squeeze your knee.

“Did you have fun today?” you ask, hoping your tentativeness is well-hidden.

He nods with enthusiasm.

“Let’s do it again tomorrow!”

He’s raised in his seat and almost rearing to go.

“How about bedtime first before we plan more yes-days?” Alexia negotiates, this time successfully.

Later, after bedtime stories and lights out and one too many requests for water, you crawl into bed next to her. The silence is warm and easy, the soft glow of her bedside lamp all you need to help you relax. Her back presses into your chest, and you bury your face into her shoulder, finally relaxed in a way you haven’t been in months.

And then, her voice, low and a little smug: “Now that you’re home…”

You smile against her skin. “Yeah?”

She turns just slightly, her hand brushing across your hip, teasing. “I’ve got a few… yes-days of my own in mind.”

You let out a laugh, quiet and breathless. “You drive a hard bargain, capitana.”

She smirks, settling deeper into your arms. “Better keep up, dinochefejecutiva. Or I’m benching you.”

“Not the bench,” you whisper dramatically, already pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Anything but the bench.”

She hums, wicked and sweet. “Then show me you’ve still got game.”

[vaaaaaiolet]

Leon's no stickler for wedding traditions. But when no something blue has you feeling blue, he might just have a fix.

f / m fluff and cuteness before you walk down the aisle. leon is a sweetheart. one or two bad puns. you're a lil anxious but that's okay!! ft. your beloved's neck trauma </3

word count: 888 // read on ao3 // drabble masterlist

a/n: for zo from this ask. i got asked about what a wedding between leon and reader in my agent au might look like and this is SO BAD I'M SORRY. I WROTE AT 1 AM THIS WITH CLASS AT 7 THE NEXT DAY. posted on ao3 first bc i was too sleepy to make the tumblr banner 🤧 *gestures vaguely hoping you still like it*

“One peek. For half a second.”

“It’s bad luck.”

“Since when have you cared about being lucky? You’ve never needed luck to land a bullet.”

Shoulder pressed to your dressing room’s door, laughter flutters in your chest. “You don’t get it. It’s the principle.”

“What kind of fuckass principle-”

“Leon!”

“-gets to tell me I can’t see my wife?” 

“Soon-to-be,” you smile, picking at the white lace of your bodice. 

“Oh man.” You practically hear your still-fiancé’s fingers fly up to pinch the bridge his nose. “Sweetheart, you should’ve told me you were such a goody-two shoes before I put that ring on your finger.”

“You didn’t get the memo after I’ve been landing you in hot water with Hunnigan for three years now?”

Leon’s palms clap dejectedly against the door. Half-surrender, half-plea.

“For the millionth time, go away,” you giggle. You lean your back against the door. Imagine him doing the same when the wood paneling seems to press back. Breathe for a beat too many before saying, “You’ll see me in a bit, I just…I need the luck for today to be perfect.”

You think you’ve finally won when he goes silent. For a second, anyway.

“So that’s what it is.”

“Hm?”

“Are you nervous?” Leon asks quietly.

“What girl isn’t nervous on their wedding day?” you whisper back.

“Does it have to be? What if our wedding isn’t perfect?”

Talk about a surefire way to spike a bride’s heart rate. You frantically check your reflection in the vanity mirror. Clutch your bouquet tighter lest it fall fantastically apart at his words. 

“See, this is why you’re not supposed to be here,” you hiss at the door, “now I’m panicking!”

One last roll call. You’re sure you’ve planned for everything. Your something old: your mother’s wedding veil. Something new, the diamonds on your neck. Something borrowed: the roses you’ll carry to the altar, gathered from your maid of honor’s garden that you’ll make sure to toss back. Something blue…

“Shit!” you cry out. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I forgot my something blue, Leon, I can’t walk without it!”

“You’re sure?”

Of course you’re sure. It’s Wedding 101, the one rule you can’t break. Everything you’ve been through with the man on the other side of the door has led up to this moment. Your jobs never allowed you the privilege of making mountains out of molehills, but today? This is the moment you’d been promised would be perfect – in spite of the endless trials and tribulations the universe seemed intent on imposing on the both of you. 

Sleepless nights. Far-flung disappearances. Knives at your throats. Knives at each other’s throats that one time with the parasites. Thanklessly saving the world from the brink of disaster only to have each other to lean on at the end of the day. Over and over, falling in love with the only person who understands the fatal mistake of taking normalcy for granted. 

Just once, you wished you could have it like everybody else waiting for you to walk down the aisle. 

“Open the door, sweetheart.”

Your voice cracks. The no doesn’t come out like it should. 

A muffled swish of fabric sounds from the other side, and Leon repeats himself, tacking on a soft please this time. “Do you trust me?”

Nobody more than him.

“Just stick out your leg,” he murmurs. “I won’t look.”

An odd request. You crack open the door. Hesitantly step out your right foot. 

“Little more, please.”

If you’re not mistaken, the faintest of sighs sounds the moment you do. Leon presumably drops to his knees at the muffled thud of carpet that ensues, and it’s suddenly your turn to gasp. He’s reaching up your dress, fingers skirting over your leg, along your thigh-

“What are you doing?” you squeak, gripping the doorframe.

“Not that I’m into the garter thing, it’s kinda gross, actually – phew, you’re not wearing your holster – but maybe this will work.”

Smooth, silky fabric encircles your thigh in seconds. 

“Too tight?”

“Mm-mm…”

He chuckles softly and ducks out, taking care to fix your skirts as if nothing ever happened, looking decidedly the other way the whole time. You pull your foot back into the safety of your dressing room and bunch up your dress in confusion to find-

A navy bow tie wrapped around your upper thigh.

“How’s that?” Leon ventures hopefully.

It’s something. It’s blue. You relay this to him, disbelief eventually bubbling into laughter. 

“But now you don’t have a bow tie, stupid!”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been waiting for an excuse to get rid of it? You know how much I-”

“-hate things around your neck.”

“Right?” The exasperation in his voice makes you giggle. “And they wouldn’t listen when I told them, baby. I told you, I’m hopeless without you.” 

Leon’s hand reaches out on a mission to find yours, one that it fulfils, complete with a kiss on your knuckles. A mission with ulterior motives; you pretend not to see the flash of something blue that glances up at you. The blue you can’t wait to wake up to for the rest of your life.  

“Perfect wedding or not, I just wanna marry you. Don’t you?”

You don’t save the I do for the altar.

What’s one more imperfect tradition?

click for my full drabble collection, and find more of my work here!

likes kill fics :( comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3