#do you just...burn the label as you smoke it????

[socialobligation]

tell my mom we're in love | h. sero

fake dating wasn't on your holiday to-do list—until sero invited you home for tamales and chaos (3525 words)

you regretted this the moment you stepped out of the dormitory and into the sharp chill of mid-december air, a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder and your dignity already teetering on the edge. trailing beside you was hanta sero, practically vibrating with the smug energy of a man who had just talked his best friend into making the worst decision of her academic career.

and technically, he had.

somewhere between his mother's increasingly invasive matchmaking attempts and his inability to say the word "no" like a normal person, he'd decided the solution was to invent a girlfriend. and of course, of course, he'd chosen you.

"come on," he said now, as a cab idled at the curb, white exhaust curling into the crisp air like smoke from a slow-burning disaster. "tell me this won't be fun. just a little bit."

"i think i'm too emotionally aware to find this fun," you muttered, hoisting your bag into the trunk as he leaned beside you with his usual careless grace.

sero grinned—that unbothered, insufferably pretty grin that always made it harder to stay annoyed with him for long. "emotionally aware, huh? sounds like you're already getting into character."

you leveled him with a look. "if i'm your girlfriend, you're going to need to stop flirting like a golden retriever with a god complex."

"babe," he said, slipping into the backseat beside you with the kind of unearned confidence that should have come with a warning label, "flirting is literally how i survive in social settings. don't take this from me."

you stared out the window, hoping the freezing glass would cool the creeping warmth crawling up your neck. "we're not actually dating, hanta."

"right," he said, and he sounded amused, not wounded. "but we could be really good at it."

you didn't answer. he didn't press.

the cab pulled away from the dorms, and for a moment the silence between you was companionable, like it always had been. you'd known sero for years now—long enough to understand that his laid-back demeanor was as real as it was performative. he was the kind of person who made a room feel lighter just by being in it, but who also knew the weight of silence better than most people ever would.

he didn't make you feel like you had to be anyone but yourself. and that, unfortunately, was the root of the problem.

somewhere along the road from "we're just friends" to "please pretend to be my girlfriend so my mom stops trying to marry me off," things had started to shift.

not all at once. not obviously.

but they shifted.

now he was dozing beside you, his head tilted toward your shoulder, and every bump in the road made him inch closer. you should have nudged him off. you should have drawn the line.

but you didn't.

instead, you studied the soft lines of his face—the relaxed set of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows like his dreams were just a little too fast for his thoughts to catch—and you wondered what the hell you'd gotten yourself into.

by the time the cab slowed, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light over a neighborhood that looked far too idyllic to be real. sero's house was two stories of warmth and welcome: string lights curled along the porch railing, a wreath hung slightly crooked on the front door, and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney that promised something warm inside.

standing at the threshold was a woman with sharp eyes, a kind smile, and the unmistakable aura of someone who could both bake you cookies and emotionally destroy you in the same breath.

sero's mother.

you froze.

he didn't.

without hesitation, sero leaned in, brushing your hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear. "smile like you love me."

then he reached for your hand.

his fingers, long and warm, laced effortlessly through yours.

you didn't pull away.

and that was the moment—standing at the edge of his childhood, your fingers locked in his, heart skipping in the kind of rhythm you weren't prepared for—that you realized you were in far more danger than you thought.

because part of you didn't want to let go.

the cab hadn't even rolled to a full stop before sero's mom was standing in front of it, arms crossed, eyes already locked onto her target like a seasoned general. you had seen pictures, sure—sero had shown you a few over lunch one day, swiping through images of his mom with an almost reverent fondness—but none of them did her justice.

she was radiant. that was the first word that came to mind. not in some soft, dreamy way, but in the sharp, unmistakable warmth of someone who had mastered the art of existing unapologetically. she had a scarf looped carelessly around her neck, dark hair pinned up with wisps escaping, and that immediate, unnerving energy unique to mothers who know everything before you say a word.

"hanta," she said brightly as you approached. "you took forever, mijo. i was about to call."

and then her eyes slid to you.

her whole face changed.

"qué linda," she said, stepping down toward you without hesitation. "you're even prettier than the pictures."

you opened your mouth to answer—say something polite, maybe even charming—but instead you were pulled into a hug so warm and familiar you forgot how to speak altogether.

she smelled like cinnamon and butter, like café and home. her arms wrapped around you without hesitation, solid and reassuring, and you blinked twice before realizing she wasn't letting go just yet.

she pulled back, hands on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face with curiosity. "how old are you, mija?"

"seventeen," you managed. "ua student. same class as hanta."

"top twenty," sero chimed from behind you, proud and useless.

his mom smiled wider. "good. you'll need that to keep up with him. he talks too much."

"i'm right here," sero said, offended.

"and what's your quirk, sweetheart?" she asked, guiding you inside like she owned every molecule of the house—which she probably did.

"just a luck quirk," you replied. "it's not anything big or flashy."

"flashy's overrated," she said. "flashy gets you on magazine covers, but smart keeps you alive. hanta could use some of that balance."

sero made a wounded noise. "i'm right here."

you stepped into the house and tried not to gape. it was warm and lived-in, with mismatched furniture and soft lights, and framed photos in every direction. you passed at least three different versions of baby sero—one with cake on his face, one dressed as a shark, and one in a tiny suit looking like he'd lost a bet.

you were immediately ushered to the couch, where sero flopped down beside you like he'd done this a thousand times. his arm stretched along the back of the cushions behind you, easy and casual, but you felt the heat of it like a brand against your neck.

his mom sat in the armchair across from you, one leg crossed, hands folded, expression deceptively pleasant.

"so," she said. "how long have you two been together?"

"six months," you and sero answered in unison.

your eyes met. you both smiled.

it was practiced, but god—it didn't feel like a lie.

"how'd you meet?" she asked next.

sero leaned forward like he was telling a secret. "training. she beat up kaminari. i've never recovered."

you tried not to laugh. "he followed me around for a week."

"i was courting you."

"you were loitering near vending machines."

"i was being persistent," he corrected. "it worked, didn't it?"

his mom watched you both, eyes narrowed just enough to make you sweat.

"and what do you like about my son?" she asked you, suddenly.

your mouth went dry.

sero glanced sideways, surprised.

but the answer came easy.

"he's reliable. and funny. and he listens—really listens. like you're the only person in the room."

you could feel sero's eyes on you, and the room felt warmer than it had a second ago.

"he's easy to be around," you said, a little softer now. "i feel like i can breathe near him."

a long silence stretched across the room.

then sero bumped your shoulder with his own, voice low. "you're not supposed to make me blush in front of my mom."

his mom smiled, pleased. "i like you."

you smiled back, because how could you not. "thank you."

"i made tamales," she said, rising to her feet. "sit tight. i'll get you a plate."

"do you need help—?" you started, half-standing.

"no, no. you're a guest. you sit and let yourself be adored."

she vanished into the kitchen with surprising speed.

the moment she was out of earshot, you collapsed sideways onto the couch.

"i blacked out," you whispered. "what did i even say?"

"that i'm amazing and you love being around me," sero said smugly.

you shot him a look.

he leaned a little closer, voice dropping. "also, you were adorable. you didn't have to go that hard. i almost forgot it was fake."

you didn't answer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

dinner came after a comfortable lull in the afternoon—just enough time for you to grow used to the house's warmth, the quiet hum of kitchen sounds, and the sound of sero humming to himself as he helped his mom plate tamales. there was something undeniably domestic about it—watching him lean over the counter, sleeves pushed up, swiping a bit of masa from the corner of a dish with a grin when he thought no one was watching.

you caught yourself watching.

a little too long.

and when he turned around and caught your eye, offering you a wink that made your stomach stutter—you looked away, pretending to study the wall like it had secrets.

the house filled slowly with more noise, more feet, more voices. by the time dinner was ready, the table was surrounded by people—his siblings, all younger, all chaos incarnate. there were five in total, ranging from what looked like barely ten to maybe sixteen. all of them clearly adored sero, and all of them clearly had a thousand questions about you.

"are you really his girlfriend?" one of the younger girls asked, blinking up at you from her seat at the far end of the table.

sero, already sitting beside you, reached for your hand under the table without hesitation. "of course she is," he said easily. "she puts up with me. that's gotta mean something."

you glanced sideways, surprised by the way his thumb started tracing circles into your palm. his fingers were warm, his grip relaxed, like this was a habit and not a performance. your first instinct was to pull away—but you didn't. you let him hold on.

"do you like him?" one of the boys asked bluntly, somewhere between a dare and a test.

you looked over at sero, who was already looking at you.

and the smile that spread across his face wasn't teasing. it wasn't even smug.

it was soft.

"i do," you said honestly. "he's easy to like."

one of his sisters actually swooned.

their mother returned from the kitchen, a stack of warm plates balanced in her arms. "aye, look at you two," she said fondly, setting down the food. "you look like you've been married five years already."

sero snorted. "that's because she already tells me what to do."

"someone has to," you said, nudging his leg under the table.

his knee pressed into yours and didn't move.

the meal began in full, voices rising over each other, stories flying back and forth like birds across the table. tamales were unwrapped, passed down, devoured. rice and beans steamed in bowls at the center. someone spilled horchata and got teased for it for fifteen minutes straight.

sero kept his hand under the table the entire time.

sometimes on your knee. sometimes brushing your fingers. once, briefly, resting on your thigh with a touch so casual and confident you forgot how to breathe for a second.

"so how did you know?" his mom asked halfway through the meal, raising an eyebrow. "that you liked each other, i mean."

you blinked. "um."

sero didn't miss a beat.

"she made this face at me once," he said, totally serious. "during training. right after i got my ass handed to me. and i thought—yeah. i'd let her ruin my life."

you choked on a sip of water. "that's not what happened."

"you raised your eyebrow," he insisted, "like i was both impressive and pathetic. it was very motivating."

"you were bleeding."

"romance is about timing."

the table erupted in laughter.

"you're ridiculous," you muttered, but there was no bite to it. you felt lightheaded from smiling too much.

his younger sister leaned over the table toward you. "you make him less annoying," she said seriously. "he's, like, way less weird with you here."

"he's still weird," someone else muttered.

"hey," sero said, deeply offended. "i'm the glue of this household."

"you're the glitter glue," one of the boys shot back. "unnecessary and all over everything."

the conversation swirled, but it was warm. easy. you felt like you'd slipped into a rhythm you hadn't known you were missing. sero's family didn't make you feel like an outsider. if anything, they treated you like a permanent fixture—like they already liked you, just because he did.

and sero—he kept looking at you.

in the quiet moments between bites. when you laughed at something his brother said. when you wiped your fingers on your napkin and he passed you your drink like he'd already anticipated you'd reach for it.

"you're really good at this," you whispered during a lull, leaning in.

"at what?" he asked, voice low, chin tilted toward you.

"this," you said. "pretending."

his eyes flicked down to your mouth, just for a second.

"what can i say," he said quietly. "i'm something of an actor."

you snickered.

and then his mom called your name from across the table.

"you like dessert, mija?" she asked, already bringing out the plates.

you blinked twice before answering, forcing a smile. "of course. thank you."

sero didn't look away from you for a long time.

dinner had long ended. the noise had faded. sero's house, once pulsing with overlapping voices and clattering plates, now thrummed with a different kind of energy—low, contented, quiet.

his siblings had scattered, full-bellied and sugar-sticky, off to bedrooms and couches and wherever else they disappeared to in the evening. someone had turned on a dusty old playlist in the den, and the soft hum of vintage boleros curled through the walls like warmth that refused to die.

you stood in the hallway between the dining room and the back door, hovering in the in-between of things: of conversations and thoughts, of what was real and what had only started out that way.

you weren't sure what to do with your hands.

or your heart.

sero appeared beside you like he always did—quiet-footed and comfortably close, smelling faintly of soap and masa and something sweet from dessert you hadn't caught the name of. his sleeves were still pushed up, revealing his forearms, and you hated that you were looking at them. not because they weren't worth looking at—they were—but because it meant your guard was down. again.

"come on," he said softly. "balcony?"

you didn't answer. you just nodded and followed.

the air outside was sharp and clean. the kind of cold that wakes you up without being cruel. you wrapped your arms around yourself more out of instinct than discomfort. the balcony was small, with a windchime shaped like a lizard hanging from the overhang, and a view of soft suburban rooftops and yellow windows scattered like lanterns across the horizon.

you leaned against the wooden railing. he did the same.

neither of you spoke.

you were too full of the evening. of tamales and laughter. of too much touch under the table. of words you'd said with a smile that weren't lies—but weren't supposed to be true either.

the problem wasn't pretending.

the problem was that pretending didn't feel like pretending anymore.

you didn't know when it had changed. maybe it was gradual—each time he laced his fingers through yours without asking, or rested his hand on your thigh mid-story, or offered you a grin across the table that was so familiar, so soft, you forgot why you were here in the first place.

but it hit you now, standing beside him in the chill—this unshakable, irreversible knowledge:

you were in love with him.

god, you were in love with hanta sero.

not just in a surface-level, crush-colored way. not just in the i-like-how-he-makes-me-laugh way. it was deeper than that. older. something that had snuck in when you weren't looking and taken root so quietly you hadn't noticed until it was everywhere.

you were in love with the way he held space. with the way he listened without trying to fix you. with the way he let the world land on him lightly, and still carried it in both hands when it mattered.

you were in love with someone who didn't even know you weren't faking anymore.

you exhaled.

"you're quiet," he said, not looking at you. "regretting it already?"

you shook your head. "no. it's just... weird how easy it was. with your family."

he hummed. "they like you."

"they liked that i made you less annoying."

"that is the highest compliment in my house."

you smiled, faint. "they're sweet. loud, but sweet."

"you kept up fine."

"i think i blacked out for half of it."

"you were golden," he said, softer now. "you always are."

you turned toward him slowly.

the lights from the kitchen spilled faintly through the curtains behind you, catching just enough of his face for you to see how relaxed he looked. how present. how close.

you swallowed.

"hanta?"

he looked over at you, brows raised. "yeah?"

there was a beat of silence.

"i don't know how to lie to you," you said.

he blinked once.

then again, slower.

"what?"

"i mean," you continued, hands curling around the edge of the railing. "i've been trying. all day. and i thought i could. i thought i could pull it off—play the part, pretend—but then we got here, and your mom hugged me, and you touched my hand under the table, and i just... i don't know when it stopped being a bit."

his eyes searched your face like he was looking for something he'd already lost.

"hanta," you said again. "i'm in love with you."

his face froze.

the air between you seemed to still. the windchime didn't move. the whole world narrowed into this one pinpoint moment, bright and fragile and terrifying.

he stepped back—just barely.

"you don't have to keep pretending," he said. carefully. cautiously. "no one's watching anymore. you can drop it."

you stared at him.

"i'm not pretending," you said.

another beat. a sharp exhale.

his lips parted slightly. his brows furrowed, not in confusion, but in disbelief. in the kind of fear that came from wanting something too much and being afraid to reach for it.

"you're serious."

"i've never been more serious about anything in my life."

sero let out a long, shaky laugh. it cracked halfway through.

"say it again," he whispered.

"i'm in love with you."

and this time, you reached for him.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and you felt the moment he melted—slow and overwhelmed, the way something melts that's been cold for too long.

"you've got to be kidding me," he muttered, leaning into your touch. "i thought—god, i thought i was the only one losing my mind over this."

you smiled, eyes stinging.

"you weren't."

"i've been in love with you since second year," he admitted, voice breaking a little. "you kissed my cheek that one time after i carried your books back from the nurse's office, and i nearly died. like, actual cardiac arrest."

"that was a year ago."

"welcome to my long, slow descent into insanity."

you laughed, quiet and ridiculous.

and then he kissed you.

it wasn't rushed. wasn't showy. it wasn't a fireworks-and-credits-roll kiss.

it was the kind that happened in doorways, in hallways, in quiet rooms where hearts beat too loud. the kind that changed nothing and everything all at once.

he kissed you like he meant it.

you kissed him like you'd been waiting your whole life to.

when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours.

"you're real?" you whispered, breath catching.

"i better be," he said. "otherwise you've just confessed to a figment of your imagination."

you swallowed a grin.

his thumb traced your cheek.

"i thought this would end in disaster," he said quietly. "that pretending would ruin everything."

"and?"

"and now i don't want it to end at all."

you leaned in, bumping your nose against his.

"then it doesn't have to."

he smiled, and kissed you again.

not like he was pretending.

like he was home.

[sjyuns]

DELICATE ┆ A SIM JAEYUN ONESHOT

SYNOPSIS! desire and temptation are human’s worst enemies, being told not to do something only make us want it more. when you’re labelled as ‘forbidden’ to jake sim, it does nothing but make you even more desirable.

GENRE! playboy! jake x fem reader, forbidden romance, secret relationship, mutual pining, rich kids in love, family rivalry, fluff, angst, smut

CAUTION! MDNI! unprotected sex, slight body worshipping, pussy eating, munch!jake, creampie, mild overstimulation, petnames (angel, good girl, baby), slight dacryphillia(?), stomach bulging, handjob, swearing, drinking

WORDCOUNT! 8OOO+

MIKAELA’S! sim jaeyun is the death of me. finally finishing the series off after two years… not my best but hope you enjoy! also i lost the starboys taglist i'm so sorry feedback and reblogs are appreciated! NOT PROOFREAD

TEASER SERIES MASTERLIST

MY DELICATE ANGEL, THE MOST DELECTABLE SIN

THE TRADGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET, a tale of forbidden romance weaved into our souls — a wondrous vision: burning hearts, smoking love, shimmering eyes and a snap to undo it all. Simply put, love leads us into our ultimate demise. This story warns us that all violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume.

Some people say, however, that this is more than a tale of forbidden romance but one of star crossed lovers tied with a red string of fate, an inescapable end to love, that love never leaves you. And they like to think that in a different life, perhaps, things would’ve been different. Perhaps things would’ve been sweeter.

How true these speculations are, we’d never know. But somewhere within the lines of red fate, history has a tendency to repeat itself with a sparkling twist. 

A clash between the wealthy and powerful.

A love forbidden by the gods.

You twist like a sunflower at the sound of Jake Sim’s voice. It’s across the hall, getting closer, and closer, and you find your eyes wander to him — his figure. You feel being born into wealth certainly has its downfalls, but one thing you’d always be grateful for would be the chance to admire beauty. And you think the boy you were looking at was, quite possibly, the sole creator of it.

Your gaze flickered over the slim, straight nose and defined cupid’s bow, quickly passing dark eyebrows and equally dark eyes, pretty lashes curving upwards like dustings of coal: pretty, pretty, so pretty. He looks like glorified sin, and distantly, you wonder if his cheeks feel like the shades of vibrant rose they appear to be. 

You wonder if Jake Sim loves, if he’s even capable of loving.

Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Jake Sim’s reputation precedes him. Prudence lining his every move as he exudes confidence, a devil’s incarnate, the epitome of lust and vengeance. A polite exterior with dark, dark motives and as cliche as it sounded, everyone wanted to either be him or be with him. Yet despite everything, Jake has never entertained anyone, the perfect gentleman with a seemingly clean track record despite the number of girls hanging off his arms daily. And you wonder, what it feels like to be them, to be close to Jake Sim, to touch him, to feel him, to see him close. 

“Hey, you,” a shrill sound breaks you out of your trance as your neck snaps towards the owner of the voice. A painfully polite smile plastered on your face out of habit as your eyes scan her — dress shirt two sizes too small, blazer cropped and skirt hemmed as if she was in line at a brothel, and you think to yourself how your mother would have a fit if you wore your school uniform this unpresentable.

“Yes,” you answer, tone clipped, “how may I help you.” Your reply apparently brings distaste to her tongue as she scowls at you in sheer disgust, and you wonder if anyone has bothered to put this girl in her place today.

“Stay away from Jake Sim,” she almost screams, and you almost throw your head back in laughter at the crazy, crazy words that had just left her mouth. 

It wasn’t a secret that your family and the Sims had a rivalry: old money dating centuries back with major influences on global technology advancements and developments. Yet, ironically, a childish rivalry between the two houses, always trying to prove that they were the best.

“I know you and Jake talk behind your parents’ back,” she pinpoints, a victorious smirk on her face as if she had just uncovered your deepest, darkest secret.

“What?” Your words slip out in disbelief, and you hold back an impolite scoff at the weight of her accusation. Stay calm, you remind yourself, lashing out on her would give her something to talk about.

But before you can regather your thoughts, a heavy arm slides across your shoulder, pulling you into him. And you don’t have to look up to know that Jake was right beside you, holding you. 

“Baby,” the devilish boy says, turning around to give a soft smile at you. “Baby, I thought I told you that we didn’t have to hide it anymore,” he repeats with a laugh, but you’re too starstruck to reply. “Remember last night?”

You don’t remember last night because it never happened, all your boldness turning soft in the presence of Jake Sim, and you wish you could turn invisible on the spot.

“Right,” the sound you release resembles more of a choke than a hum, ripping your stare from Jake to the unnamed girl in front of you, “yeah, I remember last night.”

A look of disbelief showcased on her face and she stared at Jake as if she had just been backstabbed by him. And you almost feel so bad, nauseated at the character you seemed to be under the influence of Jake. You try to tug your body away from him, yet his grip remains tight.

“I’ve always liked her,” he tells, thumb sweeping across the top of your hand, “she’s perfect.”

You must be touch starved because you shiver involuntarily. How would it feel loving someone like Jake Sim? Loving someone who looked like sinful tragedy and unspoken thoughts tinged with violet? How would it feel?

A frustrated groan followed with the stomping of mary janes is enough to leave you breathless, gasping for air at the situation you were just in. And you immediately pull away from Jake’s embrace, looking at him in complete horror.

Jake’s face remains impassive, almost as if he was born to do this, born to lie. 

“What in the world were you thinking?” you ask morbidly. 

“What do you think I'm thinking?” he drawls. And you feel like you’re about to slip into the underworld with your rosy cheeks and escalating heartbeat.

“You know if she tells other people our parents would kill us right?” you add, teeth gnawing at your lips in nervousness.

Jake shrugs with nonchalance, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ears, slim fingers feeling like a piano’s melody in spring gardens. “She won’t, don’t worry angel.”

You ignore how his voice brought reassurance to your heart. “Why,” you continued, “why did you do it?”

Jake hums at your question, and it’s the very same question he’s asking himself. His actions had just made it too risky, too complicated, but maybe that’s exactly why his body moved over to you, because he wanted to be entangled with you.

Jake Sim has never asked for many things. He could probably keep track of all his wishes on one hand: a matte black Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet (to match Sunghoon’s white one), a pool party when he was nine (because Sunghoon had one), and you (his parents scolded him for hours).

He always had a fascination with you, ever since preschool when you were dropped off by your chauffeur, hair in neat pigtails, uniform ironed crisp, and a toothy smile at him when you took your first step in. And he wishes he could return to that moment, no rules, no tension, no hatred between families, because he can only help himself for so long. And Jake remembers how he ran back home after his first day, almost tripping at the giddy thoughts of you and your beauty as he wrote your name with his in his secret diary over and over as a wish to the Gods that maybe, maybe they could bring you to him.

But now, now his infatuation for you has grown beyond — he desired you, burned for you, spent sleepless nights wanting you. Even when he hated you: hated you for smiling at others and not him, he lusted for you, and it was the most maddening, beguiling, damnable thing he’s ever experienced yet he never wanted it to stop.

“Do I need a reason to do things?” You close your eyes for a moment, feeling your soul protest as if it was in agony.

“Yes Jake, maybe you do when our families are at crossfire.” Your tone reeks of desperation for a simple answer, an answer you know Jake Sim was never going to give. 

“But we aren’t at crossfires, are we angel?” His accented voice floats into your ears, leaving you stumped at his targeted question. No, you weren’t. In fact, you could barely pinpoint a flaw on Jake’s body, and you wonder if your previous callousness was unnecessary.

“No, I guess not,” you reply, unsure on what to make of it. And you feel some sort of heavy weight lift off your shoulders as you glance at the boy who was leaning on your locker, biting your lips as you take in his lean frame: long legs, slim muscles cording over the structure of his upper body, and fluffy, messy midnight hair. He’s beautiful.

Your heart skips a beat but you blame it on your newfound revelation and your tendency to fall head over heels for everything with beauty.

“Well then, I’m Jake Sim,” the boy sticks out his hand, all slow fire and molten lava as he introduces himself, “you’re just as pretty up close as you are from afar.”

You blink, absently reaching for his hand, trying not to notice how nice your palms slide together. You repeat your name in return, ignoring the hot flush rising in your face from the compliment. “Afar?”

Jake’s rosy mouth curves into a smooth smile. “I observe,” he shrugs, as if that was all the explanation needed. “You’re all everybody talks about around here, you know.”

Pride hits you then because this is the very first time you’ve heard about Jake complimenting anyone, moreso with a sparkle in his eyes. “Really,” you laugh gently, heart still hurting from immense palpitations.

“Yeah,” Jake tilts his head slightly, looking like devilish temptation and smelling of smoked cedar and rosemary. “Pretty faces do lots of damage here.”

The smile that adorns Jake’s face is genuine, as his eyes sparkle at the sight of you right in front of him. And he thinks he’s so selfish to paint himself as a hero when all he wanted to do was feel you for a second, a lingering touch that would put him to sleep tonight. 

“Are you scared?” The question leaves his mouth before he can stop it.

“I don’t know,” you admit, looking away for the first time. And Jake feels his heart squeeze at your voice, “I’ve never done something like this before, you know, do something that would upset my parents.”

Jake is surprised by your honesty, and perhaps you’re way more than he’s thought you out to be. “You’ll be fine,” he tells you, offering you a silver smile when your lips part slightly, bottom lip unbelievably glossy, “you have me by your side now.”

Jake Sim isn’t an angel, in fact he’s much closer to being the devil — that much is true. But when he sees you walking into the big doors of the glamourfied ballroom, he feels like there’s a halo glowing above his head, the light of pearls and moonlight reflecting off of him, and you’re the God he worships. It gets a little hard to breathe: maybe he’ll blame it on the change in seasons, but it’s the middle of winter in Seoul, and you look like a blend of delicate snowflakes and melted rainbows. He wonders if his eyes are filled with pure want, with desire and something soft like adoration.

And he means that quite literally, Jake realizes as he takes in your figure — delicate silk draped over your body, features glistening from the vermillion light of the ballroom’s chandelier and you look like yūgen fantasies laced in velour reverie. And Jake doesn’t know if he’s ever seen someone as beautiful. If he’s ever seen someone who looks like love.

His fingers shake. His pulse quickens. And he wonders what it would feel like to hold your hand and never let go.

A call of your name by your parents causes you to turn around, eyes meeting his for a split second before you stop to give him a sweet smile, and he feels as if your souls just connected. And it’s a whole new thrill to know that no one catches the looks you give each other, like it's your own little secret, a semblance of normal in the crazy lifestyles lived. God, he thinks, your eyes are gorgeous and there are times when he wants nothing more than to look you in the eyes.

Your family walks closer to his, and he can’t help but feel the need to smoothen out the creases on his suit jacket, palms sweaty and heart wild as if he was meeting the people around you for the very first time.

“Sim,” your father grunts at his father, a firm handshake given followed by hidden scowls of distaste. A superficial greeting for show, to give the media what they want, and Jake wishes the time would come when this would turn real: so that he would be able to hold you without causing you any worry.

The vintage Prada suit Jake donned made him look like a corrupt angel — almost preternaturally handsome but with a louche quality that hinted at unspoken depravity. He was an unforgettable, if unnerving, face that lent itself to being cast as the devil itself. And his lips, his lips were stained with wine, scarlet madness. And you wanted to kiss him, and take the taste as yours.

“Y/n,” he acknowledges, hand extended for a handshake which you return. Eyes locked as the sound of your parents conversing vanishes, like it’s just you and him in an empty ballroom all to yourself.

“Would you allow me one dance?” He cocks his head in all his glory, and you chuckle under your breath. He wasn’t yours nor were you his, yet he was so good at making you feel like you belonged with each other.

You want to sin every time you’re with him.

You let him whisk you away, parents long forgotten as his fingers wrap gently on the curvature of your waist and it fits like two pieces of a puzzle, all warm and slow and full of interwoven history. When Jake’s eyes flutter close, he remembers how easy it is to lose and find himself in the molten lava of your irises, or the way your cupid bow dips just slightly in the center of your lips. It’s all a combustion of violet and tenderness and something so quiet that he has to focus in order to listen. And it’s all butterfly touches here and there — nothing too strong, nothing too heavy.

You are, simply said, worth dying for.

“Hey,” Jake mutters, running a hand through your hair and thumbing the skin just below your cheekbones. “You look good today, angel.”

“Are you trying to seduce me?” 

“But it’s true,” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another as the both of you grace across the dance floor. “And I’m pretty sure you know that yourself too.”

“Lair,” Jake flicks your forehead, “you’re just trying to play nice with me.”

“Maybe I am,” he tells you, a mischievous smile on his lips. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for you to compliment me back.”

Your face feels too hot. “Stop being a flirt.”

When you smile, it’s like the world tilts on its axis and rights itself all over again, gravity evaporating like blue sea salt. “Do you really want me to stop?”

No, you think. And so you say, “No, Is my face really that perfect?”

“The most perfect in the world,” Jake responds, a shining gleam glistening within his irises. “You look tired, angel,” he says, frowning as he catches the outlines of dark circles underneath your eyes. 

It’s times like these where you want to pull him closer, want to kiss him and finally find out if his lips taste as good as they look. Because you’re so lost in the push and pull of this relationship – or lack thereof – and the absence of a label. Forbidden love, you think bitterly, still enraptured by Jake’s warmth radiating from him. You look up at him with doe eyes, a foreign emotion swimming across your gaze as Jake’s sight zeros in on your glossy mouth.

“I am tired,” you admit. Tired of loving you; tired of caring; tired of wanting things you can never have. “I can’t believe I’m here instead of wrapped around my duvet at home.”

Jake’s hands curl over your waist and rest there, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. “Wouldn’t you be missing me?”

“No,” your cheeks flush and Jake’s mouth curls a little bit to the side in a dark smile, lips feeling too hot for comfort.

“You know you would,” he says, carding his fingers through your hair, long fingers pretty like a pianist’s and faint cologne dusting across the span of his throat. “Let’s see each other tonight. You and me.”

You sigh, leaning ever so slightly into his touch as if it was where you belonged.  

And Jake watches you, wondering how you began to familiarize with each other. Life before you was an absolute disaster, and Jake remembers going through packs of cigarettes like candy to relieve the stress. 

As Jake sat himself at the bar of Sunghoon’s house, his eyes caught on neon lights, sprinklings of gold dust, and exposed limbs. His best friend’s house is a combination of soft and deadly, bar secluded underneath soft studio lights and living room dimmed with LED lights, and just from where he was seated, Jake makes out the swift movement of your hips as you laugh and pull someone closer.

The asshole you’re dancing with places his hands on your waist, pathetically attempting to seduce you as the sparkle in your eyes grows with each second under the influence of alcohol, cheekbones glowing underneath the flashing of lights. In the back of his mind, Jake thinks that you move like mercury, all silber and liquid; he thinks that you look perfect with your hair styled and gleaming smile.

His heart hurts.

When Ning Ning taps on his shoulder, Jake jolts and soothes his expression to one of passiveness. “She’s already fended off three guys,” she tells him, and the blood inside his body boils. “Go save her, please.” 

He gets off his seat and downs his drink in one go as your laugh reaches his ears, and it’s just high in pitch that Jake’s radar automatically activates. He maneuvers his way through the crowds of people and wonders what spell you’ve cast on him to make him feel this weak.

“Angel,” he breathes, quietly — almost menacingly — as he looks at you whose head is tipped back. “Angel, get away from him.”

The other guy places his hands above your hip bone, touch slyly moving lower and lower; your eyes widen with realisation and as soon as you push him off, he tries to grab you again with no such luck. And Jake instinctively pulls you closer, rolling his eyes as he silently soaks in the sweet smell of honey and milk and ichor.

“I–really?” you ask, mouth dropping.

“You don’t know how to tell?” Jake reprimands coldly.

“I thought we were only dancing. I’m sorry, Jake, are you mad? Don’t be upset.” He sighs, and tenses his jaw as his palm settles in the pinched curve of your side, feeling the build of your waist and torso. “That wasn’t dancing, smartass.”

“Not that you would know.”

Jake doesn’t really know what he’s doing or what he’s trying to do, but he pulls you to his front so quickly that both of you don’t have a chance to catch your breaths. Your souls feel entwined like blooming olive tree branches, like how the tides meet the sand and he can’t tell which is which. There's this tugging sensation at the bottom of his stomach, this feeling that Jake can’t define, which drives him up the wall. It’s like he’s always missing you even when you’re touching each other, silently dancing over the drawn lines that he desperately wants to demolish.

He brings his lips to your ear, lingering there for a moment longer before speaking. “This is dancing,” he tells you, fingertips trailing across skin and hipbones as your bodies come together. He’s taller than you, which feels perfect as you gasp softly, resting your head against his shoulder, forehead impossibly heated. The two of you sway to deep, sensual music and if you move like water, perhaps Jake moves like the wind, all fluid gestures and so interdependent.

You open your eyes, lashes fluttering against delicate skin, and holy shit, Jake’s starting to think he has a thing for the wet sheen in your eyes and how it matches your lips. “Got it,” you smile, tone trailing off to something wistful as you lift a hand and tap Jake’s nose with your thumb. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?” Jake decides to play along.

You trail your thumb down his face, the line of touch feeling like witchcraft. “I don’t know,” you murmur, usually bright face now serious. “You tell me, Jakey.”

And—oh. When you call him that, Jake doesn’t know what to do, think, or say. How does he explain that whenever his name slips out of your mouth, it sounds like the bible verses in the Song of Solomon? That it sounds like destiny and paradise and pain combined in two syllables.

Jake Sim has never been good with words — but not once in his years of living has he wanted to say more. But instead, he shrugs and looks down on you, at your black dress and pretty heels. “I—”

“Jake! Come here!” Sunghoon’s loud voice cuts the tension between the both of you, “stop being your girlfriend’s guard dog.”

You giggle and Jake sighs. “Yeah,” he responds, before turning back to you, “I’ll take you home later, yeah?”

“I’ll be fine,” you tell him, though your head feels slightly dizzy, “no need to get overprotective Jakey.”

Jake thinks he’s not overprotective. He’s not. And you're not his girlfriend. Yet.

It’s not a shock when Jake climbs through your open window. You watch as he enters, long limbs squeezing into the small open frame, hair a luster under the dull moonlight. Even like this, Jake Sim is still beautiful, and you imagine that he holds the stars and the comets in his hands.

“You know you were a terrible actor,” you tell Jake, face extraordinarily soft and lips shimmering with a bit of crystallized sugar. Jake’s mouth parts slightly before closing again; and he always looks so unattainable, so free — and you want to catch him before he flies away. 

“What do you mean, angel,” he almost whines at your disapproval, “It was an Oscar deserving performance.”

“You asked me for a dance in front of my parents,” you point out, “you’re lucky they were too caught up in arguing with yours.”

“It wasn’t luck, it was a calculated move,” he grins as he moves from the open window to your side, hands sliding on top of yours.

The feeling starts at your fingertips, warm, mellow, slow, and travels up your arm and across your stomach. And from there, it disperses all over your body, the electrifying warmth that reminds you at the back of your head that this would never work, that it was only so long until you would get caught.

And you don’t know if you should risk it. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself late at night.

“And I wasn’t acting,” he trembles as you run a finger down the length of his chest, black fringe covering his eyes in messy waves. And Jake isn’t sure if it’s your touch that’s clouding his judgement, or if it’s something else — something dangerous. “You looked so pretty,” he murmurs, words slurring, “so sweet, so tempting.”

“Jake,” you almost whine at the sound of his soft voice, like a devil leading you down a path to damnation. 

“You’re so pretty, so so pretty,” he mumbles, hands smoothing over your body, fingers running over your perked nipples, “and you’re so good to me.”

And then you kiss him. Arms sliding around his neck and lips pressed against his, turning your head just a little as you scoot your hips onto him. The smell of his cologne mixed with the lavender of your bedroom like he was truly entwined with you now. 

Jake freezes for a second, unmoving. Then, as if struck by lightning, he inhales, hands tightening around your body; and Jake thinks that you look so pretty caged underneath his grip, and then he stops.

Jake forces his body to pull away, yet you won’t let him. “Angel, I can’t,” he whispers, “I can’t do this to you.”

You look hurt, and Jake aches. “Why not?”

“Because you’re perfect.”

“And you’re not?”

You grimace, reaching a hand out to cup Jake’s cheek, body heat penetrating through layers of unsaid thoughts and unspoken truths. Your heart hurts.

Jake squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to lose himself in how his body melts into your touch. “I mean that we can’t do this,” he tells you. “We can’t start something and not finish it, because I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle having you slip away.”

It’s probably the most vulnerable Jake has ever been to you and he feels as if his chest splits open under several harsh gazes. His breathing speeds up slowly, insanity transforming to lovesickness within his veins.

“Jakey,” you say, “I’m feeling this because of you. Every sinful touch, every unknown action, it’s all because of you. I want you, Jake, I need you.”

The words swirl through Jake’s mind as if matted with silver and gold, “tell me this is real,” Jake pleads.

“It’s real, I mean fuck this, I—”

Jake lowers his mouth back onto yours and — god, it feels so good to finally taste you, to finally satiate the hunger that’s been gnawing at his mind. And he’s grappling with his self control, until he sees you blink at him from under your lashes, eyes heavy lidded and glazed with hunger; and then Jake can’t breathe.

He presses a kiss beneath your ribs and continues lower, humming against your hip bone, parting your legs so that he could nuzzle against the soft skin of your thighs before he maneuvers you onto your bed, letting down your body gently before pushing your silk dress over your chest in one motion, the cool air from your open window immediately bringing a tingling sensation over your already sensitive body.

Jake’s hands move to grope your breasts with need, fingers flicking over your nipples as he relishes in every gasp that leaves your mouth.

“You want more, baby?” And you don’t know if it’s his alluring voice or the idea that you were sinning in the very household of your parents that made you jut your hips up in need, your voice whispering a soft chain of ‘please, yes’ as Jake’s calloused fingers rub circles on it.

His head dips down to your chest, tongue sensually circling your tits before taking one into his mouth, sucking on it as you arch into the slick, warm feeling of his mouth; fingers moving to tangle into the raven mop of hair — more, more, more. You were getting drunk on Jake and he had done nothing more than just touch you.

“Jakey,” you whine and Jake hums into your skin, the rumble of his voice against your nipple making you shiver in delight. “I need more, more.”

“You’re so cute like this, angel,” he groans, “let me make you feel so good, you deserve that, right?” His fingers trail down your bare body, and a single touch is all it takes for your body to arch into him.

You nod fiercely, and he chuckles, fingers skillfully hooking over the band of your panties before sliding them down your legs. And Jake doesn’t take more than a second to bury his head in between your thighs, flicking his tongue between the puffy folds of your clit, pushing his nose into your pussy as your slick coats the front of his face.

His movements are sloppy, slow, desperate, and everything good and it seemed as if everything about you has made a slave of Jake Sim — hands that kiss hymns up your inner thighs and a tongue that confesses how long he’s looked for a place to worship.

“Oh my god,” you moan, hands gripping the cover of your sheets as your hips instinctively jut in pure heat, head cloudy and heavy as you trail off, “my god, Jake, my god.”

Jake pulls back at the call of his name, swollen lips coated in you as his tongue darts out to lick every single drop. Worship me, he prays, I need every part of you to be mine. He watches as your hips thrust up into the air at the lack of his touch, your hole convulsing in sheer need for him — only him, and he feels victorious as he moves back in, tongue thrusting in and out of you as he laps your leaking arousal up.

“Baby, you taste like sin,” he groans as he feels his cock harden against his pants at the sound of you coming undone under him, “so fucking good for me.”

His breath is hot against your skin, and your eyes water slightly from the immense pleasure, “Jake, I’m coming,” you moan, voice filled with lust as sweet white juices spill over onto his lips and chin.

Jake feels himself come undone just at the taste of you, he swallows every bit of you, and he wishes he could have you melt into him and flow through his veins. “Shit,” he moans, tilting his head back as he breathes heavily, instinctively moving over to grind his clothed bulge against your wet core.

“Let me put it in baby, please,” his desperation prevalent as you whine in response, legs wrapping around his now bare torso as you follow suit — body bucking up in need of him.

Jake doesn’t wait for a response before he unbuckles his belt and pulls his big shaft out, mind hazy as he lines his tip at the entrance of your core, and he feels it pulsating, almost as if it was welcoming him in and he shivers in delight.

“Jakey,” you whimper, mouth wide open at the feeling of his cock entering you, filling you up in one swift motion. Your eyes roll back as you let out a long string of babble, head filled with nothing but the thought of the boy in front of you. 

“Feel good, baby?” he cooes, “you like how I fill you up?”

You hum as he thrusts into you rhythmically, each action stretching you out as your head sinks into the pillows above you, senses overloaded as your body jolts at each push.

Jake moans as he feels your pussy suck him in, and he thinks he’s obsessed with this feeling, almost intoxicated, “taking me so well hmm, such a good girl.”

You feel your body weaken at his praise, electricity flowing through your veins as you come undone for the second time under the power if Jake Sim, and Jake watches as your cum coats his long shaft so prettily, rings of white producing lewd squelching sounds as he continued to pound into you.

More, more, more. He’s fully drunk on you now as he lets out low, guttural grunts, hands moving to your waist with a tight grip as he moves your body into his with fervor. And shit, Jake thinks, you look as pretty as sin under him: hair messy, drool dripping down your chin as your eyes water like crystal gin.

He feels your body fall limp as he comes, seed spilling into your walls as you feel something hot and sticky fill you up. Jake, contrary to what you thought he would do, doesn’t pull out. Instead, he thrusts deeper into you, teeth biting his lips as he watches your stomach bulge at the size of his cock.

“So, so good for me baby,” he groans, and he thinks he could cum again just from the sight of you being full of him, “like you’re fucking made for me.” Jake’s palm moves towards your bulging stomach, fingers dancing across the outline of his dick in you and your eyes roll back in intense perverseness — you think you’ll remember this moment forever, like it’s your mirror, or a prayer that needs to be said every night.

You whimper, body already stretched way beyond your limits but craving more. Jake leans over to press a chaste kiss on your lips, and you find yourself chasing him needily.

“Close already?” he teases, fingers pinching your clit, and you nearly sob from the overstimulating feeling. “Don’t hold back for me, angel.” His lips brushing the surface of your earlobe.

It’s so hot, and you can’t help but want more as you slowly roll your hips in eager motion to satisfy your need. Your body trembles as you come yet again, and this time Jake pulls out, cock still throbbing against your thigh heavy and slick with cum, raging tip begging for your attention.

You move to it instinctively, his cock pressing against your palm as you wrap your fingers around it, warm and sticky as you stroke slowly.

“Fuck,” Jake breathes, his head tipped back as his hands cover yours, guiding you on your pace. Jake’s breathing stutters as his hips jerk into your grip in pure need. Without a word, Jake leans in, catching the trail of your drool with his lips before brushing his tongue on yours in a hurry.

Your hips rock into the sheets of your bed, chasing a new high as pleasure coiled inside of you and Jake hisses as you squeeze him, and it doesn’t take long for hot, thick strands of cum to spill onto you, painting your skin.

Jake looks ethereal under the dim lighting of your bedroom, eruptive and vulgar and so tempting with his body gleaming with sweat, his lean muscles outlined as you reach out to him. 

“Jake,” you whisper, breath heavy and muscles trembling

“My angel,” he answers, looking at you with a glimmer of adoration in his eyes, “my perfect angel.” Your hands moving to toy with the necklace dangling from his neck.

“Will you be by my side forever?” you mutter.

Jake feels breathless and he doesn’t know what to say, “I’ll never leave your side, baby” he breathes and he knows that only this much is true.

Jake calls you angel because you're his idea of an angel — something almost so sacrilegious he’d sacrifice himself for. 

And it doesn’t matter what time of day he sees you, because you’re glowing no matter what — irises like honey almost melting into the rays of incoming sunlight filtering through the blinds of the classroom.

“Jakey, what time is it?” 

Jake takes in your being, and even up close you look warm, hair falling all over the place and study glasses askew where they rested on the bridge of your nose. On days like this, it’s hard to forget how much he likes you, loves you — someone so beautiful. Your beauty, in his opinion, starts from your smile: curved, violently soft, pink. It spreads out like a sunflower from there, curling around your back and legs to illuminate faux halo and velvet wings, ethereal in all your days.

Sometimes, Jake finds it hard to breathe.

“Three thirty,” he answers, and there’s an amber-coloured silence lingering between the both of you. “Are you busy today? I miss you.”

“I’m right in front of you, Jake.”

Right, you were, but it’s not the same. And Jake thinks that some people are just inexplicably bonded — like you and him, drawn by forces beyond his own comprehension that he has no choice but to gravitate towards you.

Sunghoon had once said some sappy shit about being absolutely infatuated with a single soul when he went abroad, and Jake had always thought that it was nonsense, impossible for one person to feel so deeply for another. But with you, Jake understands what it’s like: what it’s like to do anything for you and not think twice about it.

“Yeah you are,” he grins, leaning over to kiss you with all the power he could muster, like a lost lover making up for all the years, months, weeks, days, minutes, seconds your lips hadn’t been touching his.

Now, Jake refuses to imagine what his life would be without you. Because unlike what he seems to be, you have forged your existence deep within his soul. You aren’t just a part of his life, you are his life. And breathing without being able to touch you holds zero importance.

You rested your head against Jake’s shoulder, and felt for the first time, what you would often feel with him: a self affection. He made you like yourself. With him, you were at ease and it seemed so natural to talk to him about odd things. And you’ve never done that before, always having to keep an uptight exterior. The trust, so sudden yet so complete, and the intimacy, once frightened you but now you could only think about all the things you wanted to tell him, wanted to do with him.

“You know, ” Jake starts, “I’ve liked you since we were kids.” 

You raise your head to look at him in shock while Jake traces tiny circles on the lines of your palms, looking all so serious. “Really?” your words feel breathless.

The empty lecture theatre is silent without the sound of your voices to fill it up. And Jake doesn’t look up at you, “yeah,” he mumbles in a slight daze, “since the first day of school when you walked in with the sweetest smile I’d ever seen in my five years of living.”

You giggle, head rolling against his shoulder in amusement. And you never expected anything less from Jake Sim, always a dream, a fairy prince, the sweetest boy in your eyes.

“That’s cute,” you answer, fingers wrapping his, “why didn’t you talk to me then, you were so distant and quiet.”

“Only around you,” he whispers, it's soft but you catch it under his breath, “you made me speechless then just as you do now.” Jake squeezes your hand, and then he feels an air of uncertainty surround him and he isn’t sure if what he’s about to do is the best move.

Luck was all it took for the two of you to continue this relationship, but with every kiss you pucker on his lips, Jake wonders if he should really rely on luck any longer. Because being careful with you hurts, seeing you across the room at charity dinners and not being able to touch you hurts. And for once in his life he doesn’t want to hold back, he wants to tell you every second that he misses you, that he stayed up late cause he couldn't stop thinking about you, about the two of you. Tell you about the dreams he has with you, that you make him happy. And he doesn't want to pretend he doesn’t have feelings for you in a crowded room. Jake has always thought of love as a weakness, but if it is, then he’s weak for you.

You tug him closer, “Jake,” you look at him and without a single word you understand his feelings, “I felt scared, you know? When you first approached me, I wondered — what is he doing? And then you were you, and I asked myself if I would still love you, even if it meant losing everything. I realised that I would, that maybe because you’re beside me I’m not afraid to lose anything.”

“You love me?” Jake blinks, looking at you to see a matching gleam of tears shimmering in your gaze, so intimate and full of soft understanding that it makes the sensation in his chest even worse. 

“I guess I do,” you say very slowly, syllables coated in wilting flowers, “I mean you might think it’s a bit sudden, but—”

Jake cuts your ramble, fingers brushing your silver tears away, and he makes a promise to himself that he won’t ever make you cry again in this lifetime. His lips gravitate towards yours like the atmosphere, a cosmic combustion of nature and honesty. Jake makes sure not to press too hard, kissing you lightly, gently, and holding you like tomorrow won't be arriving. There’s no fireworks, no anti-gravity moments, but it’s warm and real and quiet, and it’s — you. It’s the both of you.

And you think that there’s a slight difference between kissing someone because you love them and kissing someone because words can no longer accurately express your feelings for the person. That’s exactly what you’re feeling right now, and you want Jake sim to sow his fingers in your hair, like flower roots in the soil.

“I love you,” Jake breathes, fingertips tracing the curve of your jaw. “It’s always been you. I never wanted to be selfish, but I can’t, angel, I can’t. I have always been yours.”

You are the sunlight falling through trees, the laughter that breaks through sadness, the breeze on a summer day, clarity amidst confusion. You may not be the world but you are everything that makes him want to stay in it. WIthout you, his life would still exist but that’s all he’d be able to do. And he’ll love you in every season, through all the changes in your soul. He’ll love you on February 30th without hesitation because that is where his love for you reaches — times that don’t exist.

He keeps his words to himself. 

“Jakey, do you know what a soulmate is?”

It was a concept you’d once seen, always believed in and you never really wrapped your head around the concept of something so supernaturally realistic. But now, you realise, that the boy in front of you is the boy you’d choose in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality.

Jake closes his eyes again, feeling a light inside him flicker. “Yeah,” he admits, “it’s us.”

“Yeah it is,” you nod, “so you’re never getting rid of me even if you try.” 

The words have a hard time penetrating through the fog around his mind, but then Jake gets it, he really gets it. “As if I’d try to,” he laughs, the definition of snow and sugar and serendipity.

If someone asked Jake how many times you’ve crossed his mind, he’d say once, because you never left.

The best kind of love takes time. It takes months, years, decades – entire calendars filled with small memories. And you believe that love is just like honey: thick and golden, like the feeling where you’re slowly floating out of your universe and falling into someone else’s. Love is slow, patient. It lingers behind the rhythm of heartbeats and the faltering of footsteps, until one day you realize that you’d do anything for your lover.

And then there’s a different kind of love — quieter, softer, protective. It’s reserved for special people, people who’ve watched you fall and get back up, blood streaming like tears down from scrapes of hurt and uncertainty. This love, too, is beautiful. It reminds you of a flower, always growing until it reaches the sun. It’s warm. 

Maybe that’s the beauty of love: how endless it is. How there’s no end of beginning, and you think maybe you’ll spend the rest of eternity finding out new forms of love.

A few weeks later it’s plastered all over the media — pictures of you and your boyfriend kissing against the lockers. And surprisingly you feel nothing but peace. 

“Baby, you alright,” Jake watches quietly as you look up to him, eyelids fluttering as if your lashes were regal butterflies, and he scans your body to make sure you’re okay before burying his head into the crook of your neck. 

You melt, fingers weaving into Jake’s glossy hair and breathing in his sandalwood, sea salt scent with just a hint of fresh danger. And you can feel his worry for you, “I’m alright Jakey.”

“Okay,” Jake whispers, “I was worried.” And he lifts his head, eyes shining as he presses your nose with the pad of his thumb. It’s warm and he feels happy. “Did your parents say anything?”

“I mean, just something about me staging a teenage rebellion, nothing too serious.”

His heart lurches, “like those movies we watch, like Wild Child?”

You grin, “like Wild Child.”

“That’s good that it’s nothing too serious, or I’d have to intervene.” Jake says seriously and his words make you giggle in the warmth of his body.

“Intervene? What are you, my knight in shining armour?”

“I’d like to think I’m more of a devilish prince,” he corrects and you roll your eyes, “like I’m Romeo and you’re Juliet.”

“Romeo isn’t a prince,” you tell him, “and they die in the end.”

You gaze at him, eyes shining with something akin to salvation, and Jake feels himself fall a little bit more in love with you — who holds the stars inside of his soul, body beautiful and a face a sculpture of dazzling art. 

He leans down, pressing your lips together. It’s slow, unhurried, unrushed — as if you have all the time in the world. 

You do.

Jake falls even further in love now, thinking that you are so beautiful and so pretty and your eyes sparkle like fairy lights.

“Well then I guess till death do us apart.”

I love you.

© SJYUNS

[katsumiiii]

hobie x fem! reader

thinking of hobie brown rn…!

hobie who knows you love the height difference between you two and uses it to his advantage. is constantly angling his head upwards, which causes him to purposely peer down at you through his thick eyelashes. you always get flustered each time he narrows his eyes and tilts his chin, and him being the ever so perceptive spider he is, takes notice of your heated cheeks and continues to do so.

whenever he’s near a doorway or a thick frame he lovesss to lay a palm on the top of it, trapping your body beneath his as you ramble on about whatever it is you’re rambling about. he makes sure to nod along while effectively moving a hand towards your plush waist, bringing your figure flush against his own. he plays with the seam of your shirt, and urges you to keep going when you stutter from the sudden change in position.

hobie who loves to annoy you with his British slang. it’s not necessarily because he uses it often that irks you, it’s the fact that you have no idea what he’s saying and he never makes an effort to help you understand. (he actually finds it amusing each time you attempt to guess what he means and is completely off base every single time).

“babe, I’d love ta get ya that shirt you’ve been beggin’ for, but I’m skint right now. try me next week, yeah?” he hummed, kicking his feet up on the railing next to your bed.

“skint? I feel like you’ve used that one before..” you muttered, huffing in irritation by the smug look on hobie’s face, his lips quirked in amusement.

“told ya what it meant last week. thought ya said you could ‘se context clues?”

“whatever bee, maybe you should speak english.”

“‘aint that what ‘m doin’?”

hobie who always has a blunt neatly rolled on his dresser, his ash tray placed gently to the left of it. he often smoked before running off to whatever it is he did when he wasn’t home (he was very unpredictable as he switched it up weekly to “fuck up consistency” whatever the hell that meant).

hobie inhaled gingerly before tilting his head towards his peeling painted ceiling, his fingers lingered tightly on the wood before lifting it to your lips, “want a go?”

you shook your head, nuzzling further into his shoulder, “mhm no, too tired.” hobie chuckled before greedily puffing the joint, shuttering at the burning feeling it left.

“suit yourself love, more for me.”

hobie who you introduce differently to your friends each time you bring him up. one day he’s your boyfriend, the next he’s your significant other, and the next he’s your ‘close friend’. they always question the constant switch ups, but you don’t ever seem to mind. you know where you stand with the man, and to him that’s all that matters.

“so what’s up with you and…..” your friend trailed off, stirring the ice in her drink.

“hobie?” you questioned.

“yeah him, so is he your boyfriend or what?”

“it’s complicated, he hates labels, makes him feel confined.” you replied, shrugging your shoulders as you lay your head on your palm.

“that doesn’t bother you? is he like scared of commitment or something?”

you scoff, lightly shaking your head, “no, he just doesn’t want to contribute to the system.” you answered bluntly, taking another sip of your lemonade.

“the system?” your friend asked, eyebrow raised at the quip.

“nevermind, don’t worry about it.”

hobie who subtly brags about you to his people. loves to show you off, and has no problem admitting he does.

“yeah bruv, my girl jus’ got into her dream fuckin’ college. been workin’ hard for that shit all year, man.” hobie boasted, pushing his hands out in order to bounce off the wall next to him.

“oh my goodness how wonderful! when do we get to meet this companion of yours?” pavitr questioned, flinging his body upwards to keep up with the male to his right.

“eh, don’t know yet, when I feel like it, yeah?”

all in all hobie is so cute and I literally am in love with him!!

[luvfae]

BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS

summary: he was yours first and if you can’t have him, no one can.

parings: thanos x f!reader

warnings: cheating, smut, swearing

You've always had a thing for your best friend, Su-bong.

You don't know exactly when it happened — the shift, the slip, the quiet fall. Maybe it was after that night at a mutual friend's seventeenth birthday, both of you half-drunk and grinning, tipsy on cheap vodka and shared frustration. You'd looked at each other, shrugged, and decided you were tired of waiting, tired of wondering. Virginity was overrated anyway. So you'd fucked — clumsy, curious, urgent. Just to say you had.

Or maybe it was before that. Before you ever touched. When the laughter came easy, and his hoodie always ended up on your shoulders, and you'd catch yourself staring at the slope of his neck, wondering how it would taste. Wondering why no one else ever made you feel quite the same.

Whatever the case — the truth settled in after. Quiet and permanent. A part of you.

You want him.

But not in the way that's noble or romantic. Not in the way you could explain to your friends without sounding unhinged. You want him selfishly — he doesn’t have to love you or be your boyfriend.

You just want him to be yours.

In the way that matters in private. In the way that doesn't need labels, or promises, or futures. In the way that makes you the only one who knows how he sounds when he comes.

And he's still your best friend. Always has been. You're good at that part — loyal, ride-or-die, first to answer the phone at 3am. You show up. You look out. You hold the parts of him that no one else gets to see. The sharp and the soft.

But you also keep his bed warm when he needs it. Keep his mouth busy. Keep his balls empty.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until he got a girlfriend.

At first, it was fine. Truly. She was pretty in a harmless way. Nice in a way that didn't raise your hackles. She didn't try to separate him from you — not at first. She smiled when you walked into the room. Laughed at your jokes. Let him lean against you at parties and never questioned how easily your bodies fit together.

You even tried to be happy for him. Because you do love him — in that complicated, sideways, back-of-your-throat kind of way.

And you thought you could handle it. Thought you could go without. Thought you could be just friends again.

At first.

Until the jealousy started to rot you from the inside.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow, creeping burn that sank into your bones.

It wasn't just the loss of the best dick of your life — it was the silence. No more lazy smoke sessions on your balcony. No more co-op missions at midnight, legs tangled on the couch. No more FaceTime rings answered on the first buzz, no matter the hour, no matter the reason.

You weren't just losing the sex.

You were losing him.

And you could live without the fucking, maybe. But not the version of him that belonged to you. The version that lived on your couch, barefoot and loud. The version that rolled your joints better than you did, who knew your Panda Express order by heart, who'd watched you cry over boys he never liked anyway.

You could feel her pulling him away in inches. And you were never one to beg. So you made sure he remembered where he came from.

The first fight hits hard — and loud.

You don't get the details. You don't ask. He just shows up at your apartment at 11:42PM, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one fist like he wants to throw it through the wall.

"Bad night?" you ask.

He exhales, tight and bitter. "You have no idea."

You hand him the joint before you say anything else. He takes it wordlessly, flicks the lighter like second nature, and leans against your kitchen counter like it's his.

Like he never left.

"She says I don't talk to her," he mutters, exhaling smoke. "Says I shut down. But then when I do say something, it's wrong. Too much, too blunt, too—" he waves a hand, "—me."

You let him talk.

Let him pace.

He moves like the words are eating him alive, like if he stands still too long they'll rot a hole through his ribs.

You sit on the couch, pull your knees up. Watch him unravel.

"I try," he mutters. "I fucking try. But I'm not soft like she wants me to be. I'm not—"

You tilt your head. "You don't have to be soft with me."

His gaze flicks to you.

You tap the cushion beside you. He doesn't hesitate. Just drops down, exhales hard, passes the joint back.

The silence that follows is familiar.

Laced with old habits. Old sins.

Your legs are over his in the next minute — casual, innocent on the surface. Then your hand on his chest. Then your lips at his jaw.

He doesn't move.

"She just doesn't get me, you know?" he murmurs, voice low, almost broken.

You kiss his neck. Slow. You feel him shudder. Feel his hand drop to your thigh.

"I do," you whisper.

And then, without thinking — or maybe because you've thought about it too much — you straddle him, rock your hips against him.

Just once.

It's not enough to cross the line.

But it's enough to smear it.

His head drops back against the couch, a low sound breaking in his throat. Your name, half-spoken.

You move again. A little slower. A little deeper.

He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't even try.

His hand grabs your hip, hard.

And then he's fucking into you — desperate, panting like he's been starving for weeks. You're still on top of him, still pretending you didn't plan this, and he's still trying to pretend he's not cheating.

But he is.

And you're moaning into his mouth like it's the first time all over again.

You're his best friend.

And you've never made it so easy to forget someone else.

It becomes a pattern — ritual, even. Every time they fight, he ends up here. Knuckles tense. Mouth tight. Carrying anger like it's stuffed in the lining of his jacket, waiting for you to tear it out of him.

And you always do.

You fuck him like you own him. Like you're the only one who could ever handle him. You ride him until his voice cracks and his grip bruises and the heat behind his eyes dissolves into something messier. Needier.

His fury fades between your thighs — swallowed by how fucking tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how your pussy milks the stress out of him like it's your job.

And maybe it is. Maybe you made it your job the night he chose someone else.

You drag orgasms out of him like confessions. Make him moan in ways she's never heard. Make him forget what he was mad about in the first place.

Because she argues.

You open your legs.

She gives him space.

You give him your throat.

And when you sink to your knees, slow and smug, dragging your tongue along the base of his cock before wrapping your mouth around him like you're starved — he breaks.

Every time.

One hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck like he needs to feel you taking it. Eyes rolling back. Chest heaving.

"Fuck, you're warm," he groans, voice wrecked. "Always so good to me."

You hum around him. Eyes glassy. Drool on your chin.

She never sucked him like this. Never let him fuck her face until he was twitching, nearly crying, emptying everything down your throat because he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

You know that.

You want him ruined. You want him addicted. You want him thinking about you when he's inside her.

And he does.

Because her moans are soft.

Yours are filthy.

She kisses him sweet.

You beg him to breed you.

You whisper, between gasps and trembles, "I want your cum. Want it deep. Want to feel it leaking out when I walk."

She tells him to slow down.

You tell him to break you.

She arches away.

You arch into it.

And every time he's sure he's going to end it — every time he's buttoning his jeans with shaking hands and the taste of you still in his mouth — he remembers.

She's not you.

But you're not her, either.

Because where you fuck and praise and give him everything he wants, she holds his face and tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that make him better. Things that make him human.

You make him forget.

She makes him try.

And that's the difference. That's why he hasn't left her.

But you? You don't need him to stay. You just need him to come back.

And he always does.

It's happened enough times now that it feels like fate.

Fucked-up. Familiar. You, bent over your bed. Him, buried inside you. Whispering things he swore he'd never say again. Praising your cunt. Cursing himself. Saying your name like a sin and a salvation.

And still — he goes back to her.

You know this pattern by heart.

You know she doesn't suspect yet — but she will.

Because she's not blind. Not anymore.

It starts at a party.

It always starts at a party.

You're wearing that dress you know he likes — the one that rides a little too high when you bend, clings a little too tight when you sit.

You feel his eyes before you see them. Heavy. Heat-soaked. Lingering too long on your legs. His beer stalls halfway to his mouth. Frozen. Like he forgot anyone else existed.

You don't look at him. Not directly. You just sip your drink and laugh at something someone else said — as if you can't feel the weight of his stare branded into the inside of your thigh.

But she sees it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The way his chest rises when you cross your legs.

The way his pupils don't move until you finally get up to leave the room.

She doesn't say anything then. But it eats at her.

Later, when the noise fades and they're alone in her car, she turns to him. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He scoffs. Too quick. Too sharp. "She's just my best friend."

And maybe he believes it.

Or maybe he's just repeating it — like a mantra.

Like a lie he's told so often it's starting to sound like truth. But his voice cracks just slightly when he says it. And she hears that too.

It's not just that night.

It's not just the look.

There are other moments — quiet things, easy to brush off on the surface, but wrong if you stare too long.

She stares too long now.

You're curled up on the couch in Su-bong's hoodie, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He's in the kitchen pouring drinks, and she watches the way he glances at you — like a habit, like gravity. You don't notice. Or pretend not to.

When he comes back and hands you a glass, she says, a little too light, "Su-bong never lets me wear that hoodie."

You grin. Sip. "I was cold."

Her laugh is thin. She doesn't say what she's thinking. That you're never cold when she's around. Only when she isn't.

Or the time, she walked in on him helping you zip up a dress. His fingers are at your spine. Your hair is swept to the side. He's laughing at something you said, low and under his breath.

You both freeze when she opens the door.

You turn. Smile. "This thing's impossible without help."

She nods. Smiles back.

But later that night, she whispers in the dark, "Why didn't she just ask me?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just kisses her shoulder and pulls her closer, like she won't notice how his hands don't linger the way they lingered on you.

The parties were always the worst. Too much alcohol. Too many people.

One time, she finds you both in the hallway, laughing too hard. Your hand on his chest. His arm above your head on the wall.

The moment stretches.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice sharp.

You pull away immediately. Too quick. "Nothing," you say. "He was just being an idiot."

Su-bong nods. Eyes down. "Just messing around."

But she sees the way your lipstick's smudged.

The way his hand brushes your back when he walks past her.

She doesn't say anything that night. Doesn't cause a scene. But when they get home, she doesn't kiss him. She doesn't even look at him.

And he doesn't ask why.

Because he already knows.

It's well past midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You're not even surprised — just rise from the couch in silence, heart already bruising in your chest.

You open the door and he's there.

Su-bong.

Shoulders hunched. Hoodie soaked from the rain. Eyes rimmed red.

His mouth moves like he's trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath, jagged and raw, and then he's pulling you into him, holding you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And that's when you feel it — not just the weight of him, not just the tremble in his arms, but the wet warmth that hits your collarbone.

Tears.

You freeze. You've seen him at his worst — high, drunk, bruised, broken. But never this.

He's crying.

And not because he lost her.

Because he didn't.

Because she's still there, still waiting for him to come home.

And he's not sorry.

Not really.

Not enough.

That's what's killing him.

You guide him inside without a word. Sit him down. Wrap a blanket around his shoulders like you're bandaging a wound that never bled right. He stares at the floor like it's going to collapse under him.

Minutes pass.

Then, softly — voice shredded, "she doesn't deserve a fucking asshole like me."

You smile.

Not cruel. Not smug. Just... knowing. You reach out. Brush wet strands of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger.

"Maybe not," you hum, warm and quiet. "But I do."

He looks at you. Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Searching.

And you say the thing that's lived in your chest for years.

"I've never asked you to be anyone but yourself, Su-bong."

Something breaks in him then. Not the way it did in her hallway, not in anger or panic — but quietly.

Like relief.

Like love.

His hand finds yours. Brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like he's never touched you before.

And when he leans in, when his lips meet yours, it's not rushed. Not hungry.

It's soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and something almost sacred.

He doesn't take you to the bed. He follows you there.

Undresses you carefully, like he's worried you'll disappear. Like this version of you is something new — or maybe something he's just now letting himself see.

And when he pushes into you, slow and deep, chest to chest, your name on his tongue — it hits different.

Not like every other time. Not like fucking to forget. He's not fucking you now. He's making love to you.

And that terrifies you.

Because when he groans into your neck, "God, you feel like home," your body arches into his and your heart whispers, Please. Choose me.

And for the first time, you let yourself imagine what that might look like. Not the secret. Not the backup. Not the girl he runs to when he's wrecked.

But the girl he stays with when he's okay.

The girl he wakes up beside in the morning.

The girl he picks.

Out loud.

All the way.

And when he holds your face after, panting and dazed, whispering thank you, you don't say anything back. You just press your lips to his cheek and let yourself hope.

You don't sleep that night.

He does.

Right beside you, sprawled on your sheets like he's always belonged there, like the fight that sent him here never existed. One arm draped over your waist, breath slow and steady, skin still damp with the memory of what you let him do — of what he let himself feel.

And you watch him. In the quiet. In the dark.

You trace the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the curve of his bare shoulder where it catches the first hint of dawn.

You could love him like this.

You do.

But it's no longer enough.

Because you're tired of hiding. Tired of being the secret he comes to when he's aching, the mouth he fucks when he's angry, the name he moans into a pillow he doesn't get to keep.

You're tired of being good at it.

Of being his best friend.

Of being the one who listens, and waits, and swallows.

You've seen what's left of him after a fight. You've seen what he looks like when he breaks. And now you've seen what he looks like when he gives himself to you — not rough, not reckless — but soft.

Yours.

And if you can have that version of him — even for one night — you know you can have it again.

If she wasn't in the way.

You think about her when you kiss his temple. Think about how she clings to what little of him he gives her.

How she thinks she knows him.

Thinks she has him.

But you've felt him cry.

You've felt him come apart.

You've felt him say nothing and mean everything.

She doesn't have that.

She never did.

So maybe it's time she finds out what you already know — That he was never really hers to begin with.

Not the way that matters. Not where it counts.

And maybe that makes you cruel. But cruelty is a small price for ownership.

For love.

For him.

So you lay back down beside him, head on his chest, heart thudding with quiet resolve.

You're done sharing.

And if he won't choose you outright — you'll make it so he can't keep hiding.

It starts small.

A text.

I miss you, when you know he's in bed with her.

You don't expect him to answer — not right away.

But you know he sees it. You know he thinks about it. And that's enough. At first.

Then come the games.

You start leaving things behind — panties tucked half-visible under his pillow, lip gloss on his sink, a stray earring on the floor of his passenger seat. Things she'll find if she's even half paying attention.

You press hickeys just above his collarbone — places too risky to ignore, but too intimate to blame on anyone else.

He gets mad, sometimes. Tells you to be careful. Says she's suspicious.

But you know him.

If he really wanted to stop you, he would.

And when he doesn't?

You push harder.

Nudes at 3:14AM.

Soft lighting. Lip bitten. Panties pushed aside.

Wish you were here.

You pray she checks his phone. That she sees the way his hands linger too long, the way he won't meet her eyes the morning after he's been inside you.

But it doesn't work.

She never finds the panties. He wears hoodies to hide the bruises. She doesn't go through his phone.

So you get bolder.

The comments come next. Sweet. Polished. Laced with venom.

When Su-bong is out of earshot — fetching drinks, answering a call — you smile at her, too wide, too warm, and say things like:

"I hope you don't mind that he still comes to me when he's upset. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"He's always been... generous. I'm sure you appreciate that, too."

"It's the little things, you know? Like how he knows just where to put his hands. Always so intuitive."

"I've always loved how... responsive he is. Even the smallest touch gets a reaction."

And you get a reaction. Every time. She flinches. Smiles too tight. Looks to Su-bong with that look — like she's trying to catch him looking at you first.

She never does.

Because he's careful.

But not careful enough.

Eventually, she tells him:

"I don't want you seeing her anymore."

And for a while — you don't hear from him. No texts. No calls. Not even a half-assed excuse.

So you show up. Late afternoon. Hair down. Hoodie oversized. Nothing underneath but perfume and patience.

She's not home.

He opens the door like he expected this — like he hoped you wouldn't come, and knew you would anyway.

He doesn't invite you in.

You step in anyway.

His voice is quiet. Heavy.

"She's onto us." A beat. "She wants me to stop seeing you."

You nod. Say nothing. Let the silence choke him for a moment before you sit on the edge of his bed.

Then you say it.

"I was the one who held you when you were nothing." Not loud. Not bitter. Just... true. "You only love her because I taught you how."

And he doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

So you stand. Walk up slow. Put your hand on his chest — right where you can feel the thud of his guilty heart — and lean in.

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

And he kisses you back.

Because he always does.

His mouth is still on yours.

Soft. Then not.

The kind of kiss that shouldn't happen. The kind that tastes like final decisions and fucked-up truths and everything he swore he wasn't going to do again.

But he doesn't pull away.

And you don't let him.

His hands slide to your waist — grip tightening like he's trying to stop himself from shaking. He presses his forehead to yours for a beat, breath shallow.

"I shouldn't," he whispers.

You smile against his lips. "Then don't."

He groans. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his throat — and then he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips like he needs to taste every second you've been apart.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. Tug. Yank. You want skin.

"Su-bong—" you gasp into his mouth, "—I want you to touch me."

"I fucking am touching you," he snaps, hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Not enough."

He curses under his breath — like the request hurts — like it lights something up under his ribs.

You shove him back a step, just enough to grab the edge of your hoodie and pull it over your head in one motion. No bra. Just skin.

His breath catches. "Jesus fuck."

He stares for a second too long — like he forgot how good you looked underneath all your attitude — then grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, dragging his other hand up your side, palm rough against your bare breast. He groans into your mouth when your nipple tightens under his thumb.

"You do this on purpose," he growls. "Show up like this, act like you didn't plan the whole fucking thing."

You moan, arching into his touch. "Of course I did."

"Brat," he mutters. "You're fucking evil."

You just grin, gasping when his mouth drops to your neck, tongue dragging over your pulse before he bites — not gently — and sucks a bruise into the skin just below your collarbone.

You gasp again as he starts walking you backward, fast and clumsy, until the backs of your knees hit his bed. You fall with a soft thud, legs spreading instinctively, panties already damp and sticking to your skin.

"I don't have time—" he pants, eyes locked on the wet patch.

"You have time," you breathe.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, pushes them up until your knees are almost to your chest, panties stretched tight across your cunt.

"I should make you beg," he mutters.

"I already am," you whisper.

His mouth crashes down.

Right over your panties.

And you cry out — hips lifting, thighs twitching — as he drags his tongue hard over the soaked fabric, lips curling when he feels how fucking wet you are.

"Goddamn," he groans. "You missed me that bad?"

You nod, breathless.

"I didn't even touch you yet."

"You don't need to," you whimper.

He's licking you through your panties like it's the only thing keeping him sane, but when his watch buzzes on his wrist, he pulls back just an inch — breathless, flushed, mouth glistening.

"Shit," he mutters. Checks the time. "She's gonna be home soon."

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering. "Then you better be quick."

That breaks him.

His mouth crashes to yours as he fumbles for his belt, yanking it open one-handed, pants halfway down his thighs. You reach for him at the same time, push your panties to the side, pull him between your legs like he belongs there — like he never left.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against your lips.

"Then don't make it slow," you whisper. "Just make it worth it."

And he does.

He shoves into you in one desperate thrust — so deep, so fucking full it rips a moan straight out of your chest. His hands are braced on either side of your head for a second before one slides to your throat, gripping just enough to make your breath catch.

"Fuck—this pussy," he gasps. "Every fucking time. It's like you were made to fuck me."

You choke out a laugh, nails digging into his back. "Maybe I was."

He fucks you hard. Deep. Not rushed — but urgent. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every clench, every tremble. His body presses you down into the mattress, your legs over his shoulders, angle so brutal it leaves you speechless.

"You like this?" he grunts, tightening his grip on your throat.

You can't even answer. Just nod, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Use your words," he growls. "You want it like this, don't you?"

"Y-Yes—yes—Su-bong—please—"

"Say what you want, baby," he pants, eyes locked on your face. "Tell me."

"Choke me—fuck—choke me harder," you gasp. "You know I love it. You know I love when you ruin me—"

He does.

His hand tightens. Your head tips back.

He leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice rough and tender all at once.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My pretty fucking girl. Gonna fill you up. Don't worry."

Your breath hitches. "Please—please—inside—please—"

And that's when the door opens.

A pause.

The world stops.

You don't see her.

But you hear her.

A gasp. A stutter.

And then—shattered glass.

You twist your head toward the doorway — and she's there. Frozen. Face pale. Eyes wide. Tears spilling.

Su-bong freezes inside you. Hands still on your throat.

Your eyes widen. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

She breaks the silence.

"You told me not to worry about her!" Her voice cracks. "You said she was your best friend!" She's shaking now, yelling, chest heaving. "You told me I could trust you!"

Su-bong still hasn't moved.

He looks down at you — stunned, guilty, still hard inside you. And you — eyes glassy, lips parted — look up at him like this is the moment you've been waiting for.

Because now?

There's no hiding.

There's no going back.

And someone's about to burn for it.

The silence stretches thick — heavy enough to suffocate.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat, but your smile is steady.

You sit there, half-naked under the covers, legs spread slightly, still slick and throbbing, Su-bong's cock still twitching against your inner thigh.

You meet her eyes.

Hold her gaze.

And you smirk.

Soft. Lethal.

The final nail in the coffin.

Then you tilt your head, voice syrupy sweet, “he only fucks me like this because he can't with you."

The words land like a slap.

Her whole face crumples — color draining, mouth trembling — and Su-bong jolts like you physically punched him. His hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

"Jesus—" he growls under his breath, glaring at you. “Why the fuck would you say that?"

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

She stumbles backward, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking on a sob so broken it barely sounds human.

Su-bong yanks the covers over your body, muttering furious, useless curses under his breath as he shoves away from the bed — pulling his jeans up, erection angrily straining against the denim.

He catches her in the hallway.

"Babe, wait—"

You hear her voice crack like glass, “don’t call me that. Don't you dare fucking call me that."

A slam of a door.

And then silence.

You give it a beat. Two.

Then you slide out of his bed, bare feet padding across the floor, still naked, sticky, shameless. You find him slumped on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear inside himself.

For a second — just a second — you feel almost sorry for him.

But then the old ache tugs at your ribs — the jealousy, the hunger, the way he always picked her first even if it was just for the sake of appearances — and it washes clean away.

You move without thinking.

Sink to your knees between his legs.

His hands tense where they grip his hair, but he doesn't look up — not even when you rub your palms soothingly along his thighs, slow, careful, patient.

You nudge your head under his hands, tipping your chin up.

His red-rimmed eyes meet yours.

Broken. Defeated. Addicted.

"Want me to make it better?" you murmur, voice dripping with false innocence. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweet and slow. “Want me to finish you off, baby?"

He exhales — wrecked, trembling.

You see the exact second he caves. The way his shoulders drop, his mouth slackens, his thighs part just slightly under your touch.

He nods. Small. Miserable.

"Yeah," he rasps, almost inaudible. “Yeah, baby. Please."

You smile — soft, secret — and lean forward, pressing a kiss to the damp denim over his cock.

He shudders.

He's still hard for you.

Even after all that.

Even after her.

And that?

That's the sweetest victory of all.

[bvrnesher]

❝ The art of flirtation ! ❞ ― leo valdez !

tap here for chb masterlist ! here for reqs info

a/n: this was a req, but i accidentally deleted it TT. ! This is short as fuck, but I tried 🫂

— ✦ pairing: leo valdez ! reader.

LEO VALDEZ DID NOT invite you into his workshop.

Let’s make that clear.

You showed up. With your sketchbook, your paints, and that annoyingly pretty sunshine-aura thing you had going on—like some golden art nymph from a Renaissance painting decided to cosplay as a demigod and crash a garage.

You just waltzed right in, right past the “No Touchy” sign, the hazardous contraptions, and the suspicious trail of smoke leading to the corner where Leo’s latest death-trap invention was probably preparing to self-destruct.

And then, without asking, you sat down.

Right on his favorite workbench.

The one with burn marks, mechanical limbs, and a mysterious stain he’d never admit was salsa.

“Hey, Leo,” you said, like you owned the place. Like this wasn’t a sanctuary of gears, grime, and chaos but your own personal studio.

And just like that, he was done for.

You weren’t supposed to stay long. You’d said something about “inspiration” and “sunlight and steel” and how his workshop “had good vibes,” which sounded fake—but also suspiciously like a compliment.

So Leo just blinked at you, watched you pull out a battered paint palette and start sketching, and then spun on his heel and marched back into the clutter muttering something about “boundaries” and “how hot people always get away with stuff.”

That was, like, an hour ago.

And Leo liked chaos.

Not the dangerous, world-ending kind—he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime—but the fun kind. The kind that made your hair smell like smoke and your hands stained with oil and laughter. The kind that made sparks fly from metal and from the stupid little grin he always gave you.

Now? You were still there. Legs crossed on his bench, covered in smudges of gold paint and soft humming, your brush swishing across a canvas that rested against a toolbox labeled “DO NOT OPEN (seriously this will explode).”

You were a walking contradiction: warmth in a place built on fire, elegance in a place built from metal, and chaos in a form Leo somehow didn’t want to throw out the door.

So, naturally, he had to bother you.

For balance.

You sat on the workbench, surrounded by scattered sketches, sunbeams, and the faint scent of oranges. Your fingers danced across the canvas like they had a secret to tell. You looked out of place in the middle of scrap parts and smoke—but somehow, you belonged more than the blueprints ever did.

Leo peeked around the wall, a smudge of grease on his cheek and a screwdriver still behind his ear. He tried not to smile. Failed.

“Hey, sunshine,” he called, leaning on the doorway like he was auditioning for the role of "most annoying boyfriend alive." “Don’t mind me, just checking if the goddess of light came to bless my extremely important tinkering with her divine presence.”

“You mean I came to save your mess of a workspace with actual taste?” you said calmly, flicking your paintbrush with a flourish. “I should charge for the aesthetic upgrade.”

Leo gasped, staggering back like you’d stabbed him. “You wound me, art girl. You really do.”

You didn’t flinch.

“You know,” Leo continued, peering dramatically over your shoulder, “this whole art-in-my-space thing… very bold move. Should I be worried? Is this how invasions start?”

“You’ll survive,” you said, not looking up from your painting.

“Debatable,” he muttered. “You’re sitting directly on my wrench stash. That’s a war crime.”

You tilted your head, dipped your brush into a bright streak of orange, and replied calmly, “I’ll move if you say something that doesn’t sound like a bad pick-up line.”

Leo gasped. Clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “You insult me. That was a great pick-up line. It had flair.”

“It had grease stains and poor delivery.”

“Oof.” He collapsed against the bench, sighing dramatically. “You wound me, Apollo girl. First, you break into my temple of fire and invention, then you destroy my ego.”

You just kept painting. Which, frankly, made it worse.

“What are you even painting, anyway?” he asked, craning his neck to get a peek.

“The way sunlight moves across metal,” you answered simply.

Leo blinked. “You mean like… a shiny toaster?”

You smacked him with your paintbrush. Gently. He grinned anyway.

“Okay, okay,” he said, hands raised in surrender. “No toaster metaphors. Got it.”

There was a pause. A soft one. Your brush slowed, catching the light. Leo found himself staring—not at the painting, but at you. Your calm, your focus, the tiny smile you tried to hide whenever he teased you too much.

His heart did a little thing. Probably a short circuit. Or something poetic. Gross.

He looked away.

“You know,” he said eventually, “you don’t have to come in here just to steal my lighting.”

“Oh?” you replied, not missing a beat. “Then why do you keep turning the ceiling mirrors to catch the sun where I sit?”

Leo paused.

Then groaned.

“Ugh. Busted.”

You smirked.

Later—much later—he found himself sitting beside you, both of you on the floor, surrounded by paint-splattered rags, half-disassembled gadgets, and the soft buzz of quiet companionship.

Your painting leaned against the wall, golden and warm. His half-finished invention sparked beside it, humming softly like it didn’t mind sharing the space.

“You know,” Leo said quietly, “I always thought this place was too chaotic for someone like you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

“Y’know. All light and soft colors and poetic metaphors about sunshine.”

You nudged his leg with your foot. “You’re all sparks and fire and grease stains. Guess we’re both chaotic in our own way.”

Leo smiled, small and real. “Yeah. But you’re the pretty kind of chaos.”

You looked at him for a moment—really looked—and then leaned your head against his shoulder.

“And you’re the kind that makes a mess and calls it a masterpiece.”

“Rude,” Leo muttered. “True. But rude.”

And for the first time in a long time, the workshop felt complete.

Not perfect.

Just… warm.

— 💐 Req: Heyyyy could you maybe write Leo and an Apollo reader, with him tinkering and her doing art in his workshop? Then maybe he comes to bother her with bad jokes and teasing?

[yanyandam]

HI MY LOVEE !! Last night I had a late night thought, I was thinking about the members of the bonten with a s/o who was jealous easily out they are in a secret relationship with her that is not told to anyone, the s/o becomes jealous because at a party their boyfriend was too close to one of the girls who works in the club and gets angry in front of all the executives.!! (Ignore if u don’t like bby girl)

I love all of yours works !<3

HIII omg Love the idea! This is pretty out of character and I put the reactions of the ones that (I think) would actually give a damn...lmao! Hope you like this

You and MIKEY have a complicated history, it's not labeled, but it’s deep. He rarely says he loves you, but his presence is feral, protective. You walk into the club and see him sitting with a woman, her hand on his knee. Your chest burns. You approach, fuming. The club is humid with sweat and bass, lights strobing red. "So that’s how it is now?" The other members freeze. Sanzu gives you a nasty glare. The woman raises her brow, looking you up and down. Mikey doesn’t even blink. He just stares at you, long and cold. Then, in a voice that’s too quiet for this place: “Everyone out.” No one argues. The woman tries to protest. He grabs her wrist, not gently, and shoves her aside. “Now.” She then obeyed.

 He looks at you, not surprised, just... tired. “She’s information. That’s all.” His voice is flat, unreadable. You know how he works, but something about this hurts. “We talked about trust,” he says quietly. “You either believe I’m yours, or you don’t. I’m not chasing you tonight.” But later, outside, he finds you smoking. He doesn’t apologize, but hands you your coat. “You’re the only one I let close. Don’t mistake my work for betrayal.” That’s as close as he’ll get to begging.

–

You’ve been seeing SANZU in secret for months. The gang doesn’t know, because he doesn’t do softness in public. Tonight, you catch him with a woman nearly in his lap, whispering something in her ear. You explode, not thinking, just hurt. "You think I’m a joke?" He laughs first, wiping his mouth lazily. The others shift around. Mochi glances away awkwardly. Kakucho eyes you like he’s trying to decide if you should leave on your own or be escorted out. Sanzu stands up when you snap, “You’re not even gonna apologize?” His smirk fades, just slightly. “You want me to be better for you? Say it. I’ll try. But don’t act like I don’t give a shit.” He steps closer. “You got under my skin, alright? Don’t leave just ’cause I’m slow at learning how to care.” He’ll never beg. But you see it, that flicker of fear in his eyes when you walk away too fast.

–

You’ve been with KAKUCHO for a year. It’s quiet love: no drama, few words. You know he doesn’t play games. Still, tonight you see him leaning close to a woman at the bar. It’s not flirty, but it looks bad. You march over, heart pounding. Their heads are together, too familiar. You confront him, heat in your face. "What the hell is that?" He turns, slow and blank. He turns to you calmly. The room watches in silence. “I’m working. That’s what this is.” You’re still tense. He stands, hands in his pockets. He glares at his colleagues, especially Ran who’s smirking. How infuriating. He signals for you to leave the room. Then, he finally speaks. “You think I’d hurt you over her? Look at me.” His voice is soft, firm.

Later, he leans on the railing outside with you, city noise in the distance. “I get why it upset you. You’re not wrong. I just don’t know how to reassure people. I’m used to shutting everyone out.” He brushes your hair back. “But I don’t want to shut you out.”

—

You’re the only one who’s ever really gotten under his skin. KOKONOI plays the part of a cold, calculating exec, but with you, there’s a softness he never shows anyone. So when you catch him with a woman at the VIP table, her hand tracing his wrist, you go off. "You said you’d never disrespect me." He raises an eyebrow, leans back in his seat. He turns, ice-cold. The club hushes. Even Rindou stops mid-sip. “Watch how you talk to me, sweetheart.”

You feel a lump in your throat. Then, his face shifts. He exhales slowly. “You’re not replaceable. Don’t twist it. This? It’s part of the game.” He stands, fixes your hair in front of everyone, uncaring of the whispers. “I deal with fakes for the gang. But when I go home, I want you. I need you.” Once reassured, he waves you off, then turns back to Rindou, who seems to be holding back a laugh. “200k yen and you shut the fuck up.”

–

You’re MOCHI’s safe space, the only one who knows how soft he really is. So when you see him sitting with a girl in the club, laughing, her hands on his chest, it’s like a slap. You shout over the music, and he turns to you, eyes wide. "You forgot you have someone?"His face cracks. “Wait—wait! She came to me, I swear! I didn’t even look at her!”

Ran side-eyes him. Even kakucho frowns, unimpressed. “I messed up. I know how it looked. Please don’t walk away over this.” His voice cracks. Later, he’s sitting on the curb outside, holding your hand like a lifeline. Yeah, he’s definitely drunk as fuck. “I never had anyone care if I was loyal. You changed that. I don’t know how to do this right, but I want to.” You hug him, and he holds you tighter than ever.

–

You’ve been with RAN a while. It’s a real relationship, even if it's discreet. He runs the clubs, his business, and still finds time to spoil you rotten. But tonight, you see him chatting closely with a sleek, beautiful woman at the bar. She's laughing at everything he says. You walk up, voice low but heated. "She touches you one more time and I’ll snap her fingers off." He doesn’t get mad, he just smiles. “You jealous, baby?” Then his face softens. “Don’t be. She’s business. You're family.” Later, he wraps an arm around you in the back office, kissing your forehead. “There’s only one person I want in my bed tonight. You think I’d risk that?” He’s confident, but he never brushes your feelings off. His protectiveness doesn’t come from guilt. It comes from love.

—

RINDOU’s got a big mouth and even bigger insecurities. You two are in love, pretty simple. When you see a girl grinding on him in the club, you lose it. "Wow, you’re so loyal, huh?" He jumps back like he touched fire.

“No! No! She just—she grabbed me! I didn’t even–” Kokonoi, standing nearby mutters, “Amateur.” with a sly smirk.

You’re almost crying now, furious. He grabs your wrist gently. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”Later, outside, he wraps his jacket around you and kisses your hand. “I’m yours. I joke a lot, but not about that. Please believe me.” He learns from this. He grows. He stops flirting for ‘fun’ as much with women. You were his wake-up call.

[barefoothighlander]

never going back again - 02

summary: ghost finds himself at the wrong safe house, injured and unable to call for backup

simon ‘ghost’ riley x innocent fem!reader

warnings: mdni (18+), mentions of eating, nightmares, mention of alcohol, mutual pining

prev part masterlist next part

It was the calmest he'd ever been, lounging around the cottage with you near, he wasn't much for conversation but he enjoyed asking you questions, how long you'd lived there,

"3 years next month, I bought it a while back after moving here on a whim"

What you did all day,

"Garden and read, lots of painting, even more cooking"

It was all so foreign to him, the idea of living one day at a time, not worrying about the outside world or whether or not your life was in danger, he'd realized quickly that this was the first time he felt safe in years, even with the looming threat of enemies outside and the lack of contact to his team. It did occur to him that if he didn't reach out eventually he would be labelled MIA, but to a man who wasn't even legally alive, the prospect of never seeing his team again didn't worry him a bit, what did worry him was the burning smell from the kitchen.

"What are you doing in here?"

"I was trying a new recipe, it's harder than it looks" You rush to turn off the stove, quickly pulling the pan from the surface and using a towel to waft the smoke.

"I thought you were good at cooking"

"No I said I liked cooking, not that I was any good" You huff while reaching to open the small window above the sink, allowing the fumes to migrate through the opening.

He leans his hands against the table "It doesn't look that bad"

"You're a terrible liar, has anyone ever told you that"

"Most say I've got a great poker face" He tilts his head, you respond with an unamused haha,

He stands to his full height, moving towards you "Let me"

"Let you what"

"Cook, I'll make dinner"

"Anything's better than this" You nudge towards the pan of burnt food, straightening your clothes before allowing him the step to the stove. You turn to sit at the table, watching as he moves around the kitchen with ease, grabbing ingredients from various spots while you point him toward the proper cabinets.

"Where'd you learn to cook?"

"Had to figure out a way to feed myself once I left home"

"They don't feed you at work?"

"They do, but it's mostly inedible, more nutrient based than anything"

"Did your mum cook?"

He doesn't respond for a moment, leaving you to realize the words that come from your mouth, your smile fading quickly, "I'm sorry I forgot"

"S'alright, she um, she didn't often but some Sundays she'd make a roast, best meal I ever ate"

He turns to you, his gaze soft as you smile slightly in response,

"Well let's hope her skills weren't wasted on you"

He laughs lightly, a real laugh before shaking his head and turning his attention back to the stove. You watch as he prepares the food for a few minutes, reaching across the counter to add spices,

"So what are you making?"

"I am making" He stops his sentence, turning off the stove and twisting to face you, "French toast"

"French toast?"

"I said I could cook, not that I know a lot of recipes"

You cover your mouth as you laugh, your eyes creasing at the sides as he places a plate in front of you,

"Well, it smells great"

The two of you dig into the food, your gaze focused on the plate as you allow him the privacy to lift his mask up slightly, revealing his mouth, falling into a comfortable silence as you eat, Simon smiles to himself as you make a small hum of approval,

"You can't be serious"

"What'd I do?"

"That's like a cup of syrup"

"So?"

"You're teeth are going to rot from your head"

"What if they already have"

You scrunch your face at the thought, "At least it'd explain the mask"

"You don't have to turn away you know"

You make a small huh? in response,

"When I pull on my mask, I don't mind you seeing parts of my face"

"I just assumed"

"I know, but you don't have to turn away"

"Okay" Your voice is smaller, intrigue and confusion mixed into it as you nod. “How’s your cut”

“Healing, thanks to you, still tender”

“Can I” You turn your eyes to his, standing from the table to kneel by his side, his breath catches in his throat as you lower your body, your fingers inches from his stomach.

He nods lightly in permission, lifting his shirt for you and settling it on his lower stomach, your fingers pressing gently on the sides of his wound as you inspect it. His eyes stare at your face, holding back a smile as you bite your lip in concentration, you stand, turning behind to grab some new bandages from the cabinet behind you before returning to your position in front of him.

You brace your fingers against his skin, tugging at his bandage,

“Sorry”

“Doesn’t hurt”

You tilt your head to him and he’s watching you, his eyes locked on your face, your cheeks flush slightly under his stare, turning your attention towards his wound as you dress it, pressing the bandage into his skin. You let your fingers linger for a moment, feeling his stomach rise and fall with each breath before you slowly pull away, standing up and nodding.

“That should do”

“Thank you”

“It’s nothing”

“Thank you” He repeats in a lower, softer voice as he lets his shirt fall into place.

"Any idea when your ear thing will work again?"

"You trying to kick me out?"

"No" You widen your eyes at your quick response, "Just, want to make sure there isn't someone at home missing you"

"There isn't"

You mouth a small oh before turning your gaze toward the window, "It's late, you should rest"

"Right"

There's tension between the two of you, neither wants to leave the others company yet at the same time, neither of you will do anything about it.

"I'll see you in the morning" You smile, passing through the kitchen towards your room and closing the door, leaving Simon alone.

He wakes in a blind panic, the sky outside still dark as he blinks his eyes, turning his head towards your door, he can hear you shouting, rustling around and without thinking he enters the room. Your limbs are twisted between the sheets, jolting around as you mumble, he takes a step back as you sit up, your chest heavy.

You clutch your chest at the sight of him, lurking in the doorframe,

"You scared me"

"You were having a nightmare"

"Yeah, they happen sometimes"

It's then that you notice he's not wearing his mask, the room is dark but there's enough light for you to make out the curve of his nose,

He scratches the back of his head, "Okay" turning to leave,

"Simon"

He lazily turns his gaze back to you, responding with a small hmm.

"Will you stay, it's just"

He cuts you off, "Easier to sleep with someone beside you"

"Please"

"Of course"

You watch as he crosses the room, looming beside your bed as you pull the sheets to cover you, feeling the mattress dip under his weight as he settles in. He lays awkwardly on his back, his arms crossed over his stomach, you watch his chest rise and fall, without thinking you slide your palm against it, your fingers light on the fabric of his shirt as you move closer, pressing your chest against his side and resting your head on his shoulder. He snakes an arm around you, letting you nestle against him as his hand settles gently on your arm, his touch feather-light as he tries to keep a consistent heartbeat.

You must've fallen asleep shortly after, waking to the sun streaming into the room, your limbs tangled between his, both of you had turned in your sleep, his chest now pressed against your back as his arms held snugly against your waist. You can feel his steady breath fan across your neck, his face close enough that the tip of his nose grazes your skin, he's so warm, the sheets on the bed long forgotten in your sleep and the heat coming from him is more than enough.

You reach a hand to his arm, tracing over the lines of his tattoo and you feel him tighten his grip, his stable breaths now ragged as he wakes up. It takes him a moment to realize the position he's in, his brain doing little to comprehend the situation.

"Do you have something in your pocket?"

He pulls from you instantly, jolting upwards and turning around as you giggle,

"M'sorry" His voice is groggy, his accent thicker than usual.

"It's fine"

He keeps his gaze away from you, anxiously stretching his limbs before you realize,

"I'm gonna shower, I'll turn away so I don't"

"Thank you"

You can only see the back of his head, his blonde hair that's a mess, the outline of his head as he nods, shaking your thoughts as you move out of the room.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror, hoping that he didn't get a chance to see you that morning either, your hair was everywhere, the skin under your eyes dark from your usual lack of sleep as you strip your pyjamas, turning on the faucet.

You stand in the warm water, letting it wash over you, hoping it would calm your rampant thoughts as you hear Simon moving around behind the door.

You step out of the shower, wrapping your body in a towel and smoothing your hair back before opening the door, the steam wafting from the small room into the house.

“Where’s the kettle?”

“Top left cabinet”

You stand in the doorway, your hands squeezing the water from your hair as you look at him,

“Thanks”

He turns quickly to you and his body freezes, his eyes glued to your practically naked form as you stand, the beads of water dripping from your warm skin.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yep, just making tea”

“Okay, bags are in the lower cupboard”

He nods awkwardly, furrowing your brows at him before turning around, he lets out a heavy breath as you leave, leaning back against the counter as he drops his head back, staring at the ceiling.

“Shit” He mumbles to himself, adjusting his pants feeling them grow tighter as his mind runs circles around the sight of you, replaying the way your fingers traced over his skin, and scent of your hair as he rested his head against yours. He was awake most of the night, listening to you breath, smiling lightly as you mumble about nothing, you were soft, he’d never had soft before always jagged and dark.

His mind snaps back as you call from the other room,

“Are you any good at fixing things?”

“Depends, what needs fixing”

“The shutters outside, they’re falling apart”

“I could give them a look”

You appear in the entry, smiling at him, now clothed with your hair pulled back, he just watches you in awe, the fact that you could look so perfect no matter the circumstances, you could be caked in mud and still make his heart flutter.

The two of you sit for tea and chat about nothing, asking more questions that he dodges while you openly answer everything he had wondering about.

“I think you’re his new favourite”

Simon makes a small huh before you nudge your head toward his feet, the small cat nestling itself against his calf.

“Strange”

“He’s not strange”

“Not him just, I’ve never had a cat do this”

“Well get used to it”

He smiles under his mask, he could get used to this, spending his days with you, cooking and drinking tea, just enjoying each others company around the house.

“The shutters”

You set your cup down, nodding at him, “There’s some tools in the shed outside, not sure what’s left but maybe they’d help”

“I’ll get right on it then”

It was sweltering outside, the sun beaming down without a cloud in the sky as Simon tries to navigate his way around fixing the shutters. You see him through the window, his arms flexing as he unscrews some things and nails in others, you had no idea what he was doing but he looked good.

I’m hot, he must be hot you fan yourself with your hand, pulling the hair from your sweat glistened neck, eyes darting around the kitchen before an idea clicks in your head.

“Beer”

It’s the only word you can manage to think of as your eyes fall on him, somewhere in the last few minutes he’d stripped himself of his shirt, tucking the loose material into the belt of his pants as his sweat dripped down his skin.

“Cheers, love one”

Your throat dries, nodding as you extend a n arm toward him, the cold glass of the drink transferring to his grip as he tips it towards you in thanks, turning around to lift his mask slightly before taking a sip. Your eyes trailing down his muscled form, roaming over every ridge of his stomach before moving back up.

“Must be hot with the mask”

“Get used to it”

You take a few gulps of your own drink, running the glass across your skin in an attempt to cool yourself. He turns his gaze back to you, watching as you let the beverage run across your skin, leaving a trail of drips behind, he can’t tell if you’re teasing him or this is just how you act naturally.

“How’s it looking”

“Great”

“So you’re almost done”

“Huh?” His eyes pull back to yours,

“Are you almost done, it’s getting unbearable out here”

“Yeah, nearly there”

“Great, I’ll be inside”

The rest of the evening was calm, the two of you doing your best to stay cool in the small cottage as the sun set over the horizon, deciding on cooking something that didn’t involve the use of heat, settling on sandwiches for dinner.

“Mind if I shower, I’m covered in sweat”

“Yea of course” Your mind floods with the sight of his bare form, thankful that the hot air masked the flush of your cheeks, “Towels are in the washroom”

He nods, standing from the table to move toward the shower, closing the door behind him before turning it on. You blow out a long breath, bracing your hands against the table before turning your head at the sound of him wincing,

“You alright?” You call

“Yeah, just sore”

“Well hurry up, I’ll check your stitches”

You sit impatiently as he showers, nervously tidying the kitchen as you wait, your chest fluttering as you hear the shower turn off.

“Figured it’s easier if I just put my shirt on later”

He must be doing this on purpose, once again your eyes roam his form, his sweat replaced by dripping water as his freshly cleaned skin draws your attention,

“Sure, easier”

He sits on the couch, leaning back and positioning his arm against the top to allow you a better view to his stitches, to your surprise they’re doing well, no inflammation or bleeding, they look good.

“S’good, should be able to take them out soon”

“Great”

“Might leave a scar”

“Adds to the collection”

You pass your gaze over the skin of his chest, littered with scars, some small and others long, some old and some new.

“I’m fine”

“I know you are”

“It only hurts a little, when it happens”

“And someone did this to you”

“A few people”

“How many is a few?” You stare at him with rounded eyes,

“Nothing you need to worry about”

You soften your gaze, standing from the couch,

“I guess we should sleep now” His eyes follow your movements, he shifts in his spot trying to get comfortable,

“Simon, would you- nevermind”

“What do you need?”

“I felt bad waking you last night and I was thinking maybe, if we slept in the same bed I wouldn’t have any, you know”

“Yeah, I’d like that- you not having nightmares” He fumbles over his last words, trying to keep himself together at the prospect of once again having you close.

“Okay” You walk nervously toward your room, the simple action now feeling foreign as he trails behind you, “I’ll keep the lights off if you want”

He nods, closing the door behind him as you get into the bed, shuffling around a little before finding comfort in your position, you turn to your side but keep your eyes on him as he reaches to tug his mask off, your mind trying to piece together what he might look like behind the sharp lines of his shadowed face.

He sets himself beside you, moving an apprehensive arm under your pillow, making sure you were okay with it. You push back against him, your body perfectly slotting in front of his as his other arm settles around your waist, you hold it with your fingers, your thumb rubbing against the skin as you let out a small hum of satisfaction.

You’re asleep in no time, the warmth of the air combined with the comfort of Simon behind you lulling you into a dream while he stays up, his arms tucked against you, it was the most comfortable he’d been in years, maybe ever and be didn’t dare move, his body freezing everytime you moved a leg against him or squeezed his forearm lightly, they were like subconscious reminders that you wanted him there and it warmed his heart, melting against you as he tucked his nose against the nape of your neck, your hair brushing against his skin.

He wakes to an empty bed and a weight on his chest, opening his heavy eyes to the sight of Goliath,

“Good morning kitty”

He runs a hand across his back, smiling lightly as he purrs against his touch before he jumps off, startled by the sounds from the house. Simon quickly realizes that he’s not wearing a mask, it’s light out, and you’re not there, a small panic setting into his nerves as he stands.

He tugs on his mask and a shirt before leaving the room, pressing his side against the frame as he watches you move around the kitchen, steeping some tea while you clean up.

“Mornin”

You turn around with a wide smile, “Sleep well?” You ask, leaning against the counter,

“Best in years” He’s being honest, something about you was so comfortable, safe, he wanted to stay forever, if this was what life had in store for him then he’d accept it with open arms.

“Good, cause I think I found that wire you needed”

His heart sinks in an instant, “You did?”

“I think so, was tucked back in the drawer”

“Oh, I’ll see if it’s the right one then”

You smile, turning back to the kettle that had begun whistling as Simon panics, it was too soon, he wanted more time, he needed to figure out a way to stay longer, something good that would keep him here at least a few more days.

“The bathrooms got mold in it” It was the best he could come up with, he hated lying to you.

“Huh?” You turn with your brows furrowed,

“The bathroom, noticed it last night, I can’t fix it if you’d like”

“Are you sure, I didn’t see any”

“Easy to miss sometimes, it’s just near the drain, shouldn’t take more than a day to clean up”

“Yeah sure, just let me know what you need”

He nods, fighting back a smile of success behind his mask, excusing himself from your direct line of sight before internally celebrating, before stopping to think to himself,

Now I’ve gotta figure out how to retile a shower.

[mountkennedie]

Unleashing Hell

Loki x fem!reader

HEAVILY inspired by this one fluttershy x discord clip

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: You were captured by some of Loki's enemies (why does he have so many) and when he finds out, he comes to save you. angst to fluff

Warnings: Kidnapping and all the entails with it, men being pigs, hints at r4pe (not described), violence (Loki makes the PAY), could be triggering for s/h survivors (I will label where)

A.N. I love 'em protective fafo!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loki was already uneasy with your lack of attendance at afternoon tea. You rarely missed it, even said it was your favorite part of your day. And even when you had to cancel for whatever reason, you always alerted him beforehand. He sat there and let his cup run cold as he waited half an hour for your appearance. But once he concluded that you were not going to make it, he downed the now chilled cup and went back to his room, unfulfilled.

Then when there was a vacancy at dinner as well, he really was concerned for your well-being. He asked around if anyone had seen you, and all responses came back negative. His anxiety grew with each dissatisfying interaction. Loki was not one to worry about much, but for the much he did care about, it all concerned you.

He went to your room at a speed that would definitely be shocking to any onlooker. However now he did not care. You had not made any acknowledgement of your existence to anyone the entire day, and it was not like you. Even on days when you did not want to be disturbed, you told him in advance. But never complete silence.

He approached your door, his chest slightly heaving from the trek he had just completed. He could have just used magic, but he decided to use his time in travel to think of what he was going to tell you. Knock. No response. Knock knock. Still nothing. He sucked in a chest of air and said, loud enough to be heard on the other end of the door, "(Y/n)? Are you alright?" And once more, no response. His brows knitted as he concentrated on hearing anything on the other side of the door. But what he received only followed his current theme of the day, disappointment.

"(Y/N)?" He asked in a louder tone now. And like before he extended his focus to hear any sign of life on the other side of the door. But there was still nothing. Loki sighed and used some simple magic to unlock your door and entered slowly. His eyes scanned all around, but they did not find there desired target. He felt relief wash over him as he saw a lit candle in your bedroom. He knew you would never leave a lit candle unattended, so you must be near.

How long has this been burning?, Loki asked himself. The wax had well spilled over the holder and was now seeping in a puddle below itself. The relief he had recently acquired was now tested by oncoming suspicion. She would not have left it in this condition, He thought. His eyes looked around further, this time under the guise of skepticism. And he noticed a, now cold, glass of tea. And at your desk, there was something you were writing. The paper would not have usually paid much interest to him, however the way you left off mid word, did.

Loki blew out your candle before it could mess up any more of your table and instead used his green flame to light the room. And that was when he saw it. On your night stand there was a note.

Hello "God of Mischief"

Looking for someone?

Your beloved (Y/N) will be spending some time with my friends and I for some time

I hope you don't mind

But since I know you do

Bring us The Eternal Flame and you can get her back

And remember

Try anything foolish and you can say goodbye to her

The note had a loc of your hair attracted to it. The flame Loki already had flowing, grew into an inferno. The note went up into smoke, but not before he saw the address of the place he was supposed to go. It wasn't to far from the castle at all. The thought that someone in Asgard can have such strong disdain for him that they would do this, sat in the back of his mind. He would think of it later, once you were back in his arms.

He teleported to the doors of Odin's treasure room and got the eternal flame, though he had no actual intent of giving it away. However he needed you back, and Loki would do anything for that to happen. Once out of the room, he made sure he was not seen with the flame, and flew to the place you were being held. He was running on emotions at large, and due to that, did not think of a plan other than gutting everyone involved purely for putting you through this.

He flung the two doors open in one big wave of green. The first person he saw was a man dressed plainly. With a glare that held so much chill it made Jotunheim seem underperforming, he raised one hand to the man. His voice was heavy and daunting like an eldritch horror and he uttered the words, "Where is my bride."

When the man didn't answer fast enough for Loki's liking, in a green flicker, the man was being held by his throat. He was lifted and brought to Loki's face. His voice became low and haunting and he spoke, "where is she." The man looked into Loki's eyes with a fear that would live with for the rest of his days. However with Loki's current mood, he would live with that fear for the rest of this hour.

The man was too focused on getting air in his lungs that he did not respond to the God. And for that, Loki just placed his hand on the man's forehead and saw where you were being held in his memory. Once he got the information he needed, he sprung a blade from the palm that currently rested on the man's forehead, and ended his fear.

His body slumped to the floor and Loki continued on his hunt for you. He took a right and continued down a hallway. The man's blood on his hand was the least on his concern. Another man springs from a corner, armed with a spear. He doesn't pounce on Loki yet, but gets into position to. "Where's the flame, Laufyson." He spat the name like a slur. However what Loki was more focused on was how this man knew of his true lineage. The thought caught him off guard, and it was enough for the man to approach and strike him across the cheek. His blood coated the edge of the spear, and it broke him from his thoughts. "Or will we have to spend more time with that pretty girl you keep locked away." That line was what got Loki's emotions to front his actions again. But the problem with that was, his moves were more sloppy this way.

The man he was fighting was clearly a trained warrior. And with the help of his accomplice, that had suddenly joined in the fight as well, Loki was soon pinned to the ground. In a cocky tone the first man said, "you know, 'prince'. For you to call yourself a benevolent God, and then not want to share your prize... isn't very fair is it? She should not even be with you. And now you will not let her even be around those of better company? Makes me want to keep the flame and her, just to show her a good time." The disgusting captor and his accomplice broke out into a fit of laughter. Many had thought you and Loki's relationship was as controlling as the pigs said. But no one ever understood how free you really were with him.

The obnoxious joy the two pigs were enjoying were soon silenced when Loki rose from the ground. His hands enveloped in a blinding green glow. He said nothing at first, except lifted the men by the neck with one hand, like before. Except for a moment Loki closed his eyes, and sensed every presence in the building. Everyone except you were hunted down by his shadows and brought to where he was standing now.

TW AND VIOLENCE

It was a collection of ten men, all foul in their own ways. They met the same fate as the two men currently hanging. He gagged every man so that you not hear their torture. And with his other hand he summoned twenty daggers. One for each foot of the men. When they punctured, he began to speak and he summoned more knives. "I know that I am not one who was bound for a fruitful love." Ten knives, one for each man. They began at the feet, tracing slowly up the leg. the knives had enough pressure at the hilt to break through clothes and their skin. "And that is my burden to bear," the knives slowed to a stop at the waistline. And returned to the foot on the other leg, then mimicked their work on the other leg.

Loki was glad he gagged them. He didn't want the screams of your captors to haunt you. When the knives reached the waistline, they met both lines in the middle and began scaling up their stomachs. "However," there was a slight growl in his tone. The blade stopped at their necks. "If you, or anyone dare to harm my wife," he brought them close to his face and looked into all of their eyes. "I will always find you, and not even Valhalla could stop me from decimating you over, and over again." The blades sliced through all their throats, and their blood splattered all over Loki.

TW AND VIOLENCE END

He dropped their dripping carcasses and went to where they were holding you. Before walking in, in another wave of green, he cleaned their blood off of himself to make sure he didn't alarm you. When he opened the door, what he saw enraged him but most importantly, broke his heart.

You were tied to a chair and had a large sac over your head. You were trembling, and as his footsteps got closer, he heard your breath quicken with fear. "(Y/n)! (Y/n) it's me, it's alright." He slowly took the sac off so your eyes could adjust. What he saw broke him even more. You were gagged and your eyes were full of tears. He noticed a bit of your hair was shorter than the rest and he wish he could revive those bastards just to do even worse to them.

When you registered it was Loki you made a sound of relief and leaned as close as the ropes allowed, to him. In a second the gag and ropes dropped to the floor and you fell into Loki's arms. You just sobbed incoherently and let him hold you together as you did. Loki wrapped your legs around his waist and lifted you both up. You don't know when he did it, due to your eyes being shut, but he transported you both back to your room.

He held you in a crushing embrace, like you could be taken from him again at any moment. When you caught a bit of your bearings you said in a broken voice, "I don't want to be in here." The scene was still the exact same as when they took you. Then immediately, the pair of you were in Loki's room, still embraced. "Thanks," you replied as some left over tears still stained your face.

"Anything for you, darling." His hand rubbed your back as he softly spoke. There was darkness underlying his words, but you didn't acknowledge it, "And I mean anything." He was there as you showered, but not in the shower, he respected your need for privacy. Especially after today. And he stayed with you for the rest of the evening and even held you as you slept. As a reminder of his undying loyalty and love for you.

How these men knew of him so well he did not understand. And it plagued his mind as you rested. He did not care much for his information being known, only if it meant it could put you in danger. That would always be his first priority.

[beansprean]

Familiar interviews continue...

My Familiar’s Ghost part 82

Masterpost Masterpost 2

See the latest pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Upholstered chair on a mottled brown background. Sitting on it is a tall thin white man with short blond hair and a goatee, wearing a light blue leopard print suit over a white vee neck with white heeled boots and a chunky pinkie ring. He is lounging confidently, legs crossed, one hand poised up in the air as he says smugly, 'I graduated top of my class at New York Familiar College.'

2a. Reverse shot, waist up of Nandor and Guillermo sitting on the couch opposite. Nandor brightens and replies, 'Really? That is very impressive...' Guillermo glares at the applicant suspiciously, arms crossed and finger tapping rapidly. 2b. Reverse shot of the man on the chair as a stream of water sprays in from offscreen and hits him in the cheek. It burns and steams where it hits his skin and the man shrieks, rocking back and pulling his legs up from the floor in shock. His disguise immediately poofs away to reveal none other than... Simon The Devious! 2c. Reverse shot, full body, of Nandor sitting at one end of the couch, clipboard in his lap, as Simon rushes past and out the door, hissing and smoking. Guillermo has leapt up from his seat and is posed with feet shoulder width apart, holding a spray bottle in both hands like a pistol and pointing it at Simon's retreating back. He shouts after him, 'Get out of here, Simon! You're not welcome!' Nandor shrinks back against the couch to stay out of the line of fire.

3. Back on the chair, now featuring Sean, who is hoisting himself out of it by the armrests with a confused expression. He mutters, 'I was just, uh... lookin' for the bathroom...'

4. Reverse shot waist up of Nandor and Guillermo on the couch. Guillermo is slumped in fatigue, eyes closed, briefly removing his glasses as he groans, 'You live next door, Sean...' Nandor cups his hand around his mouth and turns toward the hall, calling out, 'Laszlo! Come collect your friend, please!'

5. Close up of Guillermo's clipboard, which has a few handwritten pages clamped onto it. The top page is divided in half by a line of ink, the left side labeled 'Applicant' and the right side labeled 'Recommended by'. Every line has been crossed out in red ink. The list of prospective familiars includes: Clara Tran, John Merkt (recommended by Nancy the Relentless), Farrah Baker, Sarah Colleton-Hampstead (recommended by Pamela), Kayvan Novak (recommended by Nancy the Relentless), Sky Velasquez, Marshall Vu (recommended by Elvis), Devon Simmons II (recommended by ???) scribbled out more than the others, Katie Blum (recommended by Greg Blum), and Muhammad S- before the panel cuts off. From offscreen, Nandor calls out, 'Thank you for your time; we will be in touch. Please do not get eaten on the way out. Next!'

6. Back to the chair, this time with Sam the cat sitting in it and letting out a polite mew. From off screen, Guillermo says, 'Well, that's disappointing to hear, Sam.'

7. Reverse shot, full body of Nandor and Guillermo on the couch as Sam walks toward the door, tail held high. Nandor is slumped toward the center of the couch, head propped up on his hand and clipboard abandoned at his side. Guillermo, clipboard in hand, waves after Sam with an awkward smile and says, 'Good luck at your new position! And let us know if anything changes?' Sam meows in reply. /End ID

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Cherry Blossom. aka - Cherry, Part Four.

a night of conversations, kisses and long awaited confessions.

pairing - bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - cursing, kissing (but no real smut).

word count - 2.6k

authors note - the babies are back!! no smut in this one - it was getting too long. but don’t you worry… there’s gonna be so much smut in part five !! sorry for the cliffhanger. love u <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

series masterlist. main masterlist. inbox.

The smoke from the bonfire is stinging your eyes, ash sticking to the strands of your hair. Orange embers burn rapidly, dry wood being occasionally thrown on top by drunk boys with red cups in their hands.

The music is way too loud for a forest party, but no one seems to care. Someone’s haphazardly strung lights between the trees, creating a surprisingly cosy ambience. The atmosphere is alive, charged with the electricity of being out later than curfew.

“M’lady!”

You laugh, accepting the drink from Eddie’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, kind sir,” you say as you curtsy sarcastically, making both of you laugh harder. “Hey, you didn’t bump into Steve on your way over here, did you? I haven’t seen him for like an hour.”

The curly haired boy kicks the toe of your sneaker with his.

“Saw him with that Clara girl, talking by the lake.”

You take a steadying breath, pretending it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“You should go and check if he needs rescuing,” Eddie jokes. “God knows she can talk for hours without coming up for air.”

You smile at him, pulling at one of his curls.

“Good idea. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” he winks, pushing you in the right direction.

You saunter down towards the water, spotting your best friend instantly. He’s stood with his arms across his chest, weight on one hip as he tries to listen to whatever Clara has to say. The minute he sees you, his posture is straightening, lips quirking up at the corners.

Clara turns around to see what Steve is looking at, her face falling when she recognises you.

“Hi. I don’t mean to interrupt! Just wanted to check if you needed another drink, Stevie.”

The boy grins, beckoning you closer with a nod of his head. When you’re near enough, he leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips, all affectionate and tender.

Oh.

You don’t do that.

The two of you have kept your romance completely behind closed doors, up until now. It hasn’t got a name, never mind a label, and you don’t need people asking questions when you don’t even know the answers yourself.

You could blame it on the alcohol, but you know Steve’s on his first drink. With your head spinning, you look up at him as if he is the sun and all things warm. He looks down at you the exact same way.

“I’m gonna go see where my friends are,” Clara says a little too loudly, strutting away with as much confidence as she can muster.

You have a sudden feeling that you’re the villain in her story, but you’re not entirely sure why.

“How many drinks have you had?” Steve asks as he pulls a strand of hair away from your face.

“This is my second. I was nursing my first one, Eddie says.”

The boy laughs, and you grab onto his bicep for support. The sound of it is enough to buckle your knees.

“This is my first. It’s not doing much for me.”

“You want something different? I’m sure Robin has that beer you like in her bag.”

“Nah, I’m okay. Don’t think I’m gonna drink any more tonight.”

Steve slips his hands into the back pockets of your jeans, pulling you in closer and keeping them there.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

And then he kisses you. Again. It’s slow and careful and so romantic that you think you might start crying about it.

“What time is it?” he asks when he pulls away as if nothing happened.

“Eleven thirty.”

“You wanna stay a bit longer?”

“Not if you don’t.”

Steve presses his lips to your forehead, hands cradling your cheeks.

“I kinda wanna go home.”

You smile at him, all soft and sweet.

“Then let’s go home. I’m getting a little cold, anyway. And I didn’t bring a jacket.”

“Will you ever learn?” he laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“If it means I have to stop wearing your jackets that I know you bring to parties just for me? No, I won’t.”

You weren’t supposed to say that out loud, but the way Steve chuckles soothes the sting of the accidental wound.

“Let’s go home, Cherry Baby.”

Home. The assumption that the two of you will always be returning to the same place makes your heart so full, you wonder how it doesn’t spill over.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“You good?”

“Feet hurt.”

This happens every single time the two of you go to a party, so you feel as if you’re reliving a memory.

“Hop on.”

“Steve-”

“Cherry. Come on. We’ll get home quicker this way.”

You can’t argue with that. Steve crouches as you jump onto his back, his hands wrapping around your thighs to keep you steady. You wrap your arms around his neck from behind, resting your head on top of his.

“Comfy back there?”

You hum, the noise of agreement enough for Steve to start walking.

The two of you chat each others ears off on the way home, talking about nothing and everything. You laugh so hard at something he says that you end up with a mouthful of his hair, which he in turn finds hilarious.

“Have you thought any more about what I said the other day?”

“You say a lot of things, Steven.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and giving your thighs a squeeze.

“About college.”

You go quiet for a moment, and Steve wonders if he’s chosen the wrong time to have this conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s talk about it later, okay? When I’m not constantly worried I’m gonna accidentally trip and kill you.”

You nod, and he feels it. You know it needs to be a discussion sometime soon, but perhaps having it when you’re being carried down the street on your best friends back isn’t all that practical.

“Love you,” you mumble into the crook of Steve’s neck.

He shudders a little at your lips on his skin, leaning his head sideways to rest against yours.

“Love you, Cherry Pie. More than anything.”

You let Steve piggyback you all the way to his front door. Neither of you say anything else. Neither of you feel the need to.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Steve bumps his hip into yours as you both brush your teeth, laughing at your shocked reflection in the mirror.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you place your toothbrush back in its holder, right next to his.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

You hop up on the bathroom counter, sitting up so you’re eye to eye with the boy in front of you. He takes a step forward, standing between your legs as he splays his cold hands over your thighs.

“Why’d you ask?”

You trace over his fingers where they rest on your skin, quiet for a moment.

“You seemed pretty eager to go home tonight. It’s unlike you. You love a party. Leaving at eleven thirty is like… unheard of, for King Steve.”

“King Steve would rather be at home with you than at a party with all those people.”

“Really?”

“Really. Clara was going on about something or other, the music was too loud, and I could feel the chill coming in. It hit me, all of a sudden, that I’d rather be in bed. Or, anywhere else, as long as I was with you.”

You lean forward to rest your head against his chest, sighing when he starts playing with your hair gently.

“You’re a softie,” you mumble into his shirt. “And a mind reader.”

“It’s my one talent,” he chuckles. “I wish reading your mind was a college major. I’d be the best in the world.”

You shake your head, laughing like you can’t help it.

“If I don’t move soon, I’m gonna fall asleep on this bathroom counter.”

“Want me to carry you?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” you tease as you hop down, “my legs actually do work.”

Steve gasps, all theatrical and exaggerated, which only makes you laugh harder.

“Come on, sleepy girl. Let’s go to bed.”

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“We’re not talking about stuff.”

You whisper it into the darkness, the trees rustling outside Steve’s window serving as the only sound you can hear.

“Hmm?”

Your legs are tangled with his, tired head resting on the boys shoulder as your sides are pressed together. You’re both lying on your backs, staring at the ceiling.

“We keep saying we’ll talk about stuff, but we haven’t been. It’s not like us.”

“You mean, like, feelings?”

“Yeah.”

All that can be heard now is two sets of heaving lungs. Steve’s hand finds yours under the duvet, fingers intertwining.

“Is there something specific that’s bothering you?”

“Not bothering me as such. I just… I think the more we don’t talk, the more complicated things become.”

There’s silence for a moment, before Steve speaks.

“I’m scared, Cherry.”

The tone of his voice is paper thin and vulnerable, and you will yourself not to cry about it.

“Of what, Stevie?”

You squeeze his hand, tucking yourself further into his side until there isn’t an inch of space between you.

“Of… everything changing. You’re my best friend in the entire world, and I know that what we’ve been doing isn’t typical… best friend stuff. I just…” he takes a deep breath, exhaling carefully. “I worry that something will happen and we’ll break up, and I’ll lose you forever.”

His voice cracks on the last word, fear seeping through his pores. Yet, he continues.

“I’d die without you, Cherry. I really would. I don’t know what it’s like to live in a world where we’re not… us.”

You turn onto your side to face him in the dark, reaching up to cradle his cheek softly. You rest your forehead against his temple, pressing a kiss into his skin.

“I’m scared too. I have been ever since that first night in my room. Not because I don’t trust you, or because I don’t feel that way about you… but because I don’t want to lose you either. More than anything, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Why didn’t we talk about this sooner?” he laughs, throat thick with emotion.

“Because we’re us. And whether we talk or don’t talk, we know we’ll figure it out. We always know we’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark. “More than all the stars in the sky.”

“I love you,” you whisper back. “More than all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world.”

You press another kiss into his temple, letting your lips linger on his soft skin. He smells so familiar, so warm, so yours… you can’t help but inhale, chuckling when he shudders.

You continue to leave kisses across his jaw, over his ear, down his neck. He tilts his head to give you better access, groaning when you nip at his throat with your teeth, licking over the scrape to soothe him.

Steve pulls you in as if you weigh nothing, moving you so you’re lying on top of him. You sit up, straddling his lap, as he does the same so you’re chest to chest. Running his hands under your shirt and over the bare skin of your back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You look so pretty like this,” he hums against your lips. “Prettiest girl in the world.”

“You wanna talk about pretty?” you tease, running your fingers through his hair. “My pretty, pretty boy.”

Steve’s hips buck up into yours, making you giggle.

“Oh, you like that? You like it when I call you pretty? Or do you just like it when I call you mine?”

His hips buck again as his cheeks flush pink.

“I am yours,” he murmurs. “Always have been.”

You thought you had the upper hand for a minute, but now you just want to cry. You’re overwhelmed by the way you feel about the boy underneath you, unsure of how to process it without bursting into tears.

“All mine,” you whisper, tracing the features of his face with your fingertip.

Steve takes a deep breath, watching your eyes as they look over him again and again, taking him in as if it’s the first time. He decides it’s now or never.

“Cherry?”

“Stevie?”

Your voices are low and careful, irregardless of the fact that you’re alone in the house.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stops, and so does the world outside. Everything pauses, the two of you suspended in this moment in time.

Steve takes another breath, exhaling it carefully before meeting your eyes and continuing.

“You don’t have to say it back. Now, or ever. I just - I needed you to know.”

You blink back tears as you watch his face, biting your lip to stop them from falling.

“Steve-”

“Hey, I told you. You don’t have to say anything, babe. I know-”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just-”

You surge forward and kiss him with all the affection you can muster, trying to express your feelings. You grip his hair, plastering your bodies together where you sit in his lap still. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in as close as he can.

“If you let me talk,” you say when you pull away, all breathless, “you’d hear that I have something I’d like to say.”

Steve smiles, humming in acknowledgment and encouraging you to keep going.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

The boy looks shocked to hear it, as if it’s news to him.

“What’s that face for?” you laugh.

“I just… I didn’t expect you to say it back.”

“Steve,” you chuckle, looking at him sternly. When you realise he’s being serious, you double down. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. When we were kids, and someone would say the word ‘husband’, I always pictured you. I was so convinced it was always going to end up being you and I.”

“Why… why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He laughs, and the sound makes you feel as if you’re on cloud nine. You can feel his heartbeat where his chest is pressed to yours, frantic like he’s just ran a marathon.

“Fuck, I love you.”

He leans up to kiss you, all saccharine and honey sweet.

“Say it again,” you whisper against his lips.

“I’m in love with you, Cherry.”

“Say it again.”

“I, Steve Harrington, declare that I am completely, utterly, ridiculously in love with this girl right here. I always have been. I always will be.”

You can’t help but throw your head back with laughter.

“And I love you. So much.”

The words you’ve always said mean so much more now. It’s a welcome change, one you never thought you’d see happen.

“Hey Steve?”

“Hmm?”

You lean in, nosing at his jaw as you murmur into his ear.

“Want you. So bad.”

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, all low and rough.

“Please. Want it to be you.”

Looking up at you with big eyes, he searches your face for any kind of hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

Smoothing his hair away from his face, you trace your thumb over his bottom lip.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “I’m about to rock your world, Cherry Blossom.”

@psychicnerdcat @allcheesemelts @valerievortex @swiftsgirlfriend @steviespookie @betweenstarsandsatellites @mrsjoequinn @internallysalad @saucypeanuttt @empathyroad @niceskyler @spookysins @theoraekenslover @7minutes-tomidnight @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @clairesjointshurt @livsters @diffrent-spokes @regular-joe-shmoe @ihatepeanutss @ladyburberry @thenonweeknd @abarelyexistentbeing @jennaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @slut4gaga @hopelessromanticwriter @mgchaser @wintrsoldrluvr

[gloomysoup]

he's probably worried (not hiding anymore)

@steddiebingo christmas card prompt: secret relationship

rating: teen+ | word count: 717 | tags: post-s3, post- starcourt, coming out | ao3

The air is filled with red-orange flames and smoke as the mall burns to the ground in front of him. His head is still spinning, face throbbing, and he can barely breathe. The adrenaline is starting to fade, and Steve’s injuries are making themselves known. He stands side-by-side with Robin, neither of them saying a word. Everything has changed. Neither of them will ever be the same person they once were.

Steve has a fleeting thought that Eddie must be worried. It's gone just as soon as it was there when the paramedics are ushering them into the ambulance and taking them to the hospital.

Everything is a blur of sirens and lights, Robin’s hand in his, a shock blanket around his shoulders. Doctors and bright lights, wires and beeping machines. He gets set up in a room for monitoring. Robin is okay. The kids are okay. Everyone is okay.

Steve doesn't even register what's happening when the nurse says they're going to call his emergency contact. His brain still feels a little fuzzy, even if things are starting to become clearer.

Everyone is gathered in Steve’s room. Robin and Dustin are sitting at the end of the bed, on either side of his legs. Robin refuses to leave his side. Steve is thinking about Eddie again.

Steve is late for dinner. He's probably so worried.

There's heavy footsteps in the hallway, shoes squeaking on the linoleum. The door flies open, and a head of curls stumbles into the room. Eddie’s eyes find Steve’s quickly, wild and full of fear and concern. He quickly crosses the room, pulling Steve into a tight hug. The room falls silent around them.

“Christ, Steve, I was so worried about you,” Eddie whispers, his voice tight like he's trying not to cry. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I'm okay, promise. Just a little banged up, that's all.”

Eddie sucks in a very shaky breath, not letting go of Steve. “You're not allowed to scare me like that anymore, asshole. I can't handle it.”

“I'll do my best. How'd you even know I was here?”

Eddie pulls back, his hands resting on the sides of Steve’s face. “The hospital called Wayne.”

The door opens again, and there's Wayne. Steve notes that he looks tired, but the older man smiles when his gaze lands on Steve.

“Glad to see you're still kickin’, kid,” he says, the worry washing away from his face.

“Sorry, Wayne, can't get rid of me that easy,” Steve says with a grin that pulls at his cuts and bruises. Wayne barks a laugh at that, shaking his head.

“What the hell is going on?” Dustin says, finally finding his voice.

Eddie's eyes go wide as he suddenly seems to realize they are not alone in the room. Steve grabs Eddie’s hand with a smile and gives it a squeeze. Then he clears his throat and looks at Dustin.

"Wayne is my emergency contact,” he explains. “Has been for a little while now. I've, uh… kinda been staying with them from time to time.”

Dustin frowns, his eyebrows knit together. “But… why?”

Steve glances at Eddie, squeezing his hand again. He takes a deep breath. It's now or never. “Eddie is… my boyfriend.”

It's the first time he's said the words out loud. It's the first time they put an actual label on what they are, what they truly mean to each other. They've been boyfriends for a little while now, but they never actually talked about it. There was always so much sneaking around and secrets and keeping it under wraps. They were both scared.

Not anymore.

Steve isn't scared to hide Eddie away from his friends, from his family. The people who truly matter. Not when Eddie has never been scared of hiding him from Wayne, his family. He's done being scared, because he knows there's so many scarier things out there. He knows that monsters are real, and he knows it'll take a lot more than a boyfriend to run off his monster hunting family.

So he smiles at Eddie, and he calls him boyfriend. Because that's what he is. He's Steve’s boyfriend, and he loves him.

He's done keeping that a secret from the people who have always had his back, despite what they've been through.

[forthelostones]

𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ➺ 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 #8

anderson construction and landscaping had been parked outside your door since you returned home from university. as if the summer couldn't get any hotter, the business owner works overtime in your area. anderson is collecting new, loyal clients of your neighbors, cementing her permanence in your life for the next few months. what's to come of your girlish crush when she keeps showing up?

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 18+ (mdni); age-gap, young!reader, older!abby, butch!abby, slow-burn, suggestive language, thoughts of infidelity, ellie ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of parents, nickname: sweetheart, and modern au.

𝚊𝚗. guys, you're awesome that's for supporting me. i've recently stopped using grammarly for a more real writing experience. so if things are wonky, just know thats why! no more ai help.

♫ 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. want me by chloe x halle ♫

You stumble through Ms. Anderson’s living room to find a spare blanket hidden somewhere in the darkness. With the terms you and Ellie are on, it wouldn’t be wise to have her pick you up tonight. Especially since you hadn’t told her you were hired by Abigail as her assistant. Not that she had outwardly admitted she had issues with Abby, but you knew Ellie more than anyone else — she was jealous. It was going to come up sooner or later considering you will have to see her on site but for now, you just needed to sleep.

You check in the corner near the massive bookshelf to find an ottoman hiding a fluffy black comforter. You creep through the house to search for the bathroom but not before you check on her. So, as the door opens and you see a snoring Abby sprawled out messily on her large bed, hair flaring on the silk pillowcase, mouth open and one arm hanging off the bed. You walk to close her curtains and take her now empty water glass with you out of the room. You handle it carefully and set it on a countertop. You wanted her. You craved her differently than you did Ellie. It was foolish but when her eyes hovered over your body today, you knew she wanted something from you. You don’t think she even knew what it was, if it was sex, companionship, or both, it was something. Something you had to find out.

This often happened, you thought, a mature woman could increase your curiosity easily and swiftly. They forced you to compare your relationship with Ellie to them and wonder how was it truly to fuck someone who knew exactly what they were doing. And Ms. Anderson knew exactly what she was doing. Staring at your curves so intently, and piercing your soul with those heavy eyes every chance she got. It felt good to watch the handsome woman admire you and possibly reminisce about her former self. Suddenly warm, you linger on to find her bathroom and flickered on the light. 

The tiling was navy and white hexagons layered up and down the length of the room. On the left just as you entered was a wall with five inch deep shelving embedded in it. She was so organized, items sat in small matching boxes, not overfilled but just enough. It amazed you. All black boxes sat on three shelves neatly labeled with their contents: medical, personal, and hair. You close the door softly and pick through the first two baskets, trying to not disturb their contents. Beside the shelves on the opposite wall is a small window that is slightly open, probably to help with the moisture and it’s covered in privacy film. Her neighborhood was noisy with a variety of buzzing lightning bugs and cicadas.

Next to it is the wide shower encased in reflective glass spanning almost half of the rooms size. Inside were waterproof shelves holding more of Abby’s products and a wooden showering bench. Finally, you turn to the mirror that faces the shower directly and begin to wash your face off in the sink. The summertime was unforgiving and you started to feel it — sticky neck and a damp back was motivation enough to risk a shower and have her realize you never left. 

Your fingers trace Abby’s usual products, not that you were shocked but you did crack a smile at the common theme of vanilla. You fold your clothes and place it on the sink and begin to lather a small dollop of her body wash into your skin. The water pressure was lush and the heat alone was hotter than you were used to but it felt so soothing, so right.

What would it be like to shower with Ms. Anderson on the days you’d spend the night? Her wide, wet hands tracing against your spine and wrapping around your waist to pull you into her needy body. Spreading warm, bubbly soap over your breasts and gently wrapping her fingers around your neck. A soft sigh escapes you as you fantasize about the woman who owns this house — who practically built it. You could slip into her bedroom right now and confess. 

But what was there to confess to Abby? That you had a crush on the woman? Or that you saw how easy it was for her to lead and how much that turned you on… ridiculous. This wasn’t unusual, you had crushes in your life and you thought that was normal. The girl from Chemistry, the TA in Philosophy, or your English professor, it was interesting to see people differently and fantasize. But there was a different level with Abby, you thought about her, not just in the moments you see her but after. Pondering on the what-ifs, you wanted her to see you differently than she did now. 

You finally turned the water off and stepped out onto the fluffy shower mat, mirror evenly steamed up and a creeping realization that you were standing naked in your new boss’ home. The comfort was over and now the feeling became intrusion, you were out of your mind. A creaking noise outside of the door awakened your senses further, the noise in your head was your heart. Air-drying would have to do. Back in your clothes and in her living room asylum was found under the down-feather cover. It shouldn’t feel this good doing something this bad, staying without invitation, but you knew she wouldn’t mind. To wake up to a relaxed, totally open you on her couch because your safety was her main priority. 

A warm morning sun welcomed you out of a slumber of fantasies and one of reality. You were inside Ms. Anderson’s house, lying down as if you were at a sleepover. You sat up immediately once you heard a familiar step pad down the hallway to empty into the living room. Abby rubs her eyes awake and stretches. That tight, white shirt pressed against her body deliciously, exposing her frigid nipples that were punctured with rings. You blink ferociously, hoping you were awake and not dreaming. The protruding metal laid perfectly flush against the fat of her breast, outlining a small circle on each nipple. The sensation filling your mouth could only be described as mouthwatering. 

“Oh, hi?” She yawns. 

“Good morning, I slept here bec—” 

“It’s alright, I know. It was nice what you did,” she leaned on the door frame. “I don’t deserve it but I’m thankful, so thank you.” 

You begin to fold the duvet, your clothes were tucked in awkward positions, exposing thigh and shoulder, a chill carried over you. “It really was not problem, I wanted to make sure you didn’t miss your meeting this morning that you told me about, remember?” You flush. 

“Right,” 

The woman took a hand through her hair to clean herself up. Her stomach popped a bit over her waistband revealing lingering sprawl of light hair towards the center of her belly. Those thighs filled out her boxers wonderfully and you couldn’t pull your eyes away from them, hoping one day you'd be able to be crushed in between —

“Technically you don’t start until next week.” Abby covers her chest with her forearms suddenly feeling insecure. 

“I know but seeing you last night made me worry that you wouldn’t wake up this early.” You smiled. 

Abby just nodded her head, unsure of what to say next. 

“I’m sorry for that, it was completely unlike me.” 

The distance between you both felt vast, like you were on two opposing continents, like you did something wrong. 

“Clearly, you have a lot on your mind.” You mutter gently. 

Abby directs you into the kitchen where she opens up her small windows to air the house out and start a fresh pot of coffee, her gray fuzzy house shoes scratching against the hardwood. 

“Why don’t you come along with me today, to my client meeting? It’ll be training.” 

You stood with your back against her cool fridge and peered down at your current attire. It would be much better than walking around the neighborhood today with mom and a potential argument with Ellie festering. “That could be perfect but I need to wear something more up to par with you.” 

A laugh bellowed from Abby’s plump belly. 

“I wear ten year old cargo pants and tee shirts but whatever you say. You want a cup?” 

You just nod at the pure persuasion of the fresh, hot coffee infiltrating the air. 

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet though.” 

“Right, um I left one in the bathroom for you, extras from the dentists should do the job.” 

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

It hadn’t slipped out of your mind that Abby said her clients mom was interested in meeting her daughter. Abigail appeared as if she had fought a million hangovers before in her life, she was glowing. Her farce about cargo pants and t-shirts went out the window this morning when she slicked her hair in a low braid, perfectly french-ed onto her scalp. Although the outfit was a bit outdated, she looked as daring as ever, dark green button down top with cropped sleeves and black chino pants. She was actively trying to looking good. She was kind enough to take you back home to change and get ready for the day. It all worked out since she had to check up on the current project. 

“I really appreciate your family for thinking of me yesterday. It’s rare that clients think so highly of us construction workers. The most we get are drinks but no one thinks about the actual energy that we exert and how high our food intake is.” 

How were you to tell her it was mostly you, not your parents, they were just the willing party. 

“Of course, I’m glad you enjoyed it, seemed like you really need it.” 

Abby’s posture changed but her eyes stayed forward. 

“You’re a great chef.” She turned slightly to connect with you. She needed you to understand how deeply she admired how you took care of her, since the first interaction. She wanted to be clear about what her words meant, they weren't empty, or so you hoped.

“Thank you, hopefully I can cook for you again.” You say, poking an already anxious bear.

[toysrguts]

can i request sally face relationship headcanons maybe??

sally face fandom is sooo dead:(

sally face realtionship hc's!!!!

i dont write this kind of stuff usually but i actually had a lot of fun with this ^___^ i hope its everything u hoped for 🙏🙏

sal:

•his love language is quality time, he loves spending time with you even if youre just doing nothing together

•your presence is very comforting to him

•isnt physically affectionate unless he knows youre 100% okay with it

•once he gets comfortable around you he will not let go he loves cuddling

•your dates are more lowkey like playing video games or having movie nights

•writes little songs for you and plays them on his guitar

•the best listener, you can yap all day and you will have his full undivided attention

•you can feel the shift in his behavior when hes in public with you vs being alone with you. he can let his guard down when its just the 2 of you

•communicating is hard for him but he is very understanding

•has a lot of deep conversations with you

•at night especially is when he opens up most, and you find it really endearing

•he has insomnia so sometimes you stay up all night talking or doing other things

•he loves how good you are with gizmo, hes basically your child

•gets so flustered when you make eye contact with him so naturally because hes insecure and sensitive about his face

•your acceptance of him means a lot to him

•literally melts when you play with his hair or scratch his head

•has abandonment issues and often worries hes not doing enough but you do your best to reassure him

•he can also be really clingy but he knows when to give you your space

•gives you really meaningful obscure compliments constantly, he finds all your “imperfections” beautiful

larry:

•very loving but also likes to mess with you and is such a tease

•will randomly come up behind you and pick you up when you least expect it

•he loves playing with your hair, especially when youre in bed together he’ll run his fingers through it until you fall asleep

•takes you to all of his secret hangout spots around nockfell for smoke seshes and picnics

•although he can be intense sometimes, hes really gentle with you and knows how to calm you down when youre overwhelmed

•loves getting you little gifts when you least expect it

•he frequently invites you over for painting dates

•also treehouse dates!!!!

•falling asleep up there and getting to watch the sunrise together

•PLEASE steal his clothes he loves that shit

•especially when you give them back and they smell like you

•taking you to concerts and shows is like his favorite thing ever

•not afraid to show affection with you in public

•you're his and everyone needs to know

•when he gets comfortable you get to see a different side of him

•hes usually loud and silly and annoying but he has an emotional and vulnerable side that only you really get to see

•acts of service are his love language fs, he cooks and cleans for you all the time

•hes definitely the jealous type

•someone complimenting you is fine, but if he catches someone flirting with you hes throwing hands

•sharing music with you is his favorite past time

•picking up cd’s from the music store and blasting them on his stereo together

•or on public transport where each of you has an earbud in

•lisa LOVES you and is always so welcoming whenever you come to stay with larry

•makes special burned cd mixes for you and labels them with sharpie and doodles little things on them

ash:

•you are her entire world she cannot be away from you for more than 5 minutes

•thinks your eyes are really pretty and you catch her staring into them every so often

•makes really heartfelt handmade gifts for you (like one of her “little dudes”)

•tries to make you laugh when youre sad

•it works like 99% of the time

•takes you everywhere on her motorcycle

•“hop on loser, we’re going to mcdonald's”

•takes a lot of pictures of you together and hangs them up on her wall

•can always sense when something is wrong and always knows how to make you feel better

•writes you little love letters every so often so you never forget how she feels about you

•will beg and pleade to let her do your makeup

•its mostly just an excuse to get close to you and get to sit on your lap :3

•also loves styling you in different outfits even if you dont wear them out, youre like her own personal model

•has like 20 different nicknames for you

todd:

•he smells sooooo good

•like pine and cedar wood 🤤🤤🤤🤤

•and dont get me started on his hair

•its so fluffy and smells amazing he loves when you run your fingers through his curls

•loves taking you out and spoiling you because you deserve it

•so chill and easy to communicate with, your comfort and happiness is his number one priority

•very protective over you but he tries not to be overbearing

•talks about you to literally everyone when youre not around

•remembers all the little details about you that you would expect him to forget

•the biggest nerd ever and loves yapping at things he likes, but he loves hearing you talk about your interests even more

•if you get obsessed with something like a video game or tv show he will not rest until you get him into it too

•if you crash at his place, expect breakfast in bed

•if youve had a bad day hes there to pamper you and give you everything you need

•“i got you this cuz it made me think of you” as he holds out a rock in his hand

•seems really serious and intimidating but youd be surprised

•hes such a dork when you get to know him

•drives you around literally everywhere, he loves traveling with you with the windows down and the radio blaring

[spid3namy]

♡　　i always want you when i'm (coming down) 　　♡

ft. geto suguru

cw: 18+ , fem!reader, modern au, mentions of weed & alcohol , praise, unprotected, fwb ( kind of but not really ), pet names, confessions, riding, mdni.

words: 3.2k

the air was muggy. there was so much smoke that filled up the room but it didn’t matter. not when you tasted so damn sweet. sure, you had a ton of weed in your system and it was mixing around with the alcohol you had been drinking earlier. and yeah, you would never do this on any other occasion but right now, it didn’t matter.

you two had been smoking for a few hours now. 

it had first started with passing a blunt to one another, laughing and drinking as you two talked about who the fuck knows. ya know, the usual; then you had jokingly offered to just blow the smoke into his mouth instead of him having to take a hit of the drug. 

and to your surprise, he agreed. without a moment’s hesitation, he had pulled you onto his lap to give you a better angle of being able to blow the smoke into his mouth.

one thing led to another and now you two were making out; a half finished blunt perched between his fingers while the other rested on your hip gently. you tasted sweet; even though you tasted mostly of alcohol and the weed you two were smoking.

that didn’t matter to him, though. you still tasted sweet to him. and he loved that about you; he was almost positive that you knew that. you must have known since he refused to stop kissing you. 

but your lungs were burning. whether from the drug that was in your system or from lack of air, you didn’t really now. but it didn’t matter. when you finally pull away for air, his eyes lock onto you; they are bloodshot and droopy ever so slightly. 

“aw.. pullin’ away so fast?” geto asks, a hint of mockery and teasing in his tone. he takes a drag of the blunt that was still perched in his fingers. he blows the smoke out after a few moments and gives you a cheeky grin. “don’t tell me you shy now, doll..” he was still teasing you and you knew it. 

bastard.

the sound of his voice made you let out a small giggle; you body sways from side to side slightly. it was clear that you were feeling the effects of the substances you had allowed into your body; if you hadn’t already been feeling them, of course.

you watch as he takes a hit of the blunt, lips parting slightly in awe as you watched the smoke leave his mouth so.. perfectly. your lips were red and slightly swollen from the feverish make out session you two just had. the realization almost made him want to laugh but he didn't.

you loved kissing him; loved how his lips felt against yours. they fit together like puzzle pieces. not that those words would ever leave your lips.

you two had a somewhat interesting relationship. you two were friends. ones who made out all the time and had sex sometimes. but you never really put a label on it. just.. friends. or smoking buddies to be more accurate about it. you make sure to remind yourself that this was not any sign that he wanted a relationship with you. this was merely a way to relax from the stress of the world outside. 

here, in his living room, was a safe space. one where you didn’t need to worry about anything other than each other.

you blink out your thoughts when you feel smoke on your face; he must’ve taken another drag of it. you give him a lop-sided grin before taking the blunt from his fingers.

“‘m not shy.. jus’ needed some air ‘s all” you tell him, finishing off the blunt before putting the butt of it into the ashtray with the rest of them. this had been the fourth one you two had shared.

“what? you like kissin’ me that much, Sugu?”

a giggle leaves your lips along with the smoke in your mouth, your eyes focused on him. 

geto had his eyes locked onto you the whole time, watching as you laugh and sway from the effects of the drugs and alcohol you had consumed. it was cute, frankly. 

he leans into the couch more and rolls his eyes, though there is not real indication that he was annoyed with you; just a playfully gesture more than anything else. he thought you were adorable. 

in more ways than one.

though, he doesn’t believe you when you mention that you aren’t shy. he could just see it in your eyes that you were most definitely shy. at least.. on any normal day you were. 

“you seem pretty shy to me, doll.” he says, letting a smirk form on his lips before he leans closer to you, his other hand now resting on your hip. “and maybe I do enjoy kissin’ you.. guess we’ll never know the truth though, hm?”

you let out a snort and lean forward slightly; your chests were now pressed together. your hand comes up to touch his shoulder lightly as both of your legs rest on each side of his hips, pressing light kisses onto his jawline.

“careful there, Sugu.. keep talkin’ like that and we might have to kiss ‘gain” 

your tone is teasing as you press another kiss onto his jawline, sitting up and giving him a cheeky grin.

“want another blunt, my dear?” 

a small shiver runs up his spine at the kisses you gave him. he wouldn’t admit it to you ( and your ego ) but he fucking loved when you kissed him like that; when you pretended that he was yours. but he wasn’t. 

well.. not in the romantic sense. 

“‘s that ‘possed to be a threat?”

his eyebrow raises slightly as he smirks lightly. though, if you two did kiss again, he wouldn’t mind it. not when you tasted so damn sweet.

“come on.. roll another one up, sweetheart.”

you press a kiss onto the corner of his mouth before sitting up, leaning backwards towards the coffee table. you can feel the way your back pops slightly from the action. not that you really minded. 

you grab the bag full of weed and rolling paper before turning your attention back over to him. you roll your eyes playfully and poke his cheek lightly.

“don’t be so damn desperate, Sugu.”

you fill the paper in your hands up with the weed before your eyes lock onto his dark colored ones. your tongue lightly poking out and licking the paper before you pushed it together. 

the action was so seductive. enough to cause his dick to twitch lightly. he mentally curses himself for the way his body reacts to watching you roll up a blunt. sometimes he wished you weren’t so damn seductive without even trying all that hard.

“c’mon.. open wide for me, darling..” you lift the blunt up to his mouth, holding a lighter in your other hand.

geto lets out a small laugh as he rolls his eyes. the way you spoke to him was enough to bring his dick to its half hardness. he tried to be annoyed with you but when you looked at him with those doe eyes of yours, he knew it was all over for him.

he doesn’t hesitate and opens his mouth slightly, allowing the blunt to rest between his lips gently. his dark colored eyes stay locked onto your face; his lips curving up into a slight smirk.

a small giggle leaves your lips as you light the blunt. your hand holding his chin up lightly; the touch alone sends a small shiver up his spine.

“ooh.. good boy” you coo, the words seeming almost teasing as you set the lighter back down onto the coffee table. 

you allow your chest to rest on his once again, kissing his jawline before moving to his neck. the smell of weed quickly fills up your nose; your shoulders relax even more as you let it over take your senses.

geto lets out a small hum in response to the praise. feeling the blunt being placed in his mouth, he takes a deep inhale; smoke filling his lungs and his body immediately starts to relax in the next moment. 

he wouldn’t admit it but he loved when you called him a good boy. and his dick loved it just as much. but he would die with that secret. 

his hands gently caress your hips, loving the feeling of your skin under his fingertips. he swore he could feel every fiber of skin there. you felt so damn perfect on top of him. it made him wonder how you would look if you rode him. 

he lets out a small breath and he slowly exhales a large amount of smoke. he could not allow those thoughts to fill his brain right now; not when he was already struggling to keep his dick under control. 

the feeling of his hands on your skin causes a small shiver up your spine but you chose to ignore it. 

your mouth nipping and sucking dark marks onto his skin; you were always more confident when you were high. you marked him up like he was yours to mark up.

but he didn’t seem to mind it. 

if you were sober, you wouldn’t be doing this. wouldn’t even be on his lap right now. but you weren’t sober. you had marijuana and alcohol in your system, the two forcing a confidence in you that you weren’t really familiar with. 

you didn’t care though; you liked how it made you loosen up. how it made you not worry as much as you usually would.

"watch your hands, pretty boy" you purrs, sitting up and grabbing his wrist lightly. you move his wrist towards your mouth, taking a hit of the blunt before you blow the smoke towards his face lightly.

his eyes stay focused on you the entire time; he watches as you leave marks onto his skin. the feeling of it causes him to let out a content sigh. 

he honestly would be lying if he said he didn’t love this confidence you had. especially since you would never do anything like this when you were sober. you were usually much more shy; much more reserved. 

"oh I will, doll. but you should watch your mouth." Geto teases, letting his hand wander to gently caress your thighs.

you roll your eyes lightly before taking another hit of the marijuana, keeping the smoke in your mouth. your hands soon come up and pull him closer, pulling him into a feverish kiss.

you gently transfer the smoke into his mouth, a buzz going through your body. you allow your tongue to lick around his mouth, your hips rolling against his. the movement is slow and calculated, just enough to make him need more.

and it worked. because he did need more. 

geto lets his eyes half close as your tongue and lips move against his own. the taste of you mixed with the weed they just finished makes him dizzy. 

his body relaxes under you as you roll your hips against him. his hands grip at your thighs, loving the plush feeling under his fingers. 

you hum and roll your hips again, the kiss between you two turning more feverish with each passing second. geto’s eyes nearly roll back into his head when you grind against him again. you were driving him crazy and it was making him dizzy.

when you pull away from the kiss, he nearly whines at the loss of contact. you let out a small snort and roll your eyes playfully, grabbing the blunt from him and take a drag from it.

“don’t fuckin’ tease like that, doll” 

geto barely recognizes the sound of his voice as he speaks. it was so hoarse yet so whiny all at the same time. it was so weird for him. 

but you had that effect on him.

and he fucking hated it. yet he loved it all at the same time. not that he would admit it of course. he had too much pride to do so.

you give him a grin as you blow smoke into his face, rolling your hips against him once again. you were still teasing, he knew it. knew that you were doing this on purpose. and if he didn’t like it so much, he would’ve gotten pissed off with you at the fact that you insisted on teasing him. call him greedy, he didn’t care. 

“c’mon.. do somethin’ to me.. don’t leave me hangin’ here, doll”

you let out a snort and roll your eyes, finishing off the blunt before you set the butt of it with the rest of them. he sounded so desperate. it was quite cute. not that you would admit that to him.

you allow a hand to reach up and grab his chin, pressing your lips against his once again. he immediately kisses you back, pulling you closer to him and groaning lowly. he must’ve been real pent up with the way he was practically whining for your touch. for more of you. 

not that he would admit to you. he had way too much pride to ever admit that. 

his tongue presses into your mouth, licking around and gripping your hips at the way you tasted. it was sweet yet had a bit of marijuana mixed in with it. and he loved it. loved how addicting you were. 

geto allows a hand to reach up your shirt, lightly brushing a thumb over your nipple. you let out a gasp in his mouth; you hadn’t been expecting his cold hands to touch you like that. he grins and pinches the growing bud, loving the way you whimper and squirm around on his lap.

you pull away from the kiss, your hands reaching down and pulling your shirt over your head as you stare down at him. geto is staring at you almost star struck. it was cute.

he never failed to look so interested in you no matter how many times he saw your body.

“fuck, doll, you’re gorgeous” 

he leans forward and presses his lips against your neck, sucking dark marks onto your skin. you moan and allow your hips to roll against his, your fingers tangled into his hair. he continues his assault on your neck before he moves down to your chest. 

he presses light kisses on your breasts, his hands on your hips to help you grind against him more. it was starting to make him lose his mind. you let out a small whine, needing more than what he was giving you. it was like he was teasing you on purpose and you didn’t like it. not when you needed him so damn badly. 

“c’mon, Sugu.. don’t fuckin’ tease”

geto lets out a chuckle at your impatience, finding it rather cute; he doesn’t seem to waste anymore time though. he helps you out of your shorts and panties, throwing them somewhere in the living room before he shifts out of his pants and boxers.

you stare at him for a while, your mouth suddenly becoming dry. geto chuckles and grabs your chin gently, pressing a light kiss onto your face.

“go on, doll.. don’t be scared”

his words are so comforting. odd for him.

but you don’t dwell on it too much. you lift yourself up slightly, grabbing ahold of his hard dick before you slowly sink down onto it. a gasp leaves your lips at the stretch. 

he groans and holds onto your hips, almost as though he was trying to restrain himself from forcing you all the way down to the base. you hold onto his shoulders, legs already trembling as you sink all the way down. you had barely done anything and your body was already shaking.

you weren’t sure if that was good for him or bad for you. 

didn’t matter.

you sit still for a while, just allowing yourself to get used to the girth of his cock before your legs slowly lift yourself up. you rise up until only the tip is in before you slam yourself back down, moaning and gripping onto him tighter.

he lets out a groan and keeps his hands on your hips, keeping you steady. you soon lift yourself up again, slamming back down and letting out another moan.

and quickly, the sound of skin slapping and your moans fill up the room. 

geto has a good hold onto your hips, helping you move. his eyes are fixated on the way that your cunt sucks his dick in. he was completely mesmerized by it.

“look at you, princess.. doin’ so fuckin’ good for me”

his voice is deep and it barely registers in your brain; the pleasure you felt making you too fucked out to even answer. 

he lets out a chuckle before he shifts positions, laying down onto the couch before he starts to thrust into you. you cry out and grip at him and the couch; you needed something to keep you grounded.

his hands are firm on your hips, fucking into you like some sort of dog in heat. 

you didn’t seem to care though. not when you were practically begging him for more. 

“look at ya.. lookin’ so fucking pretty under me like this. such a good girl.”

his voice comes out as a coo, his thrusts becoming rough with each second. your hands grip at his back, whines coming from your lips; drool slowly starts to roll down the corner of your mouth and onto the couch under you. it was too much. 

and it was making you so close to cumming. especially with the way he was hammering into you.

“g-gonn.. cum”

he lets out a chuckle at your attempt at talking; he knew just how fucked out you were just by the way you looked. it was cute. he doesn’t seem to say anything though, just continues to fuck into you. his hands come down and start to rub at your clit.

you cry out, his name falling from your lips as you cum. he grins cheekily and continues his movements, feeling his own orgasm starting to creep up on him. 

“good fuckin’ girl.. gonna make me cum”

he leans down and presses his lips onto your neck, his hips stuttering slightly as he keeps moving. you whine, sensitive from the over stimulation. 

and before you knew it, geto is spilling his cum into you; his hands gripping at your skin rough enough to leave bruises.

“love you so fuckin’ much.. such a good fucking girl for me.”

you let out a whine, trying to push him away from the weight he was currently trying to push onto you. the two of you stay in that position for a little while until he finally gets the strength to pull out.

“want another blunt?”

“you love me.”

he stares at you and scoffs, rolling his eyes. he knew you were going to say that. he had gotten caught in the heat of the moment, that's all it was.

“no i don’t.”

“well, i love you.”

“... what?”

“let’s get another blunt going!”

[hellishjoel]

ungodly and unprofessional

5.6k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog

summary: who said anything about falling in love? you're just co-workers. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), smoking, descriptions of food and drink, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.) and wears a waitress uniform, explicit smut, consensual somnophilia, swearing, pet names, allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers), lastly not beta'd (lmk if you're interested!) A/N: five or six months later, who really knows. believe it or not, I was never not working on this or thinking about it for all of those months... which is crazy. I completely wing these chapters which is probably why it takes so long but you guys don't mind, right? enjoy these cuties falling deeper <3 I almost forgot - shoutout to BistroHuddy on TikTok because one of their segments inspired something in here (but no spoilers!)

“To love someone is firstly to confess: I'm prepared to be devastated by you.” Billy-Ray Belcourt. 

You have this silly poetry book someone gave you as a birthday present or holiday gift exchange a few years ago. You’ve never picked it up until now. You’re shocked to say all of these cheesy love quotes and poems make you think of one very specific person: a guy with dark curls, a scruffy beard, amber eyes, and the perfect smile. Francisco. 

Falling for a man like Frankie feels like growing up— a sign of maturing compared to the ghosts of terrible boyfriend's past. 

Come to find out, it’s easier to go for the wrong guys, easier on your heart in a way — you don’t feel like you are actually losing anything. 

That’s why you would bet on losing dogs. Invest your emotions and need for romance in those who don’t reciprocate. The ones who despise commitment or lack emotional availability leave you in a state of disappointment. 

Better that than full-blown heartache. Better than ripping yourself open at the seams for another, only to be the one to sew yourself back up again. But not better than winning. 

The letter Frankie’s father sent him weeks ago had been burned into your brain. Every single word, each break of a new paragraph, lines of apologies, and convincing stories of ‘the good times’ they used to have. 

Frankie appeared to be just as wary about the letter as you were, neither of you so easily trusting. Frankie didn’t trust his father, but you did trust Frankie—end of story. 

You’ve never known Frankie to be so tightly closed about something that bothers him. He was the type of man who wears his heart on his sleeve, an open book. 

Aside from allowing you to read the letter, you two have barely spoken about it. And not due to your lack of trying. 

There wasn’t a need for you to bring clarity to the situation, it wasn’t up to you to encourage Frankie to allow his father back into his life. But there was still a lot of emotional trauma that he carried that he didn’t have to bear alone. You just wanted him to know that you support him in whatever avenue he decides is best. 

To forgive or to forget. 

Frankie releases a sigh from his parted lips, squeezing his eyes closed tighter as your alarm chimes from your phone on the bedside table. He hates the fucking morning shift. 

The air is sticky and thick, and the fan on his bedroom ceiling is doing little to help. Late August is still taking its toll on Texas and its residents, but he’s reminded that this time last year, he sunk down on his knees in the back kitchen and tasted you on his tongue for the first time. Can’t believe it’s been a year since then. Plus all the events that have transpired since. 

There’s no label between you two other than the fact you are exclusive— putting your focus on each other and not seeing other people. It was good, better than nothing with you. 

His eyelashes finally flutter open, seeing you shift in the dark to turn off the alarm, only to dig your face deep into your pillow. He thinks you’re fucking adorable. 

Frankie is by no means a morning person, but waking up beside you has changed his perspective. Your hair is a scattered mess, the ponytail having fallen loose in the tosses and turns of last night. The sunlight peaking through the blinds highlights the slope of your nose and Cupid’s bow. Arms tucked into your front, leg hiked up like a ballerina.

His mind starts to swirl at the conversation you shared recently, that you wanted to try something… new. To be surprised. To be taken by him in your sleep. 

He was shocked to hear you say it, all shy and meek - it’s not a side of you he sees often. But it’s the vulnerability talking, advocating the trust you share together. 

“I want to wake up with you inside me.”

Frankie had to blink a few times, his large hand cradling your jaw as you spoke in whispers between the sheets. “You— I didn’t know you’d be into that sort of thing.”

“We don’t have to if it’s not your thing. But there’s something about you moving me where you want me to be, being completely under your control, even a little helpless,” you pause, uncertain if your words would scare him off. 

The exact opposite. Frankie was intrigued. 

“The thrill of trying not to wake you up.” He continues, watching your glowing smile return, indicating that Frankie understands why this would feel good to you. 

“My natural reaction, trusting you, knowing that you’ll be careful, knowing that you’re using me— it’s hot, Frankie. You have my consent, I wanna try.” 

Frankie’s stomach churns with excitement, butterflies spreading through his abdomen and up to his chest, his heart thunking eagerly. 

He was slow and methodical, not wanting you to stir from your sleepy state. Nipping at his lower lip, teeth piercing the skin, he works up the courage to touch you. A rough and calloused hand travels up your side, pushing up your sleep tee and watching goosebumps line the tips of his fingers.

Frankie presses slow kisses to the top of your shoulder, feeling his cock swell against the plump of your ass in all of the excitement. He whispers your name, soft and raspy with the morning hour. Other than a small twitch of your nose, you’re out cold. 

“Shh, s’okay angel, m’gonna make you feel good.” The desire stirs in his stomach, urging him to please you in your sleep just like you asked. 

With two crooked fingers, he curls them around the band of your panties and slowly drags them down your soft thighs. You let out a slow sigh between your parted lips, Frankie pausing to watch as you settle once more. 

 Slipping two skilled fingers between your legs, he slowly massages up and down your folds. He’s surprised to already feel the slick between your legs, a low groan of approval leaving the depths of his throat. 

There’s a shift, your hips squirming for more of his touch. You’re so perfectly pliant for him, causing the embers low in his belly to grow with anticipation, the blood rushing to his cock as it hardens against the curve of your ass. 

“Good girl,” he remarks as you let out a little whimper upon the pads of Frankie’s fingers finding your swollen clit. “Even asleep, you’re nice and wet for me, princess.” 

Goddammit, he thinks, how does she have this much of an effect while perfectly asleep? He can’t stand the feeling of not touching her, the carnal need to take her was strong like a magnet, forcing their bodies together. 

One yank and he was out of his briefs, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. He needed to move you, to perfectly fit in the nook of your body, you’d have to be good and yield to him. 

Frankie hikes up your leg and fills in the spaces between your bodies, stroking over himself as he slowly lines his leaking tip along your entrance. Just as he notches his tip inside, a quiet and sleepy gasp leaves your perfect pillowy lips. 

“Right there, baby, you just stay right there for me,” Frankie growls against your ear, his hips flush with yours as he slowly lets inch by inch of him be swallowed by your warm cunt. 

After that, there wasn’t a lot of nicety to him. The level of control he carried was lost. He just wanted to take and take, feel and fuck. He wants to use you like his own personal toy; do whatever he pleases with no resistance. You were his to devour. 

He’s still inside you, but he’s gotten this far, and you’re still out. Even in sleep, you’re pulsing around his cock, so fucking tight around him that it steals the air from his lungs. There’s a hint of discomfort in your face, a quiet gasp held within your expression. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, the hand he holds firmly on your hip now moving under your sleep tee. 

You were so fucking accessible to him, so beautiful, so peaceful being fucked raw. 

He rolls your nipple between his thumb and index finger, getting the reaction he’s been waiting for all morning. A sweet, slow moan tumbles loose from your throat, your hips reeling back to grind against Frankie’s lap. 

He’s somewhat pleased he knows you this well, knows what gets you worked up and gushing. The fact that even in your sleep, you have this reaction towards him makes the fire burning inside his abdomen grow. Maybe a deep part of him gets off on knowing you so well. 

Frankie lets out a sigh at his own thoughts, lightly nipping the skin of your exposed shoulder as he slowly rolls his hips back and glides in again, feeling the drag of your tight pussy keeping him lubed up and warm.

If he weren’t so desperate to fuck you, he’d love to just sit inside you like this all goddamn day. It would probably give him the same comfort as the first cup of coffee. 

He gives your breast one more firm squeeze before returning the attention back to your clit, all desperate and tingling with each eager circle he gives you. 

“So fucking perfect,” he whispers against your ear, his hips continuing at a steady pace until he simply needs more. He hikes up your leg once again to allow himself more movement, smirking as your ass smacks against the front of his hips with each thrust that now jostles your body. 

You’ll surely wake any moment, shocked and sleepy and startled at his cock so deep inside your perfectly spent cunt. 

You whimper each time he fills you, your face digging into the pillow as you moan against the cover. Frankie’s efforts grow needy and demanding, fisting your hair out of his way as he sucks marks into your neck; teeth and tongue massaging the skin before leaving a bruise in its wake.

A sweet little sob exits your parted lips, Frankie groaning at the pretty little noises you make. 

“Take me so well, princess. You want me to keep fuckin’ you, huh?” He snarls against your neck, smirking as you hiss at the sensations you’re feeling all throughout your body.  

Suddenly, your eyes flutter open. They absorb the settings around you and it all clicks. A long, desperate moan crawls from the depths of your throat, your movements sluggish but your hand eventually clasps onto Frankie’s forearm, his fingers still swirling around your clit. 

“Ohmy— Frankie, fuck,” you gasp as you feel the full force of his cock drilling deep inside your pussy. Your voice is still thick with sleep, eyes cloudy with lust, and skin-prickling sensations that you had never felt before; a million emotions, but the standout being desperation to come undone like this with a man you trust. 

“This what you wanted, angel? Wake up with my cock stuffed between your legs?” Frankie smirks as he presses his lips against your cheek, jaw dropping against your own as you ride out the high together. 

You cry out something wrecked, a garble of syllables as your spine arches against his front. You weren’t given the pleasure of feeling the orgasm build and build; you woke up at its high heat. 

In an instant, your skin was clammy, hair sticking to your skin as desperate pants filled the room, along with broken moans of Frankie’s name. 

It’s exactly what you wanted, maybe better. Yes, way better. 

You’re so tight, literally clinging to every single inch he gives you as your slick drenches his cock. Your nails dig into his tan skin, feeling the muscles and tendons work to play with your clit. 

A whimper leaves you as the warmth in your stomach boils over, turning your head over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes are dark, cast over with lust as he stole you in your sleep. In an instant, he meets you with a messy kiss, your bodies and the bed still jolting with each rough thrust he gives you. 

“Please,” you moan against his lips, nodding your head as you look into his eyes. “Come inside me, I wanna feel it, please, give it to me, Frankie,” your words turn into a whine as he begins to fuck you harder, deeper, his tip tickling your cervix as you damn near blackout from the pleasure. 

The pleasure inside of you finally reaches the surface. The feeling was like a wave breaching over your rocky shores, washing over you both in pleasure as your cunt spasms around his thick cock. 

Frankie spoils your clit as his hips snap against your ass, one, two, three more times before the feeling of you overcomes him. He braces you tightly in his arms, panting against your shoulder, eyes clenching closed as he lets out broken grunts of release. He paints your insides with his spend, both of you relaxing in one another’s hold as you slowly descend from heaven. 

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie breathes, shaking his head with a tilted smirk. “You don’t know what you do to me.” He remarks as you look over your shoulder in a haze. 

You whimper as you pull him in closer, fingers weaving into the curls at the back of his head and encouraging him to meet your parted lips. 

The words are at the tip of your tongue, and you can feel them spread heat throughout your body. You can hear both of your hearts beating, thundering against the human flesh, and signaling the feeling of being alive. 

Frankie waits for the words. The feeling of anticipation has been lingering for quite some time. Your touch of nervousness was welcome, expected even. A moment in time when your heart feels exposed but also overwhelmingly full. Only hoping that the other person feels the same way, yet uncertain of how they will respond. A game of chicken of who will say it first and who will have to respond. The leap of faith one will be forced to make and the right words the other will have to find.

Both roles are downright frightening. 

You’re risking everything, the biggest gamble one can make without physical currency. 

But he sees the panic behind your eyes, the nervewracking feeling of saying the sacred words to someone, maybe even for the first time. And he knows that they will be worth it to hear. 

“I know,” he whispers against your lips, shaking his head in a way that tells you he knows what you’re thinking. “I know.” 

You don’t attend church, so you have one question: why the fuck is God sending people to get brunch after Sunday’s service? Why is that their beck and call? 

Every Sunday morning, like clockwork, a flock of people flood the diner with their church clothes and a hankering for waffles and Frankie’s house lumberjack skillet (you wanna know what’s in it, don’t you?)

Frankie’s Secret Ingredients:

Potatoes: 1/4 lb (about 4-5 small potatoes)

Olive Oil: 1/2 tablespoon

Breakfast Sausage Links: 3 oz (about 4 links)

Onion: 1/8 of a whole onion, chopped

Red Pepper: 1/4 of a whole red pepper, chopped

Jalapenos: 1/2 jalapeno, sliced (omit if person looks too old to handle)

Butter: 1 tablespoon

Hickory Maple Seasoning: 1/2 teaspoon

Eggs: 2 large eggs

Milk: 1 tablespoon

Cheddar Cheese: 2 tablespoons, shredded

Anyway, Tommy’s Diner is slammed by mid-morning, and you’re working up a sweat. You’re wiping at your neck and forehead every few minutes, and the sun filtering through the windows does little justice to cool your skin. Tina called out sick, which is code for hungover from Saturday. It’s overwhelming. Your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you just plated for that family of four.

“Enjoy,” you whisper a little breathlessly, tucking your notepad into the front of your apron, rubbing at your temple with the heel of your hand as you walk past the rest of your tables. 

By the time you lift your head, you see a large potbelly man who is waving an arm up above his head, fingers already snapping incessantly. He looked like a chubby rat, with a large dark-haired mustache and a shirt that didn’t fully cover the beer gut he was sporting.

“Uhm, hello? Miss, can we get some service over here?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. Your jaw tightens a few notches, pushing your hair out of your face and wrapping around to their table. You remember them; you took their table’s order a bit ago now - shit, did you forget their plates? No, you didn’t. 

Stopping at the head of their table, you smile politely at the large family. 

“Hi, can I get you something while you wait?”

The man scoffs and snaps, “Uh, yeah, our food.”

Taking a deep breath wasn’t enough; you were a ticking time bomb. “Sir, do you see how many people are in the diner? We’re at capacity with a line out the door. I understand you’ve been waiting, but our kitchen is backed up and-” 

“Bull-honkey-bullcrap, little miss,” the man raises his voice, spitting violently with each syllable, “This is ridiculous! We’ve been sittin’ here for nearly an hour. How hard is it to make some eggs and Mickey Mouse pancakes, huh? You just that stupid? What the hell is goin’ on back there? Are you people completely incompetent, or are you just ignorin’ us?”

Worse things have been said to your face, but you’re at your breaking point. You can feel your face flush with warmth radiating throughout your body. Now, the entire diner is staring at you from all the commotion. Your lungs feel tight, a headache casting heavy behind your face. Tears line your eyes, but you don’t dare let them fall. 

“Again, I’m really sorry, but like I said, the kitchen is backed up.” But apologizing isn’t enough. This guy just wanted someone to take his punches. 

“Don’t even try to apologize. I don’t wanna hear your pathetic excuses. How hard is it to cook some damn eggs? This place is a joke. You must be the worst server I’ve ever dealt with. ‘Nd I swear, if I wanted this kind of useless service, I’d go to a fast food joint. Is this how you treat payin’ customers, or ya’ll just this lazy? Do your job, or I’ll make sure everyone knows how worthless you and this diner is.”

You clutch the empty coffee pot tightly, biting your tongue. Turning swiftly, you head straight for the back swinging door. You don't intend to contribute to the chaos or the bustling mess in the kitchen, but here, in the safety of the back section, you allow a few stray tears to escape.

Shoulder blades hitting the cold brick, you wish to blend into the wall. It feels like the air’s been knocked out of you, your chest heavy and tight. Every sound around you blurs as the man’s harsh words replay in your mind, louder and louder each time. Your hands shake just enough to want to hide them behind your back, feeling afraid to have eyes on you in such a vulnerable state. Exposed. You’ve absorbed the anger meant for something or someone else, so now, it sticks to you, something you can’t wash away. 

Your name echoes once, twice. 

“Hey,” A calm amongst the rushing waves - it’s Frankie. You blink him into focus, bleary tears slowly fading away. His red bandana is tied tight around his forehead to catch the sweat from his forehead and hair. His face is laced with concern. He wipes his hands off on his apron, gently capturing your face as he shields you from the rest of the kitchen. 

And just like that, life returns to your body. You can feel the tips of your fingers, previously tingling, wiping under your eyes as you hiccup through your breaths. Frankie knows this high-traffic area will only make your anxiety worse. 

“It’s okay, take a deep breath and tell me what happen.”

The eyes of the kitchen staff are slowly starting to turn to you, asking if you’re alright and why you’re upset. Shaking your head dismissively, you blink away your tears and look down at the grubby floor that probably hasn’t been mopped since the invention of flip phones. 

“I’m fine. This customer just got pissed and yelled at me. He was upset that his food was running behind, and I tried to explain that the kitchen was backed up.” You part your lips to continue, but the jaw drops of the kitchen staff signal shock by your words. 

They all start honking in unison like a flock of geese. 

“He what?”

“Which fuckin’ table?”

“You okay, sweetheart? Fuck them.” 

Frankie's back straightens stiff, having previously been craning to see your face, now strict with annoyance. 

“Is that him?” Frankie asks as he walks to the window between the kitchen and the back counter, narrowing his eyes on the rat man and his family. 

“Frankie, please don't,” you huff, already refilling your pots of coffee and hoping to just forget the whole thing ever happened. "It's okay, it happens."

But it’s not okay. Because this guy made you cry, and what the hell was it for? Some scrambled eggs and bacon on delay?

The rest of the line cooks have abandoned their food to gawk at the asshole who thinks he can get away with yelling at one of their own like that. 

Frankie tightens his bandana and peels off his gloves, slapping them down in the trash. 

His boots thunder across the linoleum, catching the attention of many of the patrons on his way to the booth by the window where the rat man has continued to reside angrily. Even worse, he chuckles at the sight of Frankie. 

“Take a load of this guy," the rat man appears to mutter to his wife who looks between them both with startled eyes. "Okay, okay, just bring back the pretty waitress. I’ll tell her I’m sorry.” He sneers, shaking his head. 

“No, you’re done with her. You’re dealin’ with me now.” Frankie snags an empty chair from a nearby table, turns it around, and straddles the seat as he gets in the burly man's face. 

“I just feel terrible that we’re not meeting the quality of service you expected. So what exactly is the problem?” Frankie asks with a hint of venom lining his words. 

“Well- we’ve been waitin’ here for half an hour and-”

“Right, and what did the pretty waitress say?”

The man scoffs lightly, feeling embarrassed with all the eyes on him not once but twice now. “Well, she said the kitchen was backed up.”

“That’s right, that’s right, well, I’m the fuckin’ kitchen. You wanna yell at someone? Well, I thought I’d give you the chance to yell at me since, hey, I'm in charge of the kitchen today. Please, tell me your honest review.”

The rat man stares blankly, looking from left to right in surprise, but his family all gawks at Frankie. 

Frankie waits, eyes unblinking, face hardened as the man sputters up something weak in response. 

“This is ungodly and unprofessional,” he gargles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

“You’re absolutely right!” Frankie says, smacking the table with his closed fist before pointing at the rat man, the tip of his finger inches from his face. “I am unprofessional, but that’s because I don’t have the great customer service skills of our waitresses. That’s her job,” Frankie juts a thumb backward towards the kitchen in your direction. “So now, instead of cookin’ you and your ugly wife and kids some food, I gotta come out here and knock some sense into ya since you seemed to have lost your manners. So you gonna let her do her job so I can get back to mine?”

You can only watch from the window in shock, hand over mouth, unblinking eyes - but it’s like a car crash you can’t look away from. The man is shocked into an embarrassed silence. 

“We’ll just… we’ll wait. There’s-uh-there’s a lotta people here.” 

Frankie sighs and smiles with fake relief. He stands from the chair, looking around the quiet restaurant. 

“Anybody else have somethin' they wanna say?”

They all seem too scared of Frankie to complain again to the psycho chef. Chants of ‘Everything’s great!’ or “Thank you!” echo through the dining room. 

You smile warmly, forcing yourself to turn away from the scene and clean up your teary makeup in the bathroom. But all you can think about is Frankie. Francisco. Stupid Catfish. Stepping in like that to protect you, to make that jerk take accountability. It makes your heart flutter knowing how much he cares. And you feel the same way.

It’s about time you tell him. 

Knuckles wrap against the bathroom door, and an echo of, “You okay?” follows. 

He comes in without a response, somewhat relieved to find you adjusting your hair and wiping at the smeary makeup. Your eyes soften at the sight of him, watching in the reflection. He looks disheveled and annoyed, shaking his head as he starts ranting about rat man. 

“I don’t get how people like that- the God-loving church people- come in here and act like they weren’t just told at a sermon to love thy neighbor or whatever bullshit.”

He continues, but all you do is stare.

A part of you thinks he defends others due to his childhood. No one picks on the people Frankie cares about. That letter riled him up, maybe more than either of you had realized. He’s thinking about those times of the past, the innocent hurt by the deviant. 

“You didn’t deserve that, I’m sorry, he’s a fucking dick. You don’t have to take his food out, I’ll do it. Honey,” he breathes, hand resting on your shoulder as he gently turns you around to face him. “Are you mad at me? I know you told me not to go out there, but no one makes you cry if I can help it, y’know? I don’t want him to think he can get away with that.”

Once Frankie starts ranting, it’s really hard to get him to stop. 

“Frankie,” you breathe out, resting your hand over the one he holds on your shoulder. 

“I mean, does he really think that it’s smart to be rude to the staff? I’ll spit in his food, and it will feel really good because he’ll have no idea.”

“Frankie,”

“You’re a good fucking waitress! Doesn’t he see the entire breakfast bar and all the booths filled with guests? The line out the door wasn’t an indication of how busy it is? Get a fuckin’ brain, I mean-”

In an instant, you tilt your chin up, catching his gaze just long enough to see the shift in his eyes before your lips meet. Your hands slide around his neck, fingers weaving into the soft curls at the nape, gently tugging him down toward you. The kiss begins with an urgency, part playful, part to silence his words, but mostly, it's to thank him in a way that words never could.

Frankie’s initial surprise fades quickly as he melts into you, his breath hitching for a moment. His hands travel to your waist, sliding around until they lock just above your hips, anchoring you to him. He presses closer, his touch firm yet tender, and slows the kiss, savoring the warmth of your lips. You feel the way his body relaxes, how he leans in, letting the world around you both fall away as he holds you, close and unmoving, like he’s never letting go.

It takes every ounce of courage in your body to pull away, your lips lingering against his for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if tethered by an invisible force. Slowly, you break the kiss, your breath shaky, heart racing. His forehead rests against yours for a moment, his eyes still half-closed, unaware of the words hanging on the edge of your lips.

You gently pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers still laced in his hair, trembling slightly. His eyes search yours, soft and expectant, filled with something unspoken but unmistakable.

With a deep inhale, you let the words slip out, vulnerable and raw, barely louder than a whisper, but heavy with meaning.

“I love you.”

The world stands still as the words hang in the air, your heart pounding as you wait for the weight of what you’ve just said to settle between you.

And then he smiles like an idiot. And you’re joining him. 

“Did you say what I think you said? Did you say that you love me?" His voice is soft, teasing, as he presses his forehead against yours, capturing your lips with a few playful, quick kisses between his words. “Come on, say it again.”

You feel your heart flutter, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. Frankie’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “I heard you say it. Now you can’t take it back,” he adds with a grin, pulling you tighter, his arms leaving no space between you.

You giggle, your hands pushing lightly against his shoulders, though he doesn’t budge. “Stop, that was really hard,” you huff, breathless, as though the words had stolen all the air from your lungs.

Frankie just shakes his head, his smile fading into something softer, more real, as the weight of the moment catches up with him. “I’ve thought about better places or times to tell you this, I wanted to wait until you were ready,” he whispers, his voice hushed with disbelief, eyes locking onto yours, “but I love you more than you’ll ever know. More than you’ll ever understand or dream. I love you.”

His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, a gentle, affectionate touch that sends shivers down your spine. The intensity in his gaze mirrors your own, both of you lost in this shared vulnerability, your hearts speaking in unison.

“I love you, too,” you breathe, the words falling effortlessly this time, as if they’ve always been waiting for this moment.

So, yeah. You sort of love your co-worker Francisco Morales. 

The sun is blinding—orange and yellow streams of light as it is forced to set along the horizon. It’s slow but noticeable, sinking into the land beyond what you can see.

The sun goes down in Texas once again. 

Frankie raises his cigarette, its glowing tip mirroring the fiery hues of the sunset.

His neighborhood is tranquil, lined with single-story homes and tree-bordered streets where autumn's touch is just around the corner. Children ride bikes, joggers and dog walkers pass by, and new parents push their baby strollers—a picturesque scene that feels meticulously arranged yet somehow distant. Frankie, too, feels out of place here.

"You got pretty worked up today—more than usual," you say softly.

Frankie lets out a dry chuckle, cigarette between his lips as he leans back on his elbows, squinting at the fading sun. "Yeah, maybe. You think I’m off right now?" He tilts his head, genuinely curious, as if searching for what’s changed.

You shrug, glancing at him with a fond smile. "I think that letter from your dad has you more rattled than you realize. I found it in your sock drawer this morning."

Frankie’s gaze drops to his lap, a flicker of shame crossing his face.

"I thought you said you were gonna toss it?" you muse gently, watching as his mind churns, cigarette hovering at his lips before he sighs deeply.

"You’re too observant," he smirks. "I don’t know why I haven’t crumpled, burned, or shredded it into pieces by now. I have every right to."

You rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing the tension there. "But you didn’t. Why?"

Frankie bites his lower lip nervously, glancing your way. "At the end of the apology letter, he asked to take me out for my birthday. Put down the time, place—everything. Said he’d wait for me."

Your expression softens, letting him know you’re here, really listening. "And you’re thinking about it?"

"Yeah… I guess so. But I don’t even know what I’d say. I’ve only seen him once or twice since I moved out. It’s been years. And when I do see him, I’m thirteen all over again, just yelling at him, so angry. I see his face, and it’s like a switch flips. And that’s not me. You know that’s not me," Frankie stammers, panic flickering in his eyes.

"I know," you whisper, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He pulls you closer, resting his head against yours as the weight of it all settles.

After a deep breath, Frankie gathers himself. "He used to bring out the worst in me. I don’t know if I still hate him as much. Time’s passed, maybe he’s changed. But I’m not holding my breath."

He’s an adult now, more guarded, wiser to the people who’ve hurt him. He’s fought through battles and traumas you don’t even know about. Yet, in his eyes, there’s a flicker of hope. Maybe his dad has turned a corner, maybe he’s cleaned up, seen his mistakes. But you know better than to trust in maybes.

And you’d protect him from being let down again.

"Do you want me to go with you?" you offer quietly.

Frankie’s eyes snap to yours, wide and searching.

"Okay," he says after a long pause. "Let’s do it."

[pinknatural]

After googling “what to take to a stranger’s birthday party” and reading the top five articles thoroughly, the first two more than once, Castiel has determined that he should either bring candles, wine, or baked goods. 

A candle seems like a good, safe option, but the Walmart candle aisle is overwhelming. How is he supposed to know if Anna’s-friend-Dean likes oaky, woodsy smells versus lavender-linen smells? Castiel likes the one that smells like a waxy apple pie, but who’s to say that opinion is shared? What if he prefers pine, or something called Deep Twilight Mist? Castiel removes the lid for Deep Twilight Mist and smells the cream-colored wax curiously. It smells like the perfume Hael used to spray everywhere when she was eleven. He puts it back on the shelf. 

There’s a candle that smells like cupcakes. It is a birthday party, so perhaps he would like that. Castiel puts it in the blue plastic basket dangling from his arm, then puts it back on the shelf, tilting it so the label is facing perfectly outward. Maybe Anna’s-friend-Dean doesn’t like candles at all. 

Wine. Everyone likes wine. Well, unless Anna’s-friend-Dean is one of those guys who thinks wine is too feminine. Or if he doesn’t drink at all. Or if he drinks too much. Or, perhaps even worse, if he’s some kind of wine connoisseur and will mock Castiel for buying reasonably-priced wine from Walmart and then blacklist Castiel so thoroughly that he will never find a friend in this town. 

Wine and candles are too complex. But everyone likes baked goods. 

Castiel is stopped in the middle of the road, turn signal blinking to indicate that he would like to turn left into his apartment complex, when he realizes that Anna’s-friend-Dean could be diabetic. But the party is at a restaurant that specializes in hamburgers, so probably not. Hopefully not. All Castiel has to do is successfully implement chocolate chip cookies and then melt into the walls at the party. Be pleasant enough company that next time someone has a large event they allow Anna to invite him again. Go to enough social functions that he can claim to have friends and get Anna off his back. Live quietly, working at the Gas-N-Sip and writing papers about the science of Theology and perhaps even going to the library and reading secular fiction.

Castiel has no expectations of finding actual friendship at Anna’s-friend-Dean’s birthday party. Or ever, really. If he ever gets lonely, he can get a cat.

Anna thinks that Castiel and Dean will get along very well. Castiel thinks that living outside of their mother’s influence has made Anna believe in fairytales. Anna has known Castiel his entire life. She knows full well that he has never gotten along very well with anyone. 

Castiel cracks an egg over the batter. Maybe this whole baking thing will impress Anna so much that she’ll stop bothering him about making friends. 

Who knows, maybe these cookies will unlock something else to add to Castiel’s quiet life. He quite likes the idea of baking.

--

The firefighter is very beautiful. Maybe even the most beautiful person Castiel has ever seen, besides models on the sides of buildings who look so perfect they’re fake.

“You the guy who started the fire?” the beautiful firefighter asks. He puts his hands in his pockets. Castiel’s cheeks burn. Not from any fire. 

“They were just burnt cookies,” he says. “I didn’t know they would set off the smoke alarm.” In the entire building. The other firefighters are by the doors, writing things down, talking to other residents of Castiel’s building. How come the beautiful firefighter was the one who had to talk to Castiel? He sneaks a peek at the man’s arms, but they’re sadly covered by his coat. 

“You burned the cookies on purpose, then?” the firefighter raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Castiel says. The firefighter has green eyes and freckles splashed across his nose. Castiel wants him to take off his helmet so he can see what his hair looks like. 

“Right,” the firefighter says. 

“Am I in trouble?” Castiel asks. 

“No,” the firefighter says. He winks. Castiel feels his heart literally skip a beat. “Not a crime to burn cookies. Losing out on the cookies is punishment enough.”

“They weren’t for me,” Castiel says. “They were for a birthday party. Tonight.” For some reason, he wants the firefighter to know that he has a social life. Never mind if the social life was enforced upon him by his older sister.

“A birthday party? Today? Who’s hosting? I gotta fight for my honor.”

Castiel is baffled. What honor? What fight?

“What?”

“Everyone will come,” the firefighter says. He makes a pose, as if he’s flexing. “To see me and this other guy fight to see who’s the Supreme Birthday Boy.” He stretches one arm out, pointing it to the sky, then he opens his fist. “Pow! It’ll be me, of course.” He turns to look back at Castiel. His mouth is very pink. Castiel wishes he understood what words were coming out of it. 

“It’s my birthday, too,” the firefighter says after a moment, when Castiel doesn’t react.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I dunno. Trying to be funny, I guess.”

“Oh,” Castiel says again. Behind the firefighter, he sees that the other residents of his apartment building are filing back inside. For some reason, despite the January chill, Castiel doesn’t want to go back in. Not yet. 

“You know, usually this is the part where people say happy birthday,” the firefighter says. 

“Happy birthday,” Castiel repeats. 

“Thanks!” the firefighter beams. “So do you think I should crash your friend’s party tonight?”

“No,” Castiel says, alarmed at the thought. A firefighter, and probably a bunch of other firefighters, crashing Castiel’s opportunity to stand beside the wall, holding a cup of sprite? When Castiel shows up with store-bought baked goods? And this beautiful firefighter will point right at him and say that Castiel invited them and then Anna’s-friend-Dean will hate him forever, and probably Anna will too? “Also, he’s not my friend.”

“He’s not? Then why are you going to his party?”

“He’s my sister’s friend,” Castiel explains. “I’ve never met him. She thinks I need to leave the house more.” Too late, Castiel remembers that he was supposed to pretend he had a flourishing social life. Oops. 

“Wait,” the firefighter says. His eyes sparkle. “Are you Anna’s brother? Cas-something?”

“Castiel,” he says, with the patience of someone who has had to explain his name a million times. He narrows his eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Dude,” the firefighter says, laughing. “I’m Dean.”

Anna’s-friend-Dean is a beautiful firefighter, with green eyes and freckles? Anna’s-friend-Dean is the Supreme Birthday Boy? Anna’s-friend-Dean probably has very muscular arms, under his uniform?

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” the firefighter says. 

“Winchester! Wrap it up!” one of the firemen calls from the truck. Castiel realizes that all the firefighters are about to leave, and everyone from his building is already back inside. When did that happen?

“Be there in a minute!” Dean hollers over his shoulder. When he looks back at Castiel, he grins almost shyly. ���You were gonna make me cookies?”

“Yes, I--I thought it would be an appropriate thing to bring.” Castiel wonders again if Dean could be diabetic. Or perhaps allergic to something in chocolate chip cookies. Are chocolate chips made in a peanut-free facility? Maybe Castiel should’ve bought wine, after all.

“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was dead-fuckin’-on. But, uh.”

“But?” Castiel is sure, suddenly, that Dean is about to reject him and tell him not to come to his birthday party after all. Which would be a shame, because all of a sudden Castiel wanted to go.

“My favorite dessert is pie,” Dean says like a confession. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, eyes widening. Maybe he can swing by the bakery--maybe he can look up a bakery, and then swing by it--on the way to the party. Assuming he’s still going. 

“And, uh, not to toot my own horn, but I make a pretty mean one. I actually made myself a birthday pie, and I was gonna eat it alone, but maybe…I mean…”

“Yes?” Castiel asks. Dean is slightly taller than him, so he tilts his head back to meet his eyes. Dean swallows. Castiel watches his adam’s apple bob.

“Well, I could swing by after my shift is done,” Dean says. “Bring it with me. We could share. Before we go to the Roadhouse, I mean. If you want.”

“I want,” Castiel says before he can think about it. He snaps his mouth shut. Dean brightens. 

“Great,” he says. “I’ll be back. After my shift.”

“When does it end?” Castiel asks. Dean looks at his watch. He grins at Castiel, tongue poking between his teeth.

“Twenty minutes,” he says. 

“Okay,” Castiel says. “I will you soon, then.”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Gimme about an hour, okay? And then we’ll have pie.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says. Dean turns to head back to the firetruck. “What kind of pie?” Cas calls after him. Dean turns. 

“Apple!” he calls. Castiel stands outside, in the January chill without his coat, for a long while after the truck leaves. What a strange man, making his own birthday pie. What a lovely man, sharing it with a stranger. Supreme Birthday Boy, indeed.

--

When Dean returns, in a soft flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing his magnificent forearms, his hair a spiky mess that Castiel wants to run his fingers through, he has, as promised, an apple pie. And Castiel has a present for him. 

When Dean opens it, he laughs until he almost cries. He lights it right away, and the lingering aroma of burnt chocolate chip cookies is chased away by the apple pie candle from Walmart, a bright, steady little flame flickering between them.

(ao3)