#funny that hair came up twice in two days here

[kangaracha]

💛🧡🤎

(for the ask game 🤗)

💛 Do you have any piercings?

no i personally am anti needles for no reason so it will not be happening to me

🧡 A color you can’t stand?

there's a very specific reason why it's yellow but currently it's yellow lmfao

🤎 What color is your hair?

it's blue babey though currently also this truly delightful sunbleached green because i truly haven't had time to fix it

[tonycries]

Welcome To The Itadori's! - C.K.

Synopsis. Three times Choso really, really wanted to hold you without his family barging in, and the one time he actually does. 

Pairing. Best friend! Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, childhood best friends to lovers, slowburn, cameos from the Itadori’s (Yuji, Jin, grandpa, SUKUNA), smút only when they’re adults, first times, oral (female receiving), cúnnilingus, marking, rough, Choso’s a bit mean in bed, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.0k

A/N. The unc-kuna brainrot got me here, Yuji’s family tree is HILARIOUS.

“You’ve never what?”  

“I mean, yeah? So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Whatever the answer was, Choso could only pray that no one walked into your apartment right now.

---

Choso swears his family is well and fully intent on ruining every waking moment with you. 

He’s convinced even, at this point. Because in the 13 long years of being inseparable from you - ever since you were both whiney, snot-faced brats - Choso’s racked up more interruptions than he’s seen on those k-dramas that his grandfather swears he doesn’t watch.

It was like some cosmic joke, really. All he wanted was a moment with just the two of you…and maybe a second or two to confess his undying love. But that didn’t seem too realistic when the Itadori’s were a bit of a packaged deal, unfortunately.  

Alas, Choso’s resigned himself to accept the fact that maybe - just maybe - this was the universe’s way of telling him that his pretty best friend was indeed too good for him. Something he’s suspected ever since the both of you were eight.

The realization had hit him like a semi-truck back then - five of them, in fact. And a whole zoo of animals afterward.

Of course, it’s not like that was any secret. He always thought you were perfect from the second you’d moved in - that new family next door he’d been eagerly waiting ages to arrive. And Choso, being the dutiful oldest son, was the one to deliver welcome cookies to your doorstep. Stumbling, and carefully trying to reach for the doorbell without dropping any. 

“Um, welcome to-”

“Your hair’s funny.”

Now, Choso’s never greeted neighbors before, but it surely wasn’t supposed to go like this. Why was he being insulted by some little girl - you were missing a few teeth, and his had just grown back in so obviously he was much older and wiser. All unapologetic smiles and twinkling eyes as you blink up curiously at his space buns. Pretty, even when you were tearing his heart out because hey, he thought this hairstyle was cool, okay?

Which is what had him huffing and puffing back home, running straight into the arms of his dad while he tried not to cry. That is, until you came knocking at his door with your parents. Very much bawling and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug with wet mumbles of “M’sorry, meant your hair’s very cool. Wanna match-”

And, if his cheeks burned just a bit, well, Choso blamed the tears. 

After a disaster like that, of course you’d grow to be best friends within the day. 

But what that didn’t explain was when - after hours of bickering over whether to play tag or house - you were all tuckered out and sat beside him in a corner of his room, too exhausted to talk his ear off. Head lolling once. Twice. Falling softly onto his shoulder.

Oh. 

Now, Choso might just be having the first epiphany of his entire, grueling eight years in this world - that you were very, very pretty fast asleep with your head on his shoulder. 

Why? Why were you here barging into his life and turning it upside down? Calling him your “new best friend” and dragging him along wherever you went. It made his poor head absolutely spin, not daring to move a muscle so that you didn’t wake up and see this tiny predicament.

He didn’t know why. But what he did know was that he found himself subconsciously reaching for your hand, a strange little part of himself wanting to see how much smaller they were than his. They looked so soft and warm and-

“I WANNA PLAY T- Oh.”

Oh indeed. He hastily lurches away from you like it burned, hands raised like he was caught red-handed. Feeling slightly sorry when he sees you blinking away the sleep to take in your surroundings, eyes bouncing off of a very excited Yuji and resting on the clock.

“Oh no. Mommy’s gonna be mad.” you gasp, hastily getting up. And he feels a weird pang as you quickly dust down your dress, running out the door with a laughed out, “Bye, Yuji! See ya later, Cho~!”

“Bye, crybaby.”

And then it’s quiet. Only Choso still staring after you, and Yuji staring at his older brother, somewhat awestruck and wondering only one thing-

“Big bro, why are you so red?”

Choso doesn’t think he’s gotten a moment alone with you since that first initial meeting. 

Fourteen was definitely the worst, in his opinion.

“Hey, Cho, y’know the girl sitting next to me in math said she had her first kiss today.”

“Oh.” It’s all Choso can manage to get out, paying more attention than he should to the gravel beneath him as he tries not to trip over air beside you. Hot under his uniform collar at the sudden shift in conversation from the usual after-school banter. 

Looping your arm with his, you heave out a playful sigh, “I wonder what that feels like. Have you ever thought about it?” 

No, but Choso has never thought that he’d be here - face burning at your body pressed up against his. Just knowing that his ancestors above are laughing at what a loser he is, barely able to stammer out an answer to your question. 

Okay, maybe he was being dramatic. Because it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about kissing before - it’s just that whenever it popped into his mind, you were usually accompanying him. Along with those strange thoughts of whether your lips are as soft as they looked? Or would your heartbeat be as fast as-

“Man, are you even listening?” 

Shit. 

Your hand waving in front of Choso’s face brings him back to reality. Blinking hastily, he tries to gather his thoughts, mumbling out a quick, “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just lost in thought.” averting his gaze as he feels the heat rise to his cheeks at your intense gaze.

Your smile only widens, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you nudge his side. “Thinking so hard about kissing, huh? Cho, you lecher!” 

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Who were you imagining it with, huh? Gonna give ‘em a big smooch tomorrow?”

God, you were going to be the death of him. “N-no! I haven’t even- shut up, crybaby, it’s not like-” he sputters out useless protests over your laughter - his favorite song, even when you were teasing the hell out of him. But ah how you relish in his embarrassment, tittering out little giggles all the way until you’re steering him onto your lane. 

Choso, on the other hand, keeps wishing the ground would swallow him up more and more with each step towards his porch. He’d have broken into a sprint right then if he hadn’t known you and the way you’d race him there instead.

“Alright.” you declare once you’re stood at his front door, jolting Choso out of his reverie. And he’s barely opening his mouth to register your words before you plowing on confidently. “We’ll just have to practice our first kisses with each other.”

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. 

The final nail on his coffin. You might as well have planted a bombshell right in the middle of his already-chaotic world with the way he was reeling in- shock? Fear? Anticipation?

“Practice.” Choso whispers, more to himself than you. Yet you nod anyway, eyes locked with his like you were studying his reaction. “For…practice.”

Doubt starts to creep into your pretty features, “Well, we don’t have to if you do-”

“No no no no, I want- ahem.” he cringes at the pathetic desperation in his voice. Desperately trying to scramble back some semblance of sanity as he clears his throat, “I want to. Just-” Choso urgently looks around for- ah, there it is. 

Dragging over the brick from the side of his porch because goddammit he might be 14 but he sure hadn’t hit that growth spurt yet. “Practice, right?”

You nod with a fiery determination that, later on, would make Choso chuckle with fondness. Muttering out a firm, “Practice.” Letting the boy in front of you nervously leans closer, breath fanning your face. And shit if you were nervous then you didn’t show it, but Choso felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. 

Brows furrowing in concentration, eyes only squinting ever-so-slightly as he takes peaks at how pretty you looked. Close enough that he could count every lash as your pretty eyes closed shut, lips glistening with that strawberry chapstick you loved, puckering adorably. Only inching closer and-

Click! 

“You two are so cute! But um- dear, how do you mute this thing?”

You spring apart so fast that Choso wouldn’t be surprised if you’d teleported. He doesn’t even know what’s happening before, from the safety of about three meters away from him, you’re muttering out an embarrassed little, “Hi there, Mr. Itadori. The gardenia are coming along nicely.”

His dad smiles like he hadn’t just starred in what was likely Choso’s villain origin story. Waving happily, “Aww, thank you, sweetheart. Now, why don’t you two go back to doing your lil’ thing and I can ah- practice my photography.”

“Dad, I’m running away.”

That practice kiss never happens. And, well, if there was a proudly framed photo down the hallway of the two of you - with Choso absolutely bright red and standing comically on a brick to meet your height, faces nervously scrunching towards each other - well, neither of you ever mention it. Jin Itadori does, though - every time you come over, in fact. 

It’s only when you’re both eighteen, when Choso’s a lot deeper in his feelings - and only slightly less embarrassed about it - that he thinks that maybe not all family interruptions were that bad. 

Graduation was…something. Not exactly something that he’s sure if he’ll ever want to relive with the sheer amount of awkward photos and tears that his dad lets out. God if he has to shuffle into another-

“You alright, Cho?”

Ah. 

Traitorously, a smile makes its way onto his face, peering down at your beaming face. Both of you having made it way past the awkward early teens. Well, at least you certainly have - Choso still feels like the same awkward little boy with an even more awkward crush. “Hm? Yeah, m’great.” 

“Are ya sure? Because you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm any second now.” you raise a brow teasingly. Ah, how gorgeous you were - even when you’re picking him apart. 

“Yeah. Great. Only had this smile plastered on for the last five hours.”

“Aww, but you look so pretty smiling.” you shrug, with the audacity of someone that didn’t just have Choso’s knees dangerously weak. “Anyway- A bunch of us are gonna try to convince ol’ Yaga to let us take photos with his shades, you wanna come?”

“You think m’pretty?” he muses, embarrassingly late.

“Cho.”

“Yaga. Shades. Got it.” Choso mock salutes, drinking in the little laugh it startles out of you, eyes sparkling with mischief and looking right into his soul. Beautiful. You were always beautiful. 

And Choso can’t just stand around and do nothing about it.

“Crybaby, look, I-” Fists clenching, he takes a steadying breath. The heat only rising to his cheeks at your awaiting gaze, “I…”

“HEY, GRANDPA HELPED STEAL YAGA’S SHADES LET’S TAKE A PIC-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP ITADORI. YOU’RE RUINING A MOMENT, LET THEM HAVE THEIR MOMENT.”

“I don’t know either of you two.”

It would be a miracle for a moment not to be ruined with two overly-energetic first-years (and a very reluctant Fushiguro) pushing their way into your little bubble. Choso bites back a groan as you’re immediately swarmed by a bickering Kugisaki and Yuji, one apologizing for “ruining your k-drama moment” and the other trying to get you to put on some sunglasses. Well, at least he could empathize with the black-haired boy, who gave him an apologetic nod. 

He’s only halfway through waving off the interruption before a voice speaks up from his side. “Why didn’t you say it?”

Whirling around, Choso comes face-to-face with the disappointed look on his grandfather’s face. Already having some idea of what you mean, “Wha-”

“I may be old but m’not deaf, yet, boy. Why didn’t ya tell her?” he sighs, tilting his head to where you were wearing those shades and taking ridiculous pictures with two animated first-years. 

“I don’t know what you-”

“M’not blind, either. Quite frankly I’m insulted.”

And, well, if there’s anyone that he can’t hide from - it would be his grandfather. So he heaves out a defeated sigh, touselling his hair while muttering out a pathetic little, “M’not- Ugh, she’s too fuckin’ perfect and I…I chickened out.”

Choso doesn’t know what he expected in response but it definitely wasn’t for his grandfather to laugh. Full, and raspy - loud enough that even you stop to stare. “Thought so, idiot boy.” he chuckles, drawing indignant protests. “Did she tell you?”

Raising a brow, “What?”

“Did she tell you that you weren’t good ‘nough for her?”

“No, but-” Whatever protest on the tip of Choso’s tongue is cut off by a rough hand smacking his back in what he thinks is reassurance, but felt more like a punishment for being such a pussy around you all these years. 

“Then go. Ya might just be surprised. After all, you’re my grandson, and all the ladies at bingo love me.”

Shaking with both adrenaline and the effort to keep that image out of his mind, he makes his way towards you. Purposeful. Pointedly ignoring the matching smirks flashed his way. 

“You really think they’ll finally get together today?” Fushiguro deadpans from where he’d snuck up beside the old man, in an attempt to escape the public nuisances he calls ‘friends’. 

Choso’s grandfather hums thoughtfully, watching the scene play out before him - Choso flushed such a delicate shade of pink as you playfully put Yaga’s sunglasses on him. Settling on a gruff, “I’ll give it a few months more. He’s my grandson, after all.”

“That’s generous. I’d give it a couple years more.”

“Wanna bet, brat?”

“...”

Safe to say, his second button ended up safely in your hands that day. But Fushiguro would be the one to really win the bet. 

Because it was only 2 years, 4 months and 3 weeks after this little incident that Choso finally had you exactly where he wanted - with no interruptions. All for him. 

Freshly twenty one, splayed out on your apartment bedroom and having a conversation that he never in a million years would’ve even dared to imagine he’d have - with you of all people. All because of that stupid R-rated film you’d put on for movie night. 

“You’ve never what?” you gape, turning down the volume to those painfully fake moans coming from the tv.

Oh, how gorgeous you looked - all shocked and batting your lashes up at him in surprise. Choso almost swoons inwardly (and outwardly) before he realizes that shit you were probably waiting for an answer.

“I mean, yeah?” he sputters out, cheeks heating up as you lean in closer to hear him. Close. “So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Goddammit, some strange, carnal part of himself twinges dangerously at the little smirk that curls your lips. One that he quickly - and embarrassingly - realizes has the blood rushing straight to his cock. Humming a low, “Maybe. Maybe not.” The mattress dips slightly as you shift closer, lips ghosting his ear. “Want me to help you find out?”

Which is, well, how Choso found himself shoved against the armrest. Blanket thrown on the floor now, swollen cock leaking furiously through his pants as your pretty lil’ cunt hovers above his mouth. So wet that if he stuck his tongue out he could have you dripping all onto him. 

“Y-you sure about this, sweetheart?” he hisses despite his hands looping around your thighs, bringing you closer to him.

You raise a brow, “Are you sure, Cho?”

He should say no. He should laugh this all off as a bad joke. He shouldn’t ruin this friendship - but oh how badly he wants just a taste of your dripping pussy - see if she’s as sweet as the rest of you is. So, throwing caution to the wind, Choso nods slowly. “Yes. Want it s’bad.”

Grinning wickedly, you whisper, “Thought so.” And then he’s pulling you onto his mouth, hot and urgent.

“Oh fuck-” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the first taste of your sweet sweet juices. “Shit shit shit.” So sloppily licking up your swollen folds - barely moving with any method or patience, just that he’s drunk on your pussy and wants more more more-

“Hngh- f-fuck. You sure this is your hah- first time, Cho?” you gasp breathlessly. And oh your best friend was so fucking beautiful. Dark hair untied and tousled, eyes half-hooded, your slick already smearing across the bottom half of his face and trickling down his jaw because shit he was so messy. So addicted to that desperate expression on your face that he just can’t help but tease you a little bit. 

“Mhm?” he smirks, tongue swirling around your pulsing clit. Purposefully missing right where you wanted him the most because shit he loved those cute lil’ whines spilling out of you. 

You let out a huff, hips trying pathetically to inch him closer - but Choso wasn’t budging. Holding you so firmly by the hips that you’re sure he leaves bruises, licking all over your cunt except for your clit. “Cho.” you warn. Brows furrowing in frustration at the way he bats his long lashes up at you so deceivingly innocently, “What?”

“You know…”

“I don’t.” he titters teasingly into your pussy. 

“Choso.”

Now, Choso’s known and seen everything there is to do with you - but never like this. Spread open shamefully and pouting so adorably on top of him, so needy for him. It made his head spin to think of just how much the dynamics had shifted. 

Shit, he really should’ve watched that godforsaken movie with you sooner. “Tell me what you want, crybaby.”

And oh how his cock twitches at the way you manage to get out an embarrassed little, “Wan’ you to ngh- tonguefuck me properly. Wanna cum on your pretty face, Cho.”

And that’s all that’s said before he’s surging forward, glossy lips wrapping around your pulsing clit to suck harshly. Rolling his soft tongue over and over-

“Wanted this for so long.” Choso mutters, muffled as he buries himself deeper into your pretty pussy. The vibrations sending white-hot pleasure running down your spine. “You have absolutely no idea, pretty.”

And you barely even have the time to register his little confession before Choso’s moving down to bully his tongue past your folds. Nose pressing against your throbbing clit as he dips into your sloppy hole. 

“Oh shit. Jus’ like that.” For a beginner, your best friend really knew what he was doing. Eating you out like his favorite meal, tongue squeezing into your snug pussy to thrust in and out, swipe against your walls, stretching you out right to his will. Over and over-

“Use me.”

Your eyes snap down to meet the pure adoration in his eyes as he makes out filthily with your cunt. Choking out a little, “What?”

“Use me.”

There it was again - that strained little mantra. And as if to prove his point, Choso reaches out to deftly place your hands on his head, bucking into you touch. 

And, well, how could you say no to that?

Because before you know it, you’re bunching Choso’s soft strands in your fists. Angling him just right to ride his pretty face. “C’mon, Cho. Ngh- H-harder, jus’ a bit- Oh!” he just devours the way your mouth drops into an adorable little oh! as his tongue curls deftly against that one spot. Again and again. Letting himself be so used, dragging your dripping cunt harder on his mouth. 

And he likes it. Hell, he loves it even - because you’re so sweet n’ pretty on his mouth. Better than everything he’s ever been dreaming of for the past few years. And always in his dreams, you’d be clenching so deliciously around his tongue when you were close - just like right now. 

So he speeds up his movements, breathing you in maddeningly. A hand snaking down from it’s favorite place on your hips to draw quick, frenzied little circles on your poor, ravaged clit. Jaw almost aching with how filthily he was dripping in and out of your entrance - be he did give a shit. Only wanting to have you breathless and creaming all over his face.

You jerk violently on top of him, “Hah! S’too much, Cho. M’so close- gonna cum- gonna-”

And then you’re cumming. Fast, and hard. 

Plushy walls clamping down on Choso’s tongue, hips stuttering on his face as he laps up all your juices, an arm around your waist helping you ride his face through your high. 

“S’sweet. Could get used to that.” he slurs into your cunt. Tipping his head back as far as it’d go to let the last of your juices slide down his throat. “Better than I imagined.”

The words ring in your ears as you blink back your vision. Deliriously whirling down to look down at Choso - still beneath you and looking more smug and content than you’d ever seen him. “Imagination? S’that why you’re so good.”

“No.”

You’re being flipped before you know it. Manhandled so easily by your best friend as he lays you on your back, sinking into the cushion while he looms above you. “S’jus’ that…” grunting as he flings his shirt off, “Been dreaming of your pretty cunt on m’tongue for years.”

Okay, now his confession hits - more than it did when he was tonguefucking you into insanity, anyway. 

“Years, huh?” you breathe out, eyes roaming all over his sculpted torso. Taking in every dip and curve of Choso’s toned abs - all the way from his broad shoulders to the rock-hard cock straining against his pants. As if in a trance, your hand reaches out to cup his leaking erection, “S’that all you’ve been dreaming of?”

“You little minx.” he lets out a low hiss. 

Before you can even react, Choso’s fumbling with that belt - cursing because shit, he’d have worn sweatpants instead if he knew they’d end up on your floor. 

And you’re not any better, fingers popping open his buttons and tugging impatiently and oh- You always thought that your best friend would have a big dick - but this?  He was so intimidatingly long - and thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. Fat tip flushed such a pretty shade of pink to match his cheeks, leaking down down down, all the way to his heavy balls. 

You’re only jolted out of your little reverie by Choso spitting a steady stream of spit onto your quivering cunt, spreading it lazily across your pussy with his thumb. A ringed fist pumping his cock slowly, as he drags his tip across your folds, pooling your sweet juices. Muttering out a raspy, “I’ll be gentle.”

“You better not be, now jus’ fuck me-”

Well, you didn’t have to ask Choso twice. Because you’ve barely gotten the words out before he’s bullying massive cock into your tight cunt. Pressing in inch by fucking inch as you gasp and buck underneath him. 

“Shhh, s’okay, crybaby. This is what you wanted, right?” he mumbles, with all the audacity of someone that wasn’t fucking into you in rapid, mindless little jabs to fit inside your snug lil’ pussy. Struggling to hold back at this point. “Wanted to be split apart on m’cock?”

You were so full of him. Even more so when he throws your legs over his shoulders, bending all the way down and folding you in half so easily beneath him. 

He drinks in the barely-lucid squeal that leaves your swollen lips. Kissing your forehead gently, whispering against the skin, “Because I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”

And then it was like something snapped - maybe his sanity, maybe the restraint that Choso’s been holding back for too long. Because immediately he’s plunging his throbbing cock into you - all the way till his balls, all angry and squeezing so painfully, smacks against your ass. 

“Wanted this.” he rasps into your open mouth. His hips were out of control now, thrusting you in shallow, desperate rams. Pounding into you like a man possessed, and running his mouth just as much. He laces his fingers on top of your head, pushing you down even deeper into his relentless cock - as if the bastard wasn’t fucking you dumb already. “Fuckin’ needed this needed this. Shit- so bad.”

“Ch-Choso- fuck hah-” you plead as his mouth clashes with yours. All sloppy with teeth and spit and his profanities - and it felt so damn good. 

“Yeah? Who’s fucking you silly, now?” he’s going harder now, tip hitting your poor cervix over and over. And you’d be sobbing at the burn and the stretch but all you can think of is shit this is Choso - the kid you used to play hide and seek with. And now he seems fully intent on breaking you. “Say m’name.”

A rough thumb starts toying with your clit, in time with the cute lil’ whines of his name that escape your mouth like a prayer. “Shit. Y’look so pretty like this.” he babbles. “Gonna cry, pretty girl?” smirking down at the way you were too cockdrunk to even snap back, only looking up at him with delirious, teary eyes. “Be a crybaby for my cock?”

You’re tugging on his hair, thighs shaky and bucking upwards. “Cho-”

“Mhm?”

“W-wanna cum. Need you to fill m’up till I can’t take it anymore.”

Oh if Choso was any lesser man he’d have cum right then and there. Instead settling for a guttural groan, drunk off the way you were milking his cock so hard as if to prove your point. It almost made him want to stay like this forever. But no - not right now. 

“Oh yeah?” Hips becoming sloppy now, “Need it? Shit- m’so close.” Each word slurred, punctuated by a harsh thrust, strokes long and frenzied. Using your heavenly pussy like his personal fucktoy. So hard that he’s sure you’d have embarrassing matching bruises tomorrow - his balls on your ass, your nails raking down his shoulders.

“Me too- fuck fuck fuck-” you mewl into his neck, as Choso buried his face into yours. 

“Cum f’me, my girl.”

My girl. 

And then you are - and he is. And you don’t know who cums first, just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes and Choso’s teeth digging into your neck as he thrusts once. Twice. Before cumming and cumming so hard he might as well have seen the pearly gates of heaven. And you were an angel.

Thick, hot ropes of cum that paint your walls white, so much that it gushes out of your poor overfilled pussy. Dripping down your legs and pooling into a sinful, creamy ring at his base. 

“Mm- shit. Choso.” you moan, barely audible over the lewd squelches from below. 

“M’here, my girl.” he grits out, voice shot. And it seems that that was his new favorite nickname, because Choso keeps murmuring it over and over as he keeps fucking his seed into you. Not even thinking about it at this point - just mindless, shallow grinds of his hips. 

In the haze of your orgasm, you think you hear his quiet voice, strained with exhaustion and something that you weren’t in the right state of mind to decipher right now. 

“Shhh, m’here. “Can’t believe I waited so fuckin’ long.” Whispering against your lips, “Love this. Love this pretty cunt.” Kissing softly, “Love the way y’take me. Fuckin’ made f’me.” And maybe even a soft little, “Love you.”

And maybe - just maybe, you whisper the same into his. Kissing him softly, exactly the way you’d wanted to all these years. 

Neither of you speak after that. Not when Choso’s hips stall, body sticky and collapsing onto yours. Nor do you speak when he pulls away with a playful nip to your lower lip - a promise. Searching through your clothes for a washcloth he can wipe yourselves clean with. 

It’s only when he settles back under the covers beside you, looking at you with such dark, hazy eyes - whirling with too many emotions to name - that the silence is broken. 

“Crybaby.”

“Cho.”

“Corny.”

“You started it.”

Chuckling, Choso pulls your body close to his. Not even a hair’s breadth between you two because shit now that he’s got you, he doesn’t think he ever wants to let you go. 

“Y’know…” he starts, “I think we should- I mean- if you want…” nervous now more than he was even after all that just transpired. Cheeks flaring as he meets your amused gaze, just daring him to go on - because you saw through him. You always did. “I lov-”

“Am I late for the mov- WHAT THE FUCK I ALWAYS KNEW BRATS WEREN’T JUST FRIENDS-”

---

Itadori Family Groupchat + Two More

Dad: Hey, all. I can’t seem to get a hold of Choso to confirm tomorrow’s dinner plans. Can anyone else let me know if he’s ok? XX

-Jin.

Yuji <3: He’s probs at rhat “best friend movie night” still 

Dad: Hello, Yuji. What is a “probs”? XX

-Jin.

Kugisaki: He’s suspiciously quiet, though… Y’all think that “best friend movie night” is codeword for something else? 

Yuji <3: Better not be cuz Sukuna stole my sparw key sayin something ab crashing it idk

Kugisaki: *spare

And you just LET him?

Yuji <3: HE THREATENED TO BURN MY MEGAN THEE STALLION POSTER 

…

AND DID IT ANYWAY

Kugisaki: L

Fushiguro: L

Gramps: L

Sukuna (do not answer): DID Y’ALL KNOW THOSE TWO WERE FUCKIN????

*Fushiguro has left the chat*

Dad: :0

-Jin.

A/N. Spiritually, this is a crackfic idk.

[pedrospatch]

someone to be thankful for

DBF! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: It’s Thanksgiving—when dinner with your nightmare of a family goes south, you find comfort in the person you least expect it from: your father’s best friend, Joel Miller.

warnings/tags: 18+ only, MINORS DNI. (AU, NO OUTBREAK) non canon, DBF! Joel, AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s, i do not specify her age, but she’s a recent college grad so do with that what you will, not everyone graduates at the same specific age ya know? Joel is in his mid-ish 50’s). Reader’s a teacher, she is visiting her suburban childhood home from a big city. Reader’s parents are religious and practice traditional-ish gender norms (i.e father is head of the household kinda thing) reader’s family celebrates Thanksgiving (sorry) several mentions of food and alcohol, reader’s parents suck, she has two brothers who come with names, a lot of her relatives come with names, watch out for Aunt Ines she’s a bitch. (TW) body/weight shaming (twice) PLEASE BE MINDFUL if this could be triggering. mentions of and implications of childhood abuse (not graphic) reader’s dad gets in her face, implied infidelity (reader’s dad), implied toxic marriage (reader’s parents). soft, caring, protective Joel. Joel’s recently divorced, mention of Sarah, mentions of the ex-wife. SMUT. oral sex (female receiving) p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) reader states she’s on baby blockers (birth control), creampie, DADDY KINK (bc reader clearly has a few daddy issues), LOTS of pet names (darlin’, baby, pretty girl, sweetheart, honey), size kink (ish?), cockwarming. think i got it all?

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. if this isn’t your thing, that is fine but just keep on scrolling.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION.

word count: 11.5k

a/n: yeah…idk. this was very delayed because it turned into a whole thing. if anyone actually reads all 11k of this, i will bake you muffins.

You take a deep breath and look in the mirror.

Skirt pressed, not a wrinkle in sight.

Hair brushed, not a single strand out of place.

Makeup done, not a blemish to be seen.

And somehow, someone will still find something.

Something to point out.

Something to comment on.

Something to criticize.

If not your appearance, it’ll be something else.

Because someone always had something to say.

“Should you be eating all of that?”

“Another year gone and still no boyfriend?”

“Don’t you want to get married?”

“When I was in my twenties, I had two children.”

Boundaries didn’t exist on Thanksgiving.

Actually, for your family, boundaries didn’t exist at all—somehow, they are still scratching their heads and wondering why you’d decided to up and leave the minute your high school principal handed over that diploma, your ticket to freedom.

“Sweetie!” Your mother’s shrill voice calls from the kitchen downstairs. “I need a hand! Our guests are going to start arriving soon and there is still plenty left for us to do before they get here!”

You groan outwardly.

There’s still plenty left to do?

How’s that even fucking possible?

You’ve been cooking and baking since sunrise.

“Don’t you think it’s too early?” you’d grumbled at five o’ clock in the morning when your mother had pulled you out of bed, declaring it was time for the big dinner preparations to begin—even though it’d be several hours before your family came over and gathered around the table to break bread. She had pulled the turkey out of the freezer a few days ago, a massive, thirty-pound whole bird that looked big enough to feed a small village. In addition, she had picked up a ham and a brisket. “Mom, why’s there so much food?” Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the sleeve of your robe, you’d started making your way over to the Nespresso only to realize that the coffee machine was hidden behind paper bags full of groceries. “Are we cooking for all of Texas or something?”

“Very funny,” she had glared at you. “Of course we aren’t.” She started unwrapping the turkey. “We’re simply making sure we have enough food and that we have different options for everyone to enjoy, so knock it off with the wisecracks and get to peeling those carrots for me for the stuffing. There is not a single minute to waste today, you hear me, missy? We’re hosting a dozen people, so everything must be absolutely perfect. I won’t accept anything less than perfection today, do you understand me?”

Thirteen hours later, she’s still driving you insane.

You’re only home visiting until the end of the week and then it’s back to the Midwest. You can survive her for three more days, right?

You hear her calling your name and exhale a small, frustrated sigh. “I’m coming, mom!” you call back. It’s difficult to mask the annoyance in your tone of voice, but somehow you manage it. “One minute!”

Smoothing down your pleated plaid skirt, you take one last look in the mirror to make sure everything is in order—there is a loose thread on the sleeve of your brown, knitted sweater and you carefully snip it off with a pair of scissors before sliding your feet into the comfiest pair of ankle boots you’d packed and head downstairs, nose leading the way as you follow the warm, delicious scent of the made from scratch biscuits and rolls baking in the oven.

You find your mother standing at the center island counter garnishing a charcuterie board with sweet gherkins and sprigs of fresh herbs. She’s donning a festive apron embroidered with fall leaves over her designer dress, and her hair’s still up in rollers. “Finally, there you are,” she huffs out loudly the second she hears you walk into the kitchen. Down the hallway, your father and two younger brothers are shouting at some football game on the flat screen television in the living room—men don’t lift a single finger on this day, at least not in this household. “I need you to start setting the table for me. I have place cards in that bag over there. Make sure your dad’s at the head of the table. Oh and don’t forget to bring out the children’s table for all your little cousins—” She glances up, letting out a small gasp when she sees you. “What in the world are you wearing?”

Frowning, you look down at yourself. “Clothes?”

Her ruby red lips purse together in a tight thin line.

“Honey, that skirt is too short. It’s inappropriate.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at her. “It’s like an inch above the knee, how is that inappropriate? It’s not like it’s a miniskirt, mom.” As she eyes your skirt with disapproval, you decide you’re not in the mood to argue and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll go upstairs and change into something else then—”

“No, no, forget it,” she shakes her head. “We don’t have the time for that.” Your mother whirls around, picking up the bag of place holders—she’d special ordered little turkeys carved out of wood. She also takes a marker and a notepad, shoving everything into your hands. “Here. I wrote down all the names of everyone who’s coming for dinner. The children get place holders too but make sure the little ones are sitting beside someone older to help them. Oh! Did I already mention putting your dad at the head of the—”

Tuning her out, your eyes scan down the guest list and if there’s one thing to be thankful for today it’s the fact that your mother’s given you the power to seat everybody wherever you want. Halfway down the list, you see the names of several relatives that you don’t want anywhere near you at the table. An Aunt Miriam who smells like the inside of a casino; a cousin Jennifer who refuses to acknowledge her forty-eight month old is actually four years old; an uncle Richard who always has one too many beers and winds up spewing antigovernment conspiracy theories, ranting until he’s passed out somewhere, such as on the floor of the guest bathroom.

You get to the bottom of the list and can’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise. “Joel Miller?”

She nods, returning to her board.

“You remember Mr. Miller, don’t you, sweetie? He and your father went to college together—he’s one of his oldest and dearest friends. Don’t tell me you forgot about him? You’ve met him plenty of ti—”

“Yeah, I remember who Joel is, mom,” you mutter, cutting her off. “Didn’t he and the family move out to Arizona like, four years ago? To Phoenix, right?” You’d been away for college then. Taking a second glance at the list, you notice she had forgotten the names of Joel’s wife and daughter. Surely, it’d just been a mistake on her part, though. “I had no idea they were in town visiting. Dad didn’t mention it to me at all.”

“They’re not.” She lowers her voice, as if someone else is standing in the room listening. “Joel moved back to Austin, he’s been back for a few days now. He and Connie, they um—” Pausing for a moment, she reaches up and clasps the cross hanging from her neck before whispering, “They got divorced.”

Taken aback, your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

“I know. Joel and Connie were the last people that I ever thought would get divorced. Such a shame,” your mother remarks, shaking her head. “I ran into Mrs. Adler at the super market and she was telling me all about it. Thinks they could have saved their marriage if only those two—”

“Would get right with Jesus,” you finish, biting the tiny smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “She says that about everything, mom.”

“Well, she isn’t wrong! The sacrament of marriage is a lifelong bond that shouldn’t be broken. It’s not right.” Dropping her hand away from her necklace, she crosses her arms over chest. “Anyway, Connie stayed in Phoenix. Sarah’s spending Thanksgiving with her. Your father didn’t want Joel spending the holiday alone and invited him over for dinner. That means I need you to be on your very best behavior tonight. I don’t want you embarrassing your father in front of his closest friend. Is that understood?”

You can’t help but scoff a little. “I’m not a child.”

She narrows her eyes at you and scoffs right back, planting her hands on her hips.

“No, you’re a smart aleck. Need I remind you what happened last Thanksgiving with Aunt Ines?”

Of course she didn’t have to remind you about last year’s fiasco with her insufferable bitch of a sister.

“That’s an awfully big piece of pumpkin pie,” she’d remarked loudly, eliciting snickers from everybody sitting at the table. “Don’t forget, dear—a moment on the lips, forever on the hips. And you have quite a few forevers on your hips already, darling.”

You had smiled sweetly at her, your fingers itching to fling your mother’s fine china at her. “I wouldn’t really worry about my pie, Aunt Ines,” you had said as soon as you realized that nobody, not even your parents, would be coming to your defense. “Much less when your husband’s stepping out and eating someone else’s pie when he’s away on all those so called business trips. Worry about that instead.”

That comment hadn’t gone over all too well. Three months later, Aunt Ines and Uncle Louis started to see a marriage counselor. Whoops.

“Well?”

“She deserved that,” you say, shrugging lightly.

“She’s family.”

“She’s a jerk.”

“You crossed a line.”

“She crossed it first.”

Before your mother can respond, the sound of the doorbell ringing echoes throughout the house.

“Jesus, we don’t have time for this!” Your mother’s eyes widen when she tries running a hand through her hair and realizes she still has her rollers in. “Oh no, people are arriving and I’m still not ready!” She makes a beeline for the hallway. “Get the door and greet our guests, I’ll be down in five minutes!”

She disappears upstairs into her bedroom and you hear the doorbell ring again. Your father shouts for someone to go answer it, someone other than him or your brothers because it is the end of the fourth quarter and they just can’t possibly miss that.

You make your way through the foyer and open up the front door expecting it to be one of your family members, but it’s not.

Your throat instantly goes dry at the sight of him.

He’s broader than you remeber, so much broader.

The fabric of his sage green dress shirt is nice and snug on his frame—stretched taut over the planes of his chest and his wide shoulders. He’s holding a box of store bought something or other but you’re much too preoccupied with the way the sleeves of his shirt are hugging his biceps to notice what it is although you assume it’s some kind of dessert. He looks far more delicious than whatever sweet treat could be in that white box he’s got in his hands.

After a minute, you realize you’ve been gawking at him and the heat rushes to your cheeks. “Hello Mr. Miller,” you greet him politely. “It’s very nice to see you again. Please, come on in.”

He smiles, his brown eyes warm and sweet behind his square, black-rimmed glasses. “You remember me,” he states and the syrupy richness of his voice sends a pleasant tingle up your spine. Stepping off to the side, you allow him inside—as he steps past you over the threshold, the tantalizing scent of his cologne almost brings you to your knees. Notes of a citrus accord like tart grapefruit, fresh bergamot mixed with the woodiness of vetiver and musk; it’s intoxicating, something you could easily get drunk off of if you’re not careful. “I’m surprised. S’been a real long time since you last saw me.”

“It hasn’t been all that long,” you reply, closing the door behind you. You speak to him in the steadiest voice you can muster, with nonchalance—as if you aren’t one missed heartbeat away from feeling like a silly little schoolgirl with her first crush. “Has it?”

He thinks about it. “‘Bout four and a half years.”

“That’s really not that long.”

“S’not,” Joel admits with a chuckle. “But with how much I’ve aged in that short amount of time, I just wasn’t sure if you’d recognize me, y’know? I look a lot different than I used to.” He pauses and laughs, shaking his head. “I must look like an old geezer to you now, don’t I?”

Grays lightly pepper his thick dark brown curls, his beard and his mustache. He’s got crows feet when he smiles, he has worry lines and creases between his eyebrows—he does look a lot older, but he’s so goddamn handsome, wrinkles, fine lines, and all.

You toss him a playful eye roll, prompting a grin. “I don’t think you look like an old geezer, Mr. Miller.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell makin’ me feel like an old geezer by callin’ me that, darlin’ girl.” He gives you a little wink and you’re not quite sure if it’s that, or if it was the way he’d used a pet name that knocks all the wind out of your lungs. “Please, just call me Joel.”

You nod and shyly agree to it. “Okay, then. Joel.”

“S’much better.” His grin widens and a prominent, deep dimple appears on the left side of his cheek.

There’s a silence that follows, but it’s not awkward or weird. It’s comfortable—being in his presence is comfortable. His sweet disposition makes you feel so calm, so at ease.

Joel’s always been a nice man of course, although your interactions with him had been limited—kind, quick hello’s in passing on Sundays whenever he’d come over to watch football with your dad, maybe a polite how are you here and there if you bumped into him at gatherings like a backyard barbecue or birthday party. But you’re older now, no longer the child who greeted her father’s best friend because it was bad manners if she didn’t. You don’t want to throw him that kind, quick hello or that polite how are you and then scurry off the way you used to as a little kid. You actually want to talk to Joel Miller.

But you suddenly remember he’s not here for you.

He’s here for your father.

Joel!” Your mother screeches, five-inch high heels clacking loudly as she descends the staircase. She had ditched the apron and hair rollers—and put on one too many layers of her heaviest perfume. With a delighted squeal, she rushes up to Joel and pulls him into a bone crushing hug, almost causing him to drop the box he’s still holding. “Oh, it is so good to see you! It’s been far too long!”

You force back a small, amused snort.

As if she hadn’t been judging the man for a failed marriage just minutes ago in the kitchen.

It’s performative, too over the top to be sincere.

“S’good to see you too.” He steps back and laughs as he adjusts his glasses with one of his hands. He holds out the box to her with the other. “Picked up a pecan pie on the way over here. I would’a tried to make it myself, but the kitchen’s still all packed up in boxes.” He pauses, laughing again. “Then again, I ain’t really much of a baker. Store bought was for the best I reckon,” he admits, sheepishly. When he shrugs his shoulders, his shirt strains a bit over his frame and even your mother can’t help but stare a little.

Lightly clearing her throat, she takes the box from him and reminds him, “Didn’t I tell you that all you had to bring tonight was a nice, healthy appetite?”

Joel lightly pats his stomach. “Brought that too. In fact, I didn’t eat a thing all day long. I’m absolutely starvin’ right now. Could eat a whole horse.”

“Good! Dinner’s going to be served soon. William’s in the living room with the boys, watching football game after football game. Come with me, I’m sure you’re eager to see him.” Your mother spins on her heel and hands you the dessert. “Sweetie, will you be a gem and go put this in the kitchen for me?” It isn’t a request, it’s an order masked as a request—it’s the kindest she’s been to you all day. She takes Joel’s arm and leads him down the hallway, calling out over her shoulder, “And please set the table!”

You do set the table, and when you do, you decide to sit yourself right next to Joel Miller.

Your mother lightly clinks her knife against the rim of her wine glass and clears her throat. “Everyone! It’s time to join hands and say grace before we dig into our meal,” she announces, her voice breaking through the loud, buzzing chatter at the table. She waits until there’s complete silence and then takes her seat, the chair adjacent to your father’s. You’re on his opposite side and Joel’s right beside you. “I think you should do the honor, William. You are the man of the house, after all.”

Nodding, your father begins the prayer.

“Heavenly Father, bless this food we are about—”

You’re not listening. You’re distracted by the jolt of electricity that zips through your entire body when you put your hand in Joel’s. His hand dwarfs yours and it’s rough and calloused, but somehow it’s the most gentle, soothing touch. Heat prickles at your face and neck when you feel him sweep his thumb across the back of your hand—you open your eyes and glance over at him, wondering if that had just been an accident. You’re convinced it was, until he does it again, running his finger over each knuckle one at a time. Slowly, like he’s savoring the touch.

Biting your lip, you give his hand a gentle squeeze.

His head is bowed and his eyes are still closed, but a faint smile tugs lightly at the corner of his mouth and he firmly squeezes your hand back. There’s an unmistakable desire that’s already burning deep in your lower belly, a flame you can’t extinguish even when the angel on your shoulder reminds you that not only is Joel Miller twice your fucking age, he is also your father’s best friend. His best friend.

“…through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” your relatives chime together in unison.

You force out the declaration. “Amen.”

“Amen,” Joel murmurs, opening his eyes. He turns to you and his gaze flits to your hand in his and for a moment, it almost seems like he doesn’t want to let it go. It feels like Joel doesn’t want to let it go—and he doesn’t. He doesn’t let it go until the sound of your father’s loud, booming voice announcing it is time for him to carve the bird startles the two of you apart. Clearing his throat lightly, Joel turns his attention forward and reaches for his cabernet. He gulps down half his glass in one easy swallow.

Dinner’s fairly uneventful.

You eat in complete silence, as does Joel.

Part of you wonders if it’s because you’re sitting in between him and your father, the only person that he’s most comfortable conversing with. Assuming this is the case, you’re just about to ask him if he’d like to trade places when he turns to you and says, “Your dad told me you went to school in Chicago.”

He’s just being friendly, you remind yourself when your heart starts to flutter wildly at the notion that he wants to talk to you. He’s friendly. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Yeah. I did.” You pick up your glass of wine, taking a sip hoping it’ll ease the nerves. “I graduated over the summer and took a teaching job out there.”

“You became a teacher?”

“Yeah. I teach kindergarten.” You smile proudly.

“Can you believe that, Joel?” Your father lets out a scoff and shakes his head. “I spent thousands and thousands of dollars to send her to school. All that money and for what? For her to learn how to teach little ankle biters how to color inside the lines?” He rolls his eyes and gestures to your two brothers on the opposite side of the table. “Now my boys, they are smart. Chose good careers to pursue. Brandon starts applying to medical school in the spring. Oh and Matthew? He got early acceptance to Yale. He plans on studying law.” He shifts his attention over to you once more and shrugs. “Not too sure where I went wrong with this one.”

You stare at him in complete and utter disbelief.

“Dad.”

Chortling, he waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on, honey. I’m just kidding around. You know that I don’t mean it.” He then reaches out, pinching your cheek roughly. “Don’t be so sensitive,” he tells you before turning his attention back to his plate.

But he does mean it.

His comments hurt, and you hate that they hurt.

Joel nudges your arm with his. “Y’know somethin’, it takes someone real special to become a teacher, ‘specially to kids that age,” he states in a matter of fact tone. “Someone who’s real sweet and patient, someone real smart too. Someone just like you.”

Warmth radiates through your entire body. It’s not just his words, but it’s the sincerity behind them.

You shoot him a small, grateful smile.

The two of you wind up talking to one another.

Joel’s moving his contracting business, bringing it back to Austin from Phoenix to run it with Tommy, his younger brother who you vaguely remembered meeting a time or two in the past. He mentions his daughter here and there, but doesn’t bring Connie up once—perhaps it’s too painful for him? It’s hard to tell. He seems to be in good spirits and truth be told, it doesn’t appear he’s mourning his marriage; but it’s difficult to believe he’s not missing her, the woman he’d spent three decades of his life with. It shouldn’t even matter to you whether he’s missing his ex-wife or not, if there are residual feelings still lingering around. But it does matter and you don’t know why. Or maybe you do know why, but you’re too ashamed to admit it.

“Do you like Chicago?” Joel questions, curiously.

Shrugging, you respond, “Yeah. It’s a cool city.”

“You plan on stayin’ out there permanently?”

“I’m not too sure,” you admit. “It’s too expensive. I don’t want to live with a roommate forever. Unless teachers start getting paid more, I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to afford to live alone in Chicago.”

Joel seems hesitant about his next query. “Do you ever think ‘bout comin’ back to Austin at all?”

Suddenly, you’re not too sure about that either.

You’ve been itching to go back and get as far from Austin, Texas as possible, but now, it means being far from Joel Miller. There’s a deep, sinking feeling inside of your chest at the thought.

Realizing he’s still waiting for a response, you have no choice but to tell him the truth. “I don’t think I’ll ever come back here, to be honest. Not to stay.”

“Oh. I see.” He sounds disappointed. “Are you—do you plan on visitin’ home again for Christmas?”

“I do. I’ll be here for Christmas and New Year’s.”

He’s being friendly. He’s being friendly. He’s—

“It’d be real nice to see you again then.” Flushing a deep shade of red, subtle regret flashes across his features, as if he’d said it without thinking. Picking up his glass, he drains the rest of his wine and you can swear he’s nervous. About what he’d just said, and about whether or not your parents, who are in such close proximity, had overheard him. Because what business did he have in telling their daughter it would be nice to see her again?

They’re both much too preoccupied. Your father is attempting to be slick checking his text messages underneath the table and you can tell by the smirk on his face that it’s one of his secretaries. He’s got a penchant for perky blondes in tight pencil skirts. Your mother is well aware of this. She is also aware he’s on his phone, but she turns a blind eye just as she always does and distracts herself by being the perfect hostess.

Feeling foolishly courageous, you turn back to him and nod, heart pounding against your sternum. “It would. It’d be very nice, actually.”

Relieved, he nods and murmurs quietly, “We’ll talk ‘bout it later, then. That okay, darlin’?”

Not wanting to seem too eager, you nod again and turn away from him, teeth sinking into your lip in a futile attempt to hide the giddiness in your smile—but the soft chuckle Joel elicits under his breath is a clear indication that it’s useless.

He knows how he’s making you feel. He likes it.

Your mother returns from the kitchen carrying two baskets of fresh crescent rolls, one for each end of the table. She sets one of them down right in front of you and you reach out to take one when a voice, one that sounds as awful as nails scraping down a chalkboard, remarks loudly, “Should you be eating so much bread, dear?” Ines, who’s sitting a couple chairs down, next to your grandmother, looks over at you and raises an eyebrow. There’s a smug little smile on her face, almost as if she were daring you to run your mouth like you’d done last year.

For as much as it pains you, you make your choice and decide not to take the bait. You pull your hand out of the basket of rolls and pick up your glass of wine instead, chugging it down like it’s water.

Frowning, Joel picks up the basket and takes a roll that you assume is for himself, but it’s not. Putting it on your plate, he shoots her a frigid glare. “Don’t you listen to her.” He says it loud enough for her to hear him. “You just enjoy yourself, alright?”

Your aunt bats her eyes, innocently. “Well, I’m just saying. If my skirt was that tight on me, I would be thinking twice about what goes into my mouth.”

Hushed laughter sweeps across the entire table.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” You slam your empty glass down so hard onto the table that the entire dining room goes completely silent. The little ones at the children’s table stare with big and wide eyes, mouths full of food hung open because a grown up had just used a naughty word.

Your mother says your name warningly. “Don’t you start,” she hisses, shaking her head. “Be quiet.”

Angrily, you round on her. “Seriously? You’re going to let her say that to me? You don’t care that she’s making comments about my weight?” You almost laugh. Of course doesn’t care, she has never cared and she never will. “I’m your daughter! Would it kill you to defend me for once in your fucking life?”

“Shut your mouth!” Your father stands up, shoving a threatening finger into your face, so close the tip of it almost touches the tip of your nose. He hasn’t put his hands on you since you were nine, but he’s as drunk as he is angry, and you find yourself back in the shoes of the little girl who would curl up into a ball in the corner of her room as she begged and pleaded for him not to hurt her. “You hear me?”

Joel stands and walks around your chair. Placing a hand on your father’s chest, he mutters, “Hey now let’s take a step back from her, alright?” He guides him back down into his chair. “Ain’t gotta be in her face like that, Will.”

“I’m sick and tired of her ruining everything—can’t get through one dinner without her screwing it up! Always has to run that fucking mouth of hers! She still acts like a goddamn fucking child—”

You can’t bear to sit there and hear another insult.

Fighting back the hot tears that are threatening to spill over, you quickly stand up and rush out of the dining room. You make a beeline for the front door and step outside onto the porch. It’s about sixty or so degrees in Austin and the cold nips at your bare legs, but that’s the least of your worries. Without a place to go, you descend the porch steps and find yourself walking towards the swing that’s hanging from the old bur oak tree in the front yard. You had asked your father for a swing when you were three years old—it wasn’t until your brothers asked for a swing a couple years later that he’d hung one up.

You sit down, hands curling around the rope that’s so old and weathered it’s beginning to fray slightly but not so much so that you’re concerned about it snapping. You’re so busy trying to keep it together that you don’t notice the sound of crisp, autumnal leaves crunching under a pair of boots behind you. A hand gingerly touches your shoulder. You let out a startled gasp and glance over to see it’s Joel.

“Hey there, darlin’,” he says, gently.

You stare at him in surprise.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Needed to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you grit the lie through your teeth.

Joel’s expression softens. “You ain’t gotta pretend with me, sweetheart.”

His concern is genuine. It’s real.

You don’t quite know how to handle it. Accept it.

“It got real ugly in there, ‘specially with your dad.”

Tears prickle at your eyes all over again. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Baffled, Joel walks around the swing and a minor labored grunt escapes him as he squats in front of you. “There’s a few people who need to be apologizin’ for what happened, but darlin’ you sure as fuckin’ hell ain’t one of them.”

It’s odd. Feels foreign, even.

You’re not used to someone being on your side—it prompts more tears to spring forward and despite your best efforts to fight them off, it’s useless. You manage to whisper his name. It’s a feeble warning, one that’s telling him to go back inside before he’s caught in the torrential downpour of emotions you are mere seconds away from unleashing on him.

But he doesn’t budge. He waits. Joel knows you’re about to break and he’s ready to catch the pieces.

Finally, a tear slips and rolls down your cheek, only to be followed by another and then another. You’re holding onto the swing for dear life now, emotions that you’ve been holding in for your whole life now coming to the surface. The rope digs painfully into the palms of your hands. He reaches out and curls his fingers lightly around your wrists.

“S’okay to let go,” Joel encourages you and you’re certain he’s not just referring to the swing. “Listen to me, darlin’ girl. I ain’t gonna let you fall, alright? I’m right here to catch you. You can let go. I’ve got you, okay?”

You allow Joel to take your hands off the rope and he guides them around his shoulders as you begin to crumble. Leaning forward slightly off the swing, you wrap you arms around him and bury your face into his neck. “Joel,” you choke out his name as he wraps his own arms around your waist, pulling you closer into him.

He feels like stability.

He feels like security.

He feels like safety.

Your entire body shudders as you cry, cry, cry.

“S’alright, sweet girl. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He repeats his reassurance over and over again.

He wants you to believe it.

And you do believe it.

Joel’s as patient as can be. It’s growing colder and his knees are begging for a change of positon, but couldn’t care less about the discomfort. He rubs a soothing circle into your back and waits until there is nothing left except little hiccups and sniffles.

“Shit,” you mumble when you pull back and notice you’d left behind a wet spot on his shirt along with light traces of mascara. You wipe at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater. “I ruined your shirt.”

“S’okay. Nothin’ the dry cleaners can’t take care of for me.” Joel chuckles and lets go of you. “You feel a little better now, darlin’?”

“I do.” You glance over your shoulder at the house, then exhale a sigh and turn back to him, admitting quietly, “I don’t want to go back in there, though.”

He rises to his feet and pulls out a set of keys from the pocket of his black jeans. “Well, y’dont have to go back in there,” he states. “Is there somewhere I can take you? Friend’s house, maybe?”

“My best friend Megan went to Puerto Vallarta for Thanksgiving. Most of my other friends left Austin like I did,” you explain, sighing again. “Anyone who didn’t leave is spending their time with their family tonight and I don’t want to bother them.”

Joel hums, mulling it over in his mind. “Well, don’t know how comfortable you’ll be with the idea, but my place ain’t all too far from here. Ten minutes or so. Less if there’s no one out on the roads.”

“Joel, that’s so nice of you to offer, but I’ve already ruined your dinner tonight. The last thing I want to do is put you out even more,” you say, sheepishly.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t ruin a fuckin’ thing for me tonight. And you wouldn’t be puttin’ me out at all,” he promises. “S’gettin’ late and truth be told, I just wanna get you somewhere warm.” Holding out his free hand, he adds, “And comfortable.”

“But Joel—”

“I can be real stubborn too, y’know,” he teases you with a playful grin. “We’ll be out here all night long freezin’ our fuckin’ asses off.”

He isn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Okay,” you relent, accepting the offer.

You place your hand in his and he helps you off the swing. He doesn’t let it go as he leads the way to a sleek, black Dodge Ram that’s parked behind your grandfather’s silver Mercedes. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze before dropping it. “Sorry, sweet girl. It’s a bit of a trip up into the seat,” he remarks, chuckling as he opens the passenger side door for you. He gives you a boost into the truck; the scent of new leather is mixed with that of his cologne. It is all man and couldn’t be sexier. “Good up there?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Joel closes the door and hurriedly walks around to the driver’s side of the pickup, climbing up into his seat with ease. “Seatbelt,” he tells you as he sticks the key into the ignition. The first thing he does as soon as the engine roars to life is turn on your seat warmer. He switches on the heater as well, waiting a minute before asking, “You warm enough?”

“I am. Thank you, Joel.”

“‘Course.” He nods and pulls away from the curb.

As Joel’s driving you further and further from your parents’ house, all you feel is sweet relief.

“M’sorry the place is such a mess.”

Joel leads you into his living room and touches his hand to the back of his neck, embarrassed.

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him and say, “I’d hardly call cardboard boxes stacked neatly over on one side of the room a mess, Joel.” You take a look around his townhouse—most of his furniture’s still wrapped up in plastic, except for the black leather couch and the rustic, acacia wood coffee table. He has a flat screen mounted over the brick fireplace; he’s been sleeping on the couch, or at least, that’s what the pillow and Texas Longhorns fleece throw tells you. You turn to him. “If you want to see a real mess, you should see my apartment in Chicago.”

You watch him as he takes off his glasses and puts them down on the coffee table.

“S’it pretty bad?”

“My roommate’s a kindergarten teacher too. You’d be surprised at how many popsicle sticks two girls in their twenties can end up bringing home. Not to mention all the glitter.”

“If you’re tryin’ to make me feel better, it’s workin’ like a charm.” Joel picks up his blanket and drapes it over the armchair adjacent to the couch. “Go on and make yourself comfortable, darlin’. You thirsty at all? I’ve got water or I can make coffee. Also got a pack of beer in the fridge,” he adds, jokingly.

“What kind of beer?” you ask curiously as you sink down onto the couch.

He seems pleasantly surprised by your interest.

“Lone Star.”

“I’ll have one. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“‘Course it’s not too much trouble. Not at all.”

It’s hard not to stare as he walks away towards the kitchen. Your thighs clench together—his back, his shoulders, those unkempt salt and pepper curls of his that tuft at the nape of his neck right above his collar—this man is the epitome of utter perfection. Your mind wanders and you can’t help imagine the way your legs would look thrown over those broad shoulders. How his large hands would feel on your plush skin as they wrap around your thighs to hold them in place against his chest while he fucks y—

“Here you go, darlin’.”

Joel’s deep voice shatters your train of thought.

He’s standing beside you, holding out the bottle of beer, which he’d uncapped along with his own.

Blood rushes to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you say as you accept the beer from him, trying not to lose the sliver of composure that you’re holding onto—it wavers when your fingers accidentally brush his.

“S’it too cold in here for you?” he asks. “I normally keep the thermostat pretty low.”

“It’s a little cold,” you admit. “But it’s not a prob—”

It’s too late. Joel walks over to the fireplace and he manages to strike a match and light it with just his free hand. After tossing in a couple logs, he makes his way back over to the couch and he takes a seat beside you. “That a bit better, sweetheart?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “You said it was cold.”

He takes a long, generous swig of the golden lager before setting the bottle down on one of the green ceramic coasters on the coffee table. He sits back; an arm stretches out over the back of the couch in a casual manner and his legs spread open causing your thighs to clench together once more.

“You feelin’ alright?”

“Huh?” You then realize he is referring to what had happened at dinner. “Oh. Um. Yeah, I’m alright.”

Joel peers at you, his concern evident, clear in the depths of his dark brown eyes. “You sure?”

“No. Not really,” you confess, tracing the mouth of your bottle with your index finger. “But I’ll get over it. I don’t have a choice but to get over it.” Another lump starts forming in the back of your throat and you swallow it, quickly chasing it down with a gulp of beer.

“M’guessin’ your family’s got somethin’ to do with why you decided to leave Austin?”

“Bingo,” you deadpan. “I was so sick and tired of it all. How I was talked to, how I was treated. Like I’m such a fucking disappointment.”

He frowns. “You’re not a disappointment, though.”

“My parents think I’m a disappointment. My dad’s never told me he’s proud of me, Joel. Nothing I do, nothing I have ever done is good enough for either of them, but especially not for him.” There is a dull ache that settles in your heart and all you can do is silently will yourself not to breakdown again, not in front of him, at least. You sigh. “Do you know what it’s like, not feeling good enough for someone that is supposed to love you no matter what? Someone who’s supposed to love you unconditionally?”

Joel knows it’s a rhetorical question, he knows it’s not something you’re expecting him to answer.

But he does answer, because he does know.

“I do, actually. I know all too well what it feels like.”

He looks down at his left hand, which is resting on his thigh and you do too. Your eyes flicker over the fading tanline on his finger—where he once wore a wedding band. You don’t even think twice about it and reach over, sweeping your own finger over the patch of pale skin. Without missing a beat, you tell him, “You’re good enough, Joel.”

He can’t help but laugh a little. “She’d disagree.”

“She’s wrong.”

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t have to know what happened.”

“That ain’t how it works, sweetheart.”

Stubbornly, you lift your chin. “I don’t care.”

Joel laughs. “Y’think you know me, darlin’? Y’think you know what kinda man I am? Hm?”

“I do know.” You place your hand on top of his and his jaw clenches. “You’re a good man, Joel Miller. I know that you’re a good man.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong ‘bout that.” There’s a brief pause and he hesitates before confessing, “A good man wouldn’t be sittin’ here just fuckin’ dyin’ to kiss his best friend’s daughter.”

You freeze and grip your bottle so tight, you would not be the slightest bit surprised if it shatters right in your hand. “You—you want to kiss me?”

“Since the moment you opened up that front door and said hello to me.” Joel shakes his head. “S’not right.” He’s riddled with guilt, with shame. He pulls his hand out from under yours. “I ain’t a good man at all. You’re half my fuckin’ age and I shouldn’t—”

You cut him off, softly uttering his name. “Joel?”

“Yeah?” His voice sounds hoarse. Strained.

“Can you—will you kiss me? Please?”

You need more than just his kiss, so much more.

You need him to unravel you in every way possible, but beggars can’t be choosers and if one kiss was all you’ll get tonight, then you’ll fucking take it.

Joel swallows dryly. “That really what you want?”

His eyes flicker down to your lips and then back to meet your sweet, innocent gaze.

“Yes,” you breathe in reply. “Please. Kiss me.”

He leans in, and there’s brief hesitation on his part and he stops mere centimeters from your face, his nose lightly brushing against yours. “We shouldn’t be doin’ this.” His warm breath fans over your lips; they’re parted, eager to meet his own. “I shouldn’t let this happen. I—I should take you back home to your family before I do somethin’ real stupid.”

Your heart sinks. “That really what you want?” you parrot his own question back to him and hold your breath, knowing there’s a chance his answer could be the answer that you don’t want to hear, the one that could end up crushing you.

Joel lifts his hand, cupping the side of your face in his palm. “‘Course it’s not what I want.” His thumb strokes your cheek, his dark eyes taking in each of your features. He’s studying, memorizing them, as if he’ll never get another chance to be this close to you again. With the line he’s about to cross, you’re both about to cross, that just might be the case.

The tension seeps through your skin and into your bones.

You exhale shakily. “Then just kiss me already.”

He moves his hand and gently curls it around your chin, holding you steady as he leans further in and closes the gap of space in between you. He moves slowly and he’s gentle—too gentle. You want to tell him you’re not made of porcelain, but you’re much too preoccupied with how Joel’s mouth feels, how perfectly it molds against yours. He delicately nips your bottom lip with his teeth. It’s a silent request.

He wants more, more, more. Your lips part for him, granting him the access he’s seeking. Joel doesn’t waste a single moment and he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue, eliciting a whimper from you. Without breaking contact, he takes your beer and somehow he manages to lean over to set it down on the coffee table without dropping it. He then pushes you back into the couch and the next thing you know, you’re lying on your back and he’s settled in between your legs, using one of his arms to keep himself propped up, while the other wraps itself in your hair. Your own hands clutch at fistfuls of his shirt, fingers gripping the fabric so tight, the skin over your knuckles stretches painfully thin.

You whimper out again, the noise prompting a low growl to rumble through his chest—suddenly, he’s not being so gentle. He isn’t being rough. But he is hungry, he’s possessive, and he’s letting it show in the way he’s swelling your lips with his kisses, how his fingers are gripping the hair at the base of your neck as he firmly tilts your head backwards to give himself better access to your mouth.

Your mind is racing, and yet, you can’t think at all.

It’s not until his hips buck into you and you feel his bulge through his jeans against you that you break away from him. “Joel,” you gasp his out name. You grip his shirt even harder, chest heaving as you try to catch a much needed breath of air. You can feel the arousal pooling between your legs. The flames burning in the fireplace are nothing in comparison to the ones that are burning deep in your belly.

“Fuck,” he curses, pulling back. “M’sorry—”

The last thing you want is for him to be sorry.

“No! Please don’t be sorry,” you rasp, gazing up at him. Your eyes are glazed over with a lust you have never felt for another man before. “I want this, you know I want this—don’t you?”

Joel sighs, brushing a soft kiss to your temple. You wish he could take a peek into your mind, see how badly you want to be wrapped up in his arms—you want to get lost in his embrace, feel him all around you, inside you. You want him to write his name on your bare skin with his tongue, whisper his secrets into the spot where you’re aching for him most.

He sighs again and lightly shakes his head.

“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”

“I want this,” you repeat yourself. “I want you.”

Relaxing the death grip you have on his shirt, your hands release the fabric and move to the buttons. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo each one of them; after an embarrassing fumble or two, you manage to get them all and push Joel’s shirt off of his shoulders. He sucks in a quick, sharp breath as your greedy hands begin roaming, exploring every inch of smooth, tan skin on his upper body.

Your touch erases all the uncertainty he’s feeling.

“Wanna feel you too, baby.” Joel takes the hem of your sweater and gestures for you to sit up slightly so he can pull it over your head. Carelessly tossing it somewhere behind him, he glances down, blood rushing to his cock as he takes in the sight of your supple curves clad in sweet, delicate white lace. “Christ, you look so fuckin’ soft.”

He doesn’t even realize he’s saying it out loud, not until he catches the flirtatious little grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. You sit up slightly once again and reach behind you to unhook the lingerie and take it off, adding it to the ever growing pile of clothes on the hardwood floor. Licking his lips, he meets your gaze for just a moment before dipping his head down, wrapping them around one of your hardened nipples. “Joel,” you mewl his name as he flicks the pebbled flesh with his tongue.

Joel releases it with a lewd, wet pop and he tosses you a smirk before he moves to the other to give it the same attention. He’s a biter, you find out as he takes it between his teeth, nipping over and over.

Your throbbing center clenches around nothing.

“Joel, please. I need you—I fucking need you.”

He tears away from your nipple. “Where, baby?”

You open your mouth to answer him, but your own gasp cuts you off as he starts trailing his lips down the length of your body until he comes to a stop at the waistband of your skirt. One of his hands finds the zipper on the side and he looks up at you, as if asking for permission. Desperate, you nod. Pulling the zipper down, he slides the skirt, along with the pair of lace white panties you’re wearing off of you and discards them, leaving you completely naked.

Your insecurities begin to trickle in, but Joel’s able to halt them right in their tracks.

“You’re too fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he says, his reassurance calming your nerves instantly. “So beautiful. So beautiful and so fuckin’ perfect.”

You watch as he makes himself comfortable—well as comfortable as he can—in between your legs. He shoots you a sheepish look.

“Knew I should’a put the damn bed together. But I been puttin’ it off and puttin’ it off all week long.”

You giggle breathlessly. “Who needs a bed?”

Chuckling, Joel feathers a kiss on your inner thigh.

Your smile is all but slapped right off of your face.

“Joel.”

Any traces of humor vanish. You’re both reminded of the next wall that’s about to be broken, the next line that’s about to be crossed.

He looks down and groans. “Such a pretty, perfect little pussy,” he remarks, his voice low, husky. “Bet she’s nice and wet for me, ain’t she baby?” He lifts his hand and drags the tip of his finger up your slit slowly, your slick coating his digit. He smirks up at you. “Oh, she’s fuckin’ soakin’, sweet girl. S’this all for me?”

Foreplay wasn’t in the vocabulary of guys your age and while part of you wishes Joel would hurry, you also find yourself enjoying the fact that he’s taking his time, teasing you—making you really want it to the point where you’re willing to fucking plead him for it. Joel Miller’s the only man you’d ever beg for.

He skims your other thigh with his nose and kisses it just like he’d done with the other. “Tell me darlin’ s’this where you need me? Right here?”

Frantically, you nod your head.

“Words, honey. Gotta use your words for me.”

“Yes!” you choke out. “That’s where I need you. So bad. Need you so fucking bad. Please Daddy—”

You freeze and momentarily, he does too. Truth be told, you wouldn’t really blame him if he just stood up, gathered your clothes and tossed them at you, demanding you put them back on and leave.

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Daddy, huh?”

Your face is on fire. “I—it slipped,” you stammer. “I didn’t mean to call you—I’m so sorry, Joel. I’m not even sure where that came from. I’ve never—”

You’re on the verge of panicking, then notice there is a certain glimmer in his eyes and realize he liked it when you’d called him that. You’re taken aback.

He fucking likes being called Daddy.

“Sweetheart, there ain’t nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout. I promise. You can call me that. But on a condition.”

You stare at him, no idea what the condition could possibly be.

“Ain’t allowed to call anyone else that. Ever.” There is a possessiveness in his tone and it nearly makes you come on the spot. “That understood?”

You nod obediently. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” he prompts.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. That’s a real good girl, honey.”

For a split second, you can’t breathe.

This man will surely be the death of you.

Joel plants one final kiss, this one on your mound.

“Please,” you whimper, the heat in your lower belly growing and fizzling out to the rest of your body at the feeling of his breath over your aching core.

“Please what?” he murmurs into the sensitive skin as his arms curl around your legs. “Tell Daddy—tell Daddy what you need baby, so he can take care of you.”

“Your mouth,” you beg him, desperation mounting with each passing second. Your hips buck upward; his biceps flex as he tightens his arms around your thighs, pinning you down in place. “Your mouth—I need your mouth. Please.”

Joel moves his head to the junction of your thighs, his mouth hovering right over where you needed it the most. He looks up at you with hunger, like he’s a ravenous, starved man who hasn’t had a thing to eat in days. “What a good girl,” he praises, dipping his head even lower. His mouth waters at the sight of your glistening folds. “Bet you taste as delicious as you fuckin’ look, don’t you, pretty girl?”

He flattens his tongue and glides it up your slit, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he gets his first taste. You gasp out when it grazes your swollen, aroused clit and your head falls back onto the couch. “Oh fuck,” you whine, reaching for his hair. You weave your hands through his graying locks and pull his face closer. Another swipe of his tongue causes your back to arch up off the leather and the edges of your vision to blur.

He pulls an arm from around your legs and drags a finger down your drenched entrance, lips securing themselves around your clit. His gaze stays locked on you as he pushes his long, thick digit into you—you feel him smirk as he curls it upwards, pressing the pad of his finger firmly against the soft spongy spot inside you, making you see stars. Joel slips in a second finger and curls it along with the other to double the pleasure. He begins thrusting his digits in and out of your warm cunt, eliciting what had to be the sweetest sounds that he’d ever heard in his entire life from you. He combines it with with slow, firm, and precise stokes of his tongue on your clit.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” you encourage him, your loud, breathy moans bouncing off the bare, freshly painted walls of his house. “Yes Daddy, fuck—feels so fucking good, please don’t fucking stop—”

It’s not like you have to tell him what to do.

Joel knows exactly what he’s doing, and he knows it too. He listens to every single one of your moans and feels every single buck of your hips. He is sure to pay extra attention to when your hands pull and tug at his curls; he remembers what combinations of licking, sucking, and fucking make you squeeze your plush thighs tighter around his head; reminds himself of which technique brings your body off of the couch, what makes your toes curl. Joel’s quick to learn your body’s cues, each and every last one. He already knows when to give you more, when to give you less—when he needs speed up, when it is time to slow it all down.

You sing his name over and over again, pressure of an orgasm already building between your hips. His tongue swirls around your sensitive little bundle of nerves as his fingers pump in and out of your cunt and you glance down. You almost choke when you catch a tiny glimpse of the muscles in his forearm, the way they flex underneath his skin with each of his movements as he’s fucking you. Your gaze flits to his face. His own eyes are fixed intently on you.

You’re milliseconds away from release.

“Joel, I’m so fucking close. I’m gonna come—”

His arm squeezes your thigh in encouragement.

One last, broad stroke of Joel’s tongue on your clit sends an overwhelming wave of pleasure crashing over you. Strangled cries tear themselves from the back of your throat as your velvet walls flutter and convulse, squeezing his fingers. Joel, who’s face is still half buried in your pussy, takes it upon himself to help you ride through the high. He peppers soft, delicate kisses onto your swollen clit as his fingers continue to slide in and out of you slowly. He waits patiently until your loud cries dissolve into nothing but breathless little whimpers before he crawls up, positioning himself on top of you, a hand on either side of your head. His beard and mustache glisten with a mixture of saliva and slick—and somehow it it ignites another fire and you’re ready for more, so much more.

“Sweet girl,” Joel murmurs. Leaning down, his lips meet yours and you taste yourself on his tongue

You place a hand on his chest, right over his heart, which beats strong and steady against your palm.

You start dragging your hand down his chest, your fingernails raking over his skin. It travels lower and lower, gliding over the softness of his stomach. He tenses when you brush the waistband of his jeans.

Tearing away from you, he grits out, “Baby. No.”

You immediately snatch your hand away from him.

“You changed your mind?” you question, stomach sinking at the thought of it being over already.

You’re just so fucking greedy for this man.

He offers reassurance—and an explanation.

“No, that ain’t it at all. S’just—” Joel pauses briefly and flushes a shade of red. “S’just that, well, I ain’t got condoms on me, darlin’.”

Relieved, you assure him, “It’s okay. I’m clean.”

“Me too. But that ain’t what I’m worried about,” he admits, his face going from red to maroon.

You smile, finding his embarrassment endearing.

“I’m on birth control.”

Joel clenches his hands into fists. His cock strains against his zipper at the thought of it—taking your cunt bare. “Y’sure you want this?” He rasps out. “I need you to be a hundred percent sure ‘bout it.”

“I’m a thousand percent sure, Joel. I fucking need it. More than anything I’ve ever needed in my life.”

That’s all he needed to hear.

Joel stands up, his gaze never leaving your own as he kicks off his black leather boots. You sit up, and it takes every ounce of strength you have in you to remain composed as he unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans and pushes them down his legs. You bite down on your bottom lip and try not to stare at his bulge like it’s your first time ever seeing a dick, but if he’s as big as he looks in his boxer briefs, maybe this would end up being a lot more than what your body could handle.

He hooks his thumbs underneath the elastic of his boxer briefs and slides them off, allowing his thick, hard cock to spring free from its confinement.

You swallow harshly. He’s fucking massive.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” Joel chuckles at the expression on your face as he kicks aside all of his clothes. His length rests on his lower abdomen and precome smears the skin there. Wrapping one of his hands around it, he gives it a couple strokes, just a hint of relief until you come into play. “Hm?”

Licking your lips, you nod and stand up. You take a couple of wobbling step towards him—Joel’s cock hasn’t been anywhere near you and you’re already fucking walking side to side. “Come here,” you say to him, taking both his hands in your own. You pull him back to the couch and gently guide him down into a sitting position. Swinging your leg over both of his, you straddle his lap. You gingerly place your hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh softly when you feel him brush against your pussy; the contact makes you both moan in unsion. “This okay?” you ask him, breathily. You can’t be sure as to why you’re suddenly feeling a bit shy, like you’re not planning to ride his fucking soul out of him.

“More than okay.” Joel brushes your hair over your shoulder and then drags his hand down the length of your body, committing to his memory every one of your curves. “Gonna be a real good girl and ride my cock, baby?”

You gift him with a cheeky grin. “Yes, Daddy.”

The shyness begins to dissipate and you dive your hand between your bodies, wrapping it around his cock, causing his breath to catch in his throat. You lift yourself slightly off his lap, teasingly gliding the head of his cock down your drenched slit, then up, letting it graze over your clit, which is still senstive to the touch thanks to his lips and tongue.

Joel’s hands find their way around you, running up the curve of your spine. “Wasn’t aware that my girl was such a little fuckin’ tease,” he remarks in a low tone. He slides his hands back down and his large, warm palms cup your ass, fingers kneading flesh.

“Your girl?” you repeat, your heart skipping a beat, stomach fluttering at the idea of being his. “Is that what I am to you, Joel? Your girl?”

“S’that what you want, honey?” Joel whispers, his eyes finding your own, two hopeful gazes meeting in the deepest, most intimate moment that you’ve shared all evening. “Y’wanna be my girl?”

Leaning forward, your reply is preceded by kiss, so soft and so sweet his heart swells inside his chest.

“I do,” you mumble against his lips. “I really do.”

Still gripping your ass, Joel eases you up and lines himself up at your entrance. He bucks his hips and slides the head of his cock past your folds and into your heat. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers, his hands moving to your hips, thumbs grazing your skin. He slowly guides you further down his shaft, grunting as you sink down, taking him inch by inch. “Christ, you’re so goddamn fuckin’ tight—”

The initial stretch is almost too much for you. Your nails sink deeper into his shoulders as he pulls you down further down onto him. “Joel,” you whimper, biting back a loud cry. You’re fully seated, his cock completely sheathed inside you, his head pressing against your cervix. You’re so full of him.

One of his hands abandons your hip and slips over your lower belly.

“This where you’re feelin’ me, pretty girl?” he coos gently. “This where you feel Daddy’s cock? In your belly?”

“Yes,” you sigh out contentedly. “Feels so good.”

You lift yourself off of him, then slide back down in a slow, languid motion.

Joel’s head falls back onto the couch. “Christ.” He mutters the word, his chest heaving. Staring up at the ceiling, he takes a moment to catch his breath and silently wills himself not to explode. Once he’s managed to somewhat compose himself, he looks at you again, pupils blown so wide you can’t find a single trace of brown. “Go on, then,” he rasps. “Go on, sweetheart.”

The living room fills with the sounds of low moans and panting breaths as you move, alternating your maneuvers between rocking and bouncing on him in a frenzied, fast paced rhythm. The friction of his pelvis each time you grind into it winds up the coil between your hips and suddenly you’re desperate, so pathetically desperate for another release.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” Joel encourages, feeling the beginning of his own climax building quick—much too quick for his liking. “Jus’ like that, honey. What a good girl you are for me, so fuckin’ good for me. Just like I fuckin’ knew you would be.”

“Fuck,” you whine. “You feel so good, Daddy. Feel so fucking good inside me—”

Leaning back, you firmly plant both your hands on his thighs and arch your body, head falling back as you pick up the pace. The burning fire casts a soft, orange glow around you and his jaw falls slack. His eyes drink in every single fucking thing about you, watch you with an adoration that, for the first time in your whole life, makes you feel wanted. Actually wanted.

“Joel,” you whisper his name over and over. You’re both beginning to lose track of where you end and he begins. You can hardly hear the praises that are spilling from his plush lips over the squelching wet sounds of your cunt sliding up and down his cock. There’s no chance to warn him—your mouth parts in a silent scream as you come undone on him.

“M’so fuckin’ close,” Joel grunts. He feels his cock twitch as your pussy grips him like a vice. “Where? Where do you want it, pretty girl?”

“Inside me. Please, I need you to come inside me,” you plead him, the innocent tone of your voice the last thing to push him over the edge he’s teetering on. “Fill me up, Daddy—please, want every drop of you inside me—”

Joel reaches for your arms and yanks you forward, into him. Throwing them around his neck, his own arms wrap around you and roughly slam you down onto him, holding you firmly in place. He bucks his hips upwards, balls tightening, his cock pulsing as he comes. Strings of hissed curse words and deep gutteral groans muffle when he drops his face into your collarbone. Still holding you in place, he spills his load into you, his seed filling you to the brim.

He sags back against the couch and pulls you with him. Wrapping his arms tighter around you, he lets himself stay buried inside of you, the primal in him relishing the heavenly feeling of his come dripping messily out of your pussy and all over his thighs.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks after a minute.

“M’perfect,” you mumble against his chest. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re coming down from a high or if it’s because he’s tracing patterns on your shoulder blade with his finger, but you shiver in his arms.

“Let me get the blanket—”

Joel starts to move to get up, but you stop him.

“No, please don’t,” you say, pushing him back. You put all of your weight onto him, as if he can’t move you off to the side if he really wanted to. “I—I want you inside me for a little while longer. Please.”

“But baby, you’re cold—”

You don’t bother explaining to him that you’re not.

“Just hold me. Please.”

And that’s exactly what he does.

Snuggling into him, you close your eyes and Joel’s hand strokes at your hair. Between that, the thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek and the sound of the fireplace crackling behind you, you’re nearly soothed into sleep.

“Joel?”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“I hate Thanksgiving,” you admit, smiling tiredly to yourself when you feel a laugh rumble in his chest.

“Do you, now?”

You nod. “I do. But I’m really thankful for you.”

Giving you a gentle squeeze, Joel kisses the top of your head and murmurs, “Well, m’thankful for you too, sweet girl.” He pauses momentarily. “I ain’t all too sure how I’m s’pposed to just let you go home. I know I have to but—”

Lifting your head off of his chest, you take the side of his face and cradle it in your palm. You meet his gaze, heart sinking when you see the sadness that has replaced the lust from earlier.

He doesn’t mean home to your parents’ house. He means Chicago.

You graze his beard with your thumb. “I’m coming back in a few weeks,” you remind him, gently. “I’ve only planned to spend a week out here just for the holidays, but I can visit sooner. As soon as the kids go on winter break, I can come back to Austin.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course I would, Joel. I’m not sure how it would work what with my parents and all, though. I don’t want them catching onto us.”

“C’mere.” Joel brushes your lips with his before he makes his promise. “I’ll figure it out, baby. Leave it all to me and I’ll figure it out.”

divider credit to @saradika-graphics 🤎

[sarushka-01]

hi. I exist and came to serve more fluff with pretty hsr men (this time it’s our one and only silly gambler dude, aven ♡)

gn reader as always here!

Waking up everyday to the sight of your lover cuddling into you is probably the best thing that has ever happened to you. The warm light shining down onto you two through the curtains, the quiet morning with no sound of alarm ringing.

You blink once, twice, to wake your eyes up. When your vision finally stops being blurry from your sleep, you register something - a bunch of messy blond locks stuffed into your face. It smells nice and it’s fluffy, sure, but it really tickles your cheeks. You try to wriggle out of this weird position you’re in, only to be yanked back into your place by a hand

“Good morning…?” you whisper, somehow unsure if the one next to you is awake (as if what just happened wasn’t the proof).

“No” Aventurine mumbles and leans into your touch more, as if you were about to disappear into thin air. You chuckle quietly at this and prop yourself up on your free arm to kiss his cheek. You notice how a faint smile creeps its way onto his lips, yet his eyes are still closed - as if trying to fool you into believing that he’s asleep (you both know he’s now 100% awake).

“Wake up, sun’s already up” you try again and earn a quiet groan from the man. He shifts under the duvet, his golden hair disappearing and reappearing moments later. This time he’s facing you, eyes squinted to let in as little light as possible. You smile; his eyes are one of your favourite things to look at, and to see him in a situation like that is a sight to behold.

“That doesn’t mean we need to as well, does it?” Before you can answer, he adds “besides, it’s comfy in here. And you can’t argue, it is rare for us to be able to wake up like this, together. You could reward me on my day off and let me sleep longer, [Name].”

For a moment, you’re not sure what answer to come up with - after all, he is right. Situations like these don’t happen often and you should savour them as much as you can. But not when it’s… wait, what system time exactly is it?

Before you manage to even turn around to check, Aventurine cups your cheek and stares at you with so much intensity behind those pretty eyes of his, as if his life depended on it. (Quite funny how it’s just another morning; nothing less, nothing more.)

“Don’t. Just, focus on me right now. You’re not in a rush, so why the hurry?” Something in his voice stops you in your tracks, and for a split second you’re just staring at him with wide eyes. He chuckles at that expression, bringing you closer to him and kissing your forehead. You melt into that warmth, suddenly hyperaware of your surroundings, of the sun’s rays you don’t really want to accept yet, of the comfortable position you found yourself in, of the softness of Aventurine’s lips, and most importantly, of Aventurine himself.

You sigh, half in defeat, half in relief, as you slide one of your hands underneath the silky fabric of his shirt and placing it on his bare back, cold fingers meeting warm skin. He shivers just slightly, but doesn’t push you away. Instead, he leans in closer, chin resting atop your head.

You move in a little, until your lips are mere inches away from his neck and your breath’s tickling him. You place a kiss on that burn mark, the commodity code that stings, yet the blonde sighs at that feeling, as if content.

“You smell nice” you manage to whisper into his skin before drifting back to the dreamland, this time in your lover’s gentle embrace.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being in a secret relationship with the one and only Gojo Satoru.

Imagine sitting in a bar, colored light pointed everywhere as you silently stare at your surroundings. Casually taking a sip of your drink as you lean back on your seat, head bobbing up and down along the music. How boring.

"He's been staring at you ever since we came here." "Who?" You raise a brow but did not spare your friend a glance and proceeds to take another sip of your drink. It was sweet, alcoholic but sweet. "Gojo Satoru from business department, you know. That guy with white hair, blue eyes-" "And the one who always wears tinted glasses, right. Who wears that indoors and not to mention at midnight." You chuckle, setting your empty cup down before standing up. "Gotta go to the bathroom."

Imagine looking at the mirror, your own reflect staring at you as you turn your face to the side to take a good look at your features. Unlike the other day there your hood and glasses would hide away your face, it was one of those days where you feel like stepping out of your shell and have fun. Well, more like to pissed off your boyfriend that was surely waiting for you out of the door. Making sure you're presentable as you arrived, you take one last glance in the mirror before walking your way out in the bathroom.

"Hey there." There was your boyfriend in his fitted white shirt that was hugging his body so well his well toned body could be seen. "Why hello to you too, Gojo." You smile at him before walking past him, if only he didn't block you on your way back into your friend's table. "No baby, you ain't going anywhere." He said as he grab a hold of your wrist pulling you at the back as you just stare at him in amusement, looking around for a moment only to find his best friend, Suguru shaking his head at the scene of you two before looking away like it was none of his business.

"So?" You cross your arms, looking directly at his eyes underneath those tinded glasses he was wearing. Something you will never understand at the same time you do kind of appreciate it. Because you know as soon as he remove that, people would be all over him, going crazy at his baby blue eyes. "What please do I owe you?" "You told me you're going out for some fun, what are you doing here?" "Pfffff" "Why are you laughing?" "I think it's funny how much a lo- heh, how someone like you could meddle in my life like this."

Imagine the way he flinch under your watch, his jaw tense as his hand curl into a fist. "What?" You laugh, one hand reaching out to touch and trace his jaw. "Are you mad, Satoru?" You chuckle before your hand travel on the back of his head and tugging him down harshly so he was on the same level as you. At the same time, his other hand lean on the wall for support, his glasses on the tip of his nose on the verge of fallling. This time, he was glaring at you like crazy. "Remember this is your arrangement not mine and just like how you don't want me to meddle with yours, I advice you not to meddle with mine to or who knows what could possibly happen." You push him away, about to walk of but he just won't move.

Imagine it's not like you wanted this to happened. He was the one who wanted to keep your relationship a secret, the one who said you cannot meddle with each out in public. And to be honest it's not that you didn't see where he was coming from, you were just this normal person, one among the crowd in the campus. Living differently from him who lived so well off along side his buddies. He was the heir into the Gojo industries. And you, you're just you, someone who have nothing to lose, nothing to offer.

"Move." You repeat when he doesn't move, trapping you between him and the wall. "Satoru move, others are starting to look." You whispered, gripping on his close before taking a deep breathe and relax. You tap him twice in the chest, refusing an eye contact as you gently push him away. Going in this bar was definitely a bad idea. You shouldn't have come out of pettiness. "Satoru, your fiancée is about to get over here, move." As soon as he said that, you felt him when stiff before immediately pulling away from you. "Well talk later." "You're coming home with her, we have nothing to talk about." "(First name)-" "Come to think about it. It's about time." "What do you-" "I'm done being your secret, goodbye Satoru." "... wait-" "Satoru!"

Imagine without thinking too much about it, you walk back in your booth like nothing happened and immediately drown yourself with more drinks. It's not like you don't understand where he was coming from. You knew that he loves you. You knew that damn well that he was hurting too. But while he got the whole world around his palm, you only have him. You only have him yet you cannot even call him mine. You're tired. You love him but you're tired.

Imagine if you knew that loving him would hurt like this. You would have turn the other way around the first time you saw him. Loving him was a losing game. "Hey, thats enough."

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2024°

[tinytennisskirt]

Fresh Laundry and Other Things

Summary: Art sees reader at the laundromat, the first time he sees her outside of the tennis world. A simple question turns into a sweet bit of flirting and a few hours of conversation

Warnings: cheek kiss, flirting, fluff, and Art for sure likes Car Seat Headrest when Twin Fantasy came out in 2011, you can’t say he didn’t, I won’t listen. Unedited from my notes app and a little scene inspired by Baby Driver.

Art looked at you from across the laundromat. Perfect, pretty, digging through your laundry to separate the whites and colours. He watched you play today, he was a little shocked to look up to see you in the same laundromat as him.

You’d played an amazing game. It was almost even until the very end where you absolutely crushed your opponent and won the game. He’d only ever heard great things about you and the way you played. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t watched a few of your games online before.

He hadn’t put his things in the machine yet, so he took the chance to move a little closer.

Art had only ever seen you in your tennis skirts and tank tops, hair in a braid when you played but here you were in a sweater that draped over your bare shoulder and loose shorts, your hair down. You looked different, softer, comfortable, but still pretty. Sorting laundry.

He did the same, sorting his clothes, thinking back to your game, wondering why on a day like this you were doing laundry. But a college student is a college student, Art was doing his laundry days early because Patrick had accidentally shaken a can of Fanta and cracked it open over pretty much everything. You went to Stanford with him, so I guess it was expected to see you once or twice around doing college stuff and not just tennis.

Seeing you dressed down was hot, honestly. Cute, but hot. You weren’t wearing that activewear eyeliner from the brand you endorsed, your eyelashes were the colour of your hair and not much else. You were pretty, all casual. Art was surprised he hadn’t seen you like this sooner, being on the same residency as you. He tried not to stare, turning to put his stuff in the washing machine.

“Hey,” a voice chimed. It was funny how he had never really heard it before. He almost didn’t place it until he placed it spatially, half-turning. “You’re Art Donaldson.” It was you. Your voice was surprisingly soft. Art dumped his laundry in. You stood where you were folding.

“Yeah.” He smiled shyly. You knew who he was. “You’re Y/N Y/LN.” He replied. “I watched your game today.”

You smiled, tucking your hair behind your ears, “Really?”

“Whole thing,” Art replied. He kicked himself mentally for sounding like a dunce and a creep. “You have an amazing swing, by the way.“

“You’re sweet,” you smiled, bringing your basket over to the machine, putting your things in. Art tried to pretend that didn’t bring a bit of heat to his cheeks. He acted like it was nothing. “Thank you. I’ve seen you play too, you and your friend are incredible. I was at the U.S. Open when you won.”

“Oh, that’s crazy. That was a good game.”

“Your friend’s save at the end was something I’d only heard about, never seen. It was a great win.” You smiled, pushing the rest of your things in. Art was reminded that he too was doing laundry, resuming his activity. You’d noticed Patrick, he thought, not exactly pleased thinking about that. “But I’ve watched you at Stanford too and you’re great on your own.” Like a dog, Art perked right back up.

“Which games?”

You thought back, eyes looking up to remember, “Ummm… versus Kaplan, I think the other game was versus Campbell. I remember hearing how bad they moped after from one of my friends. You kicked their asses.” You grinned and Art felt just a little proud. Art was so glad there was only two other people in there with you. You turned the dials on the washing machine, putting your money in as you spoke.

“They were moping?” He laughed.

“Big time, I heard. Swearing, broken racket, the works,” you smiled and Art could see you were a little cheeky. “I mean if I lost to a backhand that good, I’d be doing the same.”

Art’s first instinct was to geekily reply with ‘really’, but he just laughed, doing the same with the dials and putting his money in, “Thank you, but it’s nothing compared to your volley today. And your serves? Crazy.”

“Uh huh,” you leaned against the machine. You had this cute smirk to you Art noticed-he couldn’t ignore it. “You’re too sweet.”

“It’s nothing untrue,” he replied. You lifted yourself up to sit on the top of the washing machine just as Art closed his, turning it on. He turned his attention back to you. “I bet some of those girls you demolished today had their own moment to mope.” He straightened out, putting hands in his pocket as he swayed closer to where you sat.

“As they should,” your smirk was more apparent and Art knew it would be burned into his brain from this point forward. You were a little evil, he liked it. “It was tough, though. A close game.”

“Was it though?” Art squinted just a little, “Did they stand a chance?”

You grinned, looking away, “Mmm… no.” You giggled and it was a perfect sound. Art found himself trying to fix his hair over it, suddenly wanting to look better in front of you. “Oh you-“ you pointed to his hair, giggling just a little quieter, pointing at his hair. “Can I?” You asked.

Art knew he just fucked his hair up in front of you, he grimaced, shutting his eyes tight and giving a nod, succumbing to the embarrassment. The second your hand touched his hair, the feeling melted. It was just a second and you fixed it from just looking a little silly, but your hand in his hair for a split second was completely worth it. “Thank you,” he said,

“Of course,” you grinned. Then there was a moment of silence between, you looking at your hands, Art watching your eyelashes from your side profile, how pretty they were. You looked back at him. “I’m surprised we haven’t spoken before.” You confessed. Art had that exact thought earlier.

“Me too,” he replied. “I’ve seen you at games but never on campus.”

“I rush around a lot,” you nodded. “Never sure why. I’m at the campus cafe a lot if you’re ever around there.”

Art shook his head, “I’m not. Any good?”

“I’d say so, but I’m a coffee freak,” you replied. “It’s on the North end of campus, like a ten minute walk. Do you want to go? We’ve got an hour to kill, it seems.” You asked. “We can discuss your backhand.” That smirk of yours pulled at your lips again and how could Art say no? He raised his eyebrows, surprised at the offer.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like ‘why not?’ when it took all he had not to stumble over the simple word. “You’re asking if I want to get coffee?”

You smiled a sweet smile, “Mhm. If you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’d love that.” He watched you hop off the washing machine and grab your bag. Art couldn’t help but grin. He followed you out, putting his hat back on backwards. The conversation slowly drifted from tennis to music as you neared the coffee place. You were engaging and you talked a lot with your hands, Art noted. It was adorable.

“-And there’s Car Seat Headrest.” You said. “I love Car Seat Headrest.”

Art’s eyes widened as you approached the doors to the cafe. “I love Car Seat Headrest, Twin Fantasy? So good.” He grinned.

You lit up, “Oh my god everyone I know says they sound like they were recorded in a tin can, you like Car Seat Headrest.” Art loved how loud you were in the cafe. You were cute excited. “That’s amazing.”

“Patrick hates on it a little too much, I get that.” He said, stepping into line. “My favourite song on the album is Sober to Death.”

“Ooh, that’s my second favourite. Next to Cute Thing. I found them on Bandcamp last year I’ve been obsessed, it’s so good to find someone else who likes them.” You tucked your hair behind your ears and Art noticed just how close you’d gotten to him when you were excited. You were so pretty this close. “Sorry, my spatial awareness when I’m not playing tennis is not great.” You said, stepping back. You must have noticed Art’s reaction.

“I don’t mind,” Art grinned his winning smile. You covered your smile with your sleeve, looking away. The flirting was obvious- you both knew it. You crossed your arms over your chest. It was your turn to order, Art went first, he looked at the menu and got himself a mocha iced coffee, which was exactly your order. He turned to you, pulling out his wallet. “I’m paying.” He told you. And you shyly ordered the same thing.

“Thank you,” you said, twirling your cup around to move the ice. “You didn’t have to pay.”

He brushed past you to grab two straws, all too aware of how good you smelled. “No worries. I had to spend my laundromat change somehow.” He said, looking over at you. He grinned back in response to your perfect smile. The sun was setting as you walked back to the laundromat, the dimmed light of the sun casting over you. You were sweet, you were kind, you were funny, and your hair blew perfectly in the light evening breeze. “Do you have Facebook?” He asked.

You turned, excited, “I do. Do you want it?”

“If you’d give it to me,” he grinned, glad he asked. “That or your number.” He swayed a little bit closer to you.

You pursed your lips to hide your blush. It was just a question, but it made you smile uncontrollably. “Sure.” You said, looking back at him. “I’ll call you when I need to work on my backhand, I honestly can’t believe how good yours is.”

“Sounds perfect, I’ll need tips on how to serve that smoothly,” he joked back, handing you his phone to enter your number. You took it, entering your number and your name into his phone and messaging yourself a simple

:)

Art thought it was cute. He gladly, whilst grinning, shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Now we’re even for the coffee.”

“Mhm?” Your smile turned to a smirk and you knocked your iced coffee against his cup happily. You returned to your laundry, putting the second load on after moving your other clothes to the dryers.

You stood, leaning against the dryer across from him, watching him as he picked up his heavy basket, carrying it back over to where you were. You had your chin propped up on your hand, eyes on his forearms. He was sweet. He was cute. He was pretty much perfect and he played tennis. And he loved Car Seat Headrest. You pulled your iPod out, unravelling your earbuds.

Art shoved his things in the dryer and put his coins in, shutting the door and turning it on, facing you, leaning against the very same dryer. You popped an earbud in, extending the other one to him wordlessly, sipping your iced coffee. He took it without hesitation, enjoying how close to you he needed to be to put in his left ear while it was in your right.

You had Cute Thing cued up, already a few seconds in and he grinned when he heard it. You were so perfect. “It sounds much better when someone isn’t on your ass about how unprofessional it sounds,” you said. He chuckled at your choice of words.

“Oh yeah,” he agreed, leaning with his elbow onto the same dryer you were leaned against. “Patrick, he listens to only 80s, early 90s music before a game, which I don’t mind but I prefer when I play singles so I can listen to whatever I want.”

You nodded, “I love music before a game. Usually it varies depending on the day but I really like Ginuwine before a game. Guilty pleasure.” You said, sipping your coffee again. “What about you?”

“Oh that’s…” he laughed to himself, “I set myself up, it’s too embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than Ginuwine?”

“More embarrassing than Ginuwine,” he replied. “No, I can’t.” He tried not to smile so hard but you were giggling excitedly at the pending information and he couldn’t help it.

You got just a little closer to him even already being fairly close in proximity, “Please?” You said. “You have to now, you can’t tease something like that.”

“I can’t, I really can’t,” he laughed, trying not to show how flustered you were making him just being this close. He was an adult man… “It’s too embarrassing.”

“Please, Art, I’m begging.” You giggled. “I probably have it in my playlist if our music taste is similar,” you said, handing him your iPod. “Flip through this and find something.”

Art was embarrassed, taking it and flipping through. Your jaw dropped the second he stopped flipping at the very intro to a song by the Spice Girls. Art pressed his mouth into a thin line as you burst out laughing in the near-empty laundromat. “Oh my god!” You laughed. “This is so good! This is your pre-game music?”

He nodded, trying not to smile with you but it was so hard when your smile was so bright and your laugh was so contagious. “I should have made you promise not to laugh.” He said sheepishly. “Yeah. Spice Girls. And sometimes Britney Spears, but don’t tell Patrick.”

“Your secret is so safe with me,” you said, listening to the upbeat tune of the song. “I won’t tell a soul, I swear. Oh my god I love this, this changes everything.”

“Like what?”

“For one I think I like you a lot more knowing that before an intense game you have Britney in your ears whining out lyrics,” you started. “And two, you have amazing music taste. This is some lesser known Spice Girls, you must be really into it.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged with a smile, getting just a little closer, pretty much against you as you spoke, but neither of you paid any notice. Both of you pretended you didn’t. He smelled good, like fresh cologne and a bit like citrus.

The buzz of a nearby dryer startled you both and in a second you were moved a step back again. Art kicked himself once again. You got into a conversation about tennis clothing prices and about past experiences with bitter tennis players and it once again drifted back into movies, music, books, media of all sorts. You loved what you loved a lot and Art took about a hundred mental notes of all the things you said you loved and hated. A list of things to watch were made as he spoke to you.

Soon the laundry was done and it meant that the trip to the laundromat was over. Art looked over at you. “I’ll walk you back if you want? It’s getting a little dark.”

“I’d like that.” You replied. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he answered, happy for more time with you.

You picked up your things and grabbed the basket you had and the two of you walked in conversation back to residency, right up to your door. You were a building over from him. You stopped outside your door, setting the basket down. “It was nice meeting you properly,” you said. It was more than nice. “And thank you for the coffee and for walking me home. You’re sweet.”

Art rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, looking away to hide the flush to his face. “Nothing out of my way,” he maintained. “It was nice meeting you too.”

“So you’ll call me?” You asked. You were forward, secure in it.

“For sure,” he replied with a growing grin. “I should probably head back, I’ve got a game tomorrow morning- I- completely forgot.” He exhaled. He’s spent all this time with you when he was meant to be practicing.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” your smile immediately left and he hated how cold this hall felt without it.

He touched your arm just bracingly, “No, no, it’s fine! I’ll do fine, I just forgot,” he said. He chuckled at the way you wiped his mind clean of everything in his world but you. “You should come.”

“I should?” Your smile returned in seconds.

“If you wanted,” he replied.

“I will.” You beamed. “What time?”

He pressed his hand to the side of his head, “I… am not sure.” He pointed at you, “But I’ll text you it. And I’ll talk to you soon, absolutely.”

“Sounds amazing,” you replied. “Talk to you soon.” You reached up and placed a hand on Art’s cheek and raised yourself on your toes to kiss Art on the other cheek. “Goodnight, Art.”

He liked you. And it was so obvious when you kissed him on the cheek because he felt the flush return to his cheeks like a faint sunburn. You saw it when he met your eyes, blue with just a little bit of brown meeting yours. It took him all his mental strength to say it back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

[vmpivory]

but you're still a traitor.

౨ৎ﹒ [ 양정원 ] ☆ female reader / angst + cw. skinship + 0.8k wc - ( library ) now playing.. traitor by olivia rodrigo

raindrops hit the window slowly as you sat there, knees pulled to your chest. you were doing your favorite thing ever, listening to music with your earphones on a rainy day. favorite activities are supposed to make you feel better. but now it wasn't helping.

"brown guilty eyes and little white lies yeah, i played dumb but i always knew"

it was olivia rodrigo's 'traitor'. you know she didn't, but it felt like olivia herself wrote this song for you and jungwon. it explained everything happened between you two. 

sad songs make you feel better, they say. then why are tears rolling down your face now? ─ more under cut!

"that you'd talk to her, maybe did even worse i kept quiet so i could keep you"

no, you shouldn't be crying over a boy now, you keep telling yourself. but the harder you tried to convince yourself, the harder it became to stop the tears.

you stood up and walked to the mirror right beside your desk as the song continued. you looked at your reflection in the mirror, your eyes puffy and cheeks red. your makeup was also ruined.

"and ain't if funny how you ran to her the second we called it quits?"

you quickly took your makeup bag, trying to fix your makeup. your friends were gonna come over in a few hours for a sleepover and you couldn't show up like this. 

as you tried to fix your mascara, your hands trembled slightly. you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

why was this so hard? jungwon wasn’t worth it. at least, that’s what your best friend giselle always said. "you’re too good for him, anyway." maybe she was right.

"and ain't it funny how you said you were friends? not it sure as hell don't look like it"

you heard a loud knock on the door. you froze, mascara brush still in your hand, eyes locked on your reflection. you hadn't expected anyone so soon. you wiped your eyes quickly, swiping away the last traces of tears and taking off your earphones. you walked over to the door, your heart pounding in your chest for reasons you didn't understand. you opened it and there he was, yang jungwon. standing there in a hoodie you bought for him, his hair messy and soaked because of the rain. he was holding a cup of your favorite coffee in his hand. "can we talk?" he asked, quietly. you know you turned off the song before opening the door but you could still hear it.

"you betrayed me and i know that you'll never feel sorry for the way i hurt, yeah"

"there's nothing to talk abou-"

"have you been crying?"

you quickly wiped your cheeks again, even though you knew it was pointless. "no" you muttered, voice shaky "i'm fine."

jungwon stepped closer, his eyes scanning your face, searching for the truth. "you don't look fine," he placed the coffee cup on the table beside you and reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "i'm really sorry, y/n"

you flinched slightly at his touch, not sure if you were ready to hear those words coming from him. the last time he apologized, it felt empty. he promised change, but it never came.

"you'd talk to her when we were together loved you at your worst but that didn't matter"

"you're sorry?" she repeated, "are you serious? you hurt me, jungwon. twice." his expression softened, guilt taking over him. "i know i messed up and i hate myself for it. i shouldn't have done those things, i was such an ass and-" "aren't you dating her now?" jungwon pauses, avoiding your eyes for a moment. "yeah but.." he muttered "i regret how we ended and what i did" you shook your head, holding back tears. "that's not how this works, jungwon. you can't just show up here, apologize, and expect things to go back to normal. did you do the same with me too? did you go up to her and apologized while you were dating me too?"

"it took you two weeks to go off and date her"

jungwon looked taken aback by your words, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right thing to say. "i-i didn't know how to fix it" he said, "i'm really sorry, y/n. i wasn't fair to you. i wasn't fair to either of you and i really regret it." you wanted to yell, to tell him how much he hurt you, how much you cried when you found out about him and her, but all of that felt like it would break you even more. no, he wasn’t the boy you once knew, the boy you once loved. he changed. "i'm done talking. goodbye, jungwon," you said, your voice steady but your heart aching. he didn’t respond, just nodded, turned and walked towards the door.

"guess you didn't cheat but you're still a traitor"

.vmpivory    ©    all rights reserved    ━    2024

i wrote this in an hour bc i was so bored and its not proofread TT hope ygs like it tho ! <3

PERM TAGLiST: @woniesprincess @orimuraa @heeaara

[waldau-archived]

hiii i saw that requests for a short drabble from the prompt list is open! i was wondering if you could do prompt 46 or 10 with anyone of the svt members<33

“A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.” + vernon

i can't get over f2l roommate vernon whoops. i chose prompt 10 since 46 was a bit sad :)

“vernon, did you find your airpods?”

“yes!” he calls out from the kitchen, voice muffled strangely. no doubt he’s once again made himself a breakfast of bread and jam. if only he’d listen to you once and let you make him a normal breakfast.

“what about your hoodie? the one chan borrowed four days ago?”

“he said he’s going to give it back to me today, don’t worry,” vernon says, rushing out of the kitchen and heading straight to where his shoes are. it’s a bit funny to see him this flustered. he’s always the calm and collected one between the two of you.

“oh, shit,” he curses, and you laugh when you see he’s put the wrong shoe on the wrong foot.“

“are we still on for today evening? to catch that re-run of avatar?”

“of course we are. but can you tell me why i chose this particular class?”

“script writing? are you seriously asking me that?”

he stands up and takes off his beanie, running a hand through his hair and putting it back on. “it’s not fun when i have to wake up this early and go to my class and you have to do…nothing.”

“you have way more thoughts than i do,” you say with a shrug. “makes sense you’d take this course.”

“well. thanks. see you by noon?”

“i’ll be right here,” you say, raising your hand for a fistbump. the usual.

vernon steps closer. at first you think he’s about to tell you something, but you feel a quick kiss pressed to your lips, gone as fast as it came. “bye.”

“vernon? what?”

he freezes the exact way you’re also frozen. you’re sure he didn’t meant to do that, given the way there’s an actual blush on his cheeks. you’ve never seen him blush at anything, and here he is, having just kissed you.

you’re not exactly upset with the fact that your very hot roommate you’ve had a crush on for a better part of the year has just kissed you goodbye. but it’s just crazy that it came to him so…naturally. there’s so many questions in your mind, honestly. yet you can’t help feel bad for vernon given the way he’s eyeing you and the door. he’s already late for his class by a few minutes.

“go,” you say. “we need to talk about this later.”

“you’re not…upset?”

“only if it was a mistake.”

“it wasn’t. it just…felt right.”

he’s speaking deadpan and it’s still the most romantic thing you’ve heard. you reach out to grab his collar, and his eyes widen. “do it again?”

he’s definitely been thinking about it for a while now, because he obliges.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

I can't bring myself to imagine this shit of a man (Cyprus) with these sappy 'If you love me if I were a worm' questions like Yves because he gonna spitting this.

"A worm, huh? Pretty fucking specific. What kind of worm are we talking about here? A cute little earthworm or one of those gross-ass parasites?"

I will be a parasites for Yves ✊😔💕♥️

Tw: dub con, smut, afab reader

It has been a long day of work, you and Cyprus are both exhausted and ready to just end the day. He settled you into his bed first before diving in, smothering you in his big arms and beefy pecs. He whispered good night and pressed a kiss on the crown of your head. You made yourself comfortable on his chest, as usual, using him as a pillow.

After a few minutes, you softly called his name to get his attention.

"Hmm?" He sleepily replied to you, his large hand absentmindedly squeezing your rear as he waited for your response.

You asked him if he would still love you if you were a worm. He immediately snorted in amusement.

"Another one of your internet trends, baby?" He shuffled around so that you were lying on your side, facing him directly. "Alright, I give up. What's the answer to this week's riddle?" Cyprus tickled under your chin with his index finger, causing you to squirm and pull away; to which he chuckled.

You said this isn't a riddle, and you just want to know his answer. There is no right or wrong, just whatever he thinks is an appropriate answer.

He hummed again, before suddenly crashing his lips onto yours. You let out a muffled yell but it was cut short when he slipped his tongue into your mouth. His hands wander under your shorts and shirt, sensually caressing and prodding at all the sensitive spots. You couldn't escape as his legs trapped yours in place. Soon, the question was forgotten as you allowed yourself to sink deeper into pleasure, he has always been a damn good kisser.

You fell into a daze, watching his silhouette take his tank top off as he straddled your hips. Although it's dark in the room, you could see that he has that handsome smirk on his face, you could feel it.

He started kissing and nibbling on your neck- surely leaving hickeys for you to shamefully cover up or flaunt the next day. His hands work hard to slide your shirt and shorts off your body. But then, you regained a bit of agency and stuttered whatever was on your mind: the question regarding love and worms. You stumbled on your words but the meaning behind them was still obvious.

Cyprus snickered against the nape of your neck, "You didn't specify how I should answer that, doll." Your breath hitched when you felt him needily pressing against your already slick entrance.

You whined, telling him to tell you his answer. But before you could even finish your sentence, you gasped when he thrust himself into you, making you feel so full and stuffed despite thinking that you had gotten used to his size.

"You and your funny internet questions..." He muttered before pressing another kiss onto your drooling lips. Cyprus momentarily pulled away and massaged your hips, "Fine, you want words? I'll use words." He brushed messy strands of hair away from your stunned face.

"If you were a worm, I'd be on you like a fucking trout." Cyprus lets out a loud, hearty laugh at his own answer, finding it silly and cheesy, yet he's proud of it. You were too far deep in h(ell)eaven to even register what he said, all you could focus on was how he kept ramming deep into that sweet, sweet spot.

Although you two were originally dog-tired, Cyprus somehow managed to worm the energy in to fuck you all night. Or at least, fuck the question out of your mind, so you wouldn't ask him that anymore.

Actually, he doesn't mind if you do. Because he likes the answer he came up with for the question, very much. He especially likes the part where you cummed on his cock twice before he could even finish inside of you once.

His answer is so good, that it kept blanking your brain. And Cyprus takes great pride in that.

[loupy-mongoose]

Got another long one. X3

PREVIOUS (Jamie and Cody interlude) NEXT (Not yet)

~~~~~~

Randy let out a huge yawn. Lying on a bed unfolded from the guest room couch, he cracked open an eye to see Akoya sleeping soundly beside him. For a bit he just lay still, letting the previous day's events fizzle back into his mind as he woke.

The room had this bed that they were sleeping on, as well as a smaller bed meant for a single person. Lav could've slept there, but for tonight she'd wanted to stick close to her parents. So, the assortment of Lindens lay together all on this fold-out bed.

Aside from the bed and couch, there was a table with a couple of small armchairs set up in a cozy corner of the room.

Randy had to admit, these two (well, probably mostly Cody) really knew how to make guests feel comfortable.

After a bit, he rolled over onto his back, groaning as his body ached.

You 'kay?

The man turned to his wife. Her eyes were blinking to alertness, clearly having just woken up.

Randy smiled at her and stretched his arms. Yeah, I'm fine. Just achy. I wonder if it's from the flight here. We're not exactly used to flying... He stopped himself from saying the next bit out loud. ~~in that way.~~

A second later, he felt a rush of relief that he'd not spoken aloud, as a light rap on the door snapped him fully awake.

Hello? It's Jamie.

Midas' head jolted up at the noise and he looked around frantically. Lavender came to attention, startled awake by the sudden activity, and Momo hopped to her feet, her eyes instantly alight with a burning fury.

Akoya gently shushed and stroked her twin children's pelts. Shhhh, shh shh. It's okay guys.

Akoya sat up, wincing as her own body protested with its own aches.

After a brief psychic check in with his family, Randy shouted to the door. You can come in. We're decent. He looked at his family's sleep-ruffled heads. Well, as decent as we were last night.

For a moment, there was silence. Then the doorknob turned and the door opened.

The red-haired women entered, a small plate with a couple donuts stacked onto it in her hand.

Jamie appeared to be in a much more relaxed state, wearing a loose sleeved shirt and her hair brushed smooth and simmering--a far cry from the windswept mess it had been when she'd left them last night.

Her eyes had a rejuvenated shine to them as she carefully waved the plate. I brought a peace offering. I thought the babies might like to try them, if they've never had donuts before.

Randy looked at his twin children and felt his heart sink. Both had their eyes fixed on their host, Momo growling as Akoya held her down, while Midas' pelt was poofed to twice it's regular size.

Jamie clearly saw the warnings as well, and stretched to place the plate on the foot of the bed without getting any closer.

But she didn't leave. She stood back, her piercing blue eyes seemingly mulling over some thought. Eventually she gave a sharp sigh. I wanted to apologize again for yesterday. It wasn't right for me to demand that of you, and it ended up scaring the little ones. And... Persim? That's your name, yeah?

The orange Mew nodded, his ears folded back uncertainly.

Jamie gave a small smile, looking at the Linden parents. I'm truly sorry for what I caused you all to go through. I... never would've expected you guys had Mews in there of all things... Let alone babies... Suddenly her eyes grew distant. Although, funny enough, Cody used to keep Pari in a bag like that. Willingly, of course.

There you go!

The adults all looked at Lav, who was holding a portion of donut. She was smiling at her little brother, who had a bit in his own hands and was tentatively licking it. His expression was conflicted, apparently torn between the enjoyment of this new sweet and the fear over the strange human smiling warmly at him.

Momo, her attention drawn to Midas as well, sniffed curiously at the bite in his hands.

Here you go, Momo. You try it too! The purple haired girl handed Momo a bite as well. But as Randy expected, her first reaction was to squish her fingers into the sweet glaze.

Akoya rolled her eyes in amusement. Hhh. That's our Momo. New food always means bath time.

The peach-colored puffball looked up at her mother and lifted her little sticky hands up to her. (Baff!)

Jamie gave a light chuckle, her eyes shining. She's a messy one, huh? At least she seems to like being bathed.

(Wan baff!)

Finish your donut first, Momo. We're not gonna bathe you just for you to get messy again! Akoya poked at the sweet lump Momo had left on the bedsheet. The little Mew scooped it up and licked it

(So are they yours, Persim?)

Perzi snapped his attention from the babies up to Jamie, startled. (U-Uh, no, not those two. Rosemary is though!)

Jamie's eyes glimmered humorously. (I take it she's the one who gave me my newest scar?) Persim lowered his head, his ears back and giving off a wave of embarrassment. The red-haired woman waved her hand dismissively. (Don't worry about it, really! Young Pokemon don't always know how to handle new locations or people. I totally understand. If biting me helps her adjust, she can keep doing it. It didn't exactly do much damage. Momo can too, if that's what it takes)

Momo lifted her head questioningly, but Randy placed his hand on her back in case she tried anything. I'd rather they learn to keep their teeth to themselves, Jamie.

Jamie nodded. I'm sure they will someday. Then, she stood up straight, as if punctuating their discussion. Now, I'm sure you all have business you'd like to do. I'll leave you to it.

She gave them a curt nod, and turned to leave the room.

Jamie, hold on a moment, please. The short woman turned to him, eyes shimmering with curiosity. Is Cody up? We... have something else important we need to tell you both, but we'd rather do it all at once.

Jamie narrowed her eyes. No, he's still asleep... I could wake him.

Randy and Akoya looked at each other once more. It's... probably better if you let him wake up on his own... He really shouldn't be half asleep for this....

~~~~~~

Later, the Lindens and Rennards gathered together in the living room.

Cody let out a yawn. I hear you have something to tell us? He seemed tired still, and Randy couldn't help wondering if Jamie had woken him after all.

One more time, the two parents met eyes before turning seriously back to their two hosts.

Pari suggested we tell you this, but... Nobody else can know, alright?

We are...

Not actually humans...

Before the others could respond, Randy transformed. With a hard look, Akoya followed suit.

Have... have you not seen Nico? I'm... a Mewtwo... like him.

Jamie eyed Lavender in absolute curiosity, crossing her arms before speaking.

We've... never actually met Nico... The Lindens all looked at her in surprise. Jovie talks about him, but he keeps to himself, and she's never told us what he is. Is that... like... Mew number two?

The Linden parents looked at each other.

Uh... We weren't expecting to have to explain Mewtwos...

They're...

Uh...

Well, there's only two, that we know of... Nico, and Lavender.

Both of them were experiments, created by humans, uh... messing with Mew DNA...

Cody appeared thoughtful, his expression soon turning soft. It's no wonder you want to reconnect with him, if he's the other of your kind...

Jamie, meanwhile, had paled a bit, and her eyes seemed distant. Cody looked down at her, his brows creasing in worry. Jamie? You okay?

Her gaze snapped up to him briefly before fixing back onto the Lindens. She breathed in sharply. Yeah, yeah... Just... trying to take it all in...

Randy looked at the two humans, bowing his head. We're sorry for this... oddness...

Hey, it's nice to know there are more Mews out there! Cody gave them a warm smile. Let alone a family of them! He looked at Pari, who met his eyes before nuzzling his face. She settled on his shoulder, purring as he rubbed her cheek fondly. ...I always thought Pari was one of the last, if not THE last, until I met Jovie... As far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to stay as long as you need to!

Randy smiled at him in thanks, but flicked his ear as Akoya spoke beside him, a hint of the venom from the previous day seeping into her tone.

What about you, Jamie? Are you still open to us staying?

The red-head snapped to attention, having once again lost focus on their discussion. Er--Y-yeah, yes, of course...

Randy felt a wave of uncertainty at her response, and could tell that Akoya felt the same. But nonetheless, he smiled at her. Thank you both very much! He transformed back to his human form. We'll do our best to not cause trouble... As much as the kits will allow, anyway.

Jamie looked toward Persim and the kittens, Lav having joined them as well. She turned back to Randy and smiled, though she didn't speak, and he noticed she still seemed distracted.

Cody gave them one more wide grin. It'll be a pleasure to get to know your little family!

~~~~~~

PREVIOUS (Jamie and Cody interlude) NEXT (Not yet)

Pari complimented Akoya specifically because she wasn't expecting to see a blue Mew, lol.

[prncessjaeger]

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

“c’monnnn you can’t miss work for 3 hours? besides any other day when we’re home we’re doing…other things around this time!” you held your pink bag decorated with hand tied bows, hair tied neatly in your signature ballerina bun and adorned in pink colored high priced athletic wear, “no baby i can’t…i have an important meeting in like 30 minutes and then a very important phone call afterwards and-”

you sighed, cutting him off and rolled your eyes, walking away from him mumbling, “you always put your work before me,” and grabbed your keys, “hey, we can go out to dinner afterwards if you’d like?”

“hard pass. see you later, love you.” you left your home feeling defeated, hoping one day your husband would finally attend to one of your ballet performances and get this! you received the lead role and even that couldn’t interest him into one of your shows. so, you tried listening to spirit lifting music to get your mood ready and pumped until you reached then venue, preparing yourself for the first night.

”oh goodie! you’re dressed, are you ready? i saw a cute someone walk in here with white lilies and tulips!” your brow furrowed at the stage director’s words, “who? definitenlyyyy not my husband he’s busy with work-“ you were cut off with a sound of claps and lights dimmming down,

“it’s time! places everyone!”

જ⁀➴₊⊹ 🎀

when the last act was finished, you and your castmates bowed together receiving many flowers thrown on the stage. you went back to grab your things from the green room, noticing the other girls belongings disappear from the vanities and sighed, wondering if you should’ve taken up the dinner idea with your husband.

your husband, who scared the absolute shit out as he sat in your vanity chair and smirks at you, “what in the world are you-” he puts his finger on your lip? shush-ing you quickly, “hi my love! beautiful show you out in out there? absolutely beautiful.” he rose up and hugged your shocked figure, “what’re you-…how did you-?”

“ehh pulled a few strings, rescheduled some other things .” he shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world, “but you said…?”

“that i couldn’t come? yeah i genuinely could not have came, but that doesn’t mean i wouldn’t have came either, c’mon this is your first lead role and you’d think i would’ve missed it? crazy.” he leaned down and peck your plump lips that were pouted, twice and handing you two sets of gorgeous white flowers, “tulips and lilies, your faves unless you changed them in the span of 4 hours hm?”

“n-no, i didn’t- these are beautiful baby! but, are you sure I looked beautiful onstage?” your eyes sparkle from your subtle glitter eye makeup, warming up your husbands heart, “yes, stunning even… in fact,” his hands removed your bag and belongings from your shoulders, sitting them down neatly on the floor and wrapped his arm around your waist and his hand cupped your jaw.

he stared at you lovingly, engulfing you into a passionate kiss and held you tenderly in your arms. your lips moved perfectly against his as his thumb caressed your cheek. he then kissed your exposed neck so soft to the point that it tickled which caused cute giggles to leave your mouth, “what’s funny?”

“nothing-hehehe, nothing baby look how about we go to that dinner you recommended earlier?” you could see his face fall, “you said no earlier or wait- it was actually, “hard pass” so i canceled it.” he mocked you then flinched when your hand raised to hit him, “fine…takeout?”

“takeout it is.”

[silkspunweb]

In the Rain

w.c.: 1.7k

it was raining really hard last week and I kept thinking about some of my favorite Higuruma drabbles (like pamakali's or threadbaresweater's, both who I'm too shy to tag)

it's smut. soft smut, but still smut.

He stuttered his hips once, twice, then once more again to fully sink into his lover. Wet patters could be heard downpouring above their little apartment, but the two paid no mind to the rain. Why pay attention to anything other than the warmth between them where soft heated flesh met. 

It was forecast to be the heaviest rain of the year, thus ruining what was supposed to be a day at the amusement park. Halfway there it began to drizzle, and Hiromi had to think quickly before his beloved could catch a cold. Let's wait at the bus stop. They brushed fingertips and refused to let go of the other. Darling, the forecast said that the rain won't let up any time soon. She frowned. That's too bad. His slant eyes softened. I'm so sorry, I should've checked. She brought a hand to his face. There was no way you could've known. It could've happened to anyone. She ran her thumb to smoothen his frown, earning her a soft peck. With how heavily it poured, the two had no chance of grabbing a taxi. So with a shy smile and a raised brow, there was a silent agreement, and they ran. 

Making their way into the apartment, out of breath and still panting, Hiromi's jacket was playfully thrown at him with a splat. A fit of giggles ensued. And you thought that the jacket would help. She poked him in the stomach. Well you're a tad drier than me now, aren't you? He wrung said jacket over her already soaked hair. Hiro, the floor! She gasped as he haphazardly shoved his shoes off and ran inside, leaving her at the shoe rack. Muffled laughter could be heard in the hallways and she stood there scoffing, not wanting to track more water on their dark walnut floor. There was a lively crackle before she heard faint squishy padding. 

He came back with three towels: one around his neck, one in his hands, and one dragged in by his foot on the floor. Here. He chuckled as he wrapped a towel over her shoulders and pulled her in, nosing her cheek after she rolled her eyes at him. I'm soaked Hiro, it wasn't funny. He hummed. It was a little funny. See, you're even smiling. He gave her a chaste kiss. Once on the lips, another on the cheek, more and more until it led him to pepper kisses onto her damp neck. You're so lovely. He sighed, content with resting his head on her shoulder. She stood there taking the weight of his damp hair, his head, his body, as well as the weight of his love. 

They stood there for a moment rocking back and forth in soaked clothes and hushed affections. She pulled away for just a second when she met his gaze, raw and passionate with utter adoration for her in spite of being horribly disheveled with wet hair plastered on like a pitiful kitten. Her breath hitched, leaning in without realizing it as her hands latched onto his soaked shirt. Let's get you out of those clothes. He pressed a slow kiss to her lips as lithe fingers trailed underneath her thin blouse, feeling her shudder when he made direct contact to her skin. He pulled away leaving no more than a few inches between them as he silently pleaded for permission. An instruction. An invitation. 

The towel fell when she wrapped her arms around his neck. Hurry. She whispered onto his lips as she brought him back to life. He kneeled down to make work of the straps of her shoes, carefully peeling off her wet socks as she hissed at the cold air. She pulled him back up for another kiss, teasing, feeling, loving every inch of him that she could. She followed him as he backed into their living room, blouse nearly off and faces were fully flushed. Would you just– just take that stupid shirt off already. She pawed at his torso in frustration. Hiromi, if you don't, I'll–. Stuttered moans fell from her lips as he nipped harshly at her collar, lowering himself to his knees. With a sharp tug, his shirt was off and he looked up at her, lapping at the skin right above her pants. A quick nip here and a smooth tug there, he unbuttoned and freed her out of her confines. 

He was bewitched by the fabric that clung onto the plush planes of his beloved. She couldn't help but run a hand through his hair, over his nape, then ran gentle strokes under his eyes. Another wet plop was heard, she had already discarded the unwanted bra. He pressed a kiss over her mound, eyes still burning up in wonder as she gripped onto his bare shoulders for support. Without another word, she tapped the back of his head and was unceremoniously undressed from the waist down. He nudged her legs apart, lapping where she was most soft and vulnerable to him. Warm and pliable, wet and dulcet. A few playful nips had her buckling against him before he slowly dragged her down, laying her on plush towels and throws she seemed to miss before. What's all this? I never took you for a romantic. She reached for him with one hand and he interlocked their fingers together. What? This? His free hand brushed a tear from the corner of her eye before bringing it down to stroke her leg. He pressed a kiss against her bent knee, scooting himself down until he was comfortable. Just some compensation. He held her thigh over his shoulder as he lapped and lapped. Their hands were still intertwined as she tilted her head back with broken moans. T-there. She panted. Her hips bucked to meet him. 

Here?  He'd tease, pressing her in place, hands gripping tighter until he zeroed in, lips finding her clit. Her mouth dropped as he pushed her over the edge, alternating between slow lapping and harsh sucking. Tears pushed at her waterline as she neared closer and closer until she went over the edge. The hand that once held her thigh over his shoulders dove between her folds, thrusting in to draw out her high. When she finally met his gaze again, he pulled up to meet her for a scorching kiss. There were no more hesitations between them. She parted her thighs and invited him in to fully sink into her. He would've chuckled at her if he wasn't so impatient to be inside, but instead, Higuruma squeezed her hand once more. She dragged her nails down his back with her free hand. Sighs of relief were shared as they bumped foreheads. He whispered under his breath. You're all I ever wanted. 

His hips stuttered for a moment before pulling out just to sink a little further into his lover’s warmth. The rain still hadn't eased, but neither had their fervor for one another. Hiro– Hiro– ugh, oh, Romi. She sighed against him, squeezing his hand, and shakily lifting her free one to cup his face. He pressed a kiss against her palm as his hips snapped a little harder, eyes shutting tight as they both wanted to get closer. She pulled him in further with her legs as the low fire in her belly rekindled again. The downpour outside did little to hide the clapping of skin on skin and Higuruma knew that. He moaned into her neck as he listened closely to the sounds of himself continuously splitting her into two. One could almost mistaken it for the rain.

Higuruma looked down at his lover and found that her eyes had a distant longing to them. An ache that had to be soothed. A hunger that had to be fulfilled. In the throes of their passion, she was shoved up roughly against the blankets, her hair splaying on top of the bunched up fabrics, her lashes wet from pleasure, her cheeks flushed, and her hips bruising by the sheer force of him. She was like his velvet-kissed Venus, praised by the depths of his love. He wanted to ravage her more and more, and she loved every second of it. 

He adjusted her legs against his hips for the umpteenth time that night before plaiting their other hand together, finally deciding how he wanted to take her. Higuruma leaned in, capturing her lips again as he held her hands down right beside her head. His speed picked up as he continued his ruthless attack on her now swollen lips. Confessions were pressed from one mouth to another. Hushed sighs and broken moans threatened to leave the confines of their little apartment. He was ever the passionate lover, a considerate and most generous lover. You're so beautiful. He stared down at her with starlit eyes and a flushed face, so sweet and sincere. 

Her heart was pounding, it was too much. The weight of his words shook her to her core. She babbled underneath him. I love you. I love you. I love you. Higuruma felt his climax approach as his lover squeezed around him. She was at her edge too and just needed a little more until the thread snapped. You're so good to me. You always take me so well. His eyes bore into her teary ones, captivated by his confessions, tipping over the edge as he stroked all the right spots. 

She looked at him once more before pulling him with her into bliss and utter adoration. He shuddered and sighed in relief, filling her up before waiting a moment to take her in. She was never more lovely than when she glowed against him like this. With a kiss to her temple, he pulled out slowly and drew her into his arms. His legs wobbled as he carried the both of them back to bed. Another I love you was pressed against her lips after he laid her down. He tucked her against him, drawing the blanket over them as the world continued its pour. But neither of them minded that when they were safe and hidden from the rain.

credits to @ cafekitsune for the fic divider ❤️

and thank you for the 300+ notes on my first fic, it means a lot to me

[wolfish-trickster]

Choso Kamo NSFW alphabet

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

After the very first time he would have no idea what an aftercare even is tbh XD. He would even be surprised how messy and full of fluids a good fucking can be. After several rounds he would get pretty exhausted so all he would want to do is fall asleep with yoj not caring how sticky either of you are (and honestly after what he did to you i feel like you wouldn't care either). But after few nights he realized that cuddling nice and clean after the act is way better. It took him some time but eventually he got there.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

His favourite body part on you would be your neck and chest area. Nice to look at, nice to touch, to kiss, to feel the blood pumping under your skin, to paint bruises on etc.

As for himself he likes his physique a lot. Especially his thighs. And how much you like sitting on them.

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

(idek what to write here so here goes) his cum is milky white, thick, and the first time he came (like first time in his entire life) he played with it as if it was a slime. Out of pure curiosity he tried lickjng it to see how it tastes but he quickly spat it out and rinsed his mouth. He much prefers the way you taste, and how your juices look compared to his.

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory)

Before you guys started going out and after he made his research (more on that in the E part) he used to imagine what it would feel like to have you all to himself. It would happen only when he was bored tho. His mind would wander to you, how cute you looked that day, what it would feel like to hold your hand, to hug you, wondering if it's okay to hug you when he sees you next time and he doesn't even know how but all of these cute innocent thoughts always turned into him imagining you and him doing stuff he saw people do in porn. And he's imagining all that with a completely straight poker face.

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

Exploring the human side of his for the very first time in his life meant he was a virgin when he met you. Once he started having feelings for you he asked around a bit to understand what's going on with him. Yuji had to explain the whole dating thing to him and recomended him some movies. In one of them there was a dirty scene. Again, he understood nothing so he had to go and do a small research (he watched porn XD). After the two of you started going out and after you brought up sleeping together for the first time he had to go back to do his reseach a little more thoroughly, to know what to do to make yoh and him feel great.

F= Favorite position

No matter where it happens it must happen while facing eachother. After trying several positions in the past Choso has always tried to flip you so you could face him before you or him came. He also likes it when he can feel your bare breasts touching his chest while you hug him.

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

Not very goofy I'm affraid. Sex is deeply intimate for him and he just doesn't feel like cracking jokes during it. It's a moment when he becomes one with you. Granted if something funny happens like for example him going so hard you guys crack bed he will chuckle but otherwise not much of a joker between the sheets.

H= Hair (grooming habits)

He trims at most. After watching porn during his research and seeing how bald the actors are down there he bought a razor to try it out on himself, ended up bleedjng on several different places. And even after doing it properly there was just something off about that feeling. So in the end he just decided to trim twice a month or so.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

Hands down the biggest romantic in the world. Praises you, caresses you, kisses every damn inch of your skin he can reach. If he feels like it's too much for you or if he sees you making a weird expression he stops and asks you if you're okay and if you want to continue. The most romantic thing he does though is the way he asks to have sex with you: he just takes your hand, kisses the back of it, leans his forhead against your and asks "may i?" (homeboy copied it from one of the movies Yuji gave him but still, heart eyes mutherfucker)

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

Not too often. Only when you're not in the mood or if you're far away. Or when he has a dirty dream and wakes up in the middle of the night with a boner in his pants and you blissfully unaware in your dreamland. As much as you told him it's okay to wake you up whenever it happens he just doesn't have the heart and uses his hand instead.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

As funny as it sounds he has made a list (again it was part of his research) for you guys to try and see what each of you likes. So far he really enjoys it when you praise him. He doesn't want to admit it to you yet but he's really into you being covered in liquids. It can be anything: his cum, your cum, chocolate, spit, whipped cream, blood (only counts for period blood, he blames his cursed technique for that one), etc.

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

Anywhere as long as it's in your house. He's an introvert. Enough said.

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

You tracing his veins could be a turn on for him. Just imagine sitting on a couch, watching a movie, holding his hand and mindlessly dragging a finger over his veins up and down. Then you would look down on his croch and see a tent...

Another thing that could turn him on is you sitting on his lap and feeling your body on his dick. Even if you're not moving or doing anything to make it hard, it will still go hard.

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

Mommy or daddy kink. Something he didn't even include in the kink list. He is a family man alright but with boundaries. Even after explaining it to him he would still say it's basically incest even if it's just pretending. Also age play could be a big no no but you guys haven't gotten to that one yet. Even though i feel like he wouldn't be into that one either. He wants to be with a responsible adult just like he is. Plain and simple.

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

He doesn't care that much. Some days he likes to give more than receive and would flat out refuse if you offer giving him head and some other days he won't even let you breathe with how fast he slides his cock in and out of your mouth.

As for his head giving style: baking with you gave him enough training. You know these hand machines mixing the ingredients. The ones with detachable thingies. Fuck it, these one:

Yup, licking those clean everytime you guys baked together gave his tongue enough training to drive you mad. So much so that everytime you see him lick one of those clean again makes you wet. He completely Pavloved you XD (science joke sorry)

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

That little tease. He likes to switch between agonizingly slow, savouring the moment, making sure to feel every spongy part inside you, slowly exploring new and new spots to hit to make you see stars. And a moment later he is slaming inside you so hard you won't be able to sit properly the next day. He tends to speed up when he feels like either you or him are about to come. He does it subconsciously though. Once he tried to go slow the entire round and it took so much of his willpower he couldn't go any longer after both of you came.

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

When he is extremely, and i repeat, EXTREMELY horny and both of you are very busy or just in a hurry he will pull down your pants/lift up your skirt and quickly do the deed, usually standing up.

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

He wants to try everything at least once. Of course, there are some things he would never even think of trying (aforementioned mommy and daddy kink or age play) and there are other things he would want to try but is too affraid to hurt you (exploring his blood kink beyond you being on your period with knifeplay or something like that but ultimately decides against it in fear of seriously injuring you)

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

Not being entirely human has its benefits. If he takes 10 minute breaks after each round he can go an entire night, which is rare but it still happens. Otherwise your usually love making session lasts around 1-2 hours. 3 if you beg hard enough ;)

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

Doesn't see the point in toys tbh. Didlo? Why using something plastic when he has the organic? Handcuffs? His hands are big enough to hold your wrists in place. Blindfold? Can't see your face. Nipple clasps? He's scared it might be hurting you. Whips? Hell no. Flesh light for him? Why bother, he has you. Vibrator? Eeeh he might agree to that one if you bring it up.

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

Doesn't tease much. Whenever he tries to tease you it won't last for long because he himself will give in XD.

Like he has been fingering you for quite some time now and really wants to tease you more but his own hard on is achjng too much for him to bare so he throws out his plan out the window and finally sinks deep inside you (to both of yours delight).

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

Low grunts or growls is what he usually does. Again, he's an introvert, he doesn't like bringing too much attention. He much more prefers pulling noises out of you.

W= Wild card (random sincannon of any sort)

Let me tell you a story of Choso's first jack off. When he first met you you were training with other sorcerers and long story short he got a glimpse under your skirt. His dick got hard for the very first time and had no idea what it meant or how to get rid of it. He tried poking it and found out it feels good when you touch the head. Even better when you touch the entire thing. But his palm wasn't big enought to cover it all so he tried going up and down. He kept doing it for a while but didn't feel as good as before. Then he thought back to you when you and all of a sudden it felt amazing again. In fear of that feeling disappearing again he sped up his stroking and came all over his hand plus the place he was hiding at to deal with it.

So tldr you were the reason behind his first cumming.

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

Big enough to bring you pleasure but not too big to cause you pain. I would say good 20 cm when erect with a slight curve upwards and a pretty visible vain on one side.

Y= Yearning (sexdrive level)

Before you his sexdrive was low to nonexistent. After he felt pleasure for the very first time he was all in. Well, to a level. After your first night together he wanted to do it every night, but soon found out that on some nights the events of the day simply exhausted him too much for anything. I would say that after he "got used to" sex and it was no longer a new thing for him his sex drive turned from horny rabbit to a moderate healthy one. Doesn't mean he won't fuck the life out of you on some nights tho...

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

Very fast. After he drains his balls he is so exhausted that sometimes he doesn't even want to pull out and wants to stay connected with you while sleeping. But, as i already mentioned, he found out it feels good when both of you are clean afterwards so he will force himself to not fall asleep long enough to clean both you and him and then once his head hits his pillow and pulls you into his arms he's gone.

[bajisbabe]

[a/n]: this post has been giving me so much trouble, it’s not even funny. winter fic exchange with @. so here it is, unformatted. :)

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

By clicking the “read more” or “keep reading” button, you are implying that you are at least 18 years old, if not older, and consent to reading the content featured in this post.

WARNINGS: Fluff, domestic life, plot(?) + smut, established relationship, oral (fem receiving), polite boy!Izuku, aged up!/number 1 pro hero!Izuku, reader can cook, reader and Izuku live together, tiny bit of angst, Izuku calls reader “baby,” reader referred to as beautiful once, slight bondage (?) using Black Whip, izuku uses quirk during sex kinda. P in V sex, unprotected.

Word Count: 4.2k

Synopsis: Izuku is busy, but never too busy to remind you that he loves you.

~★~

You sat up abruptly, rubbing sleep from your eyes. Glaring into the darkness from your extremely comfortable spot on your shared bed, you muttered out, “Izuku? Is that you?”

It couldn’t have been any later than 5 in the morning. The last lingering bits of dusk before dawn. You couldn’t see much other than his silhouette, and the outline of his hero costume. How his shoulders floated up and down with every ragged breath.

Your lips pursed, brows drawing together. “Are you okay?”

You could make out his faint nod. He sluggishly stripped himself of his clothes, heavy fabric falling to the ground with a thud. He stumbled forward and out of the pile of his clothing, kicking off his signature red boots. He lingered at the edge of the bed for a moment, seemingly watching you. You didn’t quite catch the adoring smile of his, merely complaining up a storm as his heavy body collapsed on top of you.

You made it a point to remind him that muscle weighs a ton and that he had a lot of it. He mumbled a quiet “goodnight, baby” and fell asleep almost immediately. The only thing separating you from his bare skin was the dark green briefs you bought him impulsively on your last trip to the store.

—

Izuku came home late the next night, being just awake enough to eat the leftovers you had in the fridge for dinner. Since you had yet to go to bed, you joined him in the dining room and watched him eat. He scarfed it down, gulping mouthfuls of water in between big bites.

He told you to tell him about your day and listened eagerly when you did, nodding and replying when appropriate. You tried to ask him about his, only to realize that he had finished his plate and had started to drift off while sitting up.

You shook your head and chuckled some before standing and patting him on the back, eagering him up and out of his seat and to the bathroom. You helped him out of his clothes, and he helped you out of yours. The two of you bathed together. At one point, you sat behind him on the edge of the tub, washing his back and trying to ignore the large amount of soot on his right shoulder—he had some kind of run-in with fire. Not to mention a new scar you had never seen before appeared on his left side.

You rinsed his skin and moved on to his hair, lathering up shampoo in those soft, green curls of his. He sang your praise, telling you that your hands felt so good in his hair.

Because of that combined with his sinking, heavy eyelids, you found it in you to bite your tongue and say nothing. Rather opting to guide him to bed so that you both could sleep.

But you didn’t sleep much that night, insisting on turning to face him even though he much preferred spooning you. It wasn’t like he could put up a fight, he practically fell asleep the second you wiggled out of his arms, his thick fingers still reaching out for you even in his stupor. You watched his face for hours, noting the little flickers of his lashes, the crease in his brow, the blooming color in his cheeks, the quiet breathing from his open lips.

Your hand came up once or twice to brush away any stray hair that had fallen onto his forehead. You had known Izuku long enough to know that he got rather hot when he slept, sometimes even sweating, but he never complained when the both of you cuddled up under the heavy comforter. Never did he move away, or try for a new position once you got comfortable. Not even once.

For some reason, the thought makes you sad. You think of how selfless Izuku is, how kind he is, how he always puts others before himself. How he ultimately always puts himself in danger because of it.

And the thought makes you want to cry.

—

“Izuku,” you say, rushing to the front door to stop him in his path. He immediately halts, eyes flickering in your direction, brows raising. “Can we talk?”

He opens his mouth as if to tell you that he has somewhere to be—which he does. You know this because he always goes to work around the same time everyday. 8 AM, on the dot. Sometimes as early as 6 or 7, sometimes long before you even get up. But he shuts his mouth, nodding and holding out his hand for you to take. You do, allowing him to guide you to the couch.

You sit right next to him, only allowing a small space so that you can both turn to each other. You take a moment to steel yourself, knowing that what you’re about to ask of him is beyond selfish, and knowing that this might be the first time he’ll ever tell you no.

You stay quiet for a beat too long, relishing in the caress of his thumb across the back of your hand. A soothing technique he’s developed solely for you over the course of the last couple of years. “Are you alright?”

You get the urge to cry again, but you don’t. Your head drops so that you can stare at your lap, now unable to make eye contact.

“Baby,” he asks, a hint of panic in his voice. “Baby, what’s wrong?” His hands come up to cup your face, calloused palms feeling warm against your skin.

“Nothing,” you lie, biting your lip.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” He murmurs, eyes flickering from yours to your lips. “I’ll listen.”

“I know.” You sigh, pulling at his wrists and turning your head to break the touch. You look back for a second, only to find a rather heartbroken expression on his face.

“What?” He asks quietly. “What’s wrong?”

You take a breath, suddenly feeling trapped. You need to say it. You need to say something. He should be on his way to patrol right now, and here you are, taking up his precious time. You should hurry up and say what you have to say so that he can go.

But I don’t want him to go. You think.

“Izuku,” you say.

He meets your eyes, brows furrowing at the emotion he can’t quite decipher in them.

“Izuku, I want you to quit being a hero.”

—

After saying such a thing, you seemingly snapped out of your trance and immediately took back your words. Izuku tried to ask you what you meant, and begged you to just talk to him. But you stood up and walked to the front door, knowing that he’d follow you—like he always does.

You told him to have a good day at work, and shrugged him away when he attempted to grab your arms. Scurrying off to your shared bedroom, you closed and locked the door behind you. You heard the knob turn some, then a small knock at the door. Izuku called your name, “Open the door.”

You didn’t, telling him again to have a good day at work. A lingering silence followed.

“Please.” He said. “Can you please open the door?”

You faltered for a moment, fingers aching to turn the knob and let him in. But still, you didn’t.

Izuku hesitated to leave, but ultimately had no other choice when he received a call from one of his colleagues, telling him to “get his shitty ass down here.”

—

Izuku came home early that night, far too early, in fact. Early enough for your dinner to still be hot—which hasn’t happened in months. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, watching Izuku sitting before you.

He ate slowly, complementing your cooking. Only taking a couple swigs of his drink every now and then. He seemed so unlike himself from a night ago. Making small talk, which you responded to in small phrases or single words.

He finished his dinner, wiping his mouth with a napkin. You met eyes. “This morning”—you cringed—“when you told me that you wanted me to quit, you meant it, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t speak, your tongue feeling like lead in your mouth. So you mustered up enough strength to nod. It’s not so much that you wanted him to quit as you know that being a hero was his biggest dream growing up—you could never deny him that. But it’s more so that you want him to be safe. You can’t say that though as it seems your mouth refuses to open.

“I knew it.” He doesn’t say it bitterly, or even matter-of-factly. It’s soft, breathy. He stays quiet for a beat. “Do you miss me?”

You frown. “It’s more than that, Izuku.”

“I know.” He says. “I’m not really home for dinner, not here when you shower, or go to bed. Not here when you wake up or go to work. Not really here in general—”

“It’s not that.” You say, frown deepening.

“Then what is it?” You hate how he speaks to you. Not stiffly or angrily. It’s all too kind, too understanding. Too compassionate and empathetic.

“It’s—” you meet his eyes again, breath taken away by how sincere of a look he’s giving you. You can’t help but be honest then. “I’m scared.”

“Scared?” He asks, brows furrowing. “Of what? Or… who?” He scratches his cheek, trying to think of what he couldn’t protect you from—which is practically nothing, considering he’s the number 1 pro hero. Not to mention, you yourself were pretty well-versed in combat. To this day, you could probably toss Izuku on his ass if he wasn’t careful. He couldn’t think of anything that would scare you.

“Nothing.” You say. “No one. I’m scared… I’m scared of—” why can’t you bring yourself to say it?

He doesn’t say anything, allowing you to gather your thoughts and conjure up something to say.

“I’m scared of you—”

“Of me?”

“No!” You whine. “I’m scared of you getting hurt, alright?”

“Oh,” he murmurs. He mulls over your words for a moment. He isn’t quite sure what to say. “Well… I haven’t gotten hurt yet.”

“First of all, that’s a lie.” You sigh heavily, wanting to point out the new scar he was sporting the other day, but you choose not to. “And second—Izuku, that’s not the point.”

“I know,” he repeats quietly.

“You’re not invincible.”

“I know—”

“If you say ‘I know’ one more time—”

“I’m sorry.”

You frown, clutching your fork rather tightly. You can do nothing but sit and stare. You don’t know what to say. Your grip tightens to the point that it begins to hurt.

Izuku looks over at your hand, stands, and gently pries the utensil out of your fingers. He smooths his thumb over your reddening palm. Using both hands, he pushes and pulls the skin as though it’ll make the indent stretch and disappear. Bringing your hand to his mouth, he kisses your palm gently. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Really, I am.”

One kiss turns into two, then two into three. He gradually moves his lips down to kiss your wrist and brings your hand to cup his face. He nuzzles his cheek into your palm and sighs contentedly.

“I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

—

“You miss me?” Izuku says, tossing his bag down onto the floor. He kicks off his boots unceremoniously and quickly climbs into bed with you, still clad in his jacket and sweats. His cheeks are a bit rosy from the chill outside.

You roll your eyes and continue to read your book as he wraps his arms around your waist, his cheek resting near your belly.

He looks up at you, eyes gleaming with love. “Baby,” it’s whiny and teasing. “Look at me.”

You glance at him over the top of your book, seemingly unamused. Using his pointer finger, he pushes the book down gently to reveal your face to him. Smiling stupidly, he takes your chin and pulls you down some until your lips meet.

“You can’t stay mad at me forever.” He says.

You set your book down with a huff. “I’m not mad!”

“Are so,” he says, turning over to lay his head flat. “You do that foot tapping thing when you’re mad.”

“I’m not”—you look down to see that your right foot is in fact tapping subtly against the sheet. “That doesn’t mean I’m mad.” You say heatedly.

“Whatever you say, baby.” He glances your way, lips tugging up at the sight of your frown. You’re adorable.

He lets the silence eat away at you, knowing you’ll fess up if he just lets you simmer for a bit. “You came home early!”

“What?” He says, sitting up so that he can see you face-to-face. His left eyebrow raises. “You’re mad because I came home early?”

“No!” You say, taking a moment to watch your tone as you realize how mean you sound. “No. It’s just”—you sigh, closing your eyes. “If you had told me you were going to be home, I could’ve…”

“Could’ve what?” now you’ve really got his attention.

“Could’ve… I don’t know”—you sigh again, feeling frustrated. Every time you see him, it’s like your tongue begins to twist—“I could’ve done something for you. Like, made you lunch or something. Or we could’ve gone out. I don’t know.”

“Awh, baby.” He coos, that insistent smile returns. He grabs your arms, rubbing his large hands up and down them in a comforting manner. “It’s not too late, we still have time.”

“No,” you say sullenly. “It should have been a surprise.”

“Why?” He asks dumbly. Sometimes he really doesn’t understand you. Hardly ever, but when he doesn’t, he really doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” you repeat, shrugging your shoulders. “I guess I wanted to make you feel special.”

He pauses, his cheeks reddening. He dips his head so that you don’t catch the blush blooming on his face. “It’s alright, I don’t need a surprise to feel special, baby.” His hands speed up, a nervous impulse that gives away his sudden shyness.

You turn to look at him, head tilting as you find that he has ducked his head. You can’t quite see his face. “Izuku?” You ask. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” He says a bit too quickly.

You hum in question, peering closer. “Are you blushing?”

“What?” He sputters. “No!”

“You are!” You say, excitedly. “Oh my god!”

“No,” he groans, cupping his own face in an attempt to cover it up.

He lets you laugh and tease all you want, fighting back another smile until you finally sober up. “Izuku,” you say, drawing his attention.

His eyes shine innocently. “Yeah?”

“What can I do for you?” You ask. “To make you feel special, I mean.”

He ponders on it for a bit, but not long. “Nothing.” He pauses for another beat before saying, “I already feel special when I’m with you. There’s nothing I want you to do for me.”

Although your heart swoons at his words, you can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Was there really nothing you could do for him?

“You sure?” You are looking in his eyes when you notice them darken subtly. Had you not been looking, you wouldn’t have caught it.

“Well,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to the sheets. “Could you let me—wou—would you let me… Never mind.”

“What? No!” You scoot closer to him, grabbing his hands and pulling them to you. “Tell me, tell me!”

“Well, uh,” he looks up at the ceiling, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “Well, uhm, would you let me… Would you, maybe…”

“Izuku,” you drop his hand to place your left hand on his shoulder, your right hand still holding one of his. “You can say anything, seriously.”

“Okay,” he sighs, looking unsure. “Uhm, what I’m trying to say is… Could I maybe eatyouout?”

You blink. “What?”

“Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

Because Izuku is always so busy on patrol, it’s been a minute since he’s given oral. You still get intimate every now and then, but you hardly have time for foreplay. You never ask because you know he’s busy and feel that it’s selfish of you to do so.

Little do you know, he’s been craving it but holding back because you haven’t asked for it.

“Oh,” you say. “Well, if that’s all”—you slip off your shorts.

“Oh.” He repeats, mouth agape. He didn’t think it would be this easy. He honestly thought you’d say no, or laugh his request off. He has to stop himself from looking as eager as he feels. “Okay.”

It takes him a second to act, to move. His large, calloused hands smoothing over your inner thighs and spreading your legs. He lets out a hushed curse at the sight in between. He looks up at you, then down, then up, and down again.

“May I?”

You bite your lip, words stuck in your throat as you nod. He doesn’t hesitate any longer, kissing at your clothed clit and licking through the fabric at your hole. He can only handle so much before he hooks his finger on the bridge of your panties and pulls it over to reveal you to him.

“Fuck.” He breathes, shuddering with excitement at the prospect of what’s to come. He sucks at your clit, drawing circles around it with your tongue. His hands cup under your knees, forcing your legs up higher as you tremble beneath him. He can’t help but think of how beautiful you are as he tugs your panties off and tosses them aside. They were only getting in his way.

His tongue delves into your hole, greedily drinking up all you have to offer until you’re begging for mercy. “Izuku, please!”

“I know,” he mumbles. “I know.” He presses a finger in, easing it back and forth as he kisses your clit. Then, a second, speeding up to a punishing pace.

Your fingers curled into his hair, gripping harshly, but you know it’s nothing that Izuku can’t take. He twists his fingers, curling them expertly in a way that has you gasping. Adding a third finger to ensure you’ll be stretched enough to take him. Adding a particularly pointed thrust of his fingers, he feels you tighten around them. Pulling away only to suck off your juices obscenely, tongue flicking between his pointer and middle fingers.

“You’re so wet,” his eyes are heavy-lidded, lips wet with your release. He’s staring down, seemingly infatuated with your pussy. “I missed this. I missed you, baby. So much.”

You feel your skin warm, embarrassment setting in. “Shut up.” You grumble, your tone holding no heat. He simply smiles at you, eyes glancing down at himself then back up to you with a more sheepish expression. You look down, finding that there’s an obvious tent in his sweats. One spot in particular seems damp with pre.

You don’t say anything, opening your legs just a bit wider to invite him in. He quickly shucks off his jacket, kicking off his pants, and pulling down his boxers. He eases his way through your legs, his hips bumping your knees and thighs out of the way as he closes in on you. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He says quietly, breathily.

You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder as he leans closer, curving in over you. He presses his throbbing tip to your hole. He slides his tip from your clit to your hole once, twice, making you ache with need. He’s big, moreso in width than in length. But his length is certainly nothing to ignore either. You catch sight of a neat patch of curly green hair—it’s all sticky with pre, looks like he might have come while eating you out—and a smattering of freckles that you can just barely make out right above his pelvis.

“Fuuuck,” he whines, teasing you both as he presses the tip in, then backs out, and presses in again. The stretch of it alone has you squirming. “Think you can handle me?”

It’s one of the very few times Izuku’s teasing sounds a bit too mean. His eyes are dark and his smile seems so smug all of a sudden. He’s only teasing, but you can’t take it. “Hurry, please!”

“Why,” he aligns himself with you. “We’ve got all night, baby.” Then, he thrusts in. He slides it all in in one go, leaving you writhing and panting. You feel him shudder against you, strong thighs pressed up against your ass. His eyes roll back, a hiss blowing through his teeth.

He doesn’t make you wait any longer, speeding up to a rhythmic pace, neither too slow nor too fast. You can hardly keep your eyes open, squeezing them shut in an attempt to drown out the immense pleasure you feel as the curve of his cock stretches you deliciously. He’s strong, every thrust jolting your body and taking your breath. Your toes curl as he hits the rough patch inside of you, hips grinding against you once he realizes.

“That feel good? You like that?”

You can only nod numbly, body tingling. Your hands grasp the sheets beneath you, back arching. His hands slide under your shirt, greedily groping at your breasts as he eases the fabric up and out of the way. He mouths at the skin, relishing in the moan you let out in response. He sucks the plump flesh, squeezing as he slows his thrusts. It’s agonizing.

He tongues at your neck, kissing and sucking, hands still on your breast. Thrusts slow, but still hard enough to shake the bed frame. You wonder how it withstands his power.

“You’re making me feel so special, baby.” He chokes out, voice muffled in the place where your shoulder and neck meet. “Sooo—fucking—special.” He accentuates every word with a thrust.

A hint of light catches your eye, a green and black swirling pattern spiraling over his forearms. Black Whip, you recall vaguely. Hardly able to understand as your brain has turned to mush at the slow strokes of his cock. The whip latches on to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. It doesn’t hurt, only buzzes gently against your skin.

Izuku begins to gasp and sputter against you, lips kissing yours messy and wet. He looks at you with heavy lidded eyes, lips swollen and red from biting. His hair is even more of a mess than usual and his cheeks are blushing a pretty red. You can see the muscles in his lower abdomen contract, his thighs tensing. He looks so feral, but you aren’t afraid. Even with as much power as Izuku possesses, you know he’d never be a threat to you.

Your belly tightens at the thought, his pelvis rubbing pleasantly your clit when he thrusts in, hips grinding slowly. Your head thrums with pleasure, ears ringing a bit as he groans above you. The coil in your stomach snaps suddenly, your pussy spasming around him. “Oh,” he mumbles hazily, unable to stop himself from coming undone.

His cum fills you, thick and hot, cock pulsing. You throb with pleasure, fingers twisting the sheets until they nearly come up. Colors and shapes dancing behind your eyes, you sink further into the afterglow.

It takes a full minute for him to calm, Black Whip gradually disappearing into his skin as his hands gently release their hold on you. He eases out slowly, evermore careful when you groan at the loss of touch. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Might have overdone it.”

You sit up rather groggily, pushing up on your hands despite Izuku worrying over you and telling you to lay back down and rest. “Don’t be.” You smile at him softly, a hand coming up to cup his face.

His anxious expression melts away as he nuzzles into your palm, intertwining the fingers of your free hand with his. He allows a similar smile to grace his lips, “I’ll start coming home early from now on.” He says.

For a moment, you think he’s joking and laugh quietly. But there’s a certain look of determination in his eyes, one you don’t bother to combat as he explains how he’ll double his work effort in half an amount of hours on patrol so that he’ll have more time to spend with you, even if that means handing over the workload to Bakugo—who he already talked to this about, being sure to include the opinions of his task force too.

“I don’t think he’d mind,” Izuku says softly. “He’s always saying he could do it better.” You both laugh, smiling stupidly at each other. Izuku stands, saying that he’ll get you water and start a bath. You nod, unable to voice just how grateful you are for him. Just before he exits the room, he turns to you. “Oh, I almost forgot! I know you told me to be more careful and—and I am, so…” he stops short when he sees the look of utter adoration you’re giving him. He chuckles, feeling his face warm. “So you don’t have to worry about me, we’ve got a new buddy system and everything. I’ll make sure I come home to your every night. I’ll keep my promise, okay? So don’t worry.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, running off to fetch a new set of sheets for the bed. Even though he can’t hear you, you still speak.

“Okay.”

[ckret2]

The latest installment of "literally nobody is happy about Bill being the Mystery Shack's prisoner," chapter 8:

Bill attempts to manipulate the humans with the only weapon he still has at his disposal: using his own body and their own species's hygiene taboos to gross them out.

Also featuring: dramatic arguments with Ford, a surprise bath, and me trying my level best to convince you all that hair is the most disgusting substance in the universe, let me know how I do at that.

Masterpost here! August 31 2024: edited for TBOB compatibility!

A few days into summer vacation, just before dawn, Dipper and Mabel were woken by a series of thunderous crashes and pained screams, followed by Bill's piercing, maniacal laughter. They were armed and out the bedroom door in seconds.

Mabel said, "Who did he kill?!"

"I think he blew up a wall to escape—"

They skidded to a stop at the top of the attic stairs. Bill had tumbled halfway down, crashed into the wall where the stairs made a ninety degree turn, and was now sprawled upside-down on the landing, giggling.

Dipper lowered his weapon. "What."

"I ff—" Bill was interrupted by a wheeze of laughter. "I forgot how stairs work."

He spotted the kids—Dipper holding a metal claw hammer, Mabel holding a kitchen knife longer than her forearm—and abruptly stopped laughing. "Wow, you kids came ready to commit murder! Just waiting for the first excuse, huh?"

"Shut up." Dipper looked at Mabel. "Wanna go back to bed?"

"I think my blood is all adrenaline now."

Dipper sighed. "Yeah. Let's get breakfast, I guess."

They trudged down the stairs, shoulders pressed to the wall to stay as far from Bill as possible. As they passed Bill, Dipper muttered, "You could at least get out of the way."

Bill—who'd been about to gingerly sit up—lay back down and spread out across the landing. "Think I'd rather mildly inconvenience you!"

Mabel threw in, "And take a shower! You smell like an outhouse."

"That's my human-repellant forcefield."

The twins headed to the kitchen for a snack they could take out of the shack, but were blocked at the doorway by Stan. "Hold on. Don't go in there. You smell that?"

Dipper and Mabel sniffed the air and grimaced. Mabel stuck out her tongue. Dipper said, "Ugh. We thought that was Bill, but it's worse down here."

"One of two things happened," Stan said. "Either a squirrel and a raccoon fought to death under the fridge and started rotting; or the space demon cast some kind of stink curse. Personally, I'm hoping for dead wildlife. But until I find out, you two stay out of the kitchen."

There were several more crashes as Bill tumbled down the second half of the stairs, a groan, and a muttered, "What am I getting wrong?"

Stan rounded on Bill. "Hey! Demon. Don't suppose you happen to know why the kitchen smells..." He gestured vaguely, "like that."

Seated on the floor, Bill had been absorbed in prodding his limp left arm; but at the question, he looked up with a worryingly bright smile. "It just so happens I do!"

"Explain."

He twisted his left arm with his right, jammed it back into its proper position with a pop, and straightened himself up. "Funny thing—you know how I can't open doors? Because of the curse your brother put on me? Of course you do. Well—it's the darnedest little quirk of human architecture—I don't know if you noticed, but it just so happens that all of the toilets in this house are behind doors!"

Stan's face blanched. "Oh no."

"At any given time, this body I'm in is freely secreting about half a dozen different bodily fluids—snot, spit, sweat, I could go on—and you humans are perfectly comfortable with that. But you think one bodily fluid is special and can only go in the special white bowl. Me, on the other hand—usually, I'm an energy being that doesn't leak all day! So your fluids are all equal to me! I don't care about your special white bowls!"

Hotly, Stan said, "You're in my house—"

Suddenly twice as angry and twice as loud as Stan, Bill said, "So if you think I'm going to lower myself to asking three times a day for permission to use a STUPID TOILET for YOUR COMFORT—"

And that was when they started screaming.

Dipper looked at Mabel. "Let's eat out."

Mabel nodded. "You know that burger place where Wendy gets breakfast—?"

"If we hurry, we can probably meet her there."

By the time they'd changed and come back downstairs, Ford had joined in the argument, Abuelita had set up a folding chair to watch it like a wrestling match, and the volume had doubled. (Bill: "BE GRATEFUL I USED THE SINK INSTEAD OF YOUR CEREAL BOXES! NEXT TIME I WON'T BE SO MERCIFUL!" Stan: "I'M GONNA INSTALL A DOOR KNOB ON THE KITCHEN FAUCET AND THEN YOU'LL NEED MY PERMISSION TO DRINK, YOU LITTLE—") Dipper and Mabel squeezed around the crowd, slid out the door, and biked into town.

They decided they'd just stay out the rest of the day.

They'd been doing that a lot lately.

####

When they made it home that evening, the first person they ran into was Soos, relocating a detached door. "Oh, hey dudes! Okay so, update on the Bill situation." Soos leaned the door against the wall. "We removed the door on the downstairs half bath and nailed up a curtain instead, so, now it's curse-accessible, but Bill can't lock himself in and do—" he wiggled his fingers, "secret Bill things. So. If you wanna use a bathroom with a real door, you've gotta go upstairs now."

Mabel considered that. "The bathroom with the tub still has a real door, right?"

"Yeah dudes, it's fine!"

Dipper said, "So... do we have a way to get him to shower...?"

Mabel said, "Yeah, whatever Bill's been doing in the kitchen sink—"

(Soos said, "And the trash can, it turns out.")

"—it definitely hasn't included sponge baths."

"And I'm not really comforted by his 'human-repellant forcefield' comment," Dipper added.

Mabel nodded. "I'd kinda like Bill to clean up before he gets as bad as Dipper last July."

"Hey."

Soos pointed toward the attic. "Ford's working on that right now." He whispered, "He's got a theory that Bill's just just too proud to ask for permission to use the facilities? So maybe if we ask him to take a shower, he'll go, 'oh, okay, I'm doing you guys a favor,' and then he'll agree to be let in and out of the bathroom."

Dipper grimaced. "I don't like the idea of begging him to shower. I know he'll be smug about it."

"Uh... I'm fine with it." Soos shrugged. "Better smug than smelly."

####

"All right, Cipher."

Every time Ford came upstairs, Bill was curled up in the window seat, one side pressed against the glass. If it weren't for the crumpled jerky and granola bags and the empty energy drinks scattered beneath Bill's window seat—or the occasional downstairs argument—Ford would have suspected Bill hadn't budged in days. It made him nervous. There was an ice pack on Bill's left shoulder that had sat there so long it was completely melted.

"You got the bathroom you wanted. Now, would you take a shower?" Ford mustered up all his willpower as he prepared to mortify himself, and added, "Please."

It was important to note that Ford had spent his youth as the golden child; Stan had been disowned before his desire to please his parents had a chance to wilt and die; and Ford had barely seen Shermie's teen years. He'd spent his own adolescence isolated from his peers, and hadn't gotten to know any youths except Dipper and Mabel since then.

All of which was to say, the look Bill Cipher gave Ford, shocking in its ferocity, was utterly alien to him; but would have been familiar to millions of humans around the world. It was the same look received by authoritarian parents whose tyranny had squeezed a little too tight, and whose offspring had realized they were grounded so severely they no longer had anything left to lose.

It was the wrath of the defiant teenager.

And then the most pleasant smile snapped on Bill's face, quick as flicking a light switch. "What's in it for me?"

Ford blinked in disbelief. What needed to be in it for Bill? It was a shower. "Being... clean?"

"Eh."

"You can't enjoy being dirty."

"Not a bit! I feel filthy and it's horrible," Bill said cheerily. "Every inch of me feels tainted and corrupted. The touch of my own flesh is nauseating. But, ya know what? I felt exactly the same when this body was 'clean'." He put exaggerated air quotes around the word. "So why would I waste my time scrubbing the top layer of filth off the second layer of filth."

Ford's shoulders sagged. "At least use deodorant?" he pled. "Change clothes? Brush your hair? Something?"

"No, no, absolutely not, aaand no. What's the matter, Stanford? I've been staying out of your way! You don't even see me up here. The stench can't be getting to you that much—after all, you've gone waaay longer than this without showering, stinky!"

(The back of Ford's neck heated up as he realized at times he had, in fact, gone without showering for far longer than Bill had even existed in this body. Science is more important! Bill had no excuse.)

"You smell like burnt hair, by the way," Bill added.

Ford grumbled, "It's faster than shaving."

"And it has got to overpower the smell of a little stale sweat. So what do you care how this body smells?" Bill's grin widened. "Awww, is the guilt starting to set in? Must be hard to pretend you're a hospitable host rather than a kidnapper when your 'guest' is living in squalor—"

"Enough," Ford snapped. "So this is what, your way of protesting your own captivity? This isn't something we're doing to you, you're doing it to yourself! You have to realize how stupid this is!"

"Buuut it's wooork-iiing," Bill said, a singsong lilt to his voice. "It's getting on your neee-eeerves."

"You're going to cause yourself problems in the long run! Diseases, infections—don't tell me I have to explain germ theory to you, you're smarter than that."

"Course I am! When the plague was running rampant, I was the one mocking your species's failure to pick up bathing." Bill scoffed. "I'm flattered you're so concerned about my health, but you can relax. I've been washing my hands and brushing my teeth like a good little potential disease vector. But you humans are so safe inside your modern fortresses with minimal carnivorous bugs and flesh-eating fungi—most of your modern hygiene expectations are cosmetic, because your culture's trained itself to be disgusted by humans' own natural scent. I'm more willing to put up with itchy dandruff than you are to put up with the smell."

"Are you listening to yourself? This is—" Ford paused. "You've been brushing your teeth? Where did you get a toothbrush?"

"I've been using the dish brush and liquid dish soap in the kitchen." Bill laughed. "Wow, look at you—lecturing your prisoner on poor hygiene when you didn't give him any way to clean up! That's not a good look, pal."

Ford made a mental note to find a spare toothbrush for Bill. He flung his hands out in exasperation. "But—why put up with itchy dandruff at all? Why refuse to shower, of all things? And don't say to be annoying—you're cutting off your nose to spite your face!"

"Because cutting off my nose is the only bargaining chip I've got, and you know it."

Seeing expressions on Bill's face—smiles and scowls and smirks and sneers, mouth and tongue and cheeks and eyebrows—still felt wrong. No matter what expression Bill put on, it always felt to Ford like he was using his face to tell some sort of lie. But his eyes—Ford was familiar with Bill's eye, and doubling it didn't banish that familiarity. He knew this heavy, hard, distant look. It was the same look he'd seen just before Bill had shown him, through his own eye, the sight of his home dimension burning. The same look he'd seen when Bill told Ford that the monster that had destroyed his dimension would eat him alive. Of all the looks he'd seen in Bill's eye—curved crescent with sadistic glee, literally red hot with fury—something about this heavy look chilled Ford the most. It was, somehow, the cruelest he'd ever seen Bill: not because the look was malicious (it wasn't); but because it was so detached.

Bill got to his feet, wincing as he uncurled his hunched back. He stretched, spine cracking, as he sauntered lazily toward Ford. "Can I speak frankly with you, Sixer? I can't do a lot of tricks in this body. Heck, I'd try to tell you I don't have any tricks right now—but you'd accuse me of lying, blah blah blah; so let's at least agree I can't escape or kill you all, or I would have! As far as I'm concerned, this body—" he gestured grandly at himself, "—is a dirty sticker stuck on the bottom of my shoe. It's worth less than nothing to me. But it's all I've got at my disposal. So I'm going to be disgusting, until you start doing me favors."

"Favors," Ford said. "And if we don't?"

Bill shrugged, hands raised. "Then I guess I'll keep being gross! But I cannot overemphasize just how little I care about your culture's hygiene preferences, or how far I'm willing to go to irritate you. This morning's hazmat crisis in the kitchen was just a warning shot. You will cave first."

As unnerving as that heavy look in Bill's eyes was, simply seeing it wasn't what rattled Ford. It was knowing that Bill could wear that cruel, detached look when the victim he was committing quiet, passive violence on was himself.

Bill stared Ford down for a moment; then apparently took Ford's silence for victory. "I want a drink strong enough to rot a bootlegger's guts, a hot meal that hasn't been cooked by Grandma Guilia Tofana down there, or—" Bill pointed toward the attic window that his curse prevented him from opening, "a breeze and some fresh air. I'm flexible. Let me know when you're ready to negotiate." He returned to his seat in the window. "I won't be far."

Giving Bill "a breeze" would obviously give him an escape route. Bill was no doubt angling to accumulate tiny, "harmless" favors until he tricked the humans into doing something that would let him escape; but... Ford eyed the empty junk food bags on the floor. He tried to remember whether he'd seen Bill eat anything except for unrefrigerated factory-sealed snacks he could forage from the open kitchen shelves—or if the last fresh food Bill had tasted had been Abuelita's cyanide cooking.

Bill wanted Ford to pity him. That was what this whole charade was about. Ford hated that it was working. Not because of Bill's performative filthiness—but because Ford knew, too well, what it was like to be trapped, powerless, and hungry in an alien dimension; and because even when Bill was all but confessing he was trying to exploit Ford's pity, he was still trying so hard to pretend he wasn't afraid. 

"I'll let you know what Stanley says."

Bill didn't turn away quite fast enough to hide his smile of triumph. "I'll be waiting." He settled back down into the same position he'd held for half a day and stared out at the night sky.

####

After several days in this body, Bill could definitively conclude that sleep was the worst part of being human.

In other circumstances, repeatedly blacking out and coming to, only to realize he couldn't remember anything for the past several hours, might just mean he'd been to a great party. He was no stranger to dissociating for a few billion years—you couldn't outlive the births and deaths of whole realities without getting really good at meditating to pass the empty time—but the difference was at least he could see what was happening around him! And sometimes he did cool things while he was dissociating! At any rate, he didn't need to worry about anything bad happening to him, because he was awake, able to defend himself, and—oh yeah—immortal.

But sleep was different. Sleep left him helpless. Sleep made him dream.

Usually he didn't remember dreaming, even though he knew he must have dreamt for at least a couple hours. He hated not knowing what had been happening around his physical body for all that time, and he hated not knowing what he'd been doing in his dreams. Anything could have happened to him during those missing hours in the mindscape.

The few dreams he remembered were little comfort. Nightmares about dying, about screams and screams and screams, about faces and places he was frankly galled to find still haunted him... things he'd spent his entire imprisonment in the Theraprism fighting to keep safely buried in his subconscious, only for this infuriating human brain to let them crawl from their graves like zombies.

But the subject matter wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that, while he was dreaming, he didn't know he was dreaming.

He didn't understand how that was possible. He couldn't remember how the dreams started, what trick they must have pulled to persuade him that this was reality even though he couldn't remember what had happened five minutes earlier, or how they hypnotized him into unquestioningly playing along with their bizarre impossible Wonderland plot lines. Waking up was more terrifying than his nightmares, as he reoriented himself to reality and had to grapple with how helplessly delusional he'd just been—and the knowledge that it would happen again, and again, and again.

Bill knew how human minds worked. He knew how humans dreamed. He'd been swimming through their dreams for millennia. This was normal for humans, and the knowledge that it was normal was the only thing keeping him from going mad with terror.

But the fact that it was normal for humans didn't make any of this okay. Because he was not human, and he should not be vulnerable to the same subconscious blindspots he'd been exploiting for thousands of years. He was the Magister Mentium, the master of minds! He hated losing control of which realities he chose to believe were real. He hated blacking out for hours at a time. He hated being so foggy-minded and vulnerable in the mindscape.

Most of his diet of the past few days consisted of energy drinks. His throat constantly blazed with heartburn. He needed a better solution—and maybe he could think of one once he got a decent meal, or a drink that could help him sleep without dreaming.

He was hungry, he was tired, and he was weak.

####

But in spite of the caffeine, at some point Bill must have fallen asleep—because he woke up. 

For once, he didn't wake from the searing heat of psychic fires.

He woke from the deadly chill of ice cold bath water.

"HELP!" Bill flailed, bashed both elbows and a heel against porcelain, and went under. He came up spluttering. "Mayday! Charybdis! Carpathia!"

The bathroom door slammed shut. From the other side, Stan shouted, "We considered your terms, and uh—we decided we're rejecting your demands, you get nothing, aaand you've gotta bathe."

Bill heaved himself out of the tub, flopped on the floor, and lay there wetly. Like a fish out of water, if the fish had given up the will to live. "Texq exmmbkba?" What happened?

"We dropped you in the tub," Ford said. "And we're going to do that every time your stench becomes intolerable, unless you bathe voluntarily. Is that clear?"

("What the heck language is he speaking now?" "Not a language. Caesar cipher." "You're tellin' me Cipher was Caesar, too?")

Bill coughed out a mouthful of water. "I'll drown myself."

"No you won't."

"It'd be fun. I'll enjoy it."

Ford hesitated. "Knowing you, you probably would. But you could only do it once."

"I'll slaughter you both."

Stan laughed. "Sure, if you ever reach us!" He jiggled the doorknob tauntingly.

Bill dragged himself across the floor and pounded on the door. He hollered, "I'll make meat linguine out of your skins with an orange peeler! I'll cook it in bone broth made by boiling your teeth!"

There was an awkward pause. Stan said, "I don't have teeth."

"The two of you are a loser who was only ever likable when you were pretending to be your brother and a puffed-up self-pitying nerd who never learned that no one's impressed by a child prodigy after age twenty-two! The biggest impact you'll ever have on each other is derailing each other's life dreams, and all your friends are worse off for knowing you! Your father died ashamed of you both and if he knew the truth about your lives he'd have been even more ashamed! Sherman has no positive memories of you, your obituaries will spell both your names wrong, and I'm going to feed your souls to an ouroboros that will repeatedly digest and defecate you for ten thousand years!"

After a couple more minutes of threats, insults, and beating his fists bloody on the door, Bill had to stop to catch his breath. Ford calmly said, "Have you got that out of your system?"

A pause. "Think I'm good now." Bill slumped to the floor again, his cheek pressed to the cool, damp floorboards. "Okay. Name your terms."

"You're not coming out of there until you've bathed," Ford said. "We'll let you out when you tell us you're clean. If you're not clean, we close the door again. If you want to sit there and sulk, then we'll leave, and once you're clean you'll just have to wait until somebody feels like checking on you. Is that clear."

Locked in and abandoned to wait and wait and wait for nothing at all... He shivered.  "Clear as crystal." He pushed himself to his hands and knees and tried not to look at the walls.

"Good. On the cabinet by the tub, you'll find a towel, washcloth, brush, comb, bar of soap, and shampoo. Are you familiar with how to use all of them."

"Sure! Of course I am!" Bill picked up the bar of soap, dipped it in the water, and experimentally rubbed it on his forearm. "For half a year, I bathed your body more often than you did."

Ford yelped, "You what?!" Stan spluttered as he tried not to laugh.

"Didn't you notice how much more the humans in town avoided you when you stopped letting me take your body overnight?" The soap wasn't soaping like it should. Why wasn't the soap soaping? In a flash of inspiration, he peeled the cardboard box off the soap bar. It had been a while since he'd needed to use bar soap; thirty years ago, Ford had kept the bathroom stocked with Dr. Scrubber's 28-In-1 Body Wash.

"I... thought that... I was sweating more from stress." Ford sounded like he was being forced to reevaluate his entire life. Waiting thirty years to dump that revelation on Ford had been a great idea. "Why were you bathing my body."

"Your odor was offending your pet bumpkin! I didn't want him to stage a mental health intervention!" That, plus Bill had needed to wash away the evidence that sometimes he took Ford's body on midnight joyrides to Portland when he'd finished his portion of the portal calculations.

"Okay, great," Stan cut in, "so you know how to shower. You freak." (Bill decided not to point out that calling him a freak had about as much impact as calling him a triangle.) "Clean clothes next to the shower supplies. Got it?"

He glanced at them. "Yeah, yeah."

"Good."

Ford said, "If you get this over with in a timely manner, without wrecking the bathroom or wasting the toiletries, we can talk about letting you choose a shampoo brand for next time."

Bill considered pointing out that that was a pretty stupid bribe to offer a creature who didn't have the slightest emotional attachment to organic toiletries; but then he remembered one of the cults he was affiliated with in New England made a shampoo line using its traumatized worshippers' tears, and he grudgingly decided he'd like to support them if he could. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."

"No." Ford was enjoying this. And after the mortifying reveal that Bill had scrubbed down Ford's naked body, he'd just angrily decided to enjoy it even harder.

"Gimme an hour. Been a while since I've done this start to finish, I'm outta practice."

"Fine. We'll be back in sixty minutes."

Bill could hear the creak of the floorboards as the Pines left, and the fading sound of Stan's voice as he quietly asked, "Do you think what he said about Shermie..."

Yeah, Bill hoped that haunted him. He reached for the towel, and then jerked back his hand, startled, at the sight of another person in the bathroom.

"Oh." Bill experimentally waved a hand at the human, confirming that the strange alien looking at him was a mirror. There used to be more mirrors in Ford's shack, but he hadn't seen any since he arrived—they were among the "potential weapons" the Pines had hidden away—but apparently they'd overlooked this bathroom. "Hey, there." He stared glumly at the face he was trapped inside.

He'd never seen it before.

He'd seen glimpses of his new body from his temporal peripheral vision—looking into the kitchen and seeing himself examining the junk food on the counters a couple of minutes in the future; looking at the stairs and seeing himself walk up them a few minutes ago. But he'd just taken in the perimeter of the uninteresting puppet and ignored the details. He'd never looked at the face.

Up until now, he'd kept imagining himself as a triangle. Some half-dead shape fraying golden curls around the edges, fused atop the rib cage of a humanoid puppet. Seeing the reality felt wrong, disorienting, like staring at an optical illusion but not being able to pick out how it worked.

He tore his eyes away from his own face. Forget it. He didn't have time to feel bad for himself. He had access to a mirror in the middle of the night and no one supervising, and that meant he could send an SOS to the mirror realm. He had friends in the mirror realm! Well—"friends." He had people whose arms he could twist into helping out, leave it at that.

He flipped the lights off, stared in the mirror—trying to focus only on his own eyeballs—and whispered, "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary." Maybe she wouldn't recognize him in a human body and take his call?

But nothing. "Come on, pleeease," he whined. "Bloodymary-bloodymary-bloodymary please! I'll owe you my life!" Nothing. Why were all of Bill's exes petty psychos who'd excommunicated him or gotten restraining orders against him for no good reason?

He sighed, flipped the lights back on, and morosely searched for any sign of himself in the reflected face staring back at him. It was like trying to find something reminiscent of Chopin's piano Nocturnes in the shape of a lawnmower: a task so impossible it was unintelligible. 

The only thing at all familiar was the color of the hair; not quite as bright as the dazzling electric gold of his true form, but still achingly similar.

Gold splintered into long, needle-thin splinters—splinters with the flexibility of a contortionist, splinters that had been twisted out of shape, splinters that curled like the legs of a dead bug.

"Well, whaddaya know," Bill sighed. "It only took a few dozen eons—but you finally grew up to look like your mother. Ha. Ha ha." The joke left a bitter taste behind his eye. (Eyes.)

Hopefully, he asked, "Oihpromsyd, uoy taht si?" It would be a relief on multiple levels to find he felt so grotesque because he was being haunted by Mr. "Guy Who Lives In Your Mirror And Makes Your Reflection Look Grotesque" Dysmorphio. "Suoedih leef yllaeeer I—krow tseb ruoy fo emos eb attog sah siht!" He waited for his own reflected face to twist in pleasant surprise—either at a human that could speak Rorrim or at the rare compliment to Dysmorphio's work—revealing that the reflection was actually the demon in disguise; but nothing. There went another potential rescuer. Bill already knew the Eye Stealer didn't haunt any mirrors in this shack, no point trying to call him. He didn't stand a chance of reaching anyone else in the mirror realm unless they just happened to pass through this mirror—and unless they were friends, they'd be no more eager to help out thwarted dimensional tyrant Bill Cipher than any of the humans in town would be.

He'd had enough of staring at this face he was stuck in to last him a lifetime. He broke eye contact with himself, tossed the clean shirt over the mirror, discovered the bathroom had a second mirror, and took off the shirt he'd been wearing for most of a week to cover that one, too. He unpeeled the rest of his clothes, trying to avoid looking too close at the human body as he did—it seemed worse now than it had when he'd first gotten this body, with the image of that alien face seared into his memory, knowing he wasn't on this body but dissolved inside it.

Once he'd cleaned this body and perfumed it up to the humans' persnickety standards and gotten out of here, he could handle future hygiene issues by scrubbing off in the sink in his curtained bathroom downstairs. He'd only have to go through this indignity once.

So let's go, Billy, just get it over with—and use the time to think up new ways to irritate the humans into doing what you want.

####

He tried first bathing in the filled tub, until the cold water had him shivering so hard he couldn't properly coordinate his hands; then drained it and tried showering; and then filled it with warm water and attempted bathing again. After the fifth scrub-down he even gave up on soap and tried clawing off layers of skin with his fingernails. No matter what he did, he still felt filthy.

But he'd be dead from blood loss long before he scraped off enough skin to feel clean. He didn't have to actually get clean; he only had to be clean enough to satisfy his captors.

Most of him, he supposed, was clean enough for a human's tastes—any signs of peeling dead skin scrubbed off, no visible dirt, no noticeable scent but the smell of soap—but he doubted the hair would pass muster. It still had asphalt dust in it from almost a week ago, not to mention whatever his scalp had been shedding since then.

But, unfortunately, the hair was the worst part. He could scrub skin with no trouble; but when he was bathing, sunk down to his chin, trying to feel weightless again, the hair floated around him like a grotesque ghost, closing in. When he was showering, it dangled on his face, clinging to his skin, like it was trying to creep under his eyelid and down his throat and choke him. Just knowing it was there turned his stomach; touching it made his throat burn as energy drink bile tried to escape his stomach.

Maybe if Bill brushed the tangles out first. That would knock out some of the dirt without him having to touch it himself. He sat on the edge of the tub, letting the growing tingling pain in his legs as his circulation was cut off distract him from the feeling of hair sticking to his cheeks and shoulders.

He tried to brush it out with his eyes shut, and his knuckles accidentally dragged across the filaments, wet, clammy, clingy. He yanked the brush free and felt hundreds of hairs jerking against their follicles. He forced himself to try again with his eyes open, holding the brush by the very tip of the handle. The bristles sank into the lumpen tangled mass of dead curling skin, and, as he tugged it down, slowly peeled the soggy strands of flesh apart—

His stomach hurt with the force of his retch. He clapped a hand over his mouth, dropped to his knees, and barely managed to get his dinner on the floor instead of on himself.

Voice a shaky, plaintive whine, he said, "Stop doing that to me." He shut his eyes, pressing his sweaty forehead to the cool rim of the bath tub. (Should he have aimed for the tub? Maybe the toilet? Would the humans get on his case for getting sick?) He jabbed a finger into his abdomen around the area where he'd decided the anthropomorphized spirit of indigestion lived in humans' guts. "Chumbo. Buddy. You're not helping," he hissed. "If I'm already neauseous, purging a load of bile does not help. It makes—it—worse. Why are humans built like this."

The Pines were tyrants. If he begged to be let out with his hair still grimy, the best he could hope for was mockery. Any pleas for mercy would cost him dearly. He wasn't getting out of here until he'd dealt with the hair.

He stood shakily and pulled the makeshift curtain aside on one of the mirrors. His vision was bleary from soap; the soggy hair draped in a loose, disheveled triangle shape around his head, like a mangled corpse. He shuddered and let the fabric drop. 

A knock on the door. "It's been an hour, Cipher."

Ford. Bill rubbed his throat and hoped he didn't sound like he'd just been sick. "Gimme another hour."

"That's ridiculous. It takes less than ten minutes to shower, how could you possibly need two hours?"

"So I'm out of practice at scrubbing skin folds! Give me a break! How many hundreds of showers have you taken since the last time I did this? Do you know how hard it is to hold a bar of soap for more than half a second with a mere five fingers?"

There was a pause. "You can't hold soap."

"My hands are small, Stanford."

"Fine. One more hour, but that's all you get."

"Fine, I don't care! If I'm not done in an hour, kick down the door and call the hygiene police on me." Bill was pretty sure you couldn't even get a call through to the hygiene police from this dimension. "Go away. I'm focusing."

If the Theraprism's stupid reincarnation machine was supposed to—ahem-hem, snooty director voice—"divinely designthe body most well-suited to the soul about to inhabit it," then why had it given Bill hair. Sure, he liked human hair, but he liked hair the same way he liked humiliating misspelled tattoos: on other people's bodies, not his. Why hadn't the machine dumped him on Earth bald and balloon-smooth, let the patchy human fur patterns grow in over time? Why hadn't it at least given Bill less hair—why did it need to be so long—

But his hair didn't need to be long, did it? Bill didn't need to have hair at all. Hair was the easiest human body part to self-amputate, easier even than fingernails or ears. Inspired, Bill started searching the bathroom cabinet drawers—et voila. The Pines had no doubt removed any razors or scissors before leaving Bill in this bathroom, but he managed to find a bottle of hair removal cream. Probably courtesy of Question Mark's girlfriend. Cosmetic acid: one of humanity's many endearing little quirks. This would liquefy the roots of the hair, and Bill could get out of here.

He considered whether to melt the hair off the rest of the body. Honestly, he hardly noticed the faint fuzz on his arms and legs, it could stay. The thicker patches extruding from the soft crevasses of the human body triggered that same rotting corpse feeling the scalp hair did, but to a much lesser extent: they were smaller and he could actually see with his eyes that the hairs were growing from the skin rather than spilling out of some dark wet wound. Head first; then he'd annihilate the other three patches if he had enough cream left.

It was easier to touch the hair when he was powered by rage, sliding his cream-coated fingers through the clingy filaments in service of burning it all away. The tingle on his scalp was a welcome distraction from the feeling of the hair itself, and feeling the tingle gradually blossom into a full agonizing blaze was a relief. Chemical burn. That was a luxurious pain—it tightened his lungs and squeezed tears of bliss from his eyes, so good he almost forgot there was another goal to this pain. 

Maybe it would damage some of his follicles enough to prevent the hair from regrowing. Maybe he could wring some pity out of his captors—see this damage, isn't it hideous, look what you made me do—how long could he milk that? A few weeks?

He tolerated the burn as long as he thought he could get away with it without requiring hospitalization, then turned the shower on again. The ice cold water didn't wash the dead hair off fast enough. Some of it stuck to his skin; some was brittle, but not quite fully dissolved.

And that one, last, tiny inconvenience was more than he could stand. 

The hair stuck to his chest, his arms, his hands as he ripped it off. Dead flesh, peeling apart and rotting, dead flesh all over him. He ran his hands over his head, fingers trembling with disgust, and tore out clumps of hair to fling to the ground. His eardrums boomed with his heartbeat. If there had been anyone else in the room he would have murdered them with his bare hands just to purge some rage. Over and over, desperate, obsessed, get it off get it off—

Until his head was so smooth that the pain of the chemical burns masked what few fibers were left. Until the icy shower left his skin so cold it hurt. He stepped out of the shower, triumphantly tore the shirt down from the mirror to see the results—and froze in horror.

When a cloud of gold hair had dangled down from his scalp, he'd looked like a triangle rotting apart—the corpse of Bill Cipher.

Now, he looked at his face, and he didn't see Bill Cipher at all. He'd destroyed the last of himself.

At his feet was a murder scene, all mangled golden gore.

####

(if you enjoyed—and/or were horrified—let me know what y'all think!!)

[shellbilee]

Hey There Darlin' - Chapter 2

A Glen Powell RPF Series

Glen

Glen walks out of the bathroom and makes his way over to the bar, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair and scanning the dancing crowd as he walks. It takes him all of thirty seconds to find her - the girl he realises he’s been unconsciously keeping tabs on all night, unable to help his smile as he watches her laugh and dance away to the music. She looks free and happy, and unbelievably sexy, and Glen almost groans as she tosses her hair and swings her hips.

God. 

He’d spoken to her for a whole three minutes, he didn’t even know her name. And yet, he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her, thinking about her. Was he really this starved of female attention? It had been more than a year since he’d broken up with his long term girlfriend of three years and sure he’d had some flings since, but Glen knew deep down he was a relationship guy. 

He’d always been a homebody, and he loved having someone at home at the end of the day, someone to wake up to in the morning. He loved spending time with his family in Austin, or just at home with his dog Brisket, and having someone to share that with was everything to him. All of that was virtually impossible to have all the time in his line of work though, but still it didn’t stop him from trying. For Glen it was one of the hardest things that unfortunately came hand in hand with his fame, especially as he was starting to take on new and bigger projects.

That, and the fact that finding someone that was otherwise immune to fame seemed to be a near impossible feat. The way he figured it, he had two options. Either find someone that was already in the spotlight - which made some things easier of course, but then the whole different schedules and never seeing each other thing was basically inevitable. Or, find someone who was not famous but still had their own life and routines and schedules, but was somehow indifferent to the fact that privacy would virtually be no longer. The longer he thought about it, the more he was convinced that option two didn’t actually exist. 

He’s standing in the bar queue when he notices a petite girl in a fitted, mango coloured dress making a bee-line towards him, her long black hair falling like a dark curtain around her high cheek-boned face. He’s suddenly certain she’ll ask him for a selfie - he’s been stopped for a photo only twice tonight which was less than usual, though given the exclusivity of the event was what he expected, but after a moment he instead recognises her as one of the friends of the bar girl. 

She pauses when she reaches him, flashing a confident smile before leaning into him to speak over the heavy bass of the music.

“Hello”

“Hey there” he replies back, immediately noting her proper British accent.

“My name’s Sloane. I believe you've met my friend Billie” she says, gesturing with her head back to the crowd behind them, pushing her black sunglasses up onto her head and revealing a pair of pale, ice blue eyes.

“Billie?” He says, his word more of a question than an answer, his eyebrows raised.

Sloane looks taken aback for a moment, shaking her head a second later.

“She didn't introduce herself? Oh Billie” she replies, clicking her tongue in disappointment, “I figured she'd have at least told you her name”.

Glen shakes his head no, watching as Slone glances over to the stage and rolls her eyes before turning back to him.

Glen smiles. Billie.

“Well, seeing as Billie clearly hasn’t, I'll do this for her” Sloane adds, offering him a charming smile, “My friend Billie, thinks you are very attractive”.

Glen chuckles, raising his eyebrows again, unable to help his smile. “That's funny, I think your friend Billie, is very attractive”.

Sloane laughs, a soft, musical laugh. “She's gorgeous actually. And, she's single”.

Glen tilts his head, regarding Sloane. “Does Billie know you're here talking to me?”.

Sloane grins. “No, and before you ask, yes, she is going to give me the third degree when I get back and tell her I just spoke to you about her”.

Glen laughs out loud this time, dropping his head back.

“So I don't know how people in positions such as yourself pass on details, but I figure you don't give out your number easily for obvious reasons” Sloane goes on in a very no-nonsense tone, Glen realising suddenly that she knows who he is.

He wonders idly if Billie knows who he is, looking over Sloane’s shoulder and spying her in the distance still dancing, seemingly oblivious that her friend is over at the bar talking to a complete stranger about her.

“So” Sloane says, pausing and getting her phone out of her bag, Glen watching as she briefly taps away at the screen before holding up her phone to face him, “This is Billie's Instagram”.

Glen is taken aback for a moment, undoubtedly very impressed by Sloane’s wing-woman efforts, looking back at her confident smile and wondering why on earth he’s hesitating when he’s been watching and thinking about Billie since the moment he met her in line.

He lets out a silent breath and pulls his phone from his pocket, opening the Instagram app and copying the words from Sloane’s screen onto his. He taps on the first name and is taken to her profile, immediately noting the picture of Billie’s smiling face next to a happily panting, golden retriever. He smiles when he sees that she already follows him, wetting his lips with his tongue as he taps on the blue follow button.

Glen puts his phone back in his pocket, unable to help his smile as he looks back at Sloane.

“You're one hell of a wingman Sloane”.

She grins then, tilting her head and shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly. “That I am”.

Glen is pleasantly surprised. This is a first for him. He hasn’t had a girl try and chat him up for a friend before, though he can’t say he’s met many girls that are as straight-forward as Sloane.

The bar line suddenly moves forward and it’s his turn to order, Glen turning to Sloane.

“Are you getting another drink?”.

Sloane nods, “Another round of mojitos”.

Glen steps forward and orders his round and the three cocktails for her, Sloane saying her thanks as she leans on the bar beside him. He feels himself sway slightly, trying to do mental maths of how many drinks he’s had today, though gives up seconds later when it becomes all too difficult.

“So what brought you to this gig?” he asks as they wait for their drinks, shifting slightly so he’s out of the direct glare of the sun.

The sun is starting to set now, a deep, orange glow illuminating the rooftop in the way that only happens on those warm summer evenings, the gentle breeze in the air slightly cooler and finally offering relief from the earlier relentless LA heat. 

Sloane shrugs, pulling her sunglasses back down onto her face. 

“Honestly, Billie and Bec dragged me here. I don't mind Rufus, but really I was just happy for a night out with the girls. Those two are the real fans”.

“What about you, who are you here with?” she asks, reaching up to brush an errant hair from her cheek.

Glen explains that he’s here with a close friend from back home in Austin, and a couple of his actor friends.

“They invited me and then I invited Drew, and it just ended up being this big group of us” he says, turning back to the bar when the three mojitos are up and pushing them in front of Sloane, “I’m probably gonna pay for it tomorrow but I’ve gotta admit I’ve had a really good day”.

His own drinks are up moments later, Sloane picking up her three as he does the same, the two stepping away from the bar together.

“That’s tomorrow’s problem” Sloane says with a laugh, lifting the three drinks to her face and taking a drink from the closest one, “I mean, how often do you really just get to relax and have a good time with friends, especially out in public?”.

Glen only laughs, considering Sloane’s words. He can’t actually remember the last time he’d had a day like this, maybe a year or so ago when he was in Greece with his girlfriend and friends? Maybe last New Year's Eve with his family? Has it really been that long?

Sloane shakes her head. “If you have to think about it like that, it doesn’t happen enough”.

Glen just smiles. “You’re alright, Sloane”.

Sloane grins now, flashing her white teeth in a confident smile. “I’m better than alright actually”.

They both laugh and Sloane says goodbye, wiggling her eyebrows and telling him that she hopes she’ll see him around later, gesturing with her cup filled hands over to the dancefloor.

He only laughs, his alcohol tinged brain already having decided that there was no way tonight was ending without him speaking to Billie again, the thought of seeing her gorgeous smile making his breath catch in his throat.

He nods to Sloane and watches as she turns away to make her way to her friends on the dance floor, Glen balancing his own drinks and walking back to his friends across the way.

---

Billie

“Thank God for that breeze” Billie says to seemingly no one, flustered and breathy from dancing in the busy crowd. 

She takes off her hat and leans her forearms on the bar table, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a second to breathe in the open space. She’s a little tipsy, perhaps one mojito too many, and hot and slightly sweaty from dancing among the sea of bodies near the stage.

The sunset had brought with it a soft breeze, the gentlest whisper of a cooler air. It's a welcome reprieve to her heated skin, Billie letting out a breath as she pushes her sunglasses onto her head.

She looks over at the crowd - the warm orange glow of the setting sun casting long shadows over everyone, to find Bec still dancing away, lost in her own little world among the deep bass and dancing guests. Sloane had retreated to the bathroom as Billie had announced she needed a minute out of the crowd, leaving Bec dancing on her own - not that she apparently cared or noticed.

She looks over her shoulder to where the guy - Glen, had been earlier with his friends. She does a quick scan, unable to find him in the crowd, still not quite believing that the guy she’d been flirting with in the bar queue was the Glen Powell. She wonders why she hadn’t been able to tell at the time - sure he’d been wearing sunglasses, but sunglasses were hardly a disguise, reasoning that she’d been too caught up in his charming smile and golden skin to properly put it together.  

Still, Glen Powell. Of all people. Handsome was not nearly enough of an adjective to properly describe him. He was gorgeous, in that Texan, all-American, almost bad-boy kind of way, Billie again thinking back to the time she’d seen the new Top Gun movie with the girls but this time thinking about a different leading man other than Miles Teller.

God.

She lets out another deep breath, idly wondering if she would see him again tonight, pulling out her phone to check her reflection in the screen and looking up when Sloane suddenly appears beside her.

“Have you checked your phone?”.

Billie smooths down some flyaway hairs from her face before looking back at her friend in question.

“Hmm?”

Sloane shakes her head. “Your phone, have you checked it?”.

“What are you talking about?” Billie asks, looking back at her phone and double tapping on the screen so that it lights up in her hand.

There’s a text from Lisa - one of her work colleagues, asking how Rufus was, and a number of instagram notifications that appeared to be reactions to her story uploads of her and the girls.

“What am I looking for?” Billie asks, still confused, looking up at Sloane briefly as she taps on the text message and replies to Lisa telling her that it’s been incredible.

“Open your instagram”.

Billie obliges, still wondering what on earth Sloane is going on about, opening the instagram app and tapping the little heart icon to bring up her notifications. She frowns as she scrolls, all of a sudden letting out an involuntary gasp and feeling her breath catch when she realises what Sloane is talking about.

@glenpowell has started following you

“You did not” Billie nearly stammers, looking back up at her friend with wide eyes.

Sloane only smiles, shrugging her shoulders innocently.

“I did”

“Sloane!”

“What?” she asks, her tone almost one of offence, “It was the least I could do. I can’t believe you didn’t even tell him your name!”.

Billie shakes her head in exasperation, a myriad of emotions suddenly running through her head. 

Morbid embarrassment? She could easily imagine Sloane finding him and confidently explaining that her friend Billie was single and found him attractive. It was such a Sloane thing to do - the woman was the most poised, self assured person Billie knew. Nothing ever phased her, it was the reason she was such a good paramedic. It certainly wasn’t the first time Sloane had done this either - there’d been multiple occasions where she’d flexed her wing woman responsibilities and tried to set Billie up with gorgeous strangers.

For a moment Billie doesn’t know how to feel. It’s shock and excitement and nerves all tangled into one. Glen fucking Powell was following her on Instagram! But what did that mean? He was attracted to her, just like she was to him? Their flirty interactions had certainly been real, Billie unable to deny that a part of her has been thinking about him and his damn gorgeous smile since she’d left him at the bar earlier. Did this mean that he’d been thinking about her the same?

“Billie, you’re a fucking babe. Own it” Sloane says, the straw she’s drinking from making a slurping sound when she reaches the bottom of her drink, “You should have seen the way he smiled when I told him you’re single. He’s into you”.

“I can’t believe you just went up to a celebrity, and told him to follow your friend on Instagram”.

Sloane shrugs, raising one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “He did it without hesitation too. So what does that tell you?”.

Billie lets out a heavy breath through her nose, shaking her head at Sloane in disbelief. “You could have given me a heads up that you were going to do that”.

Sloane snorts. “And you’d have said nothing if I did tell you first?”.

Billie shoots a deadpan look at her friend. “You’d have just done it anyway, regardless of what I would have said”.

Sloane shrugs, lips parting in a smile. “Yeah. Probably”.

Billie rolls her eyes and laughs.

“So what now?” Billie asks, deciding she needs to tell Bec what’s happened as she looks over at the crowd, before looking back at Sloane across from her.

She frowns when she sees Sloane’s smile has widened into a grin, her head tilted as she looks at something over Billie’s shoulder.

“I think you’re about to find out”.

---

Glen

Glen can’t help the way his eyes travel up Billie’s legs as he walks towards her, balancing four full plastic cups in his hands. She’s tanned and toned, serious muscles telling him that she must go to the gym or at least run regularly, her ass round and perky underneath her white shorts. Suddenly, his alcohol-soaked mind can’t help but think about what she’d look like naked. 

Fuck. 

Sloane catches his eye over Billie’s shoulder, her smile telling him she’d seen him looking at Billie, and suddenly he can’t control the goofy, drunken smile that spreads across his lips.

“I figured you ladies could use a refill” he announces as he reaches the table, Sloane grinning at him and Billie visibly startling when he appears beside her.

“Well aren’t you just the gentleman” Sloane remarks, tilting her head and flashing a charming smile as he puts the drinks down on the bar table and slides one over towards her.

Glen only grins, nodding at Sloane, before turning to look at Billie beside him.

Just for a second, he swears he forgets his own name.

It’s golden hour in the evening - that late, final time of the sunset when the sun is just about to disappear and everything is bathed in that brilliant, vivid warmth, making everything the light touches infinitely more beautiful.

Billie, is no exception to that. 

Glen is instantly enamoured, completely, utterly mesmerised. It’s the first time he’s looked at Billie properly, this time without her sunglasses. For the first time ever, he understands what it means when people write about getting lost in someone’s eyes.

They’re big and beautiful - the colour unlike anything he’s ever seen, a mix of deep, sage green and warm, honey brown swirled together like ripples in a lake. She’s got long, dark, feathery lashes that he reasons have to be fake, making her eyes look even bigger as she blinks and looks back at him incredulously. The orange bathe of the setting sun makes them almost glow, her cheeks golden and smooth, her lips full and soft.

Suddenly, Glen isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol that’s making him feel warm or if it’s from looking at Billie.

“Glen” he says, extending his hand towards Billie, his throat feeling thick when she offers a gorgeous smile and takes his hand in a gentle shake, “I figured I should come over and introduce myself”.

Billie laughs softly. “Even though Sloane here has already apparently introduced me?”

Sloane lets out a laugh, lifting her hands in an innocent gesture when Billie shoots her a look.

“Billie” she replies before letting go of his hand.

“I’m just going to give this to Bec” Sloane says suddenly, Billie and Glen both turning to look at her, “Thanks for the drinks Glen”.

Sloane grins as she grabs two cups, giving Billie a very obvious wink which makes Glen chuckle, both of them watching as she makes her way off into the still dancing crowd.

Glen turns back to Billie, once again momentarily taken aback by her smile, leaning his elbow on the table.

“So” he says, chewing once again on a toothpick as he looks back at the gorgeous girl in front of him. 

Billie turns to face him, mirroring his position as she too leans on the table, tilting her head as she looks back at Glen. 

She grins. “So”.

---

Next Chapter

Chapter 1

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