#cocktails are cheaper at home

[elaboratelysimple]

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

Piggybacking off that anon, do you prefer wine over other beverages like ciders or cocktails?

Nah, I love ciders and cocktails, I usually only have wine if I’m at home 😌

[eoieopda]

triple-dog dare | lsm

“Bambi.”

The sternness of his tone surprised both of you, so much so that when you snapped to look at him, both of you froze. Your moon-sized eyes were further proof that your childhood nickname still rings true to date, although your being the deer made him the oncoming car in this scenario. 

He didn’t love that analogy.

Recovering quickly, he pulled the Ace from his sleeve: the surefire way for one of you to get the other onboard:

“I triple-dog dare you to come with me.”

pairing: lee seokmin x reader summary: when you're left off the guest list to seokmin's parent's thirtieth anniversary party, you're content to keep your questions to yourself and stay home. seokmin, on the other hand, is not content. in fact, he pulls the one card he knows will always win. au: childhood best friends to lovers genre: fluff, angst, smut type: one-shot rating: 18+ only. minors do not have my consent to interact. wc: 13k cw: pov switches, complicated sibling dynamics (seokmin’s), there is in fact one (1) bed, halmonis gone wild, stupid childhood nicknames, fingering (v), oral sex (m receiving), multiple orgasms, implied penetrative sex (p in v). reader notes: afab, uses she/her pronouns, wears a dress/heels to the party, is implicitly an only child. the setting is intentionally ambiguous, so she's not implicitly korean and/or asian. there are no descriptions of body shape/size, complexion, etc. a/n: thank you to the incomparable @daechwitatamic for beta-ing this! it's been a long damn time since i've written anything, so this might not have seen the light of day without jo, the hype-man. on that note, i suck at summaries; just read the fic, lmao. svt masterlist. svt permanent taglist. multi permanent taglist.

For being the walking disaster that he is, there have been shockingly few moments in Lee Seokmin’s life where he’s needed to shove his oversized foot into his oversized mouth.

Prior to the incident at your apartment, the last time he’d embarrassed himself like this was when he’d asked his oldest sister, Soyeon, in earnest whether or not she was pregnant, only to learn that she was just bloated; and he’s just an ass.

To your credit, you’re far from cruel when he slips up, but that almost makes it worse. You visibly deflate when he asks his well-intentioned but ill-fated question, rather than letting him have it the way his two siblings would have done.

The day in question went like this:

He asked, “Did you reserve your room yet for the 31st? If not, we can double up. It’ll be a lot cheaper.”

And you blinked, stunned like you’d been slapped. “Have I what?”

It dawned on you both at that moment that, for whatever reason, his parents’ thirtieth anniversary party was in fact news to you. Two things then happened at once: you tried to hide your surprise and the twinge of pain that comes with being excluded; and he racked his stupid brain to find any explanation for why you had to feel either one of those things.

The best option he found was to gently toss his middle sister, Seonmi, under the metaphorical bus. 

“Seonmi’s been working on something special for them. You know how she gets,” he waved dismissively. “So obsessed with finding the perfect napkins — ” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “— and creating custom cocktails, that she misses the forest for the trees.”

You didn’t look convinced. Likewise, you didn’t look any less uncomfortable.

Fuck.

“I’m sure it was an honest mistake.” To drive his point home, he reached from his spot on your couch to give your knee a reassuring squeeze. “I have a plus-one, so it’s not like it’ll be a logistical problem. You belong there as much as we do.”

And he meant it, wholeheartedly. 

All his life, the running joke has been that Soonyi and Minseok Lee have four kids: two biological daughters, a younger son, and his otherwise unrelated twin, who spent more time sleeping on his top bunk than in her own home next door. 

The way he saw it — and the way he’s sure his parents would see it — is that no family gathering is complete without you. That’s a hill he’d die on if need be.

You shifted in your seat, which caused his hand to slip off your knee, whether or not you meant for it to happen. Glancing uneasily out your window, you worried your bottom lip between your teeth, mumbling, “I don’t know…”

Seokmin frowned. You didn’t see it, though, and therefore weren’t moved by it. Instead, you cycled through your anxious thoughts at high velocity. If he was still touching you, he’d be worried that your sparking brain might catch him on fire.

“What if it’s not a mistake? I mean, what if it’s a couples thing?” 

He couldn’t even classify these questions as rhetorical because he wasn’t meant to hear them in the first place. Though you asked out loud, each one of them was for your ears only. From his half of the couch — miles away — his frown deepened, unbeknownst to you.

“You know, Seonmi follows me on Instagram; she’d know that Kai and I broke up a few months ago. Maybe she doesn’t want me to feel awkward? Even if I went, and I didn’t feel weird about that, her expecting it to be weird might make it weird, right?”

Fuck.

You’d spiral all day if Seokmin didn’t stop you. As much as he loves how thoughtful you are, he knows better than most that you have a tendency to take it too far, inflicting that relentless consideration on yourself until it wounds. 

“Bambi.”

The sternness of his tone surprised both of you, so much so that when you snapped to look at him, both of you froze. Your moon-sized eyes were further proof that your childhood nickname still rings true to date, although your being the deer made him the oncoming car in this scenario. 

He didn’t love that analogy.

Recovering quickly, he pulled the Ace from his sleeve: the surefire way for one of you to get the other onboard:

“I triple-dog dare you to come with me.”

Begrudgingly, you’d conceded, just like Seokmin hoped you would. You sat with him while he figured out travel plans to the mountain resort, helped him visualize what the hell he needed to wear to an event like this. When the time came, you sent him half the cost for the room he booked, even though he repeatedly insisted that you didn’t need to chip in.

Now, that unsolicited sum sits untouched in his Venmo balance. You sit next to him on the night train out of town.

Sit, he thinks, is a bit of an understatement. You’re barely upright, so exhausted from your work day that his shoulder and side are bearing most of your weight. His arm went from tingling to numb an hour ago, but Seokmin doesn’t mind. There isn’t a burden he wouldn’t carry for you, up to and including you yourself.

Besides, he’s not worse off for being left to his own devices. In fact, he keeps himself thoroughly entertained by taking selfies of the pair of you. The aftermath will stay securely in his camera roll — largely because you’d kill him if you saw how squishy your face is, pressed against his coat, or how your little pout trembles slightly, almost as if you’re trying to talk through your sleep — but he still finds it worth the risk. This mochi-cheeked version of you is one of his favorites.

When Seokmin has amassed enough silly photos to comprise a dossier, he tucks his phone back into his pocket with a self-satisfied smile. You’re still out cold, so you don’t stir at his subtle movements or the sound of the concession trolley rattling your way down the aisle.

The girl manning said trolley is significantly outweighed by the thing itself. She hardly looks old enough to have graduated high school, he figures, and he can’t imagine how it is that she’s working at this hour — or how she got stuck doing this job, when it takes all she’s got to maneuver the giant metal contraption through all the train cars.

“Anything, sir?” She asks politely, albeit slightly out-of-breath. 

Even though she’s speaking to him, her gaze is directed squarely at his hat, leading him to believe that she may also be too shy for her job. Nonetheless, it’s been two entire hours since his dinner, and he’s on the brink of starving to death, so he coughs up a few bills in exchange for several different snacks. 

She could do him the kindness of assuming his massive pile of food is for sharing, but she doesn’t. She gestures to you and whispers, “Anything for your —?”

Seokmin intercepts the question, knowing exactly where it’s headed: in the same direction as the million others like it that he’s heard over the years. 

“— parole officer?” He supplies with a smile, “No, this nap is fueled by a lot of crab rangoon. She’ll be out for the duration, I fear.”

Both halves of his response seem to stun her, which means he has to cover his inevitable laugh with a fake cough. 

This bit of yours will truly never get old, although the implications that prompt it did a long time ago. It was a stroke of genius on your part, dodging inaccurate references to your relationship status by offering up something too absurd to converse around.

“You two make such a cute couple,” an Uber driver once told you.

“He’s not in a relationship,” you’d politely corrected him. “He’s in witness protection. I’m duty-bound to keep him and his identity safe.”

The silence turns awkward, so Seokmin thanks the girl and gives her a smile he hopes says, “you’re allowed to run away from me now; I won’t take it personally.” She bows her head a little too eagerly, then skitters off with a grimace, like she pulled something in her neck.

Alone again with you, he wiggles gently upright in his seat so that you can rest more comfortably against his pectoral, rather than his shoulder bone. Even though you’re still asleep, Seokmin swears he hears a quiet mmpfh, as if you’re expressing gratitude. He bites his lips to keep from smiling, knowing that smiling in your proximity is one step away from laughter: the only thing you’ve never been able to sleep through.

Instead of giving into the urge, he murmurs, “You should get paid royalties whenever we use that joke. Being as smart as you are should pay off.”

Now, he knows he’s not simply hearing things because you’re just barely loud enough to overcome your own mumbling. 

“Agreed,” you sigh on an exhale before slipping to sleep off again.

“Well?” 

There are two beats between his first question and his next: the unfilled gap you’ve left in the conversation and the cab’s trunk shutting firmly. “‘s that cool with you?”

Seokmin stares at you, staring at him. His expression is soft, like your lack of responsiveness is something to be fond of, rather than annoyed by. It’s unexpectant, too, leaving the door wide open.

You blink. “Sorry — I — What did you say?” 

Hitting him when he least expects it, you shift your suitcase from your dominant hand so you can gesture properly to the bright, poorly crocheted bucket hat flopping over his forehead. “It’s a bit hard to hear you. That hat is so loud.”

His quizzically raised eyebrows drop in an instant. Likewise, that airy smile of his flattens into a straight line. 

Bullseye.

“Is it me that you hate?” He asks, tone dead serious as he points his finger towards his own chest. “Or is it the very concept of whimsy?”

You’re too busy biting back a grin to protest when, without being asked, Seokmin reaches out and takes the handle of your suitcase into his own hand, as well as the garment bag you’d draped over your arm. Before turning away to abscond with both sets of luggage in addition to his own, he shoots you an incredulous look. It dissolves entirely before his face even disappears from view. 

“This is an objectively delightful hat,” he mutters, nonetheless, in furtherance of the bit.

He spots a member of hotel staff standing on the sidewalk directly outside the hotel’s double doors and pleads his case to them. “She made me this hat, you know,” he announces, gesturing back to you with a nod.

The valet’s uniform hat casts a shadow under the lamplight, but it doesn’t do enough to hide the expression on their face. It is abundantly clear — even in the dark — that they didn’t hear a single word Seokmin said before he offered up that bit of trivia, seemingly apropos of nothing. They muster up a customer-service smile that doesn’t reach their eyes and tell him it’s a wonderful hat. Meanwhile, you roll your eyes from behind because nothing either of them just said is true.

That hat is the byproduct of delusions of grandeur and innumerable skeins of color-conflicting yarn. You made it for yourself, believing that you were the kind of cute and kitschy person who could pull it off; and inconsolable weeping Christ, were you wrong. It was — no, is — your greatest fiber arts failure.

Frankenstein’s floral monster would be in a secondhand shop somewhere if you’d had any say in the matter. It isn’t because you didn’t. Seokmin “rescued” it from the “to donate” pile on your bedroom floor. Since then, he’s worn it at every — public — opportunity, season be damned.

Admittedly, he’s exactly the kind of cute and kitschy person who can pull it off, but you’ve decided out of sheer pettiness to keep that appraisal to yourself.

You take your time catching up to him, both because his long legs make it hard to keep pace; and because the room is reserved under his name. After all, he’s the welcomed guest, not the reluctant party-crasher. The receptionist is already handing him a white keycard when you finally reach the desk. Seokmin holds it up between his index and middle fingers, closed-eye grin sparkling in a matching shade of ivory.

Though the journey up to your shared room is long, the real trip is being confined to an elevator with mirrors for walls. 

No matter how hard you try to avert your eyes, you manage to keep finding some new, horrible angle of your stale, post-train state. It’s torture. Three versions of you stare back with deep, dark undereye circles; and all you can think about is how dull your complexion is — especially in comparison to Seokmin, who may as well be bioluminescent with the way he glows from the inside out.

It’s joy, you know, his primary state of being and something he radiates like no other. He’s happy to be here, happy that you’re here, and happy to be happy. Whether or not he means it to be, it’s infectious. Now, you feel yourself starting to smile, too.

Despite your quiet observation, you must have missed him looking at you. Seemingly out of nowhere, he carefully sets down your belongings, raises his now-empty hand, and cups the right side of your jaw. Unaware that you’ve frozen solid, he swipes his thumb carefully over your cheek, tilting his own head to the side and frowning.

“I got you bad, huh?”

You blink.

“The zipper on my coat,” he explains, laughing. “Looks like it took a bite out of you when you used me as a pillow on the train.”

For reasons you can’t possibly explain, the only word to roll off your tongue is a sheepish, “Sorry.”

For a second, Seokmin is just as confused as you are about whether you’re needlessly apologizing to him or his coat. He chuckles quietly at how easily distracted you both are, then he gets back to the point: “Does it hurt?”

“No.” 

Your response comes unnaturally quick. Your pulse does, too, when you finally make eye contact with him. After clearing your throat, you give him a half-hearted smile, ignoring whatever medical event you seem to be experiencing. “I didn’t know it was there until now.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then rescinds his hand. You watch in silence while he re-encumbers himself with your luggage and turns back to face the elevator doors, which open almost immediately.

Seokmin steps out easily, like the weight of your respective burdens doesn’t mean a thing. “I’d say this way, please, but I’ve already forgotten the room number,” he admits with a sheepish laugh. “The keycard’s in my pocket.”

You take his cue and reach into the front, right pocket of his coat for the keycard. As soon as you see the room number, you snort.

“You booked room number 218 because that’s your birthday, and then… what? You forgot your own birthday?” 

“I’m deeply flawed.” He sighs, put-upon. “Now, let’s go, Bambi. It feels like you packed a week’s worth of bricks.”

There’s no time to point out that you never asked him to carry your suitcase or bag for you in the first place. Likewise, there’s no opportunity to ask exactly how many bricks is a week’s worth. He’s on the move again before you can blink, energy evident in each step regardless of how late it is.

Once again, you follow Seokmin’s lead. Despite the signage, which is clearly visible on the wall, he walks confidently in the wrong direction, prompting you to grab him gently by the elbow and steer him the opposite way. His smile doesn’t falter; he plays it off as if he was just testing how closely you’re paying attention. 

It takes several turns down several additional hallways before the pair of you reach your target. When you come to room 218, you tap the keycard against the reader, causing the lock to click open. You turn the handle, push the door open into the room, and step awkwardly out of the way so your personal bellhop can get by.

“This is what I was trying to tell you when you so viciously insulted my favorite accessory.” Seokmin nods his head towards the center of the room. “All of the rooms Seonmi included in the reservation block have a king-sized bed — singular. The rooms outside the block are criminally overpriced for ski season.”

It’s far from the first time you’ve doubled up, so you shrug. “Just like old times, right? Like, when you thought your house was haunted, and you forced your way into the top bunk with me?”

“First of all,” he says as he sets both of your suitcases down and places one hand on his hip, the other pointing at you. “We were six.”

After locking the door behind you, you toe off your shoes, smirking at him from over your shoulder. “What’s your second point?”

“It was haunted —” He insists. Then his stern expression melts into something smug, the way it always does when he’s about to blatantly rewrite history. “— and you asked me to come up there because you were scared.”

A laugh slips out of you automatically, but you selflessly decide to let him have this. Crossing to him, you pat him on the bicep, patronizingly simpering all the while, “You are the brave one.”

Even though you’re both cowards, and he knows it, he pockets this little victory with a pleased hum and a grin.

Turning away from him, you make a beeline for the closet area near the door. There, you shuck off your coat and hang it up, out of the way. While you do, Seokmin passes you both your garment bag and his. From there, the pair of you work in efficient silence: you, pulling your respective formal wear from their bags and smoothing out any wrinkles; him, tucking away your extensive collection of toiletries in the bathroom.

When everything is in its place, you turn back around and notice for the first time how beautiful the room actually is. Though the shades of the floor-to-ceiling windows are almost completely drawn, the snow-covered mountains are at least partially visible through the gap in fabric. If you had the time, you’d spend all day tomorrow sitting on the forest green, velvet chaise directly in front of the window, staring at frosty peaks so massive, they feel close enough to touch.

To your right, an electric fireplace heats the room, while a portrait-framed television hovers on the wall above the mantle, flipping through famous artworks as a screensaver. In between flashes of Van Gogh’s Almond Blossoms and Klimt’s The Kiss, you catch a glimpse of Seokmin’s smile reflecting on the black screen.

Awestruck, you turn to him and sigh, “Don’t let me get used to this.”

He jerks his thumb to his right, gesturing towards the bathroom. “Don’t judge me if I steal one of the bathrobes. They’re probably more expensive than half the shit in my apartment.”

“I won’t, but they’ll bill you for it when they figure it out,” you warn him. “On that note, do you need to shower or anything before I start my skincare side quest?”

Seokmin shakes his head, causing the crocheted abomination to flop. “All yours. My hair’ll get weird if I don’t deal with it tomorrow before we head out.”

And with that mental image of his insurmountable cowlick, you quickly grab your pajamas and shuffle off towards the bathroom.

The first few seconds after you close the door are spent gawking at the insanely intricate, geometric tile pattern in the walk-in shower. Thinking of how much time it must’ve taken to lay each one of them, you set to work on your own tedious task: your ten-step regimen of cleansers, toners, serums, and moisturizers. Seokmin says otherwise, but you don’t think any of them truly make a difference. As stupid as you know it is, the routine itself is therapeutic, even if your skin is no more bouncy and glowy than it was before.

When it’s all said and done, you emerge from the bathroom to find your best friend stretched out on the half of the bed nearest the door with his eyes fixed on his phone screen. It’s the side of the room he always chooses, claiming that it’s to protect you from any intruders, but you know the truth: he’s too much of a freeze baby to sleep near the window, and he knows you like it cold.

“Feeling refreshed?” He mumbles to the best of his ability; his sweatshirt hood is pulled up and drawn so tightly that it squishes his cheeks and chin, restricting his movement.

Chuckling quietly as you go, you pad over to your half of the bed and slip under the comforter. Like a moth to a flame, the other occupant sends his last text, tosses his phone to the side, and scoots closer to you, eager to siphon whatever extra body heat he can. His head winds up on your shoulder, while your cheek rests against the top of his head.

“Before you tell me that I look it, I’d encourage you to stare long into the abyss that is my under-eye circles.”

When he laughs, it’s merely a puff of air from his nose. “You never look as tired as you feel,” he says distractedly, fiddling with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “Pretty miraculous, given how little sleep you get.”

That comment warms you up so thoroughly, you wonder if he can feel it. Then, you wonder if that was the point. You intend to tease him for that, but then it dawns on you how fidgety he’s being. It’s rare for him.

“You okay, Thumper?”

It feels silly, using that nickname after so long. Your clumsiness stuck around for the ride, continuing Bambi into perpetuity; but he grew out of his companion name when he hit puberty, and his giant feet were suddenly proportional to the rest of him. 

He’s certainly no bunny, nor is he a child, but the low ebb of anxiety rolling off of him reminds you of the scared little neighbor boy you used to know. It fits, even if it is silly.

At first, Seokmin begins his explanation without peeling his gaze off his restless fingers. “Apparently, Seungcheol and Mingyu are in town.”  Then, his eyes slowly lift up to find you peering down at him. “They want to meet up to go snowboarding before we leave.”

Ah.

There it is: the top-secret look in his eye that only you can decipher. The one he’s been practicing for years, at your insistence, for moments like this, when he needs to be talked into something. When he needs to be brave and avoid missing out on something he’d love, solely because it freaks him out.

You respond the same way you always have; the way you once pinky-promised you always would: “I triple-dog dare you.”

He sighs deeply, neither fully resigned nor relieved, but then he nods. His head knocks slightly against your shoulder as he does. “I’ll do it.”

And that’s that; it’s settled.

Or so you think.

A beat passes in silence, until Seokmin suddenly pipes up again, “But you’re going to have to hold my hand on the chair lift, or I’ll pass out and fall to my death.”

“Deal.” 

You grab his hand now in consideration of your promise and scratch affectionately at his palm. Surprisingly, his thoughts haven’t made him clammy. His skin is even softer than usual, likely due to the expensive hotel lotion he’s undoubtedly now harboring in his suitcase. Tongue firmly in cheek, you look at him sideways. 

“Just — leave the hat in your suitcase, okay? The snow will be blinding enough.”

Seokmin’s been dressed and ready for at least thirty minutes, but you’re still standing exactly where you have been for the last forty-five. Face pinched, you turn this way and that in front of the mirror, smoothing fabric that’s already wrinkle-free, apparently for the hell of it.

“I’m oh-for-three.” Your exasperated sigh is punctuated by your bare, right foot stomping on the carpet. It doesn’t make the impact you likely hope it will, at least sonically. It does, however, speak volumes about how close to the ledge you are.

“All of them looked good,” he says earnestly. “I think this one is my favorite, though, if that means anything.”

Apparently, this is the wrong answer. Your wild-eyed gaze lifts from your own reflection until you’re staring him dead in the eye through the mirror.

“Why did I even pack this?” You ask, “Do you see this?”

Suddenly, you lift a manicured hand to point at your neckline, from which he’d admittedly been averting his eyes. “This is too much cleavage for a family function, isn’t it?”

As quickly as you glanced at him in the first place, you go right back to fussing with your dress, thankfully missing the way he swallows thickly.

Fuck, now he’s staring — but you’re the one that made him look in the first place — and he can feel heat rising to his ears, a dead giveaway. His sudden silence does enough to communicate his struggle. He has no idea how to respond without vaulting over the boundaries of your friendship.

Is it hot in here?

Deciding to rely on his usual tactic, he jokes his way out.

“If you think I’ll ever side against tiddie…” He forces a grimace, shaking his head gravely. “Then you really don’t know me at all.”

You laugh loudly, and whatever one-sided tension filled the room snaps like a twig. Better still, the smile you give him stays on your face while you reassess your dress. Seokmin takes it as a personal victory that you commit to his choice, rather than cycle back through your options for the second time. 

While this means that you’ll both be able to hit the open bar sooner rather than later, the biggest upside is that he no longer has to keep excusing himself to the bathroom so you can change again, and again, and again.

You finish up quickly, tossing on jewelry, and then turn to him. His shoulder keeps you steady while you slip into your devilishly high heels. Seokmin pays them little mind now, however; his attention is drawn to the accessories you’ve chosen. Sure, they match perfectly with the rest of your outfit, but that’s not what strikes him. It’s the fact that everything you’ve picked was gifted to you by his parents at one point or another.

Unable to stop himself, he reaches out and gently taps on one of your dangling earrings. “Eighteenth birthday,” he muses to himself. 

Then, both his gaze and his hand lower to your necklace. He skims his fingertip along the delicate, gold chain, inadvertently making you freeze up. “Christmas 2019?”

You shake your head slightly, though it barely counts as movement.

“Ah,” Seokmin corrects himself. “2020.”

Sensing that he’s somehow made you uncomfortable, he reels himself back in and clears his throat. “Shall we?” He asks, furnishing you with a bent arm to loop yours through.

You take his cue, link your arm to his, and sigh, “I suppose we shall.”

The walk to the elevator is quiet, in that neither one of you says a thing. Seokmin can hear the gears in your head turning, though, without any conversation to drown them out. 

You step inside that glorified, mirrored box; and for a few minutes, he lets you work through the thing he knows ruined your sleep last night. That is, until he hears your breathing come a little quicker than usual.

“Hey.” 

It was supposed to be a jumping off point. He was going to go from there and reiterate that you belong here with him. The plan was to reassure you for as long as it takes to get you to believe it, but you look up at him almost helplessly, and his Etch-a-Sketch brain is wiped clean in an instant.

The very best he can do is smile and offer a single word: “Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper back, eyes twinkling. 

Your plagued frown curves slightly back in the right direction. The creeping shroud of doom lightens, if only a little bit.

“That’ll do, pig.” You swat his arm, but he says it again, emphatically, “That’ll do.”

Halfway through you scolding him for quoting Babe at a time like this, the elevator door reopens, ready to regurgitate the pair of you out onto the ballroom level. 

Unlike the lobby, which sits only one floor below, this floor looks like it was ripped straight from the pages of a fantasy novel. Everywhere he turns, there’s something new — and vaguely elven — to look at. Fairy lights hang in perfectly spaced arches from the lofted ceiling, delicately illuminating the exposed, wooden beams above. The chandeliers — plural — are crafted out of antlers of some kind, cutting between rugged and highly refined.

As stunning as it all is, Seokmin’s mind snags on a single conclusion. You’re the one who voices it, though, much to his surprise.

“This is the most Seonmi thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” you whisper to him, all without taking your eyes off the extravagance in front of you. “Is this a dress rehearsal for her wedding next year?”

He bites down on his lips hard to keep his laughter to himself. Of course, you’re dead on. Nothing about this space feels like his parents, who are supposed to be the sole focus of this entire event. He already found it odd that they agreed to such a big to-do in the first place — especially when it would require their loved ones to go out of their way, literally and financially — but this is….

“Am I being petty, or is this kind of… selfish?”

Petty, no. 

Psychic? Probably.

“You’re right, and you should say it.” Seokmin nods and withdraws his arm from yours so that he can drape it properly around your shoulder. “This way to the beer, please. We’ll need it.”

Merely four steps in the direction to the bar, and a screech rings out from somewhere neither of you can locate. In fact, Seokmin’s head is turned the opposite way when someone launches themself at you, damn near ripping you from his hold.

“Oh, my god! I knew you’d come!”

Soyeon’s relief in seeing you is palpable. Seokmin can practically feel his bones being crushed as she hugs you tight, swaying from side to side. He catches a glimpse of your expression, which barely peeks through the curtain of his oldest sister’s hair; you’re far happier now than you were in the elevator.

His sister kisses the side of your head. “I missed you so fucking much. I love my residency program, but I hate how far away it keeps me.”

A solid minute passes by like this. When it starts to get unbearable, Seokmin clears his throat, hoping to remind his sister that she hasn’t seen him in months, either; and he’s also standing right here.

Instead of greeting him, Soyeon shoots you a wry smile. “Who is he today? A fugitive you’re harboring?”

In tandem, the two of you appraise him with thoughtfully narrowed eyes. See, this he didn’t miss: being both of his sisters’ least favorite younger sibling.

“Oh, no, though I can see why you think that.” You shake your head, then reach out to pat his shoulder patronizingly. “If anyone asks, this is a foreign diplomat, and I’m the interpreter he can’t understand a word without. Best not say hi to him; he won’t know what you’re saying.”

Soyeon nods, though Seokmin wonders if she truly  gets what you’re trying to achieve. Not quite, he realizes a moment later. Instead, she covers his chin with her hand so she can squeeze both his cheeks at once.

“He’s adorable,” she coos. “Doesn’t look old enough or mature enough for diplomacy, though.”

Seokmin rolls his eyes. “Well, we can’t all be doctors, can we?”

Again, in tandem, all eyes on him widen with feigned shock. Between overlapping gasps of “he does understand!” and “someone’s been studying!”, he shakes off his sister’s touch and scowls.

“If you’re going to keep bullying me, can you at least do it at the bar? That way, I can numb my suffering with booze.”

At this, Soyeon drops the charade and pulls him into a hug like a vice grip. She holds him so tightly that his vision starts to get spotty. It’s not until he gently pats her back, begging for air, that she lets him go.

“I missed you too, Thumper,” she swears, prompting you to snicker.

Now, he’s annoyed for a completely different reason — one that makes even less sense to him. That nickname hasn’t bothered him in the last decade, so it shouldn’t now. Then again, the only person who’s called him Thumper since middle school is you.

The rules are different for you, if they exist at all.

“And I promise to catch up with you later, but I’ve got five thousand questions for Bambi, and the answers aren’t half as juicy with you around.”

Just like that, his plus-one is subtracted.

As much as you love Soyeon, she’s no Seokmin. With him, talking is easy; he never rushes to fill silences, doesn’t steer the conversation with a white-knuckled grip. 

On the contrary, his oldest sister comes forward with a pickaxe, smashing through small talk while she mines for the wild stories she thinks she’s missed out on since moving away.

You don’t blame her, really. If you spent all your hours in a hospital, only sleeping in the lulls between other people’s trauma, you’d probably become just as intense — the human equivalent of a cracked-open fire hydrant — in the search for closeness, too.

In the thirty minutes you sit with her, you brief her on all the cliffhangers you’d left her with the last time you saw her.

Yes, you’re still stuck with your lease in the same apartment; and the old lady next door still regularly sets off the building’s fire alarm by accident.

No, you decided not to stay with Kai and haven’t spoken since the breakup; he needed more of your time and energy than you wanted to sacrifice for him.

No, Seokmin still hasn’t gone out with anyone that you know of in months. In fact, it’s been so long since either of you have touched on this topic, especially compared to how little time he and the last girl were together, that you can’t even remember her name. 

Beyond that first, limited fact, you keep your mouth shut about the rest. It’s not your business to share; and it wouldn’t kill her to ask Seokmin about himself for once.

The longer you spend with her, the more frustrated you find yourself getting, although you keep this fact to yourself, too. Soyeon and Seonmi have both spent their lives fussing about Seokmin, talking about him like he’s some helpless baby, without doing much to get to know him.

That’s it.

If you were at all confident that Soyeon would take the initiative, you’d let her find all of this out on her own. She won’t, you know, but maybe it’ll sink in if she hears it from you.

“Seokmin’s doing really well, now that you mention it,” you offer, though she barely mentioned him in the first place. “He got promoted last month; he’s now lead architect on that massive commercial lot downtown. Apparently, it’s still a secret, whatever it is they’re putting there. Must be something special.”

Seokmin is something special, you all but yell inside your head.

Soyeon’s eyes brighten. 

Nobody loves secrets quite like she does. You wait for the barrage, anticipating all the questions to which you’ll have to respond with “seriously, I don’t know,” but they don’t come.

Instead, she puts her drink back on its coaster, reaches out, and squeezes your wrist with her slightly chilled hand. “I’m grateful that he’s always had you, Bambi. If he didn’t, I don’t know if he’d lean in to opportunities like that.”

The look on her face tells you she means it. Maybe that’s what makes your stomach sour: that she can sit there, hearing of Seokmin’s accomplishments, and still find a way not to credit him for them.

Anger ignites inside of you. The flames lick up your esophagus, ready to explode, and you suck in a breath with every intention of letting her burn.

But then an arm slinks around your waist. Seokmin’s head bumps slightly against yours until you’re cheek to cheek.

“I hope I’m interrupting something.”

For a second, you think his slight tipsiness caused him to misspeak. Tilting your head to the side the best you can, you look at him out of the corner of your eye and catch his very subtle wink.

Soyeon opens her mouth, but Seokmin makes his wish a reality.

“Sorry, sis,” Seokmin says, entirely unapologetically. “I just found out that the band takes requests; and I’ll be goddamned if Bambi and I don’t show you clowns the meaning of dance.”

It takes no encouragement whatsoever for you to slip off your stool, get to your feet, and inch your way closer to his side. Then, like a starting gun was fired, the two of you bolt clumsily away from the bar, with you shouting “sorry!” over your shoulder as you go.

Your heels skid against the dance floor when you finally reach it, but Seokmin steadies you before you can eat shit in front of god and everyone.

“You’re way too expressive, you know that?” The fact that he’s out-of-breath doesn’t keep him from laughing. “I could’ve seen that grumpy turtle face of yours from space.”

Unintentionally, you prove his point, drawing your eyebrows together and frowning. “I do not —”

“— Also, I lied,” he interrupts yet again.

This, coupled with the everything else going on, leaves you too stunned to speak.

“This band is all trot, all the time. They don’t take requests — trust me, I tried — but if you stay here with me long enough, we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Seokmin doesn’t wait for you to answer because he knows it’s a yes. He doesn’t wait for you to assume your position, either, and instead holds your left hand in his right before placing your right on his left shoulder. This close, you feel the urge to tell him how handsome he looks with his hair parted off his forehead. You don’t, however.

The music swells behind you. Seokmin leads, and you follow, swaying slowly and moving across the floor.

“Two birds?” You remember to ask, one eyebrow arched.

His right arm lifts. “Spin,” he whispers. You step under his arm, then twirl. While you’re facing the opposite direction, he continues, “There. Do you see it?”

“Oh, my god.”

You do.

The bar stool you were just occupying is now filled by Seokmin’s great-uncle, Hajoon, while his new and much younger girlfriend, Yunhee, hovers near his shoulder. Even from this distance, you can see the look of abject distress on Soyeon’s face, totally unhidden by her attempt to seem engaged.

You return to your position in front of Seokmin, your hand accidentally landing on his bicep, rather than his shoulder. Flustered by the deceptive bulk there, you immediately scoot your palm back to where it belongs.

He leans in so that only you can hear him. It doesn’t feel necessary at all, given how loud the band’s horn section is, but you don’t recoil this time. 

“They had me trapped over by the appetizers,” he explains, low voice making you shiver involuntarily. “Every time he started a story with when I was your age, I wanted to point out that Yunhee hadn’t been born yet.”

You can’t help the laugh that erupts out of you and therefore can’t pull your head away from Seokmin’s ear in time to save him. Instead of wincing or complaining, he looks at you and breaks into laughter of his own as soon as your eyes meet. The effect doubles, and before you know it, both of you are teary-eyed.

“How the hell did you get away from him?”

It’s a feat you've never once managed. Uncle Hajoon’s inability to read a room is equal parts due to his horrible hearing and his tendency to never stop talking. Even if he did leave space in the conversation for you to excuse yourself, you’d never successfully get the message across.

Seokmin lifts his arm again but not for you. He takes his leave to spin himself, simpering as he goes, “That’s where Yunhee came in handy, actually. I didn’t know she had it in her, but she’s not as much of a dud as we initially thought.”

“Oh?”

“She told him that I should be able to dance with my girlfriend, and he shouldn’t keep me any longer.” He shrugs. “It didn’t seem like the time to correct her.”

All the heat in your body goes straight to your cheeks. Nonetheless, you attribute it to the dancing and choke out, “No royalties for me, then.”

“Not this time.” Seokmin shakes his head. “I said that Soyeon was trying to catch up with everyone and would love to hear his stories.”

You bite back a grin. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Maybe.” He smiles with every single one of his teeth. “But you’re free.”

“Surprisingly so. I haven’t felt the Eye of Sauron on me at all yet.” Just in case your statement serves as a jinx, you glance around the room for Seonmi. The tension you’ve been keeping in each one of your muscles slackens when, once again, your radar is blip-free.

“Dinner was supposed to start ten minutes ago. If I had to guess, she’s either leaving a scathing Yelp review or personally waterboarding the chef as we speak.”

“Both at the same time,” you counter, earning a wry smile. “She inherited your mom’s self-assuredness. If she believes she can, she will.”

After the pair of you dance through two more songs, the band breaks, and the hotel’s battalion of waiters come in, bearing domed, silver trays. Seokmin takes off in a hurry for your assigned table in the far corner of the ballroom, so famished that he barely remembers to tug you along behind him.

Through the meal and all its complimentary wine pairings, you do your best to focus on the conversation. Seokmin introduced you to the few people sitting with you that you haven’t had the occasion to meet yet. While he does what comes naturally to him, charming them with ease, you struggle for the first time to pay attention to him.

A few tables over, Seonmi sits down with her fiancé, joining the company of her parents; Soyeon and her date are there, too, leaving Seokmin out by design. Like an insane person, you can only watch her, rather than Seokmin’s blatant theft of bites from your plate. She laughs at whatever jokes her mother cracks, but you’d recognize that look of veiled angst anywhere. She isn’t happy, you realize. You can’t avoid the feeling that you’re the reason why she isn’t.

Time passes, somehow too quickly and too slowly. The plates are emptied, then cleared away by the wait staff — except for your half-empty glass, which is your third. Much like the other guests at your table, the joyful buzz you’d been feeling so far leaves, too.

All that’s left is you, Seokmin, and that ominous, storm cloud you can’t seem to shake.

“You’ll probably feel better if you talk to her.”

He’s always more observant than you give him credit for. You snap out of your zoned-out stare across the room in order to look at him. You frown. “I doubt it. She already looks pissed. Me parading my presence here despite her isn’t going to help anything.”

“Bambi,” Seokmin sighs, not impatient but gentle. “She’s not exactly warm, but she has always liked you. There’s literally no reason why she wouldn’t be happy to see you —”

You open your mouth to argue.

“— that happened over twenty years ago, and you really need to stop feeling guilty about it —”

You close your mouth, cross your arms self-consciously, and sink in your seat. Despite yourself, you glance over at him and catch the way he’s looking at you. He doesn’t need to say the words out loud for you to hear them.

It’s either the unspoken dare, his reassuring, soft-eyed smile, or all the blasted merlot that does you in. You’re not sure which of the three was the coup de grâce, and as you slink off towards her table, you realize it doesn’t matter. For one reason or another, you’ve decided that fear isn’t going to get the better of you this time.

Seonmi somehow senses you coming. Even without the band underscoring your movement, your timid steps across the mahogany parquet should’ve been impossible for anyone to pick up on. 

Must be an older sister thing, you think, being doomed to keep a perpetual eye on others. 

She doesn’t say anything when you slip into the chair next to her, which doesn’t bode well but isn’t a deal breaker, in and of itself. The important thing is that she doesn’t get up to leave. You tell yourself that this is a good sign. The knot in your stomach begs to differ, however.

Say something.

Say anything.

“Everything’s… lovely, Seonmi, seriously.” You gesture around you, smiling, but she only gives you a cursory look. “You’ve really outdone yourself with this one.”

Seonmi takes a sip of her cocktail — something bitter, the petty voice in your head assumes — and lets the corner of her mouth rise slightly. If it’s the closest thing you’ll get to a smile, you’ll take it. She hasn’t granted you a proper one in the decades since you got gum in her favorite Barbie’s hair.

“Thanks, kid,” she sighs, setting the drink back down on her personalized, cardboard coaster.

You can’t remember the last time she called you “Bambi”, let alone your real name. Just like Seokmin, you’ve always been a child to her. Apparently, you always will be, no matter what you do.

Her grip around the glass remains rigid, not unlike her overall posture. Condensation weeps under and around her manicured fingers, uninhibited. You watch those droplets soak through the coaster’s design, darkening her parents’ initials and wedding date, while you mull over whose turn it is to talk.

Ultimately, as is usually the case, Seonmi makes this decision for you. Without so much as a glance at you out of the corner of her eye, she muses, “It was a lot of work, getting all the details ironed out.”

You pick up on the subtext immediately. One of those details would’ve been the guest list; another, the invitations. Seokmin assumed it was all an accident and said as much to you no fewer than a hundred times, but this little comment from his sister blows his assurances to smithereens. 

Your exclusion wasn’t an accident at all.

Suddenly, somehow, the room is twenty degrees colder. You shoot a panicked glance over to where Seokmin was just sitting, wanting nothing more than to slink back to his warmth with your tail between your legs; but he’s not where you left him. In fact, he’s nowhere to be found.

Fuck.

“Ah,” is the best you can do.

And then the two of you sit awkwardly in silence while the seconds age in dog years.

You should’ve brought a drink over with you so you’d have something to do with your hands. Or your phone — except you left it on its charger, you idiot — or a time machine, so you can revoke your bullshit decision to walk over here in the first —

“He deserves that, don’t you think?”

The combined suddenness of her voice and the switch in topics makes you jolt ever so slightly. You try to pass it off, to pretend that you’re simply adjusting the skirt of your dress, but your efforts go unnoticed. Seonmi is too busy pointing casually ahead, drawing your focus to the center of the dance floor.

Like absolutely no one else is watching, Mr. Lee twirls around his laughing wife, his heart-shaped smile beaming so brightly that it almost hurts your eyes. The love of his life has to hold one of her hands over her mouth to keep her laughter from bursting out; the other hand is raised with the rest of that arm, allowing her husband to spin himself underneath. When he’s halfway through, she surprises him, drops her arm down, and embraces him fully, giggling all the while.

It almost makes you tear up — Mr. Lee’s unabashed, silly love, and how much it reminds you of his spitting-image of a son; the way Seokmin’s mother’s eyes sparkle in the same blissful, radiant way his do. Maybe the same can’t be said for his older sisters, but it’s abundantly clear where Seokmin came from. It’s even clearer where he should end up.

“Yes,” you breathe, and it almost sounds like a laugh because of course, he does. Before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Is that really a question?”

No, you realize too late, it’s bait.

Without batting an eye, she counters, “Is it really so hard for you to let him have that?”

Seonmi turns her head to look you dead in the eye. Confusingly, despite her words, there’s nothing in her tone or gaze that reads like malice. If anything, the slight furrow of her brow shouts concern.

Your mind is spinning too fast to keep up with. Whatever her next move is, you’re too dizzy now to see it coming and too disoriented to follow it. With the knot in your stomach tightening further, you stammer, “Is — what?”

“God,” Seonmi drops her face into her hands. “You don’t get it, do you?”

A fish on dry land, all you seem to know how to do is open and close your mouth. You may not be literally flailing, but with the state your mind is in, you may as well start.

“Seokmin loves love.” 

She says each of these words slowly, like she’s trying to hammer each nail through a thick skull. 

“It’s the one thing he’s wanted most since he was a kid, yet I can count on one hand the number of short-term relationships he’s been in. He doesn’t ever bring anyone home to meet us; he doesn’t bring anyone to weddings, or parties, or holidays; he just brings you.”

Of course, you’ve been right there through all of his situationships. He’s always scant on details when they end — and you’ve never pressed for any — but you know better than anyone that nothing has stuck long-term. 

You’ve never thought about how odd this really is, but with Seonmi spelling it out for you now, you can’t come up with a single, good reason why someone as objectively incredible as Seokmin can’t make these things work — or why, even as you rack your brain, the only constant you can find in his life is you.

She glares now, as if she’s daring you to speak; as if you’ve got anything she’d deem worth adding. The bulldozer revs up again, whether you’re ready or not: “You’ve always been the only person he saves space for, whether or not there’s a place for you, and he has no room left in his life for someone to love him like that —” 

Seonmi points again to her parents, who are circling slowly on the dance floor, talking softly to one another. 

“So, what is it? Do you truly not see what he’s missing, or are you choosing not to because you like his attention?”

Your eyes burn with tears, but you can’t let them fall, and you can’t wrap your head around why that is. 

Who are you hiding them from: Seonmi or yourself?

The longer she stares at you, the muddier it gets. You don’t want her to be right. You don’t want to be the kind of person she’s describing; but there’s something awful whispering in the back of your mind, saying that you might be. 

You’ve left every relationship you’ve been in, telling everyone who asks in the aftermath that you like being on your own better. But that’s bullshit. It’s not your own company that you keep when you’re single; it Seokmin’s. 

He makes sure that you never spend a day feeling alone, that he’s always available over the phone in the rare times he’s not physically with you. As his best friend, he treats you better than every single one of your exes ever has. Like you’re worth more than anyone else will credit you.

What kind of friend are you if you feel relieved whenever his relationships expire?

Seonmi’s hand drops, landing half-heartedly clenched on the tabletop. Just the same, her voice drops until it’s almost a whisper. 

“I am begging you,” she pleads, eyes narrowing desperately as they search yours. “If you don’t want him, someone else will. Please just —  get the hell out of their way.”

By the time you reach the elevator, all you’re left with is a blur. You’ve already forgotten how the conversation ended, or which one of you was the first to get up. If she said anything else to you, it was drowned out by your own hammering pulse and a looping chorus of voices validating your biggest fear, stating in no uncertain terms that you don’t belong.

You’re shaking when you reach your floor. Heels clicking under unsteady footsteps, you make for room 218; and as you go, you shove your hand into the well-concealed pocket of your dress for the keycard Seokmin forgot to grab himself on the way out earlier.

He’s certainly not in the room when you finally step inside, although you have no clue where he’s gone. It’s for the best. The door closes behind you, and with no one to see it happen, you burst into tears.

All rational thought flies out the window, shaken off by the tornado of utter confusion tearing through your brain. You grab your suitcase, needing nothing more than to be anywhere else, and begin haphazardly throwing your things back inside of it.

Why did you still come with him, knowing it wouldn’t end well? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve told him no; he would’ve listened if you truly meant it.

If you didn’t mean it when you initially tried to squirrel your way out of this, why not? Was it just your friend asking sincerely that won you over without a fight; or was it because you knew, deep down, it’d hurt to see him bring someone else?

Why would it hurt?

The answer to that will crack the foundation of everything the two of you have built, but only if you admit it to yourself. It can’t threaten you if you don’t say it out loud, don’t make it real.

So, you won’t. 

You’ll bury it deeply enough to forget about, repour the concrete, and tiptoe through the rest of your life with your best friend still at your side.

That is, if your friendship survives the weekend — rather, your sudden departure from it — at all.

“Halmoni, it’s time to go back to your hotel, okay?” 

He coos this, as if he’s pleading with a toddler at bedtime, because that’s exactly what it feels like to wrangle the drunk, 80-year-old clinging to his arm.

Physically, she needs to hold onto Seokmin to keep herself steady. Mentally, she’s ready to run and has made several attempts to do just that when she thinks his guard is down. It’s no wonder the hotel staff cornered him and begged him for help; she’s too wily for those who don’t know her.

The manager had at least done him the courtesy of hailing a cab. It sits out front, warm and waiting, while he shepherds his grandmother through the lobby.

“— and another thing!” She slurs.

There is never not another thing. She shouldn’t bother concluding her sentences in the first place; she’s never done talking.

“I told your sister — I said, Sunny —”

Seonmi, he dares to presume, although he doesn’t dare to correct her.

“— you can’t have stuff like this —” She gestures animatedly, albeit vaguely around her. “— in places like this and expect retirees to pay for it! I said — oh, what did I say? — Ah, I said, ‘find me the cheapest motel in the area, or I’ll be staying in your room with you’ —”

Her kitten heels hit the brick outside with an angry thwump.

Seokmin can’t help himself. “She didn’t go for that?”

“No!” His grandmother squawks. 

The driver sees the ball of a woman wobbling his way and quickly exits the cab, skirts around it, and flings the back door open for her. 

“I can’t imagine why, halmoni,” he lies through his teeth, which shine down on her in his best, least sincere smile. “You’re a blast in a glass.”

She roars with laughter, even while two grown adults work together to pour her into the backseat without bumping her head on the doorframe. “Glast in a blass!”

“Exactly. Can you —?”

He gives up before he finishes voicing his request; it’s no use. Instead, he bends down to hug her and finagles the buckle of her seatbelt while she’s too distracted to fight him off. That click is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, after the clunk of the door shutting her in.

By the time Seokmin turns to the cab driver, his grandmother is fully slumped in her seat, pilled peacoat rising and falling with every wine-laced breath.

“I am so sorry.” He sighs, which devolves into a sheepish laugh, and fishes all of the cash out of his pocket. No tip could possibly cover the emotional toll of this ordeal, so he does his best and gives the driver everything he has.

The driver’s eyes widen. Seokmin gets the impression that he doesn’t quite understand the task he’s undertaking. 

Poor bastard.

Seokmin continues, “My grandfather is at the inn already; he didn’t feel well enough to come here, but he’ll be ready to get her inside once you drop her off.”

“Sounds easy enough.” The driver smiles and holds out his hand to shake. 

Seokmin reciprocates, and he declines to explain just how wrong that assessment is. He thanks the man and chirps a quick goodbye to his grandmother before rushing back inside.

Walking into the ballroom, he hopes to find you and Seonmi laughing about whatever misunderstanding had gotten in your way before. At the very least, he expects you to still be sitting next to each other at the same table. That would be good enough, he thinks; he could assist in repairing the situation from there.

The problem, it seems, is beyond his help. Neither one of you occupies the same table. If his quick scan tells him anything, you’re not even in the same room.

No matter which way he turns, he can’t spot you. His sister, on the other hand, is near the far corner, having what looks like a nightmarish conversation with their parents. There are approximately five billion things Seokmin would rather do than get in the middle of that, but you don’t have your phone on you, and he has no other way to find out where you went.

Above the heads of the two women, Seokmin’s father catches sight of his approach. They lock eyes; there’s something insane in his father’s gaze. The older man shakes his head, mouthing “no.”

Seokmin stops short, raises his hands with the palms up to get across his confusion, and mouths back, “Bambi?”

In response, his father extends a single finger and points upwards. He then makes a shooing motion with his hand. His wife and daughter are so engrossed in their argument that neither of them catches the pantomime or Seokmin’s quick exit, back the way he came.

On the elevator ride upstairs, Seokmin worries. The most likely explanation is that you went to find your phone so that you could find him – but you haven’t texted or called him in the time he’s been looking for you, so he supposes it isn’t likely after all. 

Maybe, he thinks, the wine caught up to you. You’re not as strong a drinker as you think you are. While he walks down the hallway to room 218, he steels himself. Even though you both hate it, he’s ready to hold your hair if he walks in and finds you with your head in the toilet. That dress looks too good on you not to be expensive; he’d rather talk you out of your embarrassment tomorrow than have you shell out for dry-cleaning.

You didn’t deadbolt the door behind you, which strikes him as odd. In fact, you didn’t even close it properly; it isn’t latched. All he has to do is tap on it for the door to open.

“Bambi?” He calls out before stepping inside entirely, thinking it’s only decent to confirm in advance that he’s not an intruder. “Sorry for disappearing. I had to pour my grandmother into a cab – it was exactly as awful as it sounds.”

The faint rustling sound he hears isn’t coming from the bathroom, which is both dark and unoccupied. Part of him wants to take this as a good sign, but the rest of him wonders if he’s walking in on a burglary. That flicker of fear is followed by a stupid sense of validation: 

You always laugh at him when he cites this as his reason for choosing the bed closest to the door; you claim it’s statistically unlikely. Finally being able to say “I told you so” after a robbery wouldn’t make either of your belongings magically reappear, of course. That said, it might make him feel a little better.

But the figure rooting through your suitcase isn’t a bandit at all. It’s you with your coat on.

“Um,” he starts, unintentionally startling you. “What is….” 

His question peters out when you look up at him. There are broken mascara tracks down your cheeks, as if you tried to wipe them off without actually looking at them. Above them, your wide eyes are wet, like you’re seconds away from crying all over again. Even worse, you’re trembling.

Seokmin’s only instinct is to reach for you. Before he can wrap his arms around you, you jerk away from him. “Please don’t.”

So, he stops, though he doesn’t understand why. This is quite literally the only time in your life that you’ve pushed him away.

“What’s going on?” Ideally, he’d project calm at a time like this. He just sounds desperate. “What happened with Seonmi?”

“She — um, she didn’t — It wasn’t that bad; I’m just… You know how sensitive I get when I drink wine.”

Like a switch flips, a half-hearted smile takes over the bottom half of your face. It’s not real; if it was, your eyes would light up and crinkle at the corners. Whatever that look is, it’s bullshit.

Seokmin gestures to your suitcase, where everything you brought with you has been unceremoniously shoved. “Sensitive enough to, what, run away? No. I’m not buying it. She said something — or did something — to make you this upset. Bambi, what happened?”

His urgency is selfish, he knows it. Seonmi’s always been way too intuitive for her own good. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed the way he looks at you when you aren’t looking; how god-awful he is at acting platonic.

He tries — has been trying, for a long time now — to shake these feelings off because he knows you’re not emotionally available. Because he knows who he’s supposed to be for you, and how devastating it would be if he threw your friendship away.

That devastation is right in front of him now; and it’ll  push you out of his life forever if he doesn’t shut it down. He has to get in front of it.

You strike first, though. “Seokmin, why didn’t you bring anyone else?”

There are two ways for him to interpret that question: with the emphasis on anyone, meaning not you; or as an escape route. For your sake, he chooses the latter.

“She gave me a plus-one, not a plus-two,” he says softly.

Despite his tone, it must hit you like a punch. You nod curtly, once. “Got it. Basic math. Thanks, Seokmin; that was never my strongest subject.”

Foot, meet mouth.

You immediately set back to work, reaching for the lid of your suitcase to close and zip. Before he thinks once, let alone twice, his hand darts out and flattens against the mesh inner pocket on the top, preventing you from doing so.

“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “Not happening.”

You don’t scowl at him the way he expects, nor do you even stop to look at him. It’s far worse than that; your eyes start swimming, focused helplessly on your suitcase. 

When you speak, your voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place. I knew that this invitation shit wasn’t an accident; I knew I wasn’t welcome to —”

“— You came anyway.” Seokmin doesn’t mean to snap at you, but the point is moot. Softening at the edges, he quickly continues, “And I’m glad that you did because I don’t want to be here with ‘anyone else’.”

It’s not the whole truth, so it may as well be a lie. You know him too well for him to get away with it; it was stupid of him to try. Your head turns, and the slight narrow of your eyes says it all.

I triple-dog dare you to tell me the truth.

This fork in the road has two dead ends. His only options are to do just that or double down and lie straight to your face, while you see straight through him. Either option pulls the pin, he figures, so it’s no longer a question of who gets hurt; it’s who gets hurt worse.

Seokmin jumps on the grenade.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else!”

It comes out too loudly, startling you. In a way, it’s angry, too. He wishes could project that anger onto Seonmi for starting shit, as usual, but the person he’s maddest at is himself for putting you both in this position.

For the first time ever, he can’t decipher the expression on your face. He’d shove his foot into his mouth to try and keep himself quiet, but his adrenaline is firing on all cylinders, and he can’t seem to stop shouting.

“And I’m really fucking sorry to say it because I know you don’t want to hear it, not from me or anyone else. So, you can leave, alright? I’m not going to stop you.”

The force of the surprise almost knocks the air out of him, so quick that Seokmin can’t process what’s happening until his back is flush to the wall behind him — until your hands, flat against his white button-up, curl to grip the fabric, and you kiss him so hard that he sees stars.

You’re surprised too, it seems. When you pull away, chest heaving, you freeze in the same way he does. Eyes searching the other’s, unsure of what to do now that twenty-plus years’ worth of boundaries have been blown to bits.

You whisper, “Are you still sorry?”

Of the five million feelings swelling inside of him — fear, kind of; joy, yes; fucked up by your blown-out pupils, definitely — regret isn’t one of them.

Actually…

He cups your face in his hands like water from a spring, drinks down the sight of you in this new and perfect light. “I’m only sorry that it took me this long to tell you,” he confesses before kissing you back twice as hard.

You’d ask Seokmin to pinch you and prove to you that you’re not dreaming, but the fear you feel at the thought of waking up is too overwhelming. 

Even if it wasn’t, he can’t help you, can he? 

His hands are far too busy.

Your pretty dress is long gone now, having been shucked off and tossed somewhere out of sight. In its place, it’s Seokmin’s body that now drapes over yours, warm in touch and tone, like molten gold. 

His middle and marriage fingers curl inside you, working you up again; and all you can do is cling desperately to his hair, whimper, and wait for the fall.

“I take back what I said earlier,” he murmurs between nips and kisses at your neck.

You can’t ask him to elaborate. You’re too close to careening over the edge for the second time tonight; too busy babbling fucking nonsense.

His simper against your throat reverberates all the way down, lights up your every nerve in tandem like a switchboard. “Only an idiot would tell you to be less expressive.”

The pad of his thumb swirls over your clit; its movement synchronizes with his middle finger inside of you, targeting your weak spot. He presses down on that spongy patch of nerves, and your hips buck involuntarily, a hallmark of your body begging for you while your words fail.

“You were right, though.” 

You summon all your concentration. “I’m always right,” you counter. Seokmin pulls his mouth away from the underside of your jaw just to look at you pointedly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He picks up the pace of his ministrations, pulling no punches. You’re teetering on the ledge with no real ability to lift your own neck; your head crashes back against the pillow as you wail, clenching and gushing around his fingers.

“I do know how sensitive you get,” he snickers before slipping his fingers from you and sweeping down to kiss you sweetly.

The ringing in your ears has barely subsided, but you’ve decided not to take anymore of his teasing laying down. Slipping your fingers from his hair, you move your hands to his shoulders; and with whatever muscle control you still maintain, you flip him off of you, onto his back.

“How long —” 

You climb over his lap and straddle him, placing your palms flat against his chest. It’s as much a show of dominance as it is a carefully disguised trick for balance. 

“— have you been waiting to say that?”

Caught red handed, Seokmin shoots you that trademark, heart-shaped smile. His cheeks were already flushed from the effort he just expended on you; that perfect pink only deepens when he blushes and laughs, “What, you think I can’t come up with killer lines in the heat of the moment?”

You scratch your nails gently down the lines of his abdominal muscles. “Nope,” you purr.

Sitting up on his elbows, Seokmin tilts his head to the side and narrows his dark eyes at you. You’re nowhere near used to seeing him look at you like this, like you’re something to be devoured. The feeling of being wanted so badly makes your stomach flip.

“Give me some credit, won’t you?” He asks, voice low. “You’re a knockout; you’re naked in front of me for the first time; and it’s a miracle I can talk at all when I feel this concussed.”

When you lean in, he licks his lips expectantly. You’re close enough to kiss him, of course, but you stop a few millimeters shy of your mark and watch him fight the urge to pout. His eyes search yours, almost pleadingly.

“Is that why you’re still not naked?”

Seokmin’s next move is to reach for the black briefs he’s still got on, but you stop him, encircling each of his wrists with your hands.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut with a patronizing shake of your head. “You’re fired. I’m in control now.”

If the little sigh he lets out is any indication, he is very much on board with your self-promotion.

He takes your cue and reels himself in, allowing you to move further down his body, your fingertips hooking under his elastic waistband and tugging as you go. When his length finally springs free, you duck your head to take him into your mouth, beyond eager to feel his weight on your tongue.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, eyelids fluttering, while you swirl your tongue around his head. “Feels s-so —”

The rest of his sentence gets stuck in his throat; you take what you can of him down your own throat, working whatever remains with your hand. 

Seokmin wants so badly to watch, you know he does, but he’s sensitive, too. His head tips back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open.

It’s messy, the spit dribbling down your chin and the sound brought forth by the suction of your mouth around him. The obscenity of it all spurs you on. Nothing inspires you quite like Seokmin’s breathy whines and low moans, though. Above all else, it’s his reaction to you that slicks the inside of your thighs.

You’d give him the ending he deserves, right down the back of your throat, but you feel his fingertips graze your shoulder, beckoning you to look up at him.

Voice rough, he pleads, “Come here.”

With his steadying hands on you, you move back into your original position with your bent knees on either side of him. You immediately spot the indent his teeth have left on his lower lip, which is now slightly swollen. Delicately, you brush your thumb over the mark. “Oh, you’re a goner.”

Seokmin looks at you pointedly. Though you tease, you’re even worse off: drunk on the taste of him, as much as the sight of him underneath you, wanting you just as badly.

“Alright, alright,” you concede. “I am, too.” 

The hand you use to wave dismissively at him then reaches down between your thighs, fingers wrapping around his cock and lining it up with your entrance.

“But I’m taking you down with me.”

And you do.

So thoroughly that you barely recall him staggering off to the bathroom when all is said and done, the wash cloth he returns with to clean you up, or the way you slump into his waiting arms before promptly falling asleep.

You sleep so soundly, in fact, that you don’t stir when the sun blares through the open curtains. Likewise, when Seokmin carefully maneuvers himself out of the tangle of your limbs and places your head on a real pillow instead, you’re none the wiser.

What finally gets to you is the clatter of the expensive, hotel-issued shampoo clattering against the floor of the shower, echoing off the tile like a sonic boom. You sit bolt upright in bed, staring bleary-eyed in the direction of the bathroom. 

As if on cue, Seokmin pokes his head out of the doorway to see if you managed to sleep through the noise. Damp hair splays over his forehead, hanging just as loosely as his lazily-knotted bathrobe. If you weren’t still too sleepy to function, you’d love nothing more than to grab him by that tie and drag him back to bed.

“Shit. I’m sorry, Bambi,” he coos, though his mouth is full of both toothpaste and a toothbrush in a distinctly greener shade of blue than usual.

You merely point at his mouth with a half-powered look of distress, otherwise unable to put your suspicion into words. He doesn’t get it; he glances down at his chest, looking for what he assumes is a stray glob of paste.

When you finally do speak, it’s a prayer: “Please tell me that’s not mine.”

Seokmin blinks at you, then down his nose at the toothbrush he’s using. He cocks his head to the side, opens his mouth to assure you it isn’t, and finally, when the realization makes his eyes widen, he groans.

You wail, “Noooooo!”

Memories of your last trip together clash before your mind — specifically, attempting to navigate a drug store in a foreign language while you shopped for the replacement toothbrush Seokmin is currently holding.

Ears bright red with embarrassment, he ducks back into the bathroom. Immediately, you hear a rush of water from the tap, which nearly drowns out his feeble cry of “I’m sorry!”

“I know it’s an honest mistake, but how do you make it twice?” 

You collapse back onto the pillows and bury your face in your palms; and you stay that way, even when you hear him padding softly over to you. The mattress shifts under his weight as he makes his way, one knee at a time, until you feel him looming over you. His hands reach out and gently pull yours from your face.

Before you can get any ideas, Seokmin flattens himself on top of you; a weighted blanket, smelling like vanilla and spearmint. He folds his arms across your chest and props his chin up on the top of his right wrist, bright eyes sparkling as he peers up at you.

Suddenly, you find it very difficult to be annoyed with him. The worst part is that none of this is by design. He always just looks at you this way, not to get out of trouble but because you’re you.

Your hand reaches out of its own accord and brushes the remaining damp strands off his forehead. When your touch lingers, Seokmin leans into it, warming your palm with his cheek.

“Hey,” you say, after failing to come up with anything better.

He beams. “Hi.”

“Why are we awake at this hour?”

That smile of his evaporates slowly, giving way to a grimace you’ve seen before. “Seungcheol and Mingyu want to meet up at the ski lodge before the post-brunch crowd gets there,” he explains. “And I told my parents we’d get breakfast with them first, since yesterday was… well, mostly a disaster.”

“And it will conveniently provide you with time to think of a way out of snowboarding?” You chuckle quietly and pat his cheek.

Seokmin shakes his head firmly, then stretches his neck enough to kiss you.

“No,” he mumbles defiantly against your lips. “I never back down from a triple-dog dare.”

[lndsismaeverything]

Drunken moments

Lnds men gets a little drunk and spills away their feelings at the moment ( MC is already in a relationship with him )

An: here I am writing another fic even though I don't wanna ᕕ(˵•̀෴•́˵)ᕗ took me 3 days to write this ...

Not proof read sorry for mistake and grammar issue. And some words

Xavier

You and Xavier are having a home hotpot. Just a little celebration form todays mission. It was his idea to eat hotpot in the new hotpot restaurant . But when y'all got there it was to crowded and have to wait 2 hours for a table.

Xavier was disappointed to say the least . It was late at night ,almost 10 pm already and he was really craving hotpot

" Xavier why not have hotpot at home? We can buy the ingredients at the store plush it be a lot cheaper and more food" you said looking at his gloomy expression turn into bright smile

" yea, it would be just the two of us too "

The two of you bought the ingredients and headed straight to your apartment since you have all the equipment for the hotpot

No later did you pulled out the alcoholic peach drink you bought a few days ago that was sitting in the fridge, nothing is better then having a cool drink with hotpot on a chilly night

Xavier didn't usually drink but today was an exception and was worth it after defeating a wonderer

I don't know if Xavier can hold his liquor or not judging by his appearance he looks like he'll be knock out cold after a few glasses. Or he can hold it every well since she's been living for over 214yrs on earth now

But let's say he's weak to alcohol for now-

Xavier cheeks are dusted with a hue of pink he should stop drinking while he's still sober. But he can't because of the delicious hotpot u made goes so well which this nice refreshing alcoholic peach drink

After cleaning up the table with the help of your boyfriend you decided to settling on the sofa, to watch a some random comedy video

" Xavier I think u have enough to drink " you said to your boyfriend and grabbing the alcoholic drink and put it on the coffee table, which he protested but let it go

You lay on the sofa , switching from show to show not knowing that Xavier stared at you lovingly. The next moment Xavier lean toward you and kissed your cheeks

It caught you in surprised of the sudden affection of his just now " you look pretty bunbun " Xavier wrapped his arm around your waist and snuggled close

You just smile at him realizing he's a bit drunk but also a bit sober but not completely.

" thank you for the delicious hotpot " his voice so gentle yet soothing

" can we hotpot like this everytime? " he said looking up at you as you played with his soft fluffy hair

" yes of course " you replied, your hand cupped his cheek as you draw small circles.Letting go he plopped his head back on your thighs snuggling close and holding you tighter making you laugh as it tickles

" my honey is the best person in the universe. And not only is she strong, beautiful , kind, trustworthy , independent and a bit stubborn sometimes . She also an amazing cook and Baker."

"I love her so much , my little starlight "

"Your my brightes star in my univers. Beaming brightly when I miss you. Reminding me that I'm not alone "

with that Xavier fell asleep. You turn off the TV and join him holding him tight as he lay on too of you

Both of you woke up from the sofa with back pain.

Zayne

You and zayne just got out of the bar and headed straight home.

Of course zayne didn't drink but that didn't mean you didn't. It was a bummer that zayne didn't enjoyed the free cocktail that the hospital will pay later on . Congratulating zayne for having the title of the youngest doctor that maded it so far in his career as a cardiac surgeon.

The small part only included zayne colleagues and you .

Greyson try to convince zayne to at least have one glass or a beer but zayne refused saying " I'm responsible for taking y/n home "

After zayne dropped you off home you invited him over saying you got him a gift for him. Grabbing the gift from th kitchen table you handed to him and congratulated him on his achievement

He open the gift and it was chocolates

" may I ?" He asked you told him it's his and he could eat it now if he wanted. Knowing zayne sweet tooth he immediately devoured 3 of them while you get something to go along with the chocolate and-

You forget to tell him those aren't just any regular chocolates

" zayne-" your cut off by the sight of him, cheeks tinted pink hes already unwrapped his 4th chocolate already

" these chocolate... I never tasted something like his before..its quite unique ..it taste like Cherry's and grapes.." he popped the the chocolate in his mouth

You told zayne that these chocolate has wine infuse in them. That's why it's taste like grapes and a hit of cherry

each chocolate ball contains 13% alcohol and are meant to enjoy slowly with something salty like ham or cured meat

" how many did you have already? "

" this is my 4th one "

Thinking he has enough already for one night you take the box out of his hands and settled it on the table

You let your boyfriend stay for the night as he can't drive, having eaten a lot of chocolate

You dragged him to your bedroom as he's in a daze looking at you with such fondness. After his shower you have him some spare clothes he left you in case he's staying over

Zayne, siting on the edge of the bed watches you gently dry his hair. He hasn't spoken much since he ate the chocolates which made you a bit worried

" dear, is everything alright ? You seem at a daze, you haven't spoken much since you at the chocolates "

Zayne just pulled you on his lap and started giving you soft butterfly kisses on your face and neck before replying

" it's just that you seem so beautiful that I consider myself lucky to have met you "

"Your existing in my life is everything to me , I can't imagine my life without you by my side...''

"Your my the warmth to my heart, with you I experienced summer in snowy blizzard"

" you're like my precious flower that can survive. in the winter"

" also I want my flower to be careful and not hey hurt during mission . I don't want to see her coming to the hospital injured "

After sharing a moment with your beloved snowman both of you settled to bed , zayne spoons you closely in hin arms kissing the top of your head before whispering " goodnight "

Rafayel

Rafayel avoid drinking during his art exhibition. Especially when someone hands him some wine , wanting to toast him for his great success as young artists

Rafayel doesn't drink the wine as it might be spiked or something. But he except the glass and carefully examinen the wine before cheering with some business men and taking a sip

He's very careful with his surroundings, the moment he say you coming through he excuses himself to be with you

" you late miss body guard "

You apologize and explained that the wonderer you delt today took longer then you expected

" what's important now is that your here "

The art exhibition almost lasted for 4hours, you where by rafayel side the entire time as his request for making up to him for being late.

Rafayel having to meet a lot of people congratulate and toasting him for his newest work , grew more and more red as he takes sip after sip of his wine

Being by your boyfriend as he spoke with some important investors and buyers you noticed Rafayel getting less and less sober

Something wasn't right here, you felt uneasy why was there only wine served and not other drinks?

And the wine they give out isn't weak one either. You saw on the bottle it was 17% alcohol

Feeling worried you looked at Rafayel, you can feel Rafayel getting annoyed and wanted to leave as more people approach him and want to speak with him bout his art you decided its time to go

" let's us give you a toast, to our partner ship Mr. Rafayel ! " they raised there glass before Rafayel could take another sip you took his glass from him and-

" sorry gentlemens I'll drink on Rafayel behalf, he had enough for today " they understand and you leave with your boyfriend

You hold Rafayel hands the inter way out, Rafayel couldn't help but blush, admiring you as you took him away from those annoying people

You called Thomas telling him your taking Rafayel home as he's clearly getting drunk and it was probably someone plan wanting Rafayel to get drunk so they can write something about him and publishing it on the news.

Thomas understand and ended the art exhibition earlier then expected

You call a cab and headed to Rafayel house ( island )

You unluck his house and guide Rafayel inside

" you know what miss bodyguard , your the best bodyguard there is"

" without you my world would be full of black and greys "

" I miss you when your not around "

" I hate it when you keep me waiting "

" but I love it even when your late you try to make an effort to come see me and make it up to me "

" you're my special pearl from the deep sea"

You stayed with Rafayel for the night, the next morning thosmas blew up Rafayel phone asking him to check the news

The news about 'having a secret relationship with his bodyguard?' With a picture of the two of you holding has while waiting for a cab

Sylus

You don't even know how sylus got drunk or at least he looks like he's drunk . When you where at the bace you heard them coming back. So you decided to great them at the door and asked how it go

But you where met with sylus disheveled look like his been hit by a truck

" I'm going to my room don't bother me" sylus said passing through you

You ask luke and kierran about him as they just came from a business deal

You asked like and kieren if sylus drink got spiked . They laugh at you, you think the great leader of onychinus got his drink spiked and fell for it ?

It does sound ridiculous because you know he can handle his alcohol.

Like explain that sylus in hailed some gass that enemy planned , supposedly to make you weak and not able to think straight kinda like alcohol

" yea boss man got hit with ton of gass that's why he looks like that " kierran informed you

" don't worry boss won't go down that easily it will wear off in a couple of hours "

you headed straight to sylus bedroom to check on him but you go to the kitchen counter first to get two glasses of gin fiz that you prepared earlier

You don't know if it's a good idea or not but you already made them anyway

Holding two glass you couldn't knock on the door your about to call for sylus until the door open for you to come in

" didn't I say don't bother me?" stood beside his record player in a robe clearly stated he just got out of the shower

" but you still open the door for me " you settled the two glasses of gin fizz at the coffee table at taking as seat before turning to him

" I heard form like and kierran. How are you doing? Everything okay?"

He just sighed and pick up the glass and drinks it enjoying the refreshing drink before sitting next to you and shared about what happened

" have I ever told you when your with me on the meetings times goes faster? "

"But today was particularly slow bec you where to there so I told them to hurry it up as they where waisting my time. They didn't took that lightly so they grew a surprise attack "

" I was pleased as it turn out like that because I didn't needed them anyway "

" the moment the gass took a but affect on me on the ride to the bace my mind was occupied by you "

" I couldn't stop thinking about you "

" your laughter, your smile, you scent ,everything "

He finished his glass and looked at you, his eyes soft as he gently caress your cheek

" your everything to me..."

" without you I feel trapped in a cage , living out life without it's full potential"

"With you around, I like feel the chains around me being broken setting me free "

" you are my key to my cage..."

" my kitten, my sweetie, my miss hunter, my beloved...."

He's words are sweet and he ment everything he said but you couldnt help but tease him a bit

"Who are you and what have you don't to my sylus" you said you couldn't hold in your laugher .

Sylus just chuckled and shook his head .It was rare for sylus to be sharing his feelings and thoughts

" I wonder if it's the gun fizz fault or the gass you in heiled" you wonder tapping your chin

"Gues we'll never know the answer'' Sylus just took both your hand and gently lean in to kiss your lips

And took another

And another

And another

Before you giggle at him, removing you hand from his , you looped it around his neck before kissing him back

After you finish your glass sylus carried you to him bed , he wants to be sleeping next to you and waking up next you everyday and every night

He carefully lifted the blanket up and holds you tight before humming as soft tune that both of you fell asleep within minutes

[scary-grace]

#61 for man door hand hook car door

Hi Scarlett! Thank you so much for the prompt from this list (I'm still taking these!). This one took me a bit but I hope you like it! No quirks AU, fluff, sickfic, totally not inspired by anything happening in real life. 2.3k words.

61) “I’ll pick it up after work.”

Your phone rings while you’re on your lunch break, and you pick it up without looking. “Hey, this is –”

“Kill me.”

It’s your boyfriend. Your boyfriend never calls – only texts, because he needs to edit himself before he sends anything. “Hey, Tomura. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Tomura’s usually raspy voice sounds distinctly nasal. “I was mouth-breathing on you all night. How did you not smother me?”

“Would you have smothered me?”

“No,” Tomura groans. “It wouldn’t be any different than your snoring.”

“I don’t snore!”

“Yes, you do. I like it. It’s cheaper than buying a white-noise machine.” Tomura coughs. It sounds like he’s making an effort not to cough into the phone, but it’s not much of one. “This sucks.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “I’m really sorry. You wouldn’t have gotten it if I hadn’t made us go to that party.”

“Yeah, maybe not.” Tomura coughs again. “But we agreed. Rules are rules.”

You knew when you and Tomura started dating that he wasn’t much for parties, but he was also able to admit that the occasional party is necessary, and you used one of the three parties you’re allowed to drag him to per year on bringing him to your friend’s engagement party. Said engagement party got a little messy. A little rowdy. A little drink-sharey, which you’re pretty sure is what got Tomura – during some horrible round of mystery cocktail hot potato, he somehow got stuck finishing almost every drink. You helped him out with most of them, but your immune system is bombproof. If one of you was going to get sick, it was always going to be him.

He went to work yesterday, but stayed home today. He was worse this morning than he was last night. “Rules are rules, but I still feel bad,” you say. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Come home and kill me.”

“Other than that,” you say, and Tomura grumbles. “Seriously. Is there something?”

It’s quiet for a second. “Yeah,” Tomura admits. “If you’re not going to kill me –”

“I’m not.”

“Can you grab my stupid prescription? I went to the urgent care and they sent it to the wrong pharmacy.” Tomura’s coughing gets louder, then softer, while you try to avoid saying something dumb out of sheer shock that he’d go to the doctor at all. “It’s far away and I’m tired. Can you grab it?”

“Which pharmacy?” You put your phone on speaker and look up the address. “That’s on the other side of the city. How did they mess it up that bad?”

“Maybe I said it wrong. I forgot my address for a second when I was checking in,” Tomura mumbles. “It sucked in there. It took forever to get seen because there were a bunch of kids ahead of me with marbles stuck up their noses.”

“With – what?”

“Marbles. Up their noses. At a sleepover. It was a dare,” Tomura says. You can hear just how pissed he is about it – or how pissed he would be, if he wasn’t too fatigued to be pissed. “I don’t know why they got to be seen first. My breathing was more obstructed than theirs.”

You try to imagine this – your sick, crabby boyfriend sharing a waiting room with a birthday party’s worth of kids with marbles jammed up their nostrils. It’s hard to picture. “Did you have to wait a while?”

“It felt like a while,” Tomura says. “Wish you’d been there. It would have sucked less.”

If he’d told you he was going, you’d probably have taken off work to go with him. “I wish I’d been there, too,” you say. You lean back against the wall. “I’ll pick it up after work. Is there anything else you need?”

“A cyanide capsule.”

“I don’t think they sell those at the convenience store,” you say. Tomura grumbles again, and you pause for a moment. “Promise me something. Before you kill yourself, at least let me go on a quest to far distant lands to retrieve the cure.”

“I asked you to get the antibiotics, didn’t I?” Tomura’s voice is muffled. “Problem solved.”

“Not just this time. Any time, Tomura,” you say. You and he have had this conversation before, and you’ve gotten better at talking about it. You know his jokes about killing himself are jokes, but you also know they’re a habit, and it’s not a good habit to be in. “Always give me a shot at the quest first.”

“Yeah.” Tomura’s voice is quieter. “You’re busy, right? Go do something or they’ll make you stay later.”

You don’t want to get off the phone, but you do need to eat. And then you need to race through the rest of your work for the day – or do you? Either way, you need to get off the phone. You check the address for the pharmacy one more time. “Okay. I have to go. Just try to rest.”

“I should have gotten you sick, too.” Tomura sounds incredibly mopey, which is what you’d be, if you had the symptoms he’s having. “Then you’d have to stay home with me.”

“Okay, but if I was sick, who would take care of you?”

“Me.”

“You’re also sick.”

“Shit.” Tomura’s hitting his head against the pillow. You can tell by the rustling. “I’m hanging up before I say anything else stupid. Love you.”

“I love you, too,” you say. You hang up the phone. Then you go back inside to talk to your boss.

_________________________________________________________

Tomura shouldn’t have gone to the stupid urgent care. He got the prescription, sure, but it came at the cost of an hour in a packed waiting room, three separate lectures about getting a primary care provider, a cotton swab down the back of his throat to check for strep even though he doesn’t have a sore throat, and a bunch of questions that weren’t even sort of relevant to why he was there. It sapped all his energy and probably exposed him to twenty more diseases than he already has, and he didn’t even get the antibiotics. He had to ask you to get them, and that means it’ll be even longer before you get home.

Tomura’s not an idiot. He knows you don’t have some kind of magical healing powers that can make his headache and cough and congestion go away just by touching him, but he feels better when you’re here, no matter what you’re doing, no matter what’s wrong with him. Tomura’s not an idiot, but he’s also not naïve. He knows he was shooting for the moon when he slid into your DMs. He never expected it to work.

And part of him is still convinced it hasn’t worked, even though you’ve been together for two years and living together for one. It’s not his low self-esteem telling him you’re too good for him – it’s observable fact. You’re smart and hardworking but sneaky about it, so you never have to do more work than you have to, and you’re pretty and cute but you’re also hot, which are things that should go together but don’t go together in real life, and Tomura knows that whenever people look at the two of you together they’re asking themselves the same question. What are you doing? What are you doing with him?

Tomura asks himself that same question every week or so. He still hasn’t worked it out. But he has a feeling it has to do with the fact that he’s able to pull his weight, which he hasn’t been doing since Sunday morning, when he woke up the morning after your stupid friend’s engagement party with an itch in the back of his throat. And then he piled on by making you pick up his prescription. You must be pissed. So what if you didn’t sound pissed on the phone? You must be. Tomura would – no, Tomura wouldn’t. He likes when he can do stuff for you, because it makes you happy, and he wants you to be happy, because he loves you. What is he thinking?

Nothing that makes any sense, so he should probably stop. Tomura brushes the piles of wadded-up tissues into the wastebasket by the bed, then curls up under the blankets on your side. He should get some sleep. It’s just past noon. You’re not going to be home until six. Maybe he’ll feel a little better on the other side of a six-hour nap.

Tomura falls asleep facing your digital alarm clock, so when he hears the apartment door unlock itself and opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the time. It’s not six. It’s two. Why are you home so early? He can tell that you’re trying to be quiet as you take off your shoes. Maybe you’re trying not to wake him, but he’s already awake. He should let you know

“You –” Tomura starts, then coughs. His voice still sounds like shit, so he coughs again, which turns into a coughing fit, and by then you’re in the doorway. He peers at you through eyes that feel blurrier than they should. “You came back early.”

“I really shouldn’t have gone in at all today,” you say. “When I told my boss your symptoms, she sent me home. Apparently I could be contagious.”

You’re smirking a little bit. Tomura has a feeling you did more than just tell your boss his symptoms, but he doesn’t give a shit. You’re home. “I got your prescription,” you continue, shaking a paper bag, “and I got frozen yogurt instead of a probiotic so you don’t have to take an extra pill. I also got fancy tissues – and ingredients for real ramen if you want that and instant ramen if you don’t – and –”

All of that was one bag. Tomura recognizes the other one instantly – it’s from his favorite game store. “What did you do?”

“New headset,” you say. “You keep saying the one you have hurts your head. If it hurts your head on a regular basis, it probably hurts it even more now – and I know the one you want, so I figured I’d get it. In case you felt like gaming at all.”

Tomura should probably say something. Thank you would probably be a good start, but all he can do is stare at you and cough a little bit. You don’t seem worried about it. You duck out of the bedroom, then come back with a glass of water, a cup of frozen yogurt, and a spoon. You set the antibiotics down next to it and head over to the closet to change out of your work clothes.

Tomura tries to pay attention to the frozen yogurt – using a spoon feels like it requires all of his concentration right now – but he can’t stop glancing over at you. You look good in your work clothes, but Tomura likes it best when you’re comfortable, because you always look good to him and when you’re comfortable you don’t waste time worrying about it. It doesn’t hurt that most of your comfortable clothes were Tomura’s clothes at some point. The pajamas you settle on are half-yours, half-his. Your shorts, which Tomura likes because the elastic waistband is easier to get through than a drawstring is, and his shirt, which he likes because you stole it from him within the first month the two of you were dating and never gave it back.

It takes a spoonful of yogurt nearly sliding off the spoon and into his lap for Tomura to remember what he’s supposed to be doing. He shovels in a few more bites of yogurt, then downs the pill and flops back on the bed, just as you get into bed on what’s usually his side. “You stole my spot,” you say. “What’s that about?”

“Your side is better.”

“That’s not what you said when we moved in,” you point out. “You talked a lot of shit about my side being the worst one.”

“It is. Usually.” Tomura doesn’t want to admit this. He feels like a dumbass. “It smells like you.”

You look surprised. “You can smell stuff right now?”

“Only on one side,” Tomura says, and you laugh. You come closer, too, settling down in bed next to him, and wrapping your arms carefully around him. “You sure you want to do this? What if you get sick?”

“You’ll be done being sick by the time I get it, if I get it,” you say. You kiss Tomura’s cheek, then test his forehead with the back of your hand before brushing his hair out of his face. “I don’t think I will. But if I do get it, then you can take care of me.”

Tomura thinks he could do that. He wouldn’t be as good at it as you are, but you’re giving him a really good tutorial right now. He’s paying attention. Sort of. “I’d say I’m looking forward to it, but you’d have to get sick, so I’m not. Because I don’t want you to be sick. But I would take care of you. I want to, but I don’t want to have to, if that makes sense. It doesn’t make sense. I just – fuck.”

“It’s okay,” you say. You’re smiling at him. “Just get some rest. I could use a nap, too.”

“Yeah.” Tomura wants to talk to you more, wants to hear how your day was going before he ruined it, but now that you’re here, all he wants is to sleep. He sleeps better when you’re here. “Okay.”

The coughing’s not as bad when he isn’t trying to talk. Tomura closes his eyes and slumps against you. “Love you,” he mumbles, and he stays awake just long enough to hear you say it back.

[undercovercameron]

hole in one

summary: you're a server at the island club, and you may or may not have a favorite customer.

notes: i'm back baby! haven't written anything in a good while but i suddenly had this image of a girly reader and a flirty golfer rafe with that season 3 buzzcut... i HAD to make a pun with this title and i'm so glad i did. also i always write rafe a little more attentive and well-meaning than he is, so take this headcanon of nice rafe with a grain of salt-- and this shit is hella dirty so please enjoy and let me know what you think ;) (also im coming back to edit this fully in a little bit but i wanted to post just to prove i still love and use this account kajddjd)

tags: rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count: 4453

Some things in Rafe’s life were simple pleasures. 

A cocktail during dinner, a night where all the TV he watched was reality shows, a cigarette on a night out. The silence of his childhood home. 

Golf, coincidentally, was also one of those things. The course he frequented was just a ten-minute drive from his house, and he had priority parking. As a donor and a club-member of course. The drinks were cheap, the company was even cheaper, and he had a killer swing. There was rarely an afternoon out on that green that he didn’t enjoy. He felt closest to peace when all he had to work for was getting that tiny white golf ball sunk into a hole. 

They were often sweaty putting sessions, as the North Carolina heat in the summer was no joke, but the traveling drink cart was a brief respite from that. 

“What can I get you?” You ask, bright and long-lashed. Your hair was done in a tight updo, your makeup was flawless, and not a single spec of dirt or turf lay on your uniform. You took pride in your appearance and the effects it had on the loose wallets of the Outer Banks’ finest real estate investors and offshore bank account holders. Most of all, you enjoyed a certain someone’s attention. 

Rafe peeks under the overhang of the cart and stares at your selection. He stands with his hands on his hips, gold rings flashing in the hot sunlight. You take a look at him for the first time today, eyes taking over his bent form. He has gray slacks on with a dark blue polo stretched over his well-built back, unbuttoned to show the tiniest glint of blonde chest hair and his gold chain. He spared no expense when it came to his appearance, you’d come to notice. 

“I think,” he starts, standing back up, and fixes you with his blue-eyed stare. It makes you hold back a shiver despite the heat. “A double tequila soda.” 

He gives you a once-over, admiring the way your skirt hugs your waist and the sparkle of your earrings. He always likes when the girls have their hair up— gives him a sneak peek of what it’d look like if he pulled it. 

“Three limes? Just how you like?” You ask, breaking his focus, and reach for a plastic cocktail cup. You have a freckle behind your ear, he notices. 

“Exactly right,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, and his face splits into a grin when you glance at him and blush. He could be back with his friends from highschool, talking shit about their shitty swings or increasingly high scores, but he’s not. He’s right here, watching closely as you carefully measure the ice and pour a perfect double shot. 

“How’re you guys playing today?” You ask, a humiliating attempt at small talk, and you feel sweat bead on your lower back. 

“Shit, honestly,” Rafe laughs. “These jack-offs couldn’t get a hole-in-one if it was right in front of their fucking faces. And I’ve been distracted all day.” He looks down at you over the bridge of his nose, liking the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

“Heat getting to you?” You squeeze the final lime and turn away from the cart, holding it out with a polite smile. He takes it carefully. 

“Something like that,” he says, cocking his head, and takes a sip. Tart. Just how he likes it. “Hey.” He digs a hand into his pocket and the tips of your cheekbones heat again for some reason. “Keep the change.” He hands you a fifty. 

You take it between hesitant fingers, peering up at him. 

“The drink is $6, Rafe.” 

He always does this. Pays cash with big bills and tells you to keep the change. He gave you a twenty for a packet of peanuts one time. “I don’t know if I can legally take this.”

He just shrugs. 

“Consider it a personal donation.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” 

“Makes me feel better. I think you deserve a little extra for your services—it takes a lot of work to look that good for a bunch of old geezers in sweater vests and loafers. I know I appreciate it.” He turns and starts off towards his group, yanking his sunglasses out of his shirt and jamming them onto his face. “I like your bra, by the way. ‘S my favorite color.”

You glance down the collar of your shirt, heart thumping, and look back up. 

That stupid fucking swagger he has. He’s going to throw out his back walking around like a peacock like that. 

You tug your shirt up, hiding the red bra you’d chosen for today, and hop back on the cart. Off to another hole where another old man will look down your shirt and ask for his Manhattan with two cherries instead of one. 

You think you’ll either quit this job or start wearing a fucking monk robe. 

The next time you see him is back at the club. Your boss had you on pool bartender duty, opposed to the drink cart you favored, and you were a little out of your element. 

The customer demographic was different, which you enjoyed, but they all seemed to want a lot more and a lot quicker. There was no loitering around to small talk; you had to work quickly and attentively to earn these housewives’ measly two dollar tip on margarita pitchers. 

You had spilled raspberry purée on your company-approved golf dress more times than you could count in your six hour shift. Near the end of it, however, Rafe had made his way to the end of the bar and watched as you ducked to put away the umbrella toothpicks and quickly and secretly downed a shot of Tito’s. Drinking on the job. Hm. 

(It’s not that you like to be drunk at work; it’s more of a little ‘fuck you’ to your boss, you think.)

“Hi,” you say on an exhale, coming over and wiping the already-spotless counter with a black rag. “What can I get you?” You have dangly earrings on today, and a different shade of lipgloss than he is accustomed to.

“Two grapefruit High Noon’s.” He folds his arms and leans on the counter, so close he could smell your perfume. “I could report you for that, you know,” he says, voice as low as a whisper. You peer up at him, lips pursed, and scan his face. No ill intent. Just an easy smile and dirty eyes. 

“Oh, yeah?” You reach for the fridge underneath the mixing mats and pull two cold cans from the shelf. You sit them on the counter and stare up at him. “You’re a real upstanding customer, huh?”

“Mhm.” He twists his pointer-finger ring mindlessly. “You owe me.” The corners of his lips quirk up. 

“Oh, do I?” You ask, giving him your best ’I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look. You know he likes that. 

The fact is that you and Rafe had countless conversations exactly like this one. Whether it be at the drink cart, on the way out of the building, or back inside in the restaurant bar. He always somehow leaned over you, smiling like the flirtatious bastard that he was, and making you feel like he’d like nothing more than to take you to his car and show you how much he actually enjoyed being served by you. That’s how you imagined him in bed, at least. Proving a point. 

He takes the two cans in one hand and straightens up, fixing you with a dangerous look. 

“Your shift ends in ten minutes, yeah?” He asks. 

“Yes.” You square your shoulders and stare back. 

“Good. I’ll take you home. Well, mine.” He backs up closer to where his friends are sitting at a covered patio table, mischievous smile flashing white in the sun. 

“I have a car, you know,” you say, leaning on the counter with folded arms. You ignore the hot rush of blood in your veins from his words. “And I have to shower.”

“What makes you think I don’t have a shower?” He purses his lips, faking the wildly confused look, and turns back around to his friends. 

You just sigh, exasperated with him, and work on cleaning up your station. God, it has to be him? The boy you had a crush on in elementary school? You’ve had plenty of hookups in your adult life, but none as close to home as this one. (Literally. You live down the street.) You feel his eyes on you as you scrub a particularly defiant streak of Grenadine from the counter, and feel his gaze on your back when you turn around to get a fresh rag. It makes your face burn hot. 

You know he’s not talking about just hanging out at his place. He probably has a huge shower, for God’s sake, and probably a humongous bed. California king if you can guess. 

You bet he tastes like summer.

After your replacement comes to the bar, you take your lanyard to get into the staff locker room from a hook under the bar and make your way slowly through the gaggles of people to your designated locker. It takes a brief conversation with your boss Angela about if you left the tip jar or took the contents to finally shoulder past the last group of people. 

You tug your bag from the hook, a change of clothes and your shower stuff already packed (as you had been planning to go to the gym after work). You now know you have other forms of exercise coordinated. You give yourself a final look in the little mirror on your locker. Here goes nothing. 

Rafe is waiting outside the swinging door when you push past it, button up shirt and shoes haphazardly thrown on. He immediately takes your bag from you and slings it over one massive shoulder, starting for the exit. 

“I can carry my own things, Rafe,” you say, slightly out of breath with the effort it takes to catch up to him. 

“Yeah, well, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He casts a look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised seriously. You roll your eyes. 

His bedroom door pushes open and you stumble back, hand tight on his bicep as he walks you further. His hand circles your waist as he ducks to kiss you again, mouth hot and commanding over yours. 

He tastes exactly how you imagined. 

His room is bright with sunlight and slightly messy when you glance behind him, but you’re pretty fucking sure you won’t be focused on how his room is decorated when he keeps grabbing at you like this.

The back of your knees hit the bedspread and you fall into a sitting position, posture curved up into his as he leans and holds you by the side of the neck. You make a pleased noise into his mouth and tug at his shirt, suddenly irritated that he is wearing so many clothes. You snake a hand up his shirt and claw at his skin with your sharp nails. 

“Save that for my back,” he breathes, and your fingers fumble to unbutton his shirt as you finally pull it down and off his body. You rejoice at his newfound lack of clothing and smooth a hand over his chest, eyes trained on his toned and tan stomach. 

He’s huge like this, up close, and the warmth radiating from his skin makes your heart jump into your throat. Your fingers splay across the middle of his abdomen, just appreciating the way he breathes under your touch, and you lean back up for his mouth. 

He threads his fingers in your hair and pulls your face so hard to his own that your neck smarts. Between your legs throbs. You protest, grabbing at his wrist, but settle when he shuffles closer to the bed and tilts you back into the sheets.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs. Your back meets silk, and he lifts your open legs up and around his hips as he settles between your thighs comfortably. Right where he should be. 

The feeling of his heavy weight where you’ve been needing it makes your back arch. He breaks away from you and slides a hand down your chest, laying the route that his mouth will take. 

“You smell like cherries,” he says as he presses his mouth to your collarbone and sucks. 

“I know.” You shudder through a laugh and bring your hand up to the back of his head as encouragement. “Spilled Grenadine.”

He hums noncommittally and shoves the hem of your dress up past your hips and to your midriff in one fluid motion. You wriggle for a second, so exposed so fast, but sigh contentedly when his lips meet your stomach. His mouth is so unexplainably hot, and as his tongue meets you your whole body erupts in goosebumps. It sends a shiver down your spine. It’s even better than you imagined. 

“Knew you’d taste so good,” Rafe practically moans, eyes darting to yours, and his fingertips curl around the waistband of your underwear as you watch. Your cheeks flush at his word. You’re honored to be the recipient of words like his— it’s not often Rafe finds himself giving someone a compliment. He lays a final kiss on your stomach and surges back up towards your chest. He mutters gibberish to himself, probably something like “I hate this fucking dress” and yanks your dress up past your tits. 

His fingers find your left nipple and squeeze as his tongue finds the other. You arch again, unused to the sensation, and let loose a groan. His fingers are so soft and light, but his teeth nip. 

You make a noise of surprise, eyebrows furrowing, and tug at the short, blunt locks of his hair. 

“Impatient,” he reprimands, tongue rolling as he glances up at your pink face. You’re strung so tight you might snap. “Needy.” He releases your nipple with a pop. Your lips are so pink and shiny, he just has to kiss you again. You whine into his mouth when he comes back, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and your legs wind around his waist. 

But he lets go of your hip with his left hand and creeps closer to the crotch of your underwear, fingertips dancing. Your grip on his hair tightens. Between your legs pulses with heat and need, hot on his clothed crotch, and he knows he could calculate your BPM just by laying with you like this. 

“Rafe,” you breathe, staring up at him as your chest heaves. 

“Relax,” he shushes, ducking down to press a kiss to your neck, and you gradually relax the muscles that lock your legs to his abdomen. “There you go.” You think you hear a “good girl” fall from his soft lips but it’s in that moment that he pushes past the cotton and digs his hand into your underwear. 

You immediately spur into motion, back arching and mouth dropping into an ‘O’, and he just bites his lip and watches. You’re so responsive, and it makes his dick fucking ache. 

“Thought about this? Hm?” He pants, releasing his bottom lip from between his teeth, and grins. “So wet, this pussy’s been begging for me for weeks.”

You struggle to nod, movement interrupted by the slew of noises and ramblings of “please” and “yes” and “Rafe” falling from your lips. His middle and ring fingers push past the slick resistance your pussy gives him, and you go silent and slack-jawed as he pushes all the way to the hilt.  

And he’s got big fingers. You wonder if they’re the same size as his dick. If so, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you nearly cry, head falling back into the sheets, and you’re slammed back into reality and consciousness of your surroundings. The coolness of the AC makes your nipples peak again, and the sweat on your lower back cools almost as soon as it’s created. But Rafe makes you hot. Your chest and cheeks are flushed a bright pink, and your lips are swollen into a bigger size and slick with his saliva and your own. We don’t even have to discuss how flushed the other parts of your body are—he already knows. 

His fingers curl slightly up and to the right, and your abdomen jerks at the unfamiliar feeling. You curl up slightly, eyebrows furrowed, and try to catch a glimpse of his large hand in your underwear. God, you wish you could take a picture. You lock gazes with him momentarily but fall back down at the look in his face. It’s nearly animalistic. 

“Rafe, please,” you beg, grabbing onto his wrist with both hands. You meet his eyes. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling his fingers out, and clambers off of you for a second. You sit up, quickly ridding yourself of the dress bunched up to your shoulders, and watch as he rips his shorts off and nears the bed. You don’t even have enough time to gape at the size of him before he’s grabbing your bicep and jerking you onto your stomach. 

You have half a mind to protest his man-handling of you but stay silent as you look up at the angle he positions you. 

There’s a full length mirror opposite this side of his bed, and you just stare at the pair of you as you catch your breath. 

“Like it, huh?” He asks quietly, dipping down and pressing a kiss to your hair. His hand finds your neck and he moves you to face the mirror head on, watching your face closely. You really like the feeling of his fingers around your throat. He can tell, now; your shoulders relax and your lips move into the shape of a smile when he squeezes. 

“You always keep this here?” You ask, head falling onto your folded arms when he releases you to just admire your body. His fingers trace your spine and the curve of your ass, never losing focus. 

“I moved it this morning,” he murmurs, gaze never straying from you. 

“Oh, so you knew you’d be fucking me tonight.” Your face splits into an easy grin, head tilting mischievously. His eyes find yours in the mirror, and he bends again to press his mouth to your lower back. 

“Always teasing me.” His voice is muffled by your smooth skin. He can’t get enough. “Knew it’d happen sometime soon. You can’t stay away forever, you know.” He straightens up but doesn’t find your eyes in the mirror. His large, warm hand maneuvers your hips into a tilted position, and you move up onto your feet. He has you flat on your stomach on the bed, but your ass and legs hang off and the soles of your feet just barely press flat into the floor. “Knew this pussy would get me at some point.” He smacks at an asscheek lightning fast; and your whole body jiggles with the force of his hand. You squeak involuntarily.

A large hand grabs at your shoulder as the other one jerks himself steadily. Once, twice, three times, and then he’s spreading you open and pushing into you. 

Your spine stretches and relaxes when he gets halfway in, and your thighs start to shake when you’re filled all the way to the hilt. 

“Shit, Rafe, you’re fucking big,” you complain, but the tail end of your protest bleeds into a desperate whine. Your fingers grip the sheets tightly, eyes squeezed shut, and your head falls onto your folded arms. “Please,” you say, reaching back to frantically find his hips. “Go slow.”

“Stretching you out, hm,” Rafe comments, breathing hard already, and relieves the pressure by sliding almost all the way out. His tip almost breaches the seam of your slit but he pushes back in, pulling your asscheek away with a thumb to watch. “Fucking sexy.”

You squeeze around him like a vice, but the intrusion is welcome. You will yourself to relax and accept his huge fucking dick, and the thought of yourself getting fucked by him sends a gush of slick between you two. 

“There you go,” Rafe sighs, and pulls out only to fuck back in to you quickly. You cry out, fingers squeezing extra tight on the sheets, but you will yourself to look up.

His chest is flushed in the mirror as his chain swings in the open air, and the pure concentration and pleasure on his face prompts a pleased noise from your throat. You tentatively jerk back into him and his head whips up in the mirror, blue eyes meeting your own. 

“Oh, yeah?” He mutters, teeth catching his lip, and his hips snap into yours. Your mouth drops open only momentarily before you close it and tilt your head to the size coyly, biting your own lip and pushing back into his hips. He watches you carefully in the mirror with squinted eyes, half-impressed and half-challenging. “You think you can take it?” His fingers squeeze at your shoulder tight. 

You just silently nod. Cocky. 

His emotionless gaze locks with yours and his blood pumps hot in his veins. He’s going to make you eat your words. 

His hips surge forward in a suddenly-steady rhythm, skin slapping skin ringing out in the room. You just stare at him, defiant, and push back with every thrust he gives.

Rafe grunts and lets go of your shoulder, replacing his touch with an arm slung around your neck and the other hand between your legs. His warm fingers nudge your clit, finding it immediately, and his hips snap punishingly quickly into yours. 

It’s brutal, having him like this. You hope you bruise. But you challenged him, and somebody has to lose. Except it’s not really a loss when Rafe fucking Cameron is genuinely fucking you into next week. 

“Shit,” you exhale, choking on the inhale that accompanies it, and you squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers rub you in circles. “Fuck, Rafe, that’s so good.” Something hot coils tight in your stomach and your thighs suddenly warm almost in preparation for the wave of sensation. 

“Yeah?” He pants, hot in your ear. “You like that?” His chest sticks to your sweaty back, gluing you together as his strong hips and legs pound you into the mattress. You stay strong, along for the ride, and provide all the verbal encouragement he needs. Your stomach feels hotter and hotter and your throat runs dry. 

“I love it,” you whine, head tilting up as if you’re praying he won’t stop. “Fuck me like this forever.”

“Mhm,” is all he says, too lost in the squeeze of your pussy around him and the warmth your body grants him. You pulse even more, so close. 

You gather some strength and struggle to push up into an elbow, head tilting further and further until you can feel his forehead brush the crown of your head. Your muscles strain. 

“Just like that. Just like—God, shit, right there.”

You squeak when the hot coil in your abdomen snaps and you fall twitchingly onto your stomach. His fingers rub quickly at your clit and you feel suddenly a hundred pounds lighter, eyes rolling back into your head. It’s so fucking good you wonder how you’ll ever masturbate happily again. Your fingers don’t compare in the slightest to this fucking dick. Your chest heaves with the effort it takes to fill your lungs with clean air, and your legs start to shake miserably underneath him. Your thighs feel like jelly and you barely did anything. 

“Please, Rafe,” you beg, turning your head to the side to look innocently up at him. “Give it to me.”

“Yeah?” He pants and leans down to kiss you messily. You groan into his mouth and push back once more into his hips. Your pussy is still buzzing with feeling, and it fades slowly into a pleasant ache the more he fucks into you. “You want it on your back or in your mouth?”

You blink wildly and push onto your palms, signaling that you want to turn over. He pulls out but jerks himself steadily until you scramble onto your knees in front of him, face level with his pelvis and tongue out. You look up at him with the most earnest and well-meaning eyes, and he just has to close his eyes when the tip of his dick finally meets your tongue and he fills your mouth. His chest loosens with the most pathetic noise he’s ever made, a mix between a raw groan and a whimper. Your soft mouth accepts him and cleans his dick, humming contentedly, and when he catches his breath and manages to open his eyes you’re staring up at him, an immensely pleased look on your face. 

You crawl closer and lift onto your knees, arms coming around his neck and pulling him to you. You press a kiss to his mouth. He can almost taste himself on your tongue, and he smoothes a hand down your side to grab onto your asscheek as you just kiss him. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling away slightly to give your face a once-over. “You haven’t even showered yet.”

“And whose fault is that?” You sigh, exasperated. “Someone couldn’t make it up the stairs without shoving his hands up my dress—we barely even made it to the bed.” You smooth a hand down the back side of his head, liking the way his hair feels. 

Rafe just purses his lips. 

“Sounds like a really cool guy to me.”

“Mhm,” you say, rolling your eyes, and sit back on your heels. 

This room is a mess.

The corner of the well-made bed’s sheets and bedspread is yanked from the far corner and lies bunched up in the middle, dark with sweat. It smells like sex in here, the ceiling fan doing nothing to mitigate it, and your work dress is hung haphazardly on the closet door handle. With a dark Grenadine stain down the middle. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Rafe says, interrupting your inner monologue. His warm hand comes to rest on your thigh. 

“What?” You ask, eyebrows drawn. 

“Don’t even think about putting on clothes.”

You scoff.

“Like those would do me any good right now.” You wind your arms around his neck and smirk up at him. “I still haven’t even shown you what’s in my bag.”

His smile grows. 

“What’s in your bag, baby?”

[bidisasterevankinard]

Fuck it Friday

I had inspiration for bucktommy date night where Buck is in a dress so here's more (who forgot/doesn't know how dress look under cut is the photo)

“What are you doing?” 

Evan raises his eyebrow with adorable head tilt and Tommy just smirks at him, when he drips the remains of a cocktail, the name he doesn’t remember, onto Evan's exposed neck, enjoying the way the drops flow closer to the neckline on his chest. Licking all the tracks from the skin with his tongue, Tommy revels in the sharp intake of breath and the way Evan's body shudders under his tongue. Tommy grins. Evan's skin smells like floral shower gel and a little sweat from being in a slightly stuffy room. This blend with tart-sweet alcohol turns Tommy's head better than rum and tequila in their cocktails.

“Enjoying my cocktail and my hot boyfriend. Two in one,” Tommy winks and Evan smiles at him. “Tell me more about cocktails and its history.”

Evan beams and pushes his body so now he sits on his lap, having easy access to his ear.

“The most expensive cocktail in the world costs $22,579.”

Tommy chokes on his beverage.

“Yeah, I had the same reaction. It’s a Diamonds Are Forever Martini at the Ritz Carlton in Tokyo. It’s made from vodka, lime juice, and a one carat diamond.”

“Will you make this at home for a cheaper price?” Tommy nuzzles Evan’s neck.

“When l will propose to you,” Evan nods.

“What if I do it first?”

“Then I’ll do it for our first night as husbands, before fucking you like a king.”

Tommy growls and grinds his again half hard cock into Evan’s perfect little ass.

“It’s a deal, baby,” he bites Evan’s earlobe. “Tell me more.”

“One last fact and we’re dancing, right?” 

Evan bats his eyelashes, pouting, and his blue eyes getting so adorably soft and pleading, that Tommy would kill a man or steal the moon if Evan just asked him like that.

God, this fucking kid. He can make a man do anything he wants with just his pretty face.

Np tagging @wikiangela @bewilderedbuckley @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @diazheartsbuckley @queerbuck @queerdiaz @watchyourbuck @epiphainie @evnnkinard @evansboyfriend @evanbi-ckley @eddiestummy @repressedqueen @rainbow-nerdss @rogerzsteven @racerchix21 @pirrusstuff @underwaterninja13 @saybiwithme @devirnis @lavenderleahy @loveyouanyway @monsterrae1 @cal-daisies-and-briars @buckera @bi-buckrights @bigfootsmom @bekkachaos @theotherbuckley @thewolvesof1998 @theweewooshow @eddiebabygirldiaz and you if you want to

[xoxo-ren-xoxo]

on the topic of disability, sometimes when Im talking to other disabled people about disability rights and so on, I get this dreadful feeling that's like 'oh, they really do not know how bad it is, huh'. It's one thing to struggle for access to proper diagnosis and medical aid when you *are able to self advocate*, but as soon as some of you come across a person who cannot self advocate, you stop understanding.

my brother has autism, like me. he has ADHD, like me. he cannot write, cannot speak (he is not mute, but he cannot put words together), and needs care 24/7 from experts.

I have had conversations with other disabled people who have called my parents monsters for 'sending him off to be the government's problem' (in reality, he lives in a shared care house with 24 hour professional care, and my parents visit him weekly).

I have had conversations with other disabled people who were shocked that abuse happened at his past care home, and asked 'why don't you just live with him at home?' somehow ignoring the fact that he is a 6 foot tall, physically imposing 25 year old with very few ways to communicate that he is upset beyond physically lashing out.

I have had other disabled people come to me, confused, when I have described how yes, my brother physically attacked me when we were children and gave my parents lasting injuries, but I have never blamed him because he never had another way to express himself, he was on a cocktail of drugs, and he does not have the social reasoning skills to do something like that out of malice. I have had people tell me I am in denial for this truth, and I'm sure some of you will try to tell me the same.

when I talk about disability activism, I don't just mean wheelchair-accessible spaces, better treatment from doctors, and cheaper, easier healthcare. I mean more care facilities funded by the government. I mean more training for staff working with people who have complex disabilities. I mean advocacy and care for people who cannot, and will never, be able to write a plea for help, or voice their opinions in parliament, or ask to go to the toilet.

my brother is one of my favourite people. he has a personality - likes and dislikes, funny expressions and quirks, a silly smile whenever he's up to no good - he understands certain things, but we will never truly know what exactly he can and cant comprehend. he deserves someone on his side. he deserves the same advocacy other disabled people get from our allies.

if you stop caring about disabled people as soon as they stop being a 'full' person in your eyes, you do not care about disabled people.

[tovalhallaandback]

My Only Wish (This Year)

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarson/Stiorra Uhtredsdottir

Summary: What was supposed to be the worst Christmas ever unexpectedly shifts when Stiorra winds up at a fancy bar two days before Christmas aka it's a holiday-inspired fic :)

Warnings: None for now. It's decently fluffy for now. And pretty PG for now.

Read on AO3 // Preview below cut

A once perfectly layered red and white candy cane martini was now as rosy pink as Father Christmas’s cold-bitten cheeks, the bits of silver glitter catching the light every so often as Stiorra swirled it aimlessly. Slumped over the glossy dark-wooded bar top, her head rested on her forearm as she finally gave in to her sorrow while the lounge singer sang every depressing Christmas song imaginable.But at least they chose to come to one of the fancier lounges in Winchester, the kind tucked inside of an even fancier hotel where the bartenders wore bowties and little fitted black vests, and where the white-collars of the world liked to finish their workdays with nightly live music and cocktails that cost more than minimum wage, because she would definitely be risking more than her reputation doing this at one of pubs.

Sure, her cocktail would have been five pounds cheaper, and probably would have had a heavier pour of alcohol, but, a pub, and really any normal bar, was the last place she wanted to be when all the televisions would be airing today’s hockey games. So, she told her brother she wanted to meet here, hoping dressing up and making fun of the wannabe aristocrats would help her feel better. And, it definitely had nothing to do with the fact that this place held a lot of sentimentality for her. Nope. Not at all. It was just a fancy bar. A place to escape and maybe cheer up. Although, maybe she should have just stayed home seeing as the bartender’s small radio by the cash register was tuned to sports radio. And of course, all they could talk about was - drumroll - hockey. 

She cringed when the muffled broadcaster’s voice reached her ear again, “The York Danes beat the Bamburg Goddodins four to zero this afternoon, the heathen powerhouse once again proving they are a force to be reckoned with for the second season in a row!”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” 

Stiorra’s head lifted at the sound of Young Uhred’s voice, looking grossly sympathetic for his baby sister as he returned from the restroom. Ugh, this was what she got for allowing herself to feel her full emotions for once, rather than keeping them locked away. Young Uhtred grabbed his bright red scarf off the back of the navy velvet bar stool, looking way too much like a pretentious uppity scholar than a humble religious teacher at a Nativity school when he wrapped it around his neck. 

But, he was trying to be nice so rather than insult him for his clothing choices, she said, “No, you should go. Just because I am being a grinch this year, doesn’t mean you should be too.” There was a reluctancy in his gaze as he reached for his tan-brown wool coat that had seen better days. “Go. You’ve been looking forward to tonight’s symphony performance for months now.” 

“Just,” Young Uhtred took a breath as if he was second guessing his next words, “Just please tell me this isn’t because of you and your ex still?” Oh fuck, this was not the direction Stiorra wanted this conversation to go in. It was enough when her father tried to give her dating advice, and now her older brother too? Talking to one of the sleazy finance guys who had been oggling her since she walked through the revolving glass door suddenly sounded a lot more pleasant than talking to her elder brother about her relationships. “It’s been mont-“ 

“You think I’m depressed because I’m single on Christmas?” Stiorra snapped. 

“That’s not what I—“ 

“It has nothing to do with him. And, need I remind you that it was a PR stunt? Any sadness I had for that ending was for the cameras,” Stiorra flapped her hand towards her brother, “It was never real.” 

Pity loomed in her brother’s eyes once more, “So you’re really that bummed about work?” 

“Mhmm.” 

Today, she was supposed to be in York covering the Danes versus the Bamburgh Goddodins, which was supposed to be her first big break. Until two days ago, her boss decided to gift her an early Christmas present by crushing her dreams, insisting Aelflaed cover the game due to its potential for being a nail-biter (which it totally wasn’t, any person who just casually followed hockey could have told her boss that the Danes were once again going to defeat the Goddodins in a shutout). But what sucked the most about the whole ordeal? She was supposed to… No, she told her self she wouldn’t throw a pity party (or really at this point she should say she wouldn’t continue to throw one). 

Besides, she had survived the past three weeks already, so she could certainly survive another week or two more…Even if all all the TV channels constantly aired obnoxious idealistic holiday romcoms and all the streets were filled with couples flaunting their happiness as they strolled under the Christmas lights, sharing pastries and steaming cups of coffee, stopping to kiss under mistletoe…None of that made acid rise in her throat or her heart constrict or tears burn eyes… Not one bit. She’d be fine. Absolutely fine. 

[blueberryarchive]

alt bartender!hoseok x reader

The metal reverberating through the walls. The rain it's pouring in the middle of a starless night and you wish your feet weren't soaked nor that you were this tipsy; it didn't do you any good wasting your money while your ex is the one with a new partner. You couldn't hate him; you were actually glad for him. But you could cry if you weren't so tough on yourself. The tears would be cheaper, you thought.

You took a cigarette out of your tiny bag, the little stick resting in your smudged red lips. And then you remembered, the last time you saw him, he took your lighter with him; the same one he gave you for your birthday. Okay, now you could cry.

"Fuck," you rolled your eyes, feeling a sting in them. Where were your friends? Did they left you? Did they forget about you just like him?

"Oh, shit. My bad." The stranger excused himself when he bumped with your shoulder. It was Hoseok, one of the bartender. It was his smoke break. Your eyes were as wet as the concrete but that didn't matter now.

"Do you have a lighter?" You asked seeing the cigarette clinging to his slender fingers.

"Nah. Borrowed one inside." His eyes were gentle, the smile carved like a heart and the fishnet shirt like a second skin, leather pants stopped at his v line. You couldn't stop staring and he knew; he let you, enjoyed it.

"Come here." He whispered, laughing.

He took your hand in his to get you closer, your feet moved clumsily. Almost touching forehead to forehead.

"Put your hands around the flame— yes, like that," his voice reminded you of him, but the way he's eyebrows frowned trying to light your tip with the flame of his cigarette...

You looked up to his eyes, eyeliner smudged from the long hours working inside. How didn't you notice before? Was it the alcohol or the loneliness?

He was so cool, you thought like how little boys see superheroes. You wanted to be him, but the liquor wanted you to kiss him. The proximity had you so drunk.

He caught you staring and smirked. "Long night, love?"

You didn't say anything, you took a puff to stoke the fire in the tip.

"Long relationship." you muttered. He laughed, this is the first time you heard it without the riffs and the drums drowning it. It was heavenly, contagious. Made you smile.

"Fuck him." He chuckled, staring at your lips. He was so blunt all the time, and you loved it.

"Yeah, fuck him." you interrupted. Actually, yes, fuck what you said earlier. Your ex can choke. You were not happy.

"So, those that mean you're single?" He wasn't timid about it. The fruity cocktails in your veins either.

He leaned closer and kissed you, throwing away the cigarette to the void of night. You kissed him back with so much hunger and clinginess. The one that your ex didn't let you satisfy.

"Seok," Jimin, his coworker, called and when he saw Hoseok's body almost engulfing yours, he closed the door rolling his eyes. "Hurry up, man."

"I have to go, doll face." He panted breaking the kiss, your legs trembled. With one hand he took the phone in your bag and called an Uber. "Leave your fucking friends, they're too drunk. I'll tell them you went home."

You nodded, still in pure bliss, still in heaven; in his heart-shaped lips covered in your Rouge Coco Bloom lipstick type-of-heaven. Like a work of art.

"Here." He gave you a lighter on his hands, a little H written in black marker. "See ya." He kissed your neck so softly you felt chills, and disappeared through the door.

Now you weren't so mad about loosing your lighter.

[etirabys]

Huh. Are cocktails expensive because the culture as a whole wants to distinguish drinking socially from drinking alone? I looked at a $15 cocktail on a menu and shook my head, but then I imagined it costing $6, and my brain said "that buckets it closer to drinking alone at home, and that feels bad (although overall I like the cheaper option better)".

maybe the cocktail price is like a line you draw for yourself in the sand

[htchnr]

ミ★ 03 crows and wild flowers ꜜ SAM AXE.

𖦹 masterlist. 𖦹 buy me a coffee!

「 ꜜsummary,, Michael sends Sam to help you out, and ends up helping in more ways than just baking. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, paramedic!Sam x tattooed!sunshine!reader ⋆ drinking ⋆ smut ⋆ piv ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ Sam's THICK ⋆ choking ⋆ rough sex ⋆ overstimulation ⋆ soft aftercare. ꜜwc,, 3,2k. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

the sun was slowly setting by the time you got back from Michael's. you unlock your door, tiredly pushing through with your helmet in hand. you drop your helmet on the side table, closing the door as you hang your keys on their designated hook before shimmying out of your protective gear.

the moment you turn on some low lounge music, a knock on your doors rings through your home loud and clear. your brows furrow, could that be Michael? he did say he'd make it up for taking up your time.

you walk to the door, adjusting your dress a little. you open it expecting Michael, only to find Sam standing behind it. " Sam? what are you doing here? " a small smile finding it's way onto your lips, it was nice to see him.

he nods, grinning. " Mike said you uh, needed some help with baking, " he laughs, recalling how Michael said that he would make it up to you. Sam should've expected Mike's call.

you laugh, shaking your head. " of course, Michael doesn't do that kinda thing himself does he? " you let out a breathy laugh, stepping out if his way. " come in, " he nods, stepping inside.

while he took his shoes off you took a moment to take in his figure, no longer wearing the paramedic uniform he was dressed in baggy jeans and greyish blue t-shirt. he looked down right delicious.

you let out a breath, walking to the kitchen. " want anything to drink? " you call out, grabbing two glasses.

Sam joins you, sitting on one of your bar stools. " what do you have to offer? " your breath hitches at his tone, if he continues talking like that, you've got plenty to offer him.

" lemonade, beer, water, " you open your fridge, " and if it's your jam, i was about to make some mojitos? " you offer, head still in the fridge.

Sam's heart skips a beat, he'd never say no to a good mojito. " wouldn't mind a mojito, if you're making? "

you close your fridge, grinning. " absolutely, " Sam watches you move around your kitchen, grabbing the things you need. it felt so intimate, your figure moving through the space under the soft lighting. the soft flow of your dress, the thought of the lacy blue underwear still fresh on his mind.

it takes you a minute or two, Sam's dark eyes intensely watching as you squeeze the lime juice with a small grunt — a sound he could never let go again.

you stick thin straws into the glasses, turning around with a big grin, " hope you like em, " you set the drink down before Sam as you sit down in the stool across from him, your knees knocking against each other.

Sam grins, leaning down to take a long pull through the straw and he blinks wide for a split second as the drink hits his tongue. he quickly recovers, looking up with a hint of blush on his cheeks, " that's really good, wow, "

you grin, watching him happily drink. you tuck the small falter away in the back of your mind — mojitos, a clear way to his heart.

you nod, taking a big pull yourself. " cocktails and baking are my big passions, " you smile, nodding around the big, spacious kitchen. " else my place would've been a lot cheaper, " you laugh.

Sam laughs along, nodding. you lean in, chin resting on two palms. " so, Sam, " you trail, knees pressed to his, his eyes meet yours again. " what are your passions? " and with the look on your face, and the mojito on his tongue, he could never lie to you.

✮ꜜ : ❛

the air is lively, gentle 70s soft rock playing through the kitchen as you both start to knead your own bowls of dough. conversation flows so easy between the two of you, you really wonder where he's been all your life.

a few drinks in and both your cheeks are flushed, huge goofy smiles stretching across them as you set down your bowl on the counter. " in the uh, left cupboard there, " you point with your free hand as the other takes his bowl. " is a jar of flour, could you grab it? "

Sam's in motion from the moment you pointed to the cupboard, door already swung open as he looks for the jar. he grabs it, closing the cupboard and setting it down beside you. " thanks, " you grin, sticking a small measuring cup into the jar and set the full cup on the counter as you move the jar to the side.

you take a pinch of flour, dusting a small part of the counter. " so you sprinkle a little flour down, then grab the dough, " you scoop out the dough onto the counter, " and stretch it out like so, and then fold it in half, aaand repeat, " you look up at him, " easy peasy, " you grin.

Sam nods, it didn't seem so difficult. he sprinkled some flour across the counter, copying your movements. " see? in my opinion, anyone can learn to bake, " your voice full of sunshine, Sam was melting.

the kneading went well, Sam getting the hang of it quickly. the two of you talking about anything that came to mind. you fold down the last fold, and the moment you do, a large puff of flour shoots out the side, sprinkling onto Sam's shirt. " oh- i'm so sorry! " you laugh, moving over to brush it off, only for it to just spread around.

Sam joins in on the laughter, watching you rest your hands against his firm chest as you laugh. " oh no worries, oh hey you've got a little, " he trails off, one thumb lifting your face by your chin, before spreading some flour across your nose.

" hey! " you laugh, Sam's cheeks throbbing from smiling as he watches you try to wipe it off. you fully turn to him, tilting your head with a smile. you pause your smile, squinting in concern as you lean in, " what's this bruise? " you ask, hand resting on his chest as the other moves to his jaw.

" huh? what bruise- " he tries to ask, but you beat him by smearing a handful of flour across his face. " oh you sneaky little- " he laughs, his hands rushing down to grab your waist as he moves you away from the dough and down the counter a little.

the air felt heavy between the two of you, Sam's big hands holding yours beside you before you could rub more flour into him, your chests heaving as you're trapped against the counter. his heavy eyes watching yours. your eyes flit down to his lips, slightly parted, before flitting down to the gold chain around his neck that was more visible now thanks to the t-shirt.

an awful smirk stretches its way across his lips, knowing where your eyes are. " you really like the chain, huh? " his voice is low, leaning in a little. you nod, your tipsy brain finding it impossible to tear your eyes away from the piece of jewellery. he leans down a little more, his face inching closer to yours, and the chain slips free of his shirt, dangling closer to you.

you instinctively lean into him, tilting your face up as you feel his breath fan across the lower half of your face. the tip of his nose just barely brushes against yours, and you find yourself desperately tipping your head up. " please.. " you whisper.

his eyes flit between your pink cheeks and your parted lips. " what, 'please', sweetheart? " and your breath hitches at his tone.

you wriggle against his grip, thighs slightly rubbing together at his strength. " please, kiss me. " your voice merely a low whine as you press your nose against his.

he grins, " anything you want, baby. " before pressing his lips firmly against yours. you let out a moan, melting against his lips as you return the kiss. your heavy breaths mix as he drops your hands, one of his huge hands coming up to hold your face as the other grips your hip.

both of your arms shoot up around his neck, pulling yourself up into the kiss. Sam grunts, both his hands dragging down to cup the underside of your thighs, easily picking you up and lifting you onto the counter as he pushes himself between your legs.

you moan at the change of position, your finger dragging through his hair and across his scalp as he deepens the kiss. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in impossibly close, dragging your tongue against his lower lip.

he happily obliges, parting his lips to dart his own tongue out, meeting yours in a sinful dance. his hands grip up and down your waist, settling on holding your hips as close to him as possible. you let out a lewd moan as you feel him press against your core, pulling away from the kiss to pant.

he gently knocks his forehead against yours, chest heaving as well. " normally you'd have to by me a real good dinner before this, " you pant, rubbing your nose against his.

he nods, " oh, honey, i'll take you out for anything you want after this, " his raged voice sending shocks throughout your whole body.

you grin, shaking your head, " you're lucky you're so good looking, mister. " pressing your lips against his.

he grins into the kiss, pulling away again. " oh yeah? " he taunts, experimentally rolling your hips against his with his hold on them.

you nod, biting your lip. you lean in, pressing open mouthed kisses to his stubbled jaw, trailing them down his throat until you reach the chain. Sam lets out a guttural groan as your trace where the chain sits against his skin with your tongue, sucking occasional gentle bruises into the skin.

he grunts, gently wrapping his hand around your hair and pulling your head up to press his lips against yours hungrily. your moans are swallowed by his lips the moment they leave yours. one of your shaky hands reaches behind you to pull on his hand, Sam lets go of your hair, allowing you to guide his hand where ever you need it.

a low groan leaves him as you guide his thick fingers to your throat, gently squeezing around his. " you sure? " he manages to get out between kisses. you bite his lower lip, squeezing his hand tighter to get your point across. " fuuck, yes ma'am. " he grunts, his rough fingers wrapping around your throat.

the moment they do you let out a lewd moan, rolling your aching core against his hardening cock. his hips buck against yours, his tongue swirling around yours, desperate sounds leaving you.

your hands fumble with his belt, unbuckling it before unzipping his jeans. he grunts against your lips, his hips bucking into your hand as you slip your hand down his jeans, stroking him over his boxers. oh lord, he feels good.

he pulls away from the kiss, pressing urgent kisses to your jaw, trailing them down to your tatted collarbones, down between your tatted breasts. you moan, dragging your fingers through his hair as he sucks bruises into the supple skin.

his hands eagerly pull at the straps of your dress, shoving them off your shoulders. his huge hands immediately sliding up to cup both of your breasts, pulling a nipple between his teeth. a high pitched gasp leaves you, pressing your chest against his lips as he swirls his tongue around the bud. " shit, Sam, just like that, " it was music to his ears.

he lets go of the one nipple, hot mouth eagerly finding the other as he drags his teeth across your skin. he's fascinated, entranced, by your tattoos. by the inked skin beneath his fingers and lips, he can't get enough of it.

your hands push at his face, Sam reluctantly releasing the hard bud as you smash your lips against his again, holding both sides of his face. you whine as you press your chest against his, perked up nipples dragging sensitively against his shirt. " fuck me, Sam. please. " you beg, trying to pull him closer by his belt loops.

he grunts against your lips, huge hands sliding you closer to the edge of the counter by your hips. you drop your head back and moan as he grinds up against you. " come on, you can do better than that, baby, " he taunts, connecting his lips to your chest again.

the pleasure has your tipsy brain almost crying. you hike your legs up higher, his hips immediately pressing even closer as one of his big hands takes ahold of your thigh to hold it in place. " please, Sam. " you've nearly got tears in your eyes from desperation. " please, i need you, "

his hips buck hard up into you at the sound of your teary eyed begging. " that's it, honey, " he praises, nipping at your jaw. " you need me that bad, huh? " his free hand holding your face, thumbing at the tear that slipped down. " i could never say no when you look so pretty like this, " he groans, kissing the trail that the tear left. " you want it here? " he asks, shimmying your dress up your hips.

your shaky hands help him, sliding your lacy blue thong down and pulling one leg out to leave it hanging on the other. " i don't care, i just need you now. " you pant, hands pulling at his jeans.

he grunts, shoving his jeans down enough to pull himself out. you lean back on your elbows on the counter, shaking in anticipation as you watching him pull himself out, lazily stroking himself. oh god this is gonna be good.

you drop your head back as you feel him press his weeping tip against your sopping core, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he feels how wet you are. " god baby, s'this all for me? fuuck, " your hips stutter as he slips his tip up and down your cunt, trying to press them closer to him.

you feel him take ahold of your jaw, pulling your face up a little. you open your eyes, looking at him through your lashes. his hand remains by your chin, a wicked look in his eyes. " c'mon baby, spit. " 'yes sir' is all you can think when you gather the spit in your mouth, before pursing your lips and spitting into his palm. he moans at the sight, his length now pressed flat against your core. " atta girl. "

you watch him stroke his aching cock with your spit, and it gets you so ridiculously close to the edge already, and he hasn't even fucked you yet. you drop your head back again, moaning as you feel him slide up and down your awaiting cunt.

you heard rummage in his pocket for something, his strong arm around your knee to hold it in place as he looks. " i'm on birth control, " you pant quickly, trying to pull him in with your legs wrapped around his hips. " please, " you beg desperately.

he groans, and you watch him through hooded eyes as he debates it. you press closer to him, his slippery cock sliding against your core. his hold on your thighs is bruising as he leans down over you, his head pressing in. you drop your head back in pleasure, your walls trying to suck in what little is pressed in.

his eyes meet your flushed, teary face and he loses it, pushing in with one hard thrust. a cry is pulled from your throat, your nails clawing at his arms as he stills, fully seated. " oh- shit- " you struggle, you feel so damn full with how thick he is, the stretch painful but deliciously so.

he leans forward, forehead pressing against your as he tries to remain still to let you adjust, but with how your walls are hugging him make it damn near impossible. " so damn good, baby, you feel so good, " he moans, leaning down to press sloppy kisses across your chest.

you let a high pitched moan as his tongue swirls around your nipple, clenching around him in an instant. he groans, hips bucking into yours, causing you to cry out. " shit, stay- oh fuck- still, " you pant, chest heaving and nails digging into his strong arms.

he groans, resting his head against your chest. " 'm trying, honey, god i'm trying, " he breathes. your hair drapes off the other side of the counter, head dropped back as you adjust around him. god he was so thick.

your hips arch as he presses gentle kisses to your chest, tongue absentmindedly tracing your tattoos. after a few moments, snake a hand into his hair, panting. " move, " you moan lowly, walls almost suffocating him as he starts to slowly pull out. he leaves just the tip in, before slowly pushing back in again. you moan loudly, back arching off the counter. " fuck, just like that, just like that, Sam, "

he groans, his name sounds so good spilling from your lips, his hips setting a slow pace. he watches you closely, picks up on every little twitch, every time your nails dig a little deeper into his arms.

he gives you a few minutes with this pace, slowly but deeply fucking into you so you can adjust. his hands trail from your hips, dragging his blunt nails across your back before pulling you up. you cry out at the slight change of position, hands grasping his shoulders. he presses feverish kisses to your jaw and throat, slowly picking up his pace. " god, you feel so good, " he breathes.

you hold his head against your chest, rolling your hips into his to match his pace. " Sam, " you beg, your voice nothing but a low whine now.

he looks up from your chest, pupils blown and a sparkle in his eyes. " yeah? " the look makes your walls tighten around him, his brows scrunching together.

you pull his lips against yours, a sloppy kiss that's all tongue and teeth. " faster, " you moan, nudging your nose against his. you were almost embarrassed to feel yourself getting closer just by kissing and this slow pace.

his hips stutter a little at your word, but eagerly picking up their pace. you drop your head against his shoulder as he picks up the pace, speeding up bit by bit, till he hits a pace that has you almost crashing over the edge. " shit- 'm so close, " you whine, holding onto him as he slams in and out.

his hips stutter as he feels you clench around him. " yeah? c'mon pretty girl, cum for me, " he pants, that filthy grin on his lips. " cum all over my cock, baby, "

you feel him slip a large hand between you two, your hips shaking as his rough fingers find your clit. " oh fuck- " you cry out, digging your head against shoulder as you shake against him. you couldn't last more than another second with his rough fingers working your clit, the pressure sending you over the edge as white hot pleasure consumes you.

Sam groans, hips stuttering against yours as your walls spasm around him. " that's it- oh that's it, baby, " he coaxes, fingers retracting as he fucks you through your orgasm. god he was hitting all the right places, it feels like you could explode.

his pace quickens, hips roughly slamming into yours as he revels in your sounds, the choked moans and desperate pleas, your nails scratching up his back and down his arms.

he stretched you out so good, you felt so full. he was reaching all the right spots, you could almost feel him in your stomach. you knew you were going to be sore tomorrow morning from the moment you felt him in your hand.

" i'm close, doll, " he groans, nudging his nose against yours before painfully pressing his lips to yours. " where do you want it? "

you spasm around him at the question, " don't care, jus' need it- god i need it, " you beg, tears dripping down your face from the overwhelming pleasure.

he moans, his pace sporadic as he thinks. each drag against your walls sending him closer and closer. as much as he wants to fill you up, another idea has occupied his mind since he first saw the tattoos on your chest.

you watch him through teary and hooded eyes, his furrowed brows, the slope of his sharp nose, the chain bouncing around his neck. " please, baby, " you plea, your voice cracking a little. " please cum for me, "

and your words send him over the edge, hips stuttering as he moans, quickening his pace before pulling out. he pants heavily as he jerks his cock, before a guttural groan reverberates through him as he cums, shooting his load up onto your chest and stomach, watching with a pleasure contorted face how his cum covers your tattoos and drips down them.

his chest heaves as he squeezes every drop out, before you lay yourself down against the counter, Sam resting above you with his palms flat against the counter on either side of your waist. he takes deep breaths, trying to catch his breath as his are glued to the cum covering your most intimate tattoos. something strangely possessive stirs inside of him at the sight.

he watches your chest heavy, breasts rising and falling and your stomach flexing occasionally, the cum slowly dripping down your waist and onto the counter. he sighs deeply, " goddamn, honey, " his voice ragged.

you let out a breathy laugh, breasts jiggling before him with the laugh. " yeah, " you breathe.

he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. you sigh into the kiss, a soft hand holding his stubbled jaw. he pulls away, eyes darting across your tear stained face. you smile tiredly, " 'm fine, jus' tired, " you sigh, stroking his cheek.

he nods, placing another kiss to your lips before standing up to his full height, admiring the sight before him for a few more seconds. " lets get you cleaned up, " he breathes, holding his jeans up at the waist as he walks to the bathroom.

his heart's squeezed as he steps into the space where he first met you, the image of you teary eyed with a bloody leg on the edge of the tub flitting through his mind as he looks for a washcloth. he finds one, wetting it with warm water before cleaning himself off and pulling up his boxers, sliding his jeans down and pulling his shirt off as well.

he makes his way back to you, sliding the warm washcloth across your inked skin as he cleans you up. satisfied, he reaches an arm under you, pulling you up against him so he can wipe the remaining cum off of the counter. you drape your arms over his strong muscly shoulders, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

he holds you, setting the washcloth down so he can wrap both thick arms around you securely. his rough, but gentle hands running up and down your bare back. " let's get some rest, yeah? " he offers, and you nodded eagerly against him.

he grunts as he picks you up, thick fingers digging into the plush skin of the underside of your thighs. he nudges his pointed nose against the top of your head, " what room? "

you sigh, hugging him closer. " the last door on the right in the hall with the bathroom, " he hums, slowly making his way down the hall. he presses the door open, finding your bedroom. tired legs carrying both him and you to your very comfortable looking bed.

he sets you down, your body bouncing a little against the plush mattress. his eyes can't leave the sight of your tattooed skin against the dark grey sheets, everything looked so perfect together.

you move aside, sliding under the soft covers as you pull the blanket aside for him to get in. " c'mon, big bear, " you mumble with a tired smile, looking up at him through those pretty lashes.

his heart skips a beat, kneeling down as he moves around to settle. fuck, your bed was even more comfortable than it looked. you pull the blanket over him, sliding closer to him as you rest your head against his shoulder and drape an arm across his firm, hairy chest, lazily combing your fingers through the salt and pepper hair. they occasionally drift to trace the gold chain you were strangely attracted to.

he sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, a strong arm wrapping around your waist as the other drapes your leg over his thigh.

that night, Sam had some of the best sleep he's had in a long while.

[vegantinatalist]

ATTENTION GUARDIANS OF POCKET/EXOTIC PETS

WARNING ABOUT COMMON CRUEL EUTHANASIA METHODS USED BY VETS

It's come to my attention that the most common euthanasia method for pocket/exotic animals, particularly small rodents is CO2, which causes respiratory acidosis which can cause serious pain. This is not typically used on cats and dogs because its inhumane. More commonly sevoflourane (a medication) is administered.

I strongly feel there is absolutely no reason whatsoever to be using CO2 when painless inert gases like nitrogen and argon exist and are cheaper and in more abundant supply. I see a lot of people talking about how their babe didnt show any struggle during C02 euthanasia, but I really don't understand why we arent saying better safe than sorry and using inert gas, especially when theyre literally cheaper and easier to administer. The NIH approved home euthanasia method is also using CO2 which is just insane to me!

I strongly urge yall to ask your vets euthanasia method and protest the use of CO2, and if no one is offering alternate methods with inert gas, learn to do it yourself at home with another painless method such as a gun (unpleasant, but guaranteed) or if you are smart about it, inert gas. There wouldn't be an expert approved guideline for it, you would have to be smart about it, because this is a world that does not care about the comfort of animals and you cant trust others to have their best interest in mind and they will try to prevent you from taking initiative (unless theyre vegan like me hey).

You can get nitrogen and a pressure regulator at a welding supply store and construct a box out of silicone, plexiglass, neodymium magnets and a pose barb that you can use as a euthanasia chamber. Please be very careful if you attempt this.

This is a mockup of what I am constructing for injured bats and other animals I come across that vets in my area will not treat. I decided to make this after a cat in my care attacked a bat and they died very slowly and no vets or wildlife specialists would take them until it was too late. (BATS HAVE LOW BODY TEMPERATURE AND ARE MORE LIKELY TO HARBOR RABIES AND OTHER DISEASES. NEVER HANDLE BATS WITH YOUR BARE HANDS.)

You would insert the animal, close the magnetically sealed lid, attach the hose, turn on the gas and and fill the tank (leaving the valve open for oxygen to escape, the time it takes to fill the tank will depend on the flow rate and size of the tank, youll need to know those to know the liter per minute) turn off the gas and close the valve and wait 30 minutes (to be safe, it will cause death much quicker than that). ENSURE THAT YOU BUY PURE ARGON OR PURE NITROGEN and not a mixed gas containing co2.

I have heard many veterinarians say "yeah theyre obviously in distress with co2. i really dont know why we dont use nitrogen, we have it even". I know yall probably think im crazy advocating for something as a non professional but im telling you, this is what we should be doing and professionals know it theyre just apathetic and lack initiative and common sense.

A better method than CO2 that a vet may do is sedate either with an injectable cocktail or isoflurane gas until the rat has reached a surgical plane of sedation (as in, pain is not blocked they can still feel pain), then a cardiac injection of a lethal dose of pentobarbital is administered (which they can feel, they cant move but can feel the heart injection). Because of this I still believe inert gas is preferable!

Demand an end to non inert gas euthanasia!

[voxofthevoid]

Vore Wednesdays are out, Drunken Dubcon Wednesdays are in. Not sure if this will last past one more week, if that. Still, here's another fic that was meant to be a oneshot and turned into a three-shot, all while completely decimating my original ideas for the fic.

CWs: teacher-student relationship, adult/minor, alcohol use (by the adult, not the teenager)

“Ah, hel—”

“Satoru,” a semi-familiar voice growls into his ear, “where the fuck are you?”

“Um, Ieiri-san, it’s me—Yuuji.”

“Who?” she asks, following it up the next second with, “Oh, Itadori. Why’d I call you?”

“You didn’t?” Yuuji asks, jiggling a leg to make sure his much cheaper phone is still in his pocket. “This is Gojou-sensei’s phone.”

“Huh.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but there’s a marked lack of comprehension there. “Where’s Satoru?”

“He’s—”

Yuuji looks down and finds that Gojou has stopped hiding, except now he’s just looking at Yuuji. And that’s not really strange—he’s used to being scrutinized by those impossible eyes, to the point he can now tell when Gojou’s staring at him even with the blindfold, even across the room—but the way Gojou’s looking at him is new. It’s a heavy-lidded thing, pale lashes sweeping low. It makes his eyes look liquid, blue spilling out the edges. The flush on his cheeks seems brighter, more prominent.

His lips are very red—bitten red, spots of bright color dotting the flesh. It’s jarringly different from the glossy pink Yuuji’s become used to.

“—dori? Oi, Itadori!”

“Sorry,” Yuuji yelps, starting a little. She sounds distinctly annoyed. “He’s here! He’s home.”

“Idiot,” is her answer. “What the hell was he thinking, teleporting in that state? He could’ve landed himself in the ocean for all we know—would’ve served him right too.”

“Um,” Yuuji says intelligently. “He…seems alright? I mean, he’s drunk.”

“Tipsy,” comes the petulant correction that Yuuji soundly ignores.

“Of course he’s fine, he’s fucking blessed,” Ieiri says, and Yuuji really can’t tell if she’s pissed or bitter or just exasperated. “And of course he’s drunk! That idiot can’t hold his liquor, but he still downed three fucking drinks because some pretty boy wouldn’t stop plying him with cocktails. Men are fucking idiots.”

Yuuji’s got the sinking suspicion that Gojou isn’t the only one who’s drunk here. He chances a look at Gojou and finds shining eyes still fixed unerringly on Yuuji.

Some pretty boy, Ieiri said.

Huh.

“Should I…do anything?” Yuuji asks her warily.

“Smother him with a pillow. This is the only chance you’ll get.”

“Thanks,” says Yuuji, fighting off the urge to slam his head against the closest hard surface, mostly because said surface would be Gojou’s sculpted chest. “But I don’t really want to do that. I meant if I can help him somehow.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed. “Make him drink water and let him sleep it off. Dumbass can deal with the hangover like the rest of us mortals.”

“Alright—”

“Make sure he won’t fall and break his face. He doesn’t look it, but he’s really fucking drunk.”

He absolutely does look it to Yuuji, but maybe that’s because Yuuji saw him nearly break his face just like Ieiri warned. But he sounds normal enough. Even the whining isn’t unusual, though Yuuji usually hears it when Gojou’s on the phone with Fushiguro, the call on speaker so that Yuuji can stay really, really quiet and listen to his friend’s voice—the familiar tones of biting irritation. It’s not the same as seeing him, but it helps, especially on days when the sight of Fushiguro’s body bloodied and crumpled from Sukuna’s hands is a little too loud in his head.

“Thank you, Ieiri-san,” Yuuji says warmly. “I’ll take care of him, promise.”

She sighs. “You’re too nice to him, Itadori. Good night. Tell him I’ll kill him tomorrow.”

Ieiri hangs up before Yuuji can respond to that.

Gojou is still staring at him. Is he even blinking?

“She says she’ll kill you tomorrow,” Yuuji relays dutifully.

“Mean,” Gojou says. “You’ll protect me, won’t you, Yuuji?”

Yuuji takes his sweet time tucking Gojou’s phone into his own spare pocket, mostly so he can gather himself enough to speak without laughing or doing something stupid like call Gojou cute. Yuuji isn’t used to drunk people being cute. His grandpa was quiet, a little grumpy, and he’s seen his share of angry and weepy drunks in places he shouldn’t have been at to begin with. But this is new.

“I don’t know,” Yuuji says eventually. “She’s scarier than you are, sensei.”

“Betrayed my own student,” Gojou says, the words drawn out and theatrical—not all that different from when he’s sober, actually. They’re noticeably slower though, every syllable picked out with painstaking care. Tilting his head to the side, Gojou asks, “You’re not scared of me at all, are you, Yuuji?”

“Why would I be? You’re…” Yuuji hesitates a bit. Harmless isn’t the word. As much as he likes this guy, he doesn’t think there are a lot of nice words that can be applied to him. It just doesn’t change the fact that Yuuji would trust him with his life and death both. “You’re you, Gojou-sensei.”

“I am Gojou Satoru,” Gojou agrees very seriously.

“You sure are.” Yuuji can’t help laughing this time, muffling it behind a hand. “Now let’s get Gojou Satoru to bed.”

He tries to climb off Gojou, but all of a sudden, there’s a fist in his shirt, yanking him down with enough force that Yuuji’s forehead nearly slams into Gojou’s face. He yelps, but Gojou just asks, “Are you coming with me?”

“Huh? Of course I am.” Like hell is he letting Gojou navigate the stairs in this state. “Let go, sensei. Honestly, I nearly broke your nose.”

“Alright,” Gojou agrees easily, letting Yuuji go as suddenly as he grabbed him. “Good boy.”

Yuuji’s face burns as he extracts himself from the couch and Gojou’s insanely long limbs. Gojou calls him that all the time during training, and Yuuji’s always lapped it up, but it feels different now, somehow.

Once he’s standing, he tries to pull Gojou up too.

Easier said than done.

The man’s all limb and also heavier than expected. The half-unbuttoned shirt gives Yuuji a very good glimpse of just how ripped Gojou is, and it’s not that the sight of muscles is all that unusual to him—he does own a mirror—but he always thought Gojou was lankier than this. That bulky uniform and loose sweatshirts were hiding a lot, clearly. Still, it’s not the weight that’s the issue, it’s how there’s so much of him. And Gojou’s not helping at all, doing his best impression of a landed fish.

“Work with me here,” Yuuji says finally, exasperated. Gojou’s half upright, but he’s kind of oozing down the couch, and Yuuji just knows that if he hauls him upright, he’ll collapse on Yuuji. “At this rate, I’ll have to carry you, sensei.”

“Okay.”

Yuuji freezes, a hand clutching Gojou’s shoulder. “Huh?”

“Okay,” Gojou repeats; he’s smiling, and his eyes are closed. “Carry me. You’re…very strong.”

“Are you for real right now?”

[justice4billy]

You're the worst-Part two

Warnings; Allusions to smut/smutty language

Camille winced as Mariah tied the final strap on her top. She grimaced at the tight red and white fabric that adorned her curved body, it was supposed to be ‘sexy Santa’ according to Mariah.

‘’I look like a slut’’ Camille stated surveying the garment.

It was a red corset that tied around her back, the fabric was tight red lycra with a furry white lining around the neck. The fabric clung to her like a second skin and exposed a sliver of pale skin, whilst the top pushed up her already ample chest. Mariah had paired it with an equally tight red skirt and knee high red boots to match.

‘’It’s Christmas, you have an obligation to be a little slutty’’ Mariah winked.

Camille groaned. ‘’I look ridiculous’’ she stated trying to putt down the top so it covered her belly button.

‘’Stop it’’ Mariah commanded slapping her hands away. ‘’You look hot and I think your going to attract some attention tonight’’ she winked.

‘’I don’t want too’’ Camille huffed. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to any man, let alone Billy.

‘’Come on, your newly single and ready to mingle’’ Mariah encouraged with an eye roll.

Camille huffed, not adding anything more to the conversation. She just hoped she could get through this night and then go home and curl up in bed.

‘’Girls, are you ready?!’’ Danny hollered up the stairs.

‘’Coming!’’ Mariah called back as she took Camille’s hand and rushed down the steps.

The girls came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, Camille’s eyes widening slightly when she saw Billy standing in the hallway. He had a red button down shirt exposing some of his tanned chest, his pendant resting against his taut chest and some jeans.

‘’Oh, you two match’’ Mariah stated with a smile. Camille narrowed her eyes and elbowed her in the ribs, causing her to let out a small oomph.

Billy smirked at the comment, his eyes making their way over to Camille as they roamed the entire expanse of her body slowly, starting from the top of her head and finishing at her red boots. His tongue poked out to wet his lips as he rolled his toothpick around his mouth, a sinful look flashed in his blue orbs and a smug smirk adorned his face as he blatantly checked her out.

Camille bit her lip not used to the attention, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Billy. She squeezed her thighs together feeling heat burning through her core, what the fuck was wrong with her. Maybe it was because she hadn’t had sex in months even when she was with Brad, he always said he was too tired. Yeah, that had to be it.

‘’We thought it would be cheaper to split a taxi four ways’’ Danny stated.

Camille snapped out of her trance, craning her head towards him. ‘’Makes sense’’ she replied not trusting herself to speak.

‘’Well, it should be here now’’ Danny stated as he put his arm around Mariah and kissed her head. ‘’You look gorgeous sweetheart’’ he muttered.

Mariah giggled playfully and swatted at his chest. ‘’Oh stop it you’’ she giggled.

The foursome made their way towards the taxi that was awaiting them, Camille making sure to squeeze herself between Mariah and the door. She did not want to sit anywhere near Billy, unfortunately that meant he had to sit opposite her and she could of sworn she felt his eyes on her the entire ride. This was going to be a long night.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

An hour into the night and Camille was surprised that she was having a good time, lucky for her Billy had picked up some other poor girl and decided to flirt with her. She had been dancing with Mariah and drinking the two for one cocktails that were on offer, until the girl stated her feet were hurting and that she wanted to sit in their booth that Danny had managed to reserve.

Camille said she would join them, but wanted to get another drink first which Mariah declined. She trotted her way over to the bar careful not to sway on her feet, she was already five drinks in and tonight she planned on getting wasted and forgetting all about Brad and his small penis.

‘’Sex on the beach please’’ she called out to the bartender who gave her a nod in acknowledgement.

‘’Hey, let me buy these’’ a guy cut in.

Camille turned to her left. A tall and broad guy was standing beside her, a small grin on his face as his brown eyes shone under the disco lights. He was cute, if you liked the high school football player type, blonde hair flopped over to one side of his head with his pearly white on show as he smiled at her.

‘’Why thank you’’ Camille replied flirty batting her eye lashes for effect.

‘’Pretty girls should never pay for their drinks’’ he stated.

‘’I’m flattered that I’m classed as a pretty girl’’ Camille replied.

The guy smiled. ‘’You’re gorgeous’’ he complimented before sticking out his hand. ‘’The names Jason’’ he introduced himself.

Camille took his hand. ‘’Camille’’ she replied back.

‘’My friends and I are playing pool’’ he stated nodding over to some guys and girls. ‘’Wanna join?’’ he asked.

Camille debated in her head, should she really go off with some guy she didn’t know. But he did get her a drink, she didn’t want to be rude. ‘’I just need to tell my friend, she would worry you see’’ Camille explained. It was always best to be safe and Mariah could see her from her booth.

‘’Sure no problem’’ Jason gave her a lazy smile.

Camille turned around and trotted towards the booth, her drink in hand that she had watched the bar tender make and give to her. She did not want to risk being spiked.

‘’Hey’’ Mariah beamed leaning her head on Dannys shoulder.

‘’Hey, so this guy approached me at the bar and asked if I wanted to play pool over there’’ she explained pointing to the pool table where Jason was standing with his friends. ‘’Should I go?’’ she asked.

‘’Of course you freaking should’’ Mariah stated. ‘’But any signs of trouble, give us a signal so we can rescue you’’ she instructed with a waving gesture.

‘’Will do Mom’’ Camille replied.

‘’Go get some dick girl’’ Mariah encouraged with a whoop.

Camille rolled her eyes playfully, before turning on her heel with her drink in hand and making her way towards Jason. ‘’So, how are we doing this?’’ she asked.

Jason smiled. ‘’Thought we could play in teams’’ he suggested. ‘’You and me versus my friend Ben and his girl Delilah’’ he stated gesturing to the boy and girl beside him. The boy gave her a nod and the girl gave her a friendly wave.

‘’Okay, but I’m not the best’’ Camille stated.

‘’I can always teach you’’ Jason winked.

Camille took a big gulp and finished off her drink just as Jason handed her a pool cue. A few matches later and they were sinking, well more like Camille was just really rubbish at pool.

‘’God, I suck at this game’’ she whined her drunkenness taking over.

‘’That’s because you’re holding the damn cue wrong’’ a voice stated.

Camille turned on her heel meeting the eye of Billy who was standing beside her, a beer in his hand and a smirk on his face. Why the hell did he have to appear, she was having a good time and he was off somewhere else.

Camille grimaced. ‘’What are you doing here?’’ she asked with a slight slur to her voice. ‘’Your date not want to see you?’’ she goaded.

Billy shrugged. ‘’She didn’t have big enough tits’’ he replied.

‘’You masoggynist’’ Camille replied.

‘’You mean misogynist?’’ Billy asked in amusement.

‘’Whatever’’ Camille fired back feeling embarrassed.

Billy shrugged. ‘’Guess you and your pal don’t want to win then’’ he replied finishing off his beer.

‘’Like you could offer me anything’’ Camille scoffed turning away from him.

‘’Actually’’ she heard his voice which now sounded a lot closer than before, she felt his hand on her hip. ‘’You need to hold the cue a bit more like this’’ he instructed reaching around to grab her right hand and placed it near the bottom of the cue. She felt him let out a breath, goosebumps coating her neck as she shuddered slightly. ‘’Now, you gotta bend over and put the tip of the cue between your left finger’’ he stated nudging her leg with his knee and bending her forward.

Camille felt all breath leave her body at the intimate position, their bodies molded together creating a fire that burned through her core. She felt her wetness in her matching red knickers.

‘’Now shoot’’ Billy whispered as he covered his hand over hers, drawing the pool cue back and potting the coloured ball.

‘’Shit, nice one dude’’ Jason congratulated already too drunk to notice the tension between Camille and Billy.

Camille stood up straight, effectively shrugging Billy off her the blonde being forced to step back slightly. ‘’Oh my god’’ she stated before turning around and throwing her arms around Billy. ‘’We did it!’’ she exclaimed.

‘’You mean I did it’’ he stated placing both of his hands on her hip.

Camille pulled back, her hands loosening around his neck. She noted just how close the pair were to each other. ‘’You always have to brag’’ she stated weakly staring at his pink lips. She never noticed how plump they were before.

‘’It’s my talent sweetheart’’ Billy stated rubbing circles over her exposed skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

The nickname shot straight to her core, her heart fluttered in her chest. It must be the drink, she would never have reacted like this to Billy if she were sober.

‘’In fact, I think I deserve a reward’’ he whispered their noses brushing against each other, the pair making intimate eye contact that Camille forget all about Jason and his friends.

‘’What kind?’’ Camille whispered.

Billy shurgged, his hands moving to skim the curve of her ass. ‘’A kiss maybe’’ he suggested.

Camille hitched her breath, craning her head slightly to look for Jason. She didn’t want to be rude and make him think she had forgotten him. She gasped slightly when Billy grabbed her chin and turned her back to face him, his cool metal rings caressing her soft skin.

‘’He’s busy sweetheart’’ he muttered nodding over her head.

Camille turned her head slightly noting that Jason was now emursed in a conversation with his friends. She only had a moment to breifly glance over before Billy was turning her to him again.

‘’How about that reward?’’ he asked her.

‘’I-‘’ Camille stated not getting a chance to speak, Billy let go of her chin and pulled her towards him with his hands on her ass. Their lips crashed together, all teeth and tongue as the kiss deepened very quickly. Camille let out an embarrassing moan when he put his tongue in her mouth, he tasted like mint and cigarettes and she couldn’t help but feel addicted to the taste.

He backed her up so she was against the pool table, before picking her up and sitting her on the edge. Their lips never disconnected, the kiss only getting more hotter and feverish as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Billy groaned when he felt her wetness brush up against his erected penis. ‘’You’re fucking wet, this all for me?’’ he asked in between kisses as he peppered light kisses over her delicate and exposed skin.

‘’y-yes’’ Camille stuttered as she arched her back at his hot kisses.

She didn’t remember much after that, flashes of moving through a crowded and hot room, the surprised looks of Mariah and Danny flitted through her head as they made their way into the back of a taxi, feverish kisses shared between the pair. Camille knew this night didn’t go to plan and she could never go back to the way things were.

[docholligay]

On reflection, was the price of the business class flight worth the experience of it?

Absolutely, because I didn’t pay for it ahahah. 

I think this is gonna be another one of those use case things. I’m a fucking podling, and I love to travel, and it makes me so happy and excited that the fact that I didn’t sleep is a REALITY, but not necessarily a PROBLEM. I am a little terrier of a human being. 

I adore pampering, and I love nice treatment, and we did get a screaming deal on the flight. I drank my fucking weight in sparkling and took every single snack and meal offered to me. I laid down and slept and I admit that was pretty amazing. 

But, if I had to pay, and I had to pay full price, I’m just not at a place in my life where I would be willing to pay that, because I don’t NEED it. If we go back to the Uk or Europe, I’ll probably pay for my wife to do business class while I sit cattle class with the understanding that I can order as many cocktails as I want. She needs to lie down and sleep so much more than I do. 

A normal flight to most European countries business is like 3,000 and honestly I could pad that out to a much longer experience in europe (If I am traveling alone) and that’s what I’d rather do, and save my money for things like fine dining and maybe one night in a super nice hotel, or treating friends. 

Quickly, for that money, there’s a very weirdly cheap flight into INverness, Scotland (???) so I could fly into there, see what the fuck is going on in Inverness, stay in a cheap room above or pub or a private room in a hostel, take the train to Glasgow and stay in a hostel, hook up with my friend who lives there and hang out for a day or two, take the train down to the Greater London Area and crash on a couch for a few days, probably, stay in a hostel in london, take the Eurostar to Paris, ask my friends in Germany if they want to come hang out there so either split a hotel with them or stay in hostel, take a cheap easyjet flight back to inverness and go home. That’s a planned in 3 minutes 2 week trip that leaves me with roughly 1k for food and activities. It would be even cheaper if I wasn’t too old for shared hostel rooms.��

BUT: I can only do that by myself. My other compatriots in life require a touch more, while I LIKE it but do not need it. 

But! I am so so happy that I did it, it was an absolute bucket list item for me, the whole thing was an absolute delight and I was bouncing with joy the whole time.