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headkiss · 4 months ago

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fall right into me

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.

word count: 13.6k

warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!

a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)

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Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”

You’re not quite sure where to start.

Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.

The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.

You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

𝜗𝜚

thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3

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lorillee · 1 year ago

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im really normal about them <- lie

#ace attorney #mia fey #diego armando #miego #lorillee.png #THATS RIGHT BABY. AFTER -um . hold on. *checks notes* - SIX MONTHS. LORILLEE IS BACK WITH PHOTOSHOP ART 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥#every now and again i like to put effort into something just to remind everybody that i can actually draw #well i say that but to be honest i put a lot of effort into those ms paint ''diego fey REAL'' doodles #but half of that is just because humans are a . something. to draw. and urban backgrounds are my worst nemesis #and also trying to work with ms paint to like slightly transform things is an incredible pain in the behind #anyways. yeagh 😎👍 behold the power of miego. getting me to actually finish something in photoshop for the first time in months #anyways. ive discovered the secret to getting me to draw stuff on photoshop. prepare yourselves accordingly #what i need to do is sketch & line something in ms paint. and then directly trace it over into photoshop #and then i can go ham #see because the reason i never did this before was because i would sketch things in ms paint #and try to line them in photoshop and it simply Wouldnt Work.#so i had assumed that if i wanted to draw in photoshop id have to sketch in it first. yknow. which i cannot do for some reason #something about the way the pen feels and the . its like the smoothing setting is on even when its on 0 percent. you know. anyways #but with this one i drew mia in ms paint as per usual . and i wanted to mess around with color & light #and i triedddd to do it in ms paint but unfortunately as you can probably imagine. doing stuff like this without layer filters #can get a little difficult. if you know what youre doing its obviously going to be easier but that being said i do not #when i pick colors i am literlaly just wildly guessing 😭🙏 which is fine for more straightforward coloring/shading #but not quite here. which is why i wanted to take a stab at it in the first place #so anyways i was like FINE WHATEVER and tried tracing the lineart in photoshop so i could take a stab at coloring in there #and i was . enlightened. (no pun intended). it WORKS #so anyways . you may actually be able to expect. some photoshop art from me #well ok thats a lie never expect art from me. but we can all dream together #anyways they really are the star-crossed doomed by the narrative romance ever. everything to me

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hazelfoureyes · 9 months ago

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The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (part 3)

I deadass wrote part one as a one shot. Is this what peer pressure is? I love it.

It would have been easy to forget you, your soul was his anyways so the real fun had already finished. But that pesky video hit most streamed in 24 hours, he couldn’t even walk to the butcher without hearing you scream his name from errant phones. Surely there was a way, even from hell, to finish what he started and get you out of his system.

⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣

tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x reader, smut, soft Alastor, unprotected sex (duh?), creampie, edging a little, feelings, Valentino exists, Vox also exists, literally wrote this split screen with part 2 on the right side so I could line it up right like he does hehe, Alastor has a bad time

tag requested: @astraechos , @thekanrojimitsuri2 , @hoeforalbedo , @crazylazybabyk , @oddball08 , @lovingyeet , @just-trash-yeah-thats-it , @random-3455 , @alicehasdrowned , @des-deswain5621 , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @doctorswife221b

When Val released, ‘The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice’, it immediately went viral. The website crashed, downloads surpassed his wildest, horniest dreams.

It’s scary but also hot? ☆☆☆☆☆

Eat me Mr. Radio Demon!

I’ve never wanted to be a pussy so much in my life.

The reviews were all favorable, the comments rolling in, it was perfect.

Until Vox said it wasn’t. He had seen the video, but figured no one would care about seeing Alastor fuck anything. It wasn’t the success that got under his skin, it was the wave of positive attention it brought Alastor. Suddenly everyone was tuning in to his broadcasts, little miss princess’s hotel was busier than ever.

And it was ubiquitous. Every screen seemed to feature Alastor’s breakout role.

“I said pull it, Val!” Vox slammed his hands on Valentino’s coffee table.

“Vox, baby, you’re being really sensitive about this. I’m literally fucking piles of money right now. Actual piles of money, like, person sized piles.” Val took a drag of his cigarette, “Its good for business.”

“Would you rather fuck money, or me?” Vox’s screen glitched.

Val leaned his elbows on his knees, “That’s a really difficult question for me and I think you know that.”

“Augh! Val! Think of the big picture! That obsolete dickhead gaining attention means gaining power. And that’s bad for business.”

Val’s eyes fluttered, “What if we like, say it wasn’t him?”

Flashes of Alastor’s face fazed in and out of focus across Vox’s screen, your body flipping over, a mess of tentacles writhing.

Val took off his glasses, “Oh yeah, that’s pretty obviously him.”

“What is?” Vox’s face splintered back to the screen.

“Do you—- do you not know you’ve been like,” Val used his cigarette to gesture at Vox’s face, “just straight up playing his porno?”

Vox’s hands flew to his screen, “No! Fucking shit! What the fuck!!” He picked up a vase and threw it across the room, “Wipe it clean off the server! Delete it! Ban it’s fucking streaming! End of discussion!”

Val shrugged, he owned every bootleg distributor in the pride ring. He’d pull it and up the price threefold for illegal downloads. “Whatever you want, amorcito.”

Alastor was quite happy the video went ‘underground’ of sorts. The first month after you left, he was plagued by the sound of your voice. Everywhere he went it seemed you were screaming his name, every phone and television a conduit for you.

What really bothered him though, was the reaction others had to him. Where once sinners leapt from his path and set theirselves on fire to avoid him, now people winked and waved. It made his skin crawl. When alive, at the peak of his radio show fame, it wasn’t uncommon to have fans approach him in jazz clubs. But the decorum of 1930's jazz fans was a far cry from the brazen displays of desire from the citizens of hell.

“Perhaps I should have thought it through?” He mused.

“Ya think?” Rosie put her tea down, “Was it worth it, at least?”

He mulled the question over. Worth it? Well, he had your soul. Which is grand. But you weren’t even in hell to be called upon. What did he really get from the deal? Alastor brought his palm to his face, already feeling the blush spreading. Rosie's chuckle didn't help. He did get something. You'd been gone a month, and each day he woke up having forgot you existed. And every night he lied down to rest and imagined your eyes staring back at him. Did he want to fight you, or surrender, when he saw that look? When the silk tie had fallen from your face, slipping down your nose to reveal your intense stare...He thought his heart had stopped. For every ounce of resilience in your voice he found a pound of fury in your gaze. What poor luck Valentino had been given to receive you as an offering.

"Too soon to tell." He leaned back, finally dropping his hand.

“Well it seemed you had a good time… not that I could see much through the green glow and all that static noise. Really spoiled the climax with that move, Alastor dear."

Alastor’s eyes were saucers, “Rosie. Are you implying-,”

“What?” She drew out the word, “I thought you weren’t into those things so of course I was curious!”

He sighed, “I’m not.”

Rosie pushed the teaspoon around her cup with one finger, “Sure looked like you were.”

He crossed his arms, indignant, “You don’t have to have an appetite to enjoy a meal.”

“Message received loud and clear dear! I won’t bring up the subject again.” She cackled and changed the topic to the latest gossip around the colony.

Another night staring at the ceiling, mind ghosting over the idea of you. He felt like he his sanity was unraveling Leaving his bed, he stepped barefoot onto the grass of the swampy forest he materialized into his room when he moved in to the hotel.

With an outstretched hand, Alastor felt for your connection. He couldn’t see it, but the weight of the chain connecting your soul to him sunk into his palm. Curious, he wrapped his fingers around the invisible links and pulled.

With a soft green glow, you rose from the grass.

His breath hitched, he hadn’t expected that. “It seems our deal really did stick, didn't it?" walking towards you, Alastor dropped to his knees at your feet. You were on your side, unmoving.

His head cocked to the left, ears turned in. Alastor crawled toward you, rolling you onto your back and opening your legs. He slotted himself there, “Hellooo,” He took your face in his both of his hands, elbows resting beside your ears, “Are you… sleeping, dear?”

This is ridiculous.

Alastor inspected your face; peaceful. It was a new sight for him, he'd really only ever seen you in some kind of rage or lost in pleasure. His hand slid down your body, realizing you were in the robe still. He laughed, but realized it was for no one. "Are you really going to sleep, hmm?" He hooked his hands under your knee and brought it up around his hip.

Nothing.

"I'm starting to get offended, dear." He leaned down and whispered into the crook of your neck. "If you don't wake up-" He slid down, the robe open enough to let his breathe ghost over your stomach. He stopped. He couldn't do anything to you while you slept. It was void of any enjoyment for him. Without your reactions, it was just....pointless. While he did enjoy your performance in the studio, he was taught to show respect for those of fairer means. A sleeping partner fell into that category.

He reached beneath you and straightened your robe that had bunched there under your body. Placing your leg back down by your ankle, he began pulling the collar up and closed it snuggly.

He stood there for a second, looking over you. It worked. You're here again. His mother had taught him that the human soul was most vulnerable at night. When asleep, the soul could wander from the body and travel earth and beyond. She even said people could train themselves, and with practice, remember their journeys even after waking.

Kneeling down, Alastor pushed your hair from your face, "Don't forget. What fun is there in that?" The shadow beneath your body shimmered neon green before you were swallowed by inky darkness and Alastor was once again, alone.

After his mother died, Alastor was often alone. Most of his time, really. Well, there were people always around. But they were staff, or hangers-on, or women looking for a comfortable life. They were dancers and bootleggers and musicians. Which was fine and grand. But, they never saw him. He never let them, they never tried. He was the radio host. The great dancer. The southern gentleman. The killer. The cannibal. The deer in the woods. Not a single person ever looked at him on earth and saw him. Which was precisely what he wanted, and manufactured with his wide smile and good manners.

So when your eyes bore into him from that tacky studio set, and he felt suddenly naked in front of you, he knew you were looking at the him. You saw him.

It was worth it. Alastor was willing to admit that to himself.

Over the next couple days, he would randomly try to pull you to him. Through out the day, in different places, he would summon your soul and wait. Nothing. It confirmed his theory, your soul was only able to leave your living body while you were asleep.

In the privacy of his room, Alastor paced the space between grass and carpet. What was this feeling? Nerves? He hadn't felt nervous since he was a child.

But, what was causing him a pause, was if he summoned you and you didn't appear. Maybe it had been a fluke? Maybe for the 7th time in 3 days he would pull on that connection and be left standing there, alone.

Still.

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to regain composure. Finally, he reached out for your ties to him, and pulled you into hell.

He held his breath, unconsciously.

With a glow, you appeared again before him. He was quick this time to approach you, setting beside you and leaning close to your face. Asleep.

"Is this my foreseeable future?" He asked, "Staring at you while you sleep, my doe."

Suddenly, you opened your eyes and met his. Reaching up, you grabbed him with both hands and pulled his face into yours. Your hands ran through his hair as you took him in a frenzied kiss. Alastor froze for a beat, but when your tongue licked at his bottom lip, he was brought back to the moment. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, rolling over yours and reaching as deep as he could. He felt like he could unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole. He really could, if he wanted to.

Alastor swung his leg over your body and straddled your hips. "Mon cher, you've finally joined me." His chest was rising and falling with excited breath.

"Alastor?" You tried to feel your body, but it was nowhere near you.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. You're still alive and well. I've merely borrowed your soul for the evening." He looked down at you, and finally, for the first time in what felt like months, your eyes fell to his face.

But today, they were soft and out of focus.

"Can you see me, my dear?" He leaned down slightly, trying to read the look on your face.

"Am I dreaming?"

He chuckled, "Perhaps we both are." With an exhale he wondered if he had been holding his breath this entire time. "No, this isn't a dream."

"I don't understand...but--," You lifted your arms towards him, "Should I say thank you? It was fucked, what happened." Your voice was slow, words a little slurred, "But, I'm home safe and sound now. You did what you promised me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again so...should I thank you now?"

Your tongue felt fat in your mouth, heavy and delayed.

Alastor leaned down over you, "You don't have to say anything." He used his knees to open your legs, and settled there. "Unfortunately, you've become a little worm in my mind." His hands slid under the silk robe you hadn't stopped wearing yet, "I'm hoping if I finally have you, I can...whet my appetite, and return to my normal self." He felt along your hips, hands stopping when he realized you were naked under the thin piece of fabric.

"I keep remembering," you covered your eyes with your hands, "that big hand of yours. And I realize, you never touched me past that."

He smiled, genuinely, truly, "Exactly! You understand the problem precisely. Shall we both have our fill and be done with it?"

You moved your hands to touch his ears, waiting for him to disappear at any moment, "Please. I'm so tired of missing someone I don't even know." He removed your hands, and you held them to your chest.

"My thoughts exactly, mon cher." He adjusted his hips, letting his crotch rub against your core. This was the closest he had been to you since you'd met. It was dizzying, and it felt like his skin was vibrating everywhere it met yours.

A soft moan left your throat, causing his cock to twitch in his pants. Yes, it was you. This wasn’t his standard response to such sounds. Alastor sat up, his legs bent and knees at either side of your hips. Taking one of your hands from your chest, he placed a kiss on a digit. Then another. He kissed his way down your arm.

“So gentle. Weird.” You tried to focus on him, but your mind was still cloudy. The sensations were here but also so far away, too far away, in another lifetime all together.

“Was I not gentle before, all things considered?,” he continued his way down your arm.

You let your eyes drift to the sky, stars watching you from above, “More than him.”

His mouth went dry at the mention of Val, "I am many things more than him, darling." As his lips found your neck, he took a deep breath. "I can actually take my time now. No audience." He sucked a bruise, and released you with a pop. He presented two fingers to your lips, and without thinking about it you began to suck them. While you were slipping your tongue over and between his fingers, he moved to continue a trail of kisses and nips down your right arm.

"Get them nice and wet." He watched through half lidded eyes as you licked his long fingers. He knew he needed to remove his hips from yours, but the idea pained him. Finally, he took his fingers from you and swiped them over your entrance. Your chest jumped, so he did it again. He tried to push the fingers into you, but the resistance was more than he expected. You were wet, but tight. He let his middle finger slip inside you. So soft. So warm. His shadow tendrils allowed him some feeling but not this, this was something they kept to themselves.

"When was your last time, mon cher?"

Your mind searched for memories still left behind in your body somewhere, "In hell."

"You're in hell now."

"This doesn't feel like hell." You ground your hips onto his palm, trying to get that single digit slowly moving in you to come deeper, to become more. He replied by pushing in his pointer finger, erection becoming painful already as you let out a little moan. Bending them up, he began to make long thrusts past your g-spot. His mouth long stilled on your arm, staring at your face as you whimpered into the sky.

"Look at me."

Your eyes darted to him, half open and wet. Alastor felt his patience snap. Undoing his belt and zipper, he finally freed his cock. He ran his head between your entrance to your clit , gathering your fluids on him to ease his entry. Taking both of your legs, he held them at the ankles and set them on his left shoulder. With your hips slightly raised, he pressed into you.

With a hiss you dug your fingers into the dirt, body tensing instinctively. One of his arms hugged your legs to his chest, the other was now bruising your hips as he continued to push into you. With just his head in, he began fast and shallow thrusts. Every time making more progress into your warmth. The stretch burned, but the feeling of him forcing space into you for himself just made you wetter.

Finally, he bottomed out. He had no sense to still himself, shallow thrusts gave way to long, deep plunges. Alastor's breathing was filling the space around you, mixing with your own. Leaning back, he looked down at where you two were connected.

He withdrew slowly, nearly entirely, and pushed back in. Again. And again. It was intoxicating, how he felt himself melt into you. He'd had lovers in life, but never had he been with someone without a barrier of some sorts. Be that his well placed smile or latex. He'd never fucked anyone raw before. He almost regretted not trying earlier, as the sensation of your walls and arousal sticking to his cock and thighs was breaking him. Watching himself entirely disappear inside you, he closed his eyes. Everything was so hot, so tight, would he disappear entirely? Would he lost in the pleasure your body was so effortlessly giving? Was he the unlucky one?

Alastor pushed your knees up to your chest, using his body weight to hold them down as his paced picked up. You brought your dirtied nails to your own legs, holding on tightly. Desperately you needed something to tether you to the ground, keep you still against the twitches shaking your stomach and chest. You felt with any jolt to your nerves you'd fall off the world and drift into the night.

He felt the build up, his balls tightening and drawing in, he wanted to slow down-- he wanted to bring you there first but he couldn't stop the rutting of his hips. With a whine, Alastor's forehead came to rest on yours, hips smacking into you with a wet slap. "Look at me," He commanded again, and you obeyed. One of his hands came to your chin to hold your head still, "Don't you dare look away."

Struggling to keep your eyes open, he pushed into you with one final, deep thrust. His hands came down now to the ground around you as he pushed you into the grass. Hips stuttering, cock twitching in you. You'd never let anyone cum inside you before, the sensation of heat quickly filling your cunt made you tighten around him. "Good girl", He purred, jaw tight.

He pulled back slowly before bringing his hips down, sweat sticking to his forehead where it met yours. His pace was quickly becoming brutal, a hand finding its way to that little bud of nerves of yours. With rough pressure and hurried speed his thumb drew out your orgasm. When you came, you gasped out his name, craning your neck up to ghost your lips over his open mouth. As the pleasure surged from your center, you could feel your body again. He tried to keep his eyes on your eyes, but the overstimulation of your cunt trying to wring him dry forced him to shut them.

A light shone through his eyelids, startling them open again.

"Wait-!" He watched you get pulled away from beneath him. Before he could react, Alastor was on all fours in the forest, alone. Eyes wide, he pounded his fist against the grass. He tried to summon you back to him, to drag you to him but nothing happened.

He thought he'd gone crazy. Hands came to his head, smile pained as he tried to process what he was feeling.

No.

Not enough.

Too soon.

A growl ripped through his chest. This hadn't satiated him at all. No, he was worse off now. He was starved, he had nourishment ripped from his mouth and he as angry for it. Angry to hell, to Valentino, to the conditions of owning a living soul.

He did not even attempt to rest that night. Taking his time, he had to find composure again. Alastor managed to pull himself together after several hours of self isolation. After his heart stopped racing, after his hands stopped feeling phantom skin beneath them, he calmed his smile and went about his day.

When night returned, he couldn't help but stare into the forest domain. He wanted so badly to bring you to himself, but that want was terrifying. It was overpowering him, and he couldn't accept that.

Another night left, another day passed. Husk found Alastor's cruelty to be growing, his patience giving out at the smallest perceived slight. Angel stopped engaging entirely. Charlie found herself wanting to approach him, find out why it seemed his hair was always standing on end, his eyes sharp. But, she didn't. She couldn't. Alastor would pass through the halls like a raging specter. He wouldn't slow or acknowledge anyone.

He managed a week. Satisfied with his resolve, he waited for when night fell and he was sure you'd be deep asleep, yanked your soul from your body and into him. He felt rabid, like he his brain was catching fire. Finally when you materialized before him, he grabbed your face with his hand.

"My doe?"

Just like before, you stirred, and your hands immediately went for his hair. He pulled back, "Are you awake?"

"Am I dreaming? Alastor?" You looked drunk, mind struggling to process the change in scenery. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he hovered above you, and you pulled him into a kiss. He happily returned it, hands quick to untie the robe you had taken as your own. He wasted now time in getting himself unsheathed and lined up with you, before he could enter you reached out to him, "I wanted to say--- thank you. I don't know if I'll ever really see you again."

The realization made his blood run cold. His mother's stories flooded back to him. It takes training, and time, to remember the travels of the wandering soul.

"You don't have to say anything." Alastor thrust into you, your body tense but not as resistant as before. When he was finally enveloped in you, he could feel himself calm. He didn't feel any need to be gentle this time around. He immediately set a bruising pace, digging his nails into the soft flesh of your ass as he forced your hips to meet his with every thrust. You gasped beneath him, eyes wandering up to the sky just past his head. He'd bring you to climax, wanting to drink in your expression, and to his horror as you choked out his name you were spirited away from him again.

Everyone on the floor heard Alastor's rampage. When Angel ran to get Charlie and Vaggie, they were scared to knock. With a steadying breath Charlie rapped the door, "Al? You okay in there?"

Suddenly, silence.

The door whipped open, Alastor smiling with half lidded eyes, "Why of course. What ever made you think otherwise?"

"The fuckin' sounds of carnage, maybe?" Angel looked past Alastor. The sofa shredded, coffee table in pieces. The wallpaper had been ripped down and torn to shreds. Charlie noticed the dirt under his nails, but Alastor coolly pulled his hands behind his back.

"Can I do something for you?" His tone was cold.

"I guess not, Al...," Charlie took in the damage, "Did something happen?"

Alastor smiled wider, "No," and closed the door. No one saw him the following day, which wasn't entirely unusual but it was weighing on Charlie. When Alastor finally appeared and announced he was going to Cannibal Town, she was elated. A chat with Rosie would surely bring him back to himself.

"I don't see the problem. You've got her soul, you can summon her to you, and you get a little," She searched for the word, "relief. Why do you look so pained, old friend?"

"You know better than most I have no interest in chasing women, Rosie."

"Yet..." She cocked her brow.

"It isn't about the release. I don't particularly need that. I never have." He huffed, the conversation already exhausting him, "When I would kill someone, I was God. Their life was in my hands. I took that power from them."

Rosie clicked her tongue, "And when she's in your hands?" Alastor hunched over his black coffee before remembering himself and straightening his back. "I've never seen you like this before, hun. You've got it bad, huh?"

"Personal connections like this, Rosie, are dangerous. I lost my self restraint entirely. It's a weakness." He fought to regain his smile, never knowing who could be passing by.

She tutted him, "Oh no, that's where you're wrong. The difference between a strong man and an unstoppable man is having something to care about." Rosie leaned over and set her hand on top of his, "Imagine you walked into Val's studio right now and found her like you did a couple months ago. How would you react?"

His stomach wretched forward, if he saw you today, hanging from the ceiling? The stench of Valentino's cigarette smoke clinging to your hair, the marks where his hands had made contact with you? His hand under her's tightened, claws leaving marks into the wooden tabletop. "Do you feel weak right now, Alastor?" The hair on his ears was standing straight up, his now black eyes met hers, "You sure don't look it."

He’d remembered hearing something similar before from Vaggie. Could it be true? It was a precarious ladder. If he let himself be close to someone, then the person is in turn close to him, then that person knows him intimately, and then— they are a walking soft spot. Someone could take them and torture them for information. Or, hurt them to hurt him.

But, who would dare? A fire rose in chest at the thought. What was the point of power if he couldn’t have what he wanted? If he had to answer to others about his desires? To pursue strength and status was what he wanted but if that strength didn’t afford him freedom than what good was it, really?

"I say, not that you asked," Rosie smiled and withdrew her hand, "Could be nice to have a little company now and then. Plus, better than waiting 60 years or something for her to just die." She shrugged, "Now, eat. You look like a shit."

Rosie had a point, while your existence was fragile, it was still available to him.

For awhile, he would call you nightly. Alastor would fuck you into the grass, beneath the trees, under the stars. He learned your orgasm would wake you, and he would draw it out as long as he could. He'd edge you for hours, watching you sob for your release. Slowly, your consciousness became more and more solid during your meetings.

To his relief, his hunger for your presence calmed over time. He could handle a week or even two without sharing your company, and he noticed each time you seemed to recognize him more. You'd participate more, moan louder, scream his name and squirm from the pleasure. He relished trapping you underneath his wide shoulders, pulling you onto his lap as he fucked up into you.

He wasn't fond of the few times he summoned you and you were already wet, or smelling of cologne. He'd tease, "Lonely?" and when he'd fuck his back cum into you before helping you chase your own orgasm, he'd remind you, "You're mine, little doe. No one can replace me." And he'd feel his chest swell. Others had your body for the night, but your soul was his forever. With every meeting, he felt more like himself. And the nights you were screaming his name in the forest, and his horns were looming over you as he marked you over and over as his, he felt powerful.

Some nights, he'd call you to him to just let you rest. He'd enjoy a book, or some jazz over a meal, while you lied quietly in his bed.

The days he pulled you into hell and your hair smelled of the trees, of sweat and dirt, he would be gentler. He could feel the ache in your muscles, the tan on your cheeks, and sent you back.

One such night came, where he of course took your chains in his hand and tugged. But this time, when you arrived, your face was painted with anger. You were asleep still, and even when he whispered to you, you didn't wake. You were having a nightmare, from what he could tell. He took you to his bed, and let you settle.

You stayed there until waking up again in your bed.

And every night that week, he'd bring you to his bed and go about his tasks while you fought some demons in your head. He'd never seen you have a nightmare, and began to wonder if something was happening in the overworld.

Alastor was enjoying a deer carcass in his room, humming softly to himself, when a green light erupted on the floor.

He was well aware it wasn't night anymore, and that he hadn't brought you here. With a soft smile, he left his meal and approached the light. Slowly, your body rose from the darkness there. Not just your soul.

When you looked up at him, a smile on your lips and two small doe ears on your head, he grinned, "Did you miss me terribly, my little doe?" He offered you a hand up, "Welcome home.”

༻Masterlist༺

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obsesssedblerd · 4 months ago

Note

MORE SUKUNA WITH HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER PLS PLS PLSSSSS I LOVE THE WAY YOU WRITE ❤️❤️

Picky Eater

Sukuna takes a small breath to calm himself, then picks up the small bowl full of fresh baby food. What is it that you usually say? Third time’s a charm?

He uses the plastic spoon to stir it a few times, then scoops some up to present to his daughter, who was sitting in her high chair in the kitchen. “Here. Eat.”

The baby looks at the spoon full of yellow mush with her red eyes, then faces him and whines in disapproval. Sukuna groans in frustration. “You are not making sense, brat. You cry because you are hungry, but you do not eat. You did not want the green food, the red food, or this yellow food. What is it that you want?”

Her little face scrunches up, and Sukuna knows it’s because she’s about to wail. When the first cry builds in her throat, he reaches forward to grab her from her high chair, putting her against his chest and gently patting her back like he’s watched you do countless times. “No, none of that. Crying will not get us anywhere. Besides, your mother is resting. Waking her up is simply not an option.”

The doors to the kitchen open, and he sees Uraume there, holding a bowl of purple-colored baby food. “I apologize, Lord Sukuna. I left the other maids in charge of preparing food for the little princess, and they did not follow directions.”

The tiny girl in his arms coos excitedly upon seeing Uraume, and their eyes soften as they reach a hand out, allowing the baby to wrap her entire hand around a single finger. “She prefers when her food has blueberries mixed in it,” Uraume explains. “Lady [Y/N] and I discovered this two weeks ago.”

Without a word, Sukuna sets his daughter back in her high chair, then offers a spoonful of the new food to her. To his relief, she eats it. He exhales, then thanks Uraume as they exit. “So it seems that you are extremely picky,” he says to her as he continues to feed her, some of the spoonfuls far more messier than others. “That is not surprising. I also eat only what Uraume prepares.”

The doors open again, but this time, it’s you; yawning as you walk in, all refreshed from your nap. You analyze the scene in front of you, then snicker as you grab a wet napkin. “There’s food all over her face.”

Sukuna sees that his daughter’s face is practically covered in messy purple blotches, then shrugs as he looks over at you. “She ate most of it, though. She—” He stops when he hears faint splashing, then turns his head to see the baby playing in the remainder of the food, making quite a mess all over her clothes, the high chair, and even a bit of Sukuna's face.

“You brat,” Sukuna grabs the napkin from you, and begins to wipe her mouth and hands as you start laughing. “That is food, not paint for you to throw around the room.” Hearing you laugh, the baby joins in. Sukuna rolls his eyes, and you step in, grabbing your daughter from her chair.

“Okay,” you say in-between laughs. “It was time for her to have a bath anyway.” Your eyes land on the multiple bowls of untouched baby food, then you look back at Sukuna, who was using a damp towel to get any of the purple mush off of his face. “I can tell you’ve been at this for a while. I should’ve told you that she’s picky.”

“Picky and very spoiled,” Sukuna comments with a grunt.

“Mhm.” You hum. Your daughter giggles, and you kiss the only part of her face that’s not messy as you ask him, “And who is the one who decides to spoil her?”

“Spoiling her is not my original decision. The little brat has inherited your technique.”

You raise your brow in confusion. “I don’t have a technique, Ryo.”

The princess is distracted by the bracelet you’re wearing, because she babbles excitedly as she reaches for your wrist. You smile while watching her, and unbeknownst to you, Sukuna is watching you both. Similar smiles, he notes for the millionth time since you gave birth to your and his daughter. Whether it was you or her, both smiles had the same effect: weakening his heart and getting him to do whatever you wanted.

“You do,” he says simply. And it’s powerful, he doesn’t add.

#girl dad kuna ily #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #girl dad sukuna #writtenbyrey #sukuna x reader #sukuna imagine #sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #more sukuna fluff bc why tf not #jujutsu kaisen x reader #something small to end the night with #mwah

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samodivaa · 7 months ago

Text

permeated by jealously

Paring: Bucky x Reader

Summary: In your tight-fitting red dress, you look ravishing for the date with a Russian guy—but the moment you retort to Bucky in Russian, it begs to be ripped from your body.

Warnings: smut, angst, kitchen sex, rough/possessive, unprotected p in v, miscommunication Words: 4k

Bucky's veins are full of the serum, but at this moment, they are full with belladonna tincture, the substance of jealousy. Seeing you with another man, he speaks of Love in the past tense. The scene that plays in front of him—that guy coming to pick you up from the compound, is perfectly adapted to a temporal phenomenon: distinct, abrupt, framed, already a memory. For a split second you stare at each other, you smile at him ruefully. A fleeting, lasting moment for Bucky. Why do you even notice him? Seeing you happy, gives mixed colors to the air of the moment—he is lost in time, sleeping being his only lover.

Bucky wants to kiss you. Instead he puts his lips on the tumbler glass, pretending that it is you. His t-shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and he runs a hand through his hair before he puts the glass down on the kitchen counter—flashes of you in that dress that you wear for your date and the way it lifts your body up from a single look races through his head.

His cock jerks and he shakes his head, grinning as he stares down the bottle of vodka next to his cup.

And, for the first time in his innocent and confined life, he senses in himself a potential for a different corruption that takes his breath away. He doesn’t blame himself. He is a curious, wanting thing—finally, enlightened and free, but also lustful and carnal. But It stabs at him, almost like a physical pain, and he feels both deprived and angry, deprived because Bucky wishes to be with you and angry, because his own choices causes him misery. ----- “It is almost like a reverse nightmare, like when you wake up from a nightmare, you're so relieved. I just wake up into another nightmare."

"And what is that nightmare, Bucky?" He keeps his blue, lusterless eyes fixed on Natasha with a calm but warm and kindly expression in them as he thinks how to say it "My love life” “Maybe you need to ask her on a date, that’s what Vladimir does”

“Vladimir? Oh , so it is not just 'that one guy' anymore?” he says in a quiet voice, without a trace of irritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity, his lips quivering as a forced smile comes on to his face. Nat momentarily startles. Then she starts to laugh. “You’re jealous of him?”

He clenches his jaw. “I’m not jealous,” a note of personal affront creeps into his voice “I don’t like his name” ----- You are on a date, having fun—but anxiety grabs his mind, it is self-perpetuating. Worrisome thoughts reproduce faster than rabbits, he is trying not to lose his balance. Not yet. Especially when the jealousy sets in.

Bucky is conscious every moment in himself of many, many elements positively swarming in him, ah these, opposite elements. He knows that they have been swarming in him since you started going out with Vladimir and they are craving some outlet from him, but he doesn't let them, would not let them, purposely would not let them come out, because he believes there is nothing so self-destroying, and so despicable, as his jealousy. He tries to appear as a hard shell on the outside when you finally enter the kitchen at 1 am—while there is a runny mess on the inside as he tenses, waiting for you to say something, anything. When you near the sink, your fingers find the curve of the faucet, the metal cool beneath the touch. He turns around to lean against the counter as you pour a cup of cold water. Bucky stares hard at you, watching you take a long drink then he follows the flick of your tongue over your bottom lip. His heart stumbles a beat. He is in such an irritated frame of mind, because of your quietness that in rude and abrupt fashion he blurts out the words: “You must love that dress”

He takes time persing down the length of your body as you take a step back, watching you press against the counter and then back up before locking on your eyes again. You are not wearing a bra and your nipples harden from having his eyes on you. Red, the front needlessly too scandalous—at least for Bucky. The dipping v lets him see the swelled sides of your breasts pushed up and together. Just to be sure, though, a golden necklace with a teardrop pearl at the end, letting it trail just over your cleavage.

“I didn’t know that you notice what I am wearing when I go out”

You answer, trying to look as innocent as possible. The vindictive smile that stretches on your ruined lipstick sends shivers down Bucky’s spine—did you make out with the guy, maybe more than that? You look beautiful sitting there looking at him like a she-cat. All he has to do is look at you, and he lusts. He wants to take off that delectable dress and make love to you until you don't have the energy to go out with anyone else ever again.

“You’ve worn it for the second time. For your date.”

His gaze drops from your eyes, to the swell of your chest. Your chest tightens and you bite your lip to hide the grin wanting to escape. You notice the disgust written on his face and you laugh coldly, gaze never leaving his buff frame. With the certainty that you have well and truly punished him for not asking you on a single date. The angry, feral part of you feels so close to the surface that you can almost scent its blood-clotted fur. You want to lick the scratches you’ve made on him. You want to scratch him until he breaks apart. You gulp down the rest of your water to ease the heat flaming across your skin. Then you lick your lips. His gaze tracks the movement. You think you stopped breathing.

“His name is Vlad”

An audacious expression plasters on his face as you sigh in irritation at Bucky, rolling your eyes. Bucky is still leaning against the counter and rests his metal hand on the countertop while sipping vodka from the mug in his other hand. A beautiful yet deadly ornament—vibranium has no business being as hot as it is on him.

A note of personal affront creeps into his voice “Vladimir, mhm”

“What else have you noticed about me?” your grin becomes a touch leery, innocently cocking your head to the side.

“Try me” he says softly.

“Favorite color?” you ask, interrogatively.

He chuckles “Red”

“Favorite quote?”

Your brows lift, anticipation making your nerves sing. You are not sure what he is about to say, but you have the feeling that it will be the right one, your heart leaps at the thought.

“Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid” he answers, this time winking at you “I know everything about you, sweetheart” he adds and you feel like smacking that stupid grin off his face.

His mind works well when it comes to his work as an avenger, hovering on hummingbird wings, but when it comes to you, especially when you purposely play with his jealousy, It finds a way to push through any seal of his mind, his expressions are always an array of masks he uses to cover it up his emotions—but now, it is all over his face, pure surrender, because he is affected and you can tell, he is staring impudently at you, awning for your response.

“I prefer kotyonok. Vlad says that cognac and wine is all for the heart and that vodka is for the soul. If it's hurting real bad and you’ve never had vodka before”

His brows lift, because this does surprise him and his stomach tightens at that particular Russian word. His mouth curls into a small snarl at the thought of that stupid man calling you that. A pang of jealousy surges through him. The bad kind. The kind of longing that makes him wonder that there must be a natural comorbidity between sexual appetite and sexual jealousy, between the desire to fuck and the desire to kill. He clears his throat, his face souring before his mocking tone grates:

“Looks like you know a thing or two about me, too”

He is trying to not be overcome by emotion. Emotion is the art of breaking hearts, minds, and tongues―but jealousy is too much, even for Bucky. He settles back into himself, shaking whatever momentary emotion flitted over his face and replacing it with a confident aura that screams laid back and in control as he cages you to the counter, his flesh hand still holding his half full cup. Your throat gurgles slightly, looking at the bigger frame towering you through your lashes like the starved woman you are. You are overwhelmed by his bold move, leaving you both speechless and breathless, but even then it is important to identify the correct emotion here—lust, a longing that goes on a loop. You try to ignore his hard cock pressing against your thigh, your attention remains on his face. You feel drunk without a drink, your nerves tighten, making your muscles clench―this is going exactly how you want. You want him to kiss you. But you make sure to keep your facial features mundane and level. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to think you have a crush on me, Bucky” You also ignore the annoying, visible blush on your cheeks, he must have noticed it because his expression goes grim for a second before a surprised laugh almost breaks free from his lips, responding only by a clink of his tumbler against yours. Judging by the rumble that vibrates in his chest, he likes your reaction, though the noise ends on a cynical note. His blue eyes drop to your mouth, warmth pours through your body and you moisturize your lips as he presses his knee between your legs. Right against your clit—you breathe out, a wave of pleasure sliding down your spine while Bucky just tips his glass back the last of vodka, allowing the burn to sear his throat and warm his stomach—while casually grinding his leg slowly against you, creating a sensation that has heat winding through your core and shooting down your legs. “Na zdorovie” (cheers) You smile venomously with a kind of joyous sigh, your arrogance in this moment makes you feel very confident. Up to this moment possessiveness has not been that much of a torment, now it suddenly gnaws at his heart. As in slow motion, he pulls back to put both glasses on the counter. He realizes that you do something to him. Every time. It’s your only detriment this past month. To step on his heart—to test his feelings for you, and his jealousy already has made him erupt like a volcano. He has never been jealous before he met you. It burns. Some nights, watching you go with other men on missions, even that drives him mad.

“You and that fucking mouth, kotyonok” His voice sounds ill-natured, bitter, politeness that would only be laughed at, restraining an unruly nature, wary of the ways that you are trying to provoke him, but his tone shifts at the last word. Voice warm and low. Intimate. You like it this way. You like the way it sounds and it makes you gasp. “You like this, don’t you, pretty girl?” Your character has absolutely changed. It is an entirely new and hitherto unknown being who now stands and stares at him somewhat lovingly. There is evidently, he concludes, something at work here, some storm of the mind, some paroxysm of emotion which he won’t question. When you say nothing, his hands move to your waist, his vision already blurring. His bones fill up with foam, a languid fear, and a terrible desire. You let out a deep breath and can’t deny the strange elation you feel when you feel his hands, needing more of it, of his touch. Your pussy contracts as his hands reach around, gripping a handful of your ass, forcing you harder against his both body and leg. The grip is both bruising and possessive, controlling every movement. “Oh, god-” You open your mouth, and Bucky dips down, catching the moan with his tongue. Satisfaction sparks in his irises and he tilts his head and keeps watching you with those fucking lethal eyes of his. Bucky gives a small grin, a fake one. The type that shows no teeth and barely lifts at the corners. You feel a very small spark to your ego, knowing you are getting a rise out of him. But all of the playfulness in the air drowns beneath the intensity of his thousand shades of blue dancing in his eyes as if he is peeling back your mental layers, his eyes looking down watching the bare length of thigh that shows through the slit in your dress.

“You and these dresses” he groans. Whether you want to admit it or not, physically, this man affects you more than anyone else ever has, and that causes panic to percolate through every nerve, you feel like you are losing control, but you don’t mind it. You feel vulnerable, exposed, almost at his mercy at this point. Jealousy isn't a pleasant quality, but his jealousy is combined with modesty and there's even something touching about the filthy words coming out of his mouth. He wants you—and finally, he is not afraid to both tell and show it.

“Ya ne mogu vyrazit', kak sil'no ty menya zavodish'” (I can’t explain to you how much you turn me on) Your lips part and you swallow audibly while he has the most delicious visual of his dick slipping between them, your eyes staring up at him in surprise and that sweet tongue running along the shaft. He surges forward, your face is an inch from his when you breathe out, he breaths in before crossing the final, tiny gap and pressing his lips to yours. It is not a sweet kiss. It is hard, demanding, and possessive, borne out of weeks of pent-up frustration and tension. His mouth is hungry and insistent, his tongue probing your lips, asking for greater intimacy. You grant it, tongues swirling together, yours follow his when it retreats and tasting his in return. When he finally pulls back, he rests his hands on your hips, and stares into your eyes for a minute.

“Tvoy zapakh s uma menya svodit” (your scent drives me crazy)

He speaks without haste, controlling himself so well, yet there is something in his voice, determined and euphoric, resentful and insolently defiant. Passion smolders in his eyes as he traces the line of your clavicle with his index flesh finger, pausing for only a fraction of a second. And then you become aware of all the magnificent silk wrapping around your body, you have the feeling that you might drown in his eyes, his two drops of winter rain. “I would love to make love to you, but not tonight” He studies your face, pleading silently for your approval, searching for the smallest sign, the slightest movement of your brow, the vaguest reddening of your cheeks, the surprise of your eyes. At that moment, your soul clenches as well as your pussy. The hard dick still pressing into you distracts you from replying. You can feel your panties dampening. And your nipples are suddenly incredibly sensitive, aching as they pucker against the material of your dress. Your chest warms, desire winding like a rope around your core. You think you like Bucky this way. A smile shows on your face. This would be invisible to any, but the closest scrutiny—Bucky has noticed it and taken it for his sign. Then he leans forward and presses his lips once more, his sugar roughness, his possessiveness is what you need to finally feel. “What did you do when you went out?” “We had a few drinks. We danced.” you reply, thinking it best to speak the truth at once. His lip quivers slightly, forcing himself to seem calm, but Bucky’s eyes are sparkling irefully, there is no doubt in his expression the full success of your endeavors to make him even more detested. “You danced with him?” he asks, with sudden vivacity. “Well, he is my date” You murmur, trying to smooth away all disquietude on the subject, you sense a physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of your own heart, which beats visibly and audibly under the excess of agitation—but before you can even manage to open your mouth again, his metal fingers grab the front of your gown and pull it until it tears, no matter how beautiful, it was meant for another man—perfect breast on display just for him, his cock pulses at the sight. His touch tickles you on his way up to your boobs, skirting over your ribs before fully cupping them in his palms. “Tony’s rules include no sex in the common areas” “Fuck the rules” he grits out, more animal than you have ever heard from a human. And then he gives you a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet—with the filthy touch of his hands, that unexpected warmth rushes through you. His thumbs run over the hardened peaks, making you moan and his dick is so stiff that he is worried that he might come. “Ty moya” he says coolly. (you are mine)

He leans in, his voice a rumble in your ear. “Moy kotyonok” (my kitten)

Bucky moves, gripping the meat of your thighs before he spins you harshly around and bends you over the counter. Your walls are squelching around nothing as you feel him pull back, murmuring something in Russian, it is sinful—and pleasurable, drawing a muffled whimper from your mouth as you hear him tear apart your panties. You lick your lips, trying to quench the thirst for him. Your throat is dry as you hear his belt clattering noisily as he unbuckles it, popping the buttons of his jeans open, followed by the low purr of his zipper coming undone, he drifts his hands down his sides and hooks both thumbs into his jeans, sliding them and the boxers down his legs before pressing his body against yours until every inch of him melds into you one more. Bucky’s metal hand grips your chin and forces your head back while the other closes around your throat as his cock presses against you—chills slide up your spine, arousal sending a shot of adrenaline through your center as you feel pre-cum on your naval. Fuck, he is huge. There is a certain satisfaction in manhandling you into this position, the flesh arm tightens around your nape, holding you close to him.

"How about we make a deal? You wear dresses for me and I take you out on dates?” He rambles against your ear, tongue slipping out to taste you, just a little bit. His cock nudges around your ass cheeks, to your sleek mound until he gasps as he guides his sticky cockhead with his metal hand, gliding through your delicate folds and returning his cold grasp around your chin. He doesn’t say anything as he slips inside you with ease, your wetness sucking him in, making it easy for him to thrust into you until he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck, you feel good”

Bucky moans quietly as his eyes close, focusing on feeling your cunt wrapping around his dick for the first time. His lips stay silent, but he chatters with his fingertips, with the way his hands hold, the way he fucks you. You want to see his face, but you can only imagine how perfect he looks.

His expression is dreamy, floating. Soaked in pleasure—breathless, possessed, lost in the volcanic eruptions of fever, lust and delight. Your pussy cradles around his dick as he pounds into you from behind. It is an igniting feeling to have so much control over your body. It is sick and twisted, he has long learned to run from what he feels and wants, that's why he has nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control. And he needs to take control over something for once in his life. You. He has lost control over everything, even the places in his head. When your moans become too loud, his hand closes around your neck, slowly cutting into your skin while cutting off oxygen. It is more painful than lethal, but more erotic than painful. His growls erupt from his chest, the primal noise flooding your senses, making your insides clench around his length.

“Come for me, drench my dick”

He whispers, fucking his cock against your cervix. He nibbles at your earlobe, loving the sharp intake of your breath as you struggle to breathe. Jealousy…teeth dragging against your skin, living marks. The primal lust, the sheer need to claim you, quickly finding ways to express his sacred hunger to you in animal passion. He snarls out gluttonous groans against your skin as you clench and seize, pounding you harder as your body contracts. Pleasure breaks out like a wildfire, reaching around your temples, shooting up and down your spine as his thrusts never falter, his mouth hangs open with bliss, his cock plunging into you with skin-slapping speed and he finally reaches his orgasm, cock spurting a thick dollop of cum with each throb.

Lust is the best of all the deadly sins, you realize as he pulls out and helps you go back on your shaky feet. It all happened too fast. You only wanted a kiss. You push his chest like you want him off of you, but your fingers have Bucky’s shirt clutched in them and he knows you are full of shit. You want him.

“I wish I could say I felt guilty for what I did. I don't.” The timbre of his voice goes into that low register that makes your insides curl in on themselves. You want that tongue to swipe your sex like licking the frosting off a cupcake. It is the sexual chemistry you want more of. It is electric. But guilt sets in. You are feeling torn between your commitment to building a relationship with Vlad while engaging with Bucky, in a way it feels like cheating. A part of you is hoping someone from the team would wake up and catch you, so you wouldn't have to live with this lie. But no one wakes up and in the silence that follows, you understand the nature of your new curse: you are going to get away with it. Your silence hurts him, his mouth tightens. But there are some wounds that he can heal only by deepening them and making them worse. And yet, sometimes facts are no more than pitiful consequences, Bucky knows how the public will perceive you if you are dating the former Winter Soldier. Seeing you standing there unresponsive makes him realize that silence has a sound—he knows that you regret sleeping with him. You are the people's favorite Avenger, the one everyone look up to with admiration and reverence—he is sure that you are thinking about it, but he understands. The blue moons in his eyes are glimmering with an emotion you can’t put his finger on—and he should be sad, but instead, he feels nothing. He feels a lot of nothing these days. He is empty, as if whatever makes him feel and hurt and laugh and love has been surgically removed, leaving him hollowed out like a shell. This is for your happy ever after, Vlad might be a stupid Russian, but he is at the very core of his existence—a real human. He turns around and paces the room, as if he can leave his regret, you, behind. But it cracks you as you see him walk away, leaving you naked like an ugly shadow made by himself. You have mistaken his lust for love. Regret. It turns into anger, into hatred. And where there is anger there is always pain underneath. You eventually come to understand that in harboring the anger, the bitterness and resentment towards Bucky who has hurt you, you are giving the reins of control over to him—maybe It’s time to finally say “yes” to being Vlad’s girlfriend.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky imagine #bucky x female reader #x female reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #winter soldier

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dwaekkicidal · 7 months ago

Text

Sharing is Caring[1: 3racha]

˚ʚ3racha x Fem!readerɞ˚

ʚ♡ɞ˚ summary: After finding what Stray Kids' closest female friend really does with their leader behind closed doors, Jisung and Changbin decide they want in too.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: 6.1k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: fem!reader, slight angst before the first divider? But it gets resolved like immediately, fluff, nicknames used: 'baby girl, bunny, jagi(ya), and baby,' ot8✗reader mentions but smut is written for 3racha✗reader, Chan✗reader action, Changbin✗reader action, some m✗m action(Chan✗Jisung mentions), fingering, squirting, exhibitionism & vouyerism, rough sex, (1½) pvssy slaps, hair pulling, overstimulation (?), readers a brat for 2 seconds, Channie is referred to as “Daddy” and Changbin as “Sir”, p in v, creampie & no protection (don't be silly wrap ur willy also pee after sex pls), blowjobs, a handjob, I think thats it?

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: an audio I heard a few weeks ago inspired this... I actually have no clue how this came out of that audio but you’re welcome (or I'm sorry)

Sharing is Caring Masterlist

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ PSA: Sorry if you find this annoying, but I put so much yapping talking that I was only comfortable posting this with color-coded dialogues: If you hate it let me know so that I don’t do it again, but it kinda worked out so I kept it in instead of adding a million more words for nothing

Chris | Binnie | Hannie | You

You’re currently sitting in Stray Kids’ studio at the JYP building. Chris sits beside you in the other office chair at the desk, while Changbin and Han sit on the couch. Both staring holes into your heads as yours stare on the floor in embarrassment. They just walked in on you and Chris fucking in the studio, right in the very chair Chris was sitting in.

Speaking of, you see in the corner of your eye as he rubs his hands all over his face in frustration, his ears a very bright red. “Listen.. Normally we wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that in a public setting.. But I didn’t know you two were coming today and we got carried away..”

You glance up to see Changbin frown at the older boy, his eyes full of anger. You look over and check on Jisung, his eyes glossy. You furrow your eyebrows and lift your head fully. “Hannie..” You start, but immediately give up on your sentence when you see Changbin’s eye snap his eyes to you, the anger still prominent.

“Okay well… I don’t think that's the problem here… Do what you want, hyung. It’s your life..” Han starts, staring at you for a moment before continuing with a deep breath. “But you know how both of us feel about her. Hell. How the entire group feels about her. You have to see this from our point of view.”

Chan fixes his posture at the sentence and you look between the boys with pure confusion on your face. “Huh??”

“In my defense, I didn’t know how you guys felt until we were already messing around. We had already agreed on this arrangement months prior to the first person saying anything.”

“Arrangement?” Binnie says with the most attitude you’ve ever seen come out of him.

“We’re not dating.. We’re just…. friends with benefits. Sex with no extra emotional strings attached.” Chan sighs loudly, rubbing the back of his neck and continuing. “In all honesty, me and her talked about including you guys but we were afraid it would ruin things. Ruin the group as a whole.”

You start to feel frustrated, they're talking as if you’re not even in the room and when that's mixed with the ruined orgasm you just had, you can't help but get annoyed. “Hello?? I’m still here by the way. Can one of you tell me what the fuck is going on before I leave.” You narrow your eyes at the three of them and cross your arms. They’re caught off guard at your tone, you’ve never spoken to them in any tone outside of a sugary sweet one with pretty doe eyes. Even Changbin’s demeanor falters before he cracks his own neck. “Bunny. You haven’t noticed anything odd? How Hyunjin paints you every chance he gets? How Yongbok gives you all kinds of sweets and says that he ‘baked too much’? Not even the princess treatment that SEUNGMIN of all people gives you?”

You furrow your eyebrows at him before sputtering out, “W-Well yes, but I thought that was just normal behavior.”

Han lets out a tense laugh at that, when you turn to him he decides to continue for Changbin. “Jagiya, we don’t even do these things with each other… all of us are pretty in love with you. We have been for a long time to be honest. Though.. some of us…” he pauses before stealing a glance at the timid boy beside him. “Some of us fell faster and harder than the others. At the end of the day, you have all 8 of us wrapped around your finger.”

All the attitude and anger in your body is suddenly flushed out, replaced with confusion and surprise, “Wait..” When you think back to what Changbin said, the pieces start to click together. All 3 boys watch your reaction nervously, and Changbin lets out a slight sigh of relief when he sees the gears turning in your head. “She actually had no clue.”

“I tried to not blatantly say anything about it once I found out. But I honestly thought you knew about some of the members, baby girl?”

“I had no clue… I’m so sorry Binnie, Hannie..” You hear Han let out a sigh as your eyes watch Changbin’s, they stare into you less angrily but it makes the hurt more evident. You frown sadly at him and let your head hang, not sure what to do with this situation.

“It’s okay, Jagi. Now that I know you were oblivious about our feelings, I don’t think I’m as upset. More so at Channie-hyung for getting to you before us. But I’ll get over that feeling soon.. I don’t know about him though.”

The man in question’s eyes never leave your form, but he takes Han’s words to heart and takes a few deep breaths. “I don’t know. I’m quite hurt but Han is right. It’s honestly our own faults for not being clear with you.”

His words hang in the air for a while before you fix your posture and look over at Chris, meeting his eyes. He tilts his head at you, but you quickly turn to look between the other boys. “What's going on in your head, pretty?”

“Mm.. Well Channie did already spill the beans on what we spoke about.” You say, looking up at each boy before being met with confusion on each of their pretty faces. You clear your throat before continuing, “About… me being with all of you guys..” You pause once more to gauge their reactions, when you don’t see any negativity you finish your thought: “If you guys are okay with sharing, I don’t think I would mind dating all of you. At the end of the day I have been loyal to you guys anyways... So if everyone is okay with it, it could work.”

Chris’ head snaps to the couch to try and read their expressions. He can see Changbin thinking deeply about it and the faint blush on Han’s cheeks more or less gives him an answer. “Only if you guys are okay with it. I told you already, even before I knew about everybody’s feelings I was easing her into the idea of being with us all, whether that be through dating or her being our mutual friend with benefits.”

Han nods and looks over at Changbin, nervously watching his reaction as he mumbles out an “I’m okay with it.. Only if Changbin-hyung is too.” At the mention of his name, Changbin blinks multiple times to bring himself back down to earth. Once he realizes the outcome of this is in his hands, he gulps and clears his throat. “I… I don’t know..”

“If you need time to think about it, I’ll give you as much time as you need. In the meantime, Chris and I will stop everything we do and we’ll go based on what you guys are okay with.” Changbin furrows his eyebrows and looks at his hyung, who nods in agreement with your promise. “I told you, we spoke about this before. Many times actually. If enough of you weren’t okay with it, we agreed to cut things off completely for the sake of our friendships being more important.”

Changbin slowly nods, “I… I need some time to think about it.” You and Chris nod before meeting each other’s eyes for a moment. “Okay well, we should head home then. The song can wait, we’ve all had a long night.”

Everyone silently agrees and one by one the studio empties. You were the last to leave, but you quickly caught up to Changbin, wanting to have a 1 on 1 chat with him. “Binnie. I really am sorry. If I had known earlier then I wouldn’t have let us do this for so long without involving you guys. I feel horrible.”

He smiles softly at you, placing a hand on your head and massaging your scalp with his fingertips. “I know, Bunny. I’m not really mad anymore, I just don’t know if I can handle sharing you. Jisung and I spoke about it a few times but we thought it wasn’t even on the table.”

You nod and shuffle on your feet. He thinks for a moment before looking at you nervously, “Can you answer a question I have truthfully?” When you nod eagerly he continues, “...If you would date us all, as in all 8 of us.. Could you actually see yourself loving us all equally?”

You bite your lip before laughing nervously, “That’s honestly not even a question to me… I already love you all equally. I wasn’t lying when I said I had been loyal to you guys ‘anyways’. I turned down so many idols and random people on the street because I knew I had you guys. I knew how much I loved you all and I knew wasting time with these people to get over my feelings wouldn’t be worth it. So I sat patiently and waited to see how things would go.”

He lets out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding, letting out a light laugh of relief. “Can I hug you, Bunny?”

“Please.” He smiles and pulls you into his arms, the two of you stay in the embrace until Changbin gets a call from Chan, telling him that the taxi is outside and they’re waiting for him. You say your goodbyes and go your separate ways.

Now we wait..

A few days pass as normal, and you almost forget about what happened in the studio. When you’re lounging on the couch scrolling through a streaming site, you hear your phone ding a few times and it makes your stomach drop. You drop the remote immediately and in seconds your phone is unlocked with your text messages open.

Your hand slaps over your mouth and you squeal, not being able to contain your excitement, and you spend the next few days excitedly preparing yourself for Friday night.

When the night comes, you walk into their dorm as if it was any other day. When you meet the eyes of the men sitting at the dining table, you hesitate. All three sets of eyes look up at you, the older boys hold soft smiles while the youngest is biting his lip with red cheeks.

After some time of the awkwardness in the air fading, the four of you talk boundaries. In summary, you all agreed on:

Changbin only wants to fuck you, Chan and Jisung are open to anybody but mainly want you, and you want all 3 of them.

Specific kinks were talked about, but everyone agreed on rougher play for the night, just nothing too extreme yet. Specifically yes to spanks, rough fucking, choking, and hair pulling.

Chris closes it out with a few statements: “If, at any point, you aren’t sure to keep going, we use the traffic light system. Just ask her what her color is and she’ll respond with ‘red’ for stop, ‘yellow’ for slow down, and ‘green’ for keep going. And aftercare is a MUST. You don’t give her aftercare, you don’t get her at all.” When the other men agree, he leads you guys to the dining room where the coffee table is already moved to the side.

Before you know it, you’re sitting on their dorm’s couch, shyly playing with the strings on your sweatpants. All 3 men are standing between you and the tv, thanking every god they know that Hyunjin is out of the country for the week. Chan warily looks over his members faces, looking for any sign of hesitation. Instead he’s met with both basically eye-fucking you and Jisung already hard as a rock through his jeans. He laughs to himself quietly before looking over at you, initially looking for an unsure reaction from you as well. But when he watches your eyes jump between the other 2 and you bite your lip, he takes a breath before speaking.

“Since this would be both of your first times with her, I’ll show you all the good spots and how to play with her properly.” You roll your eyes and frown up at him from your spot on the couch. He gives you an amused smile and you watch from the corner of your eye as Changbin grabs a chair from the dining room, placing it in front of the tv so that it faces the couch. Chris swiftly pulls you to your feet before taking a seat on the chair. He pulls you into his lap and makes you face the other 2 men, who are now seated on the couch patiently waiting for the scene in front of them to unfold.

“You ready, baby?” He asked into your neck, his thick lips already placing wet kisses and his hands already pulling at the elastic of your sweats. You make a scene to hold eye contact with both men on the couch before responding to the one below you, “Yes, Daddy.” When Changbin’s eyes widen before he closes them and lays his head back, you giggle to yourself and move your eyes over to Jisung. You hear him groan and class a hand over his mouth, and when he notices your eyes are staring into his wide boba ones you smile innocently and tilt your head at him.

By the time both men recover, Chris is already pulling your sweatpants and underwear from your ankles, then moving his hands to the base of your crop top. He finally breaks away from your neck to pull it off, unintentionally showing off the red marks all over your neck to the couch. As the shirt gets pulled above your head, you hear a gasp from the couch and Chris’ voice against your ear. “And no bra? Baby.. you’re gonna kill them haha..”

You bite your lip and smile before teasing, “If they let themselves die this easily then you can have me all to yourself again.” You almost miss the way Changbin’s eyes narrow with how focused you are on Jisung’s growing pout. You hear Jisung let out a “Hey..” before you laugh and stick your tongue out at both boys. Immediately after, you feel your legs get hooked over Chris’ wide stance.

He teases you by softly rubbing his hands against your inner thighs, nipping at your neck and ear as he does so. His left hand slowly trails up your stomach until he meets your chest and starts toying with your nipples. The hand still on your thigh trails up higher and higher until you feel him spreading your folds with his index and ring finger, using his middle finger to slide against your clit and down to your hole. You slump against him when you feel him slide two fingers in you, his thumb replacing his middle finger on your clit. You faintly hear Chris say something to the other boys about where they should try to angle their fingers. When he angles his hands the way he describes, it rips a desperate moan from your throat and your legs tighten against his.

Both boys on the couch adjust themselves in their pants at the sight of you spread so widely in front of them, Han nodding enthusiastically with each sentence that comes out of Chris’ mouth. With the fast pace his fingers set, it doesn’t take long for your orgasm to build up.

You feel yourself getting close and Chris catches on very fast. He pulls his fingers away and lands a smack to your inner thigh before grabbing your chin and raising an eyebrow at you. “Did I say you could come yet? You didn’t even ask permission.” You almost miss Jisung’s moan at the action, but quickly respond with a, “N-No, Daddy. I’m sorry Daddy.”

He tsks at you before softly running his hands along your thighs again, “Just because I’m showing the boys how to play with you doesn’t mean that our rules aren’t in place. Don’t be a bad girl and make me punish you in front of them already.”

“Yes, Daddy” you whine out as you nod feverishly, your orgasm fading away slowly. He hums before returning his hand to your cunt, playing with your folds as he gets lost in thought for a moment. You sigh and lean your head into his neck once releases your chin.

You almost say something about the lack of stimulation when Chris suddenly pushes you on your feet, keeping a hand on the small of your back as he quickly stands. He sits you on the chair but pulls you down so your ass is hanging off the chair, legs folded into each other as he puts you on display towards the couch. You feel butterflies in your stomach, remembering just exactly what Chris made you do the last time you both were in this position.

You shiver as his fingers softly caress your folds, he looks down at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Once he realizes that you knew what his plans were, he bites his lip and smirks down at you. When your lips open to say something, he suddenly returns the 2 fingers inside your hole to prevent words from forming. You guys hold eye contact for a moment, but once his fingers dig into your gummy spot roughly, your mouth opens in a gasp and your eyebrows raise. Your eyes threaten to close as you watch him meanly mimic your facial expression and rub against the spot harder.

Your legs already start to shake and you throw your head back against the chair with a whimper, closing your eyes when the stimulation is a little too much. A firm grip in your hair pulls your face to meet his, he places a gentle kiss to your lips before adding a third finger. He ruts them into your soppy cunt over and over again until you hear him laugh when your eyes slam shut again. You’re sure both boys can hear the wet noises coming from between your legs. You wish you could see their faces, but at this point you figure Chris is trying to put on a show for them so you don’t complain.

“F-Fuck!!! Daddyyy!! I-I can’t..” You cry out, one of your hands meets his and your nails dig into his wrist as your thighs clamp shut. He pulls his fingers out and pins both your hands against the top of the chair with his spare hand. He lands a slap on your cunt and doesn’t give you time to react before he slams three fingers back in and resumes his bullying pace.

He coos at you, pressing a kiss into your calf, “You can, baby girl…” He pauses before positioning his hand so that his palm could bully against your clit with the thrusts. His tone is much darker when he continues, “I won’t stop until you do. So you better give them a pretty view, yea?” You gush more around his fingers as and when you clench harshly, he leans down to push his lips against yours.

At this point, Han has caught on to what Chris is trying to do, and he finally can’t stand the tightness in his jeans so he removes them. He quickly pushes his boxers down and can’t stop himself from fisting his cock at the sight of your cunt and ass on display for them, your wet cunt dripping down your ass as Chris continues his pace. Changbin on the other hand, isn’t fully sure what is going on. But that doesn’t stop him from palming his bulge, biting into the pointer finger on his other hand to keep quiet.

The sounds coming from you somehow get louder and you pant into Chris’ mouth, moaning against his lips as you feel the knot snap in your stomach. Suddenly you squirt all over his arm, squealing into the kiss as Chris rides your high. He fingers into you roughly before giving you a second to squirt more, then forcing more out of you. He repeats this until you pull away from his lips and gasp desperately for air, and he finally slows his hand to almost a complete stop, letting you breathe. He softly slaps your cunt as he pulls away from you fully to admire the mess you made.

“I told you, baby girl.” He laughs, ghosting his hand over your inner thigh as he watches you glisten. He pulls away from you completely, pulling his shirt off in one go and using it to wipe your thighs down and throwing it onto the puddle you made on the floor. He pulls you back to your feet, and holds you up with both hands as your legs shake aggressively, before sitting back down and resuming the earlier position: you on his lap.

He showers your neck and your cheek in kisses as your legs stay glued shut, his thighs making sure of that as they stay against yours. One of his hands holds you against him while the other caresses your hip affectionately. He knows you’re not in this plane of existence from how quiet you are, so he tries his best to ground you with as much physical touch that he can offer.

After a short while, your soul finally returns to your body. You mumble something incoherent and he takes that as a sign that you’re still there. He giggles into your neck, trailing his kisses down to your shoulder. You feel his arms tighten around you before he’s whispering against your skin, “You alright, baby? What’s your color?”

You sigh into his hold and whisper back a “Yellow.. Just give me a minute.”

Once you deem yourself ready, you let him know. He reluctantly loosens his hold on you and clears his throat, placing a final kiss on your shoulder before looking up. “Now that she’s ready for you both.. who wants to play first?” Chris asks as he eyes dart between the boys you completely forgot about. The two in question glance at each other quickly before wordlessly deciding to keep quiet and let Chris choose. Chris nods in understanding before glancing over at the youngest and watching the way he’s slowly fisting his cock as he waits for the next move. Chris very quickly thinks back to the boundaries everybody set earlier and he smirks against your shoulder. He whispers something in your ear, just low enough so neither of the other men can hear it.

But when you smile and slide off Chris' lap, softly crawling towards Changbin on all fours, both boys on the couch suddenly fix their posture. Han almost whines at the thought of Changbin getting you first until he watches the oldest stand up and saunteer towards him. He gulps and looks up at the man, biting his lip when Chris leans down and grabs his chin to hold eye contact. “You still okay with us playing a little bit, Hannie?” Not fully trusting his voice, Jisung nods eagerly and allows Chris to take control, "Please..."

While the two boys to your right get lost in each other, you sit at Changbin’s feet and look up at him with puppy dog eyes. You even go as far as to tilt your head and rest your cheek against his knee. “Hi Binnie~” You whisper out, “Can you play with me? Pleasee?”

He curses under his breath and nods, “Y-Yeah.. Yeah we can play, Bunny.” You smile in response and bite your lip, undoing his jeans before pulling them off his legs. He pulls his shirt off as you leave soft kisses up his thighs. He shudders the closer to his crotch that you get, and breathes harshly when you place a kiss to his dick through his boxers. He sighs when you back away and pull his underwear down just enough so that his dick slaps against his tummy. You pause for a second to admire his width. He’s so hard and his tip has a mean red tint; you’re almost afraid of taking him.

Suddenly the man above you laughs and pulls you up onto his lap, letting his dick rest between you two. He quickly pulls you into a kiss, running his hands up and down your sides softly. Your own hands are running up and down his biceps and squeezing, finally relishing in the feeling of his muscles against your hands. When a hand of his slides down to your ass to squeeze, you smile into the kiss and angle your head so that you are making out even deeper. It’s very short lived however, because the hand that was squeezing your ass pulls back and lands a slap to your cheek.

You jump in against him and pull away from his lips, frowning at him. He laughs at you before landing another to your other cheek. “Those are for the little comment you made earlier about Chan getting you to himself after this.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest and snapping back, “Well soooomebody doesn’t know how to take a joke.” Changbin’s mouth opens slightly and his eyes narrow dangerously at you. If it wasn’t for the fire in your abdomen that grew from his stare, you would have been terrified and apologized right away.

You quickly think that should have been the case when a hand shoots forward and clamps around your neck, squeezing tightly right off the bat. You let out a gargled noise as his other hand lands 2 harsh slaps to your ass cheeks, massaging against them right after. “I’m sorry... What was that?”

Jisung and Chris pull a few inches away from each other at the sound. Jisung’s hips buck up into Chris’ hand and he lets out a pathetic whine at the sight of your ass cheeks already turning a darker red. The man above him lets out an exasperated laugh before saying “Oh yeah, I should’ve warned you two that she can be a stupid brat sometimes. I would say I’d teach you how to deal with it, but it seems like you got it under control already. You know what to do, baby. Be a good girl for Binnie, or else I'll handle you myself.” Changbin steals a confused glance at his hyung before returning his gaze to you, loosening his grip on your neck to give you more breathing room. He watches your eyes meet Chan's and you gulp deeply before wresting your hands on his chest.

“‘M sorry Binnie. I’ll be good now I promise.” His hand completely loosens the grip on your neck but stays resting against your throat as Chris speaks up again. “Not ‘Binnie’ baby.” Your eyes meet Chris’ again and he smiles at you teasingly, his hands still stroking Jisung at a slow pace that has the boy whining into his hand. You bite your lip at the sight of Jisung looking fucked out already and turn back to Changbin and retry, “I’m sorry sir. I’ll behave now.” You watch Changbin swallow thickly before leaning his head sideways and letting out a curse.

“Atta girl, baby.” Chris says, before turning back to the squirming boy below him.

Changbin quickly mutters an ‘Up’ before you climb out of his lap to stand in front of him. He quickly swaps spots with you, making you sit on the couch as he stands above you, kneeling against the cough to ground himself. He strokes himself a few times, not bothering to prepare you any more than Chan did already. He pulls your legs up and holds them near your chest, and then he finally sinks himself into you. He keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, mainly watching for possible comfort changes in your expression. But when your jaw drops at the stretch and you take over his hold on your legs, he can’t help himself from staring for other reasons. While you’re busy hugging your legs into yourself, he trails a hand to your mouth and positions his thumb to press down on your tongue. With every inch of his duck entering you, you swear you lose another piece of your mind. And after what feels like forever, his hips finally meet the backs of your thighs

He lets out a shaky sigh and lightly thrusts into you, testing the waters before pulling out farther and setting a calm pace. For a while, he softly thrusts into you, just savoring the feeling and sight of your tight cunt around his dick. It’s not until you let out a whine that his eyes return to your face. His hips stutter and he watches in awe as he pulls his thumb from your drooly mouth. While that thumb moves down to draw circles onto your clit, you look up at him pleadingly before begging so sweetly. “Please, Sir. Please I promised I’d be good. Just fuck me hard, please please please.”

From the other side of the couch, Chris’ ears perk up at the sound of your begging. He chuckles breathlessly and it takes everything in him to keep his eyes on the pretty boy who’s on his knees below him. “F-Fuck. Bin I usually have to overstimulate her for her to beg like that. You must’ve fucked her stupid already.”

Changbin’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the sentence and he starts up a rough pace, pounding into you fast before responding, “Y-Yeah? You think so?”

You throw your head into the couch at the new rhythm, nails digging into your legs at the stimulation. After squirting like that earlier, you’re not sure you can last very long and that’s made even more true by the sloppy presses you feel on your clit. Not long after this pace was set, you feel yourself rapidly approaching your high.

You manage out a: “Binnie- S-Sir, can I cum please.. I want you to cum inside… I’ve b-been good, right?” and he groans in response, nodding his head and leaning into you, his fingers never leaving your cunt and his pace never faltering. “Yeah, baby. Don’t worry, Binnie’s got you.” His body weight on your legs gives you an uncomfortable stretch, but when his lips meet yours in a sloppy kiss, you can’t find it in you to complain. Almost immediately after that, his spare hand leaves a slap to your ass, and you cum on impact. Your lips detach from his as you let out desperate wails, trying to take deep breaths while he slows his pace to make slower but deeper thrusts into you. His gaze meets your teary eyes before he dips to your neck, biting and sucking marks onto the skin. He follows suit not long after, groaning and biting harder subconsciously as he rides out his high.

You lay against each other, catching your breaths before you let out a pained whine. “Binnieee… my legs..” His mind is still foggy from that strong of an orgasm, so it takes him a second to pull away. Once he does, he softly rests your legs against the couch and massages the muscles, already knowing which ones would be hurting. He watches your mixtures of cum ooze out of your cunt, and onto the couch. He would normally freak out at such a viscous substance getting the couch dirty, but his zips his mouth shut and watches in awe for a moment. You don’t fully notice when he walks away due to getting distracted by the other end of the couch.

Chris let out a few gasps that turn to groans, signaling that he’s dangerously close. You quickly turn your head to watch as Jisung deep throats him all the way, even gagging a few times. You whine out something along the lines of, “That’s so hot..” but it meets none of their ears as Jisung’s nails rake down Chris’ thighs, his hips buckling as he cums hard. He throws his head back and holds a firm grip on Jisung’s permed hair as he thrusts softly into his mouth, quickly angling his head back towards the boy to watch him swallow around his length. Slowly the grip on the younger’s hair loosens, and you and Chris watch the boy on the floor with lidded eyes. Jisung hollows his cheeks and slowly pulls off the eldest’s dick, he matches the older’s gaze and shows off the contents on his tongue before making a show of swallowing it, showing his empty tongue after. Chris throws a hand over his eyes and whines, resting his head against the back cushion as you sit there and laugh. You and Jisung meet each other’s eyes before you wink at the boy, blowing him a kiss with a fucked out smile on your face.

By now Changbin is returning to the living room with a warm cloth, wiping you down gently before throwing it onto the pile of your clothes. Chris disappears to his room to grab shirts of his for you and Jisung while Changbin throws the scattered clothes of yours into his own hamper, and Jisung’s into his hamper. While the two eldest members run around cleaning, and preparing blankets and snacks for a cuddle session, you and Jisung embrace each other on the couch. You rest your head against his shoulder as your breaths even out. You could fall asleep at this point, but you’re quickly distracted by the boy’s bulge in his underwear.

“Hannie… you’re still hard?” You laugh. His cheeks and ears turn red before he laughs too. “Yeah… I came in the beginning, but watching you and Changbin-hyung while watching Channie-hyung come undone got me hard again. It was all just too hot..” You laugh into his shoulder but trail one of your hands to the bulge, trailing a featherlight touch that has the boy’s thighs clamping together. “Can I help you then, Hannie? Me and you didn’t get to play. I can’t go another round but I’ll happily suck you off.”

You hear a shaky breath as his hips buck against your hand. “Fuck,, Yes please, baby.” Giggling, you drop down to your knees for a 2nd time tonight, pulling his boxers down just enough to free his cock. You take it in your hands and pump it, placing teasing kisses up and down his shaft. You smirk against him when you feel his hand slip into your hair, grabbing a tight but not painful grip as a warning to stop teasing. You hum and lick a long stripe until you reach his tip, placing a final kiss there before you take him all the way to the hilt. The grip in your hair tightens as you hum and hold your spot against his pubic bone, some of the hair there tickling your nose. You hollow your cheeks and swallow around him a few times before pulling away, stroking him while you rasp out, “You wanna fuck my mouth baby?"

You swear his eyes sparkle as he nods enthusiastically. His hands quickly move to rest against the back of your head, “Hit my thigh a few times if you need a break, ok?” You nod and smile up at him, happy that he still genuinely cares about your well being. Your smile fades as he moves your head against him, slowly fucking your mouth against his dick as he lets out a sigh. You hollow out your cheeks and feel the grip on your head get harder. He starts fucking himself into your throat, using all his will power to not do it as rough as he wanted to, ‘We can save that for another day’ he argues to himself. It doesn’t take long for him to reach his high, his thighs shaking as memories of what happened less than 10 minutes ago resurface to his mind.

He goes to pull you away as he cums, but you swat his hands away and take matters into your own hands, literally. One of your hands trails up his stomach, your nails ghosting around his chest as your other hand reaches up to fondle his balls. It’s all so sudden and he chokes on his own drool when he tries to warn you that he’s cumming, but regardless you swallow every last drop. Once his hips relax back into the couch, you pull back so that only the tip is in your mouth, sucking hard to get every last drop and he lets out the whiniest cry you’ve ever heard.

As the older boys return with blankets and snacks, you and Jisung pull away from each other. Eventually everybody is settled and a movie is chosen, the four of you cuddle up to each other and relax. Han is laying with his head against your chest when he suddenly lets out a laugh that startles your sleepy form. The three of you look down at him with different confused expressions before he chuckles to himself again.

“The others are missing out sooo bad.”

#sian’s writing #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #stray kids imagines #skz x reader #skz smut #skz imagines #3racha x reader #3racha smut #changbin x reader #changbin smut #chan x reader #chan smut #bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #han jisung x reader #han jisung smut

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emphistic · 8 months ago

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Sukuna - 0 / Yuuji - 1

The both of you had reserved a dinner at this restaurant weeks prior. Not for any particular reason, just so you guys could have some fun on a night out together — something that neither of you have experienced in a while. Well, that was the original plan. Yuuji tagging along wasn't. Nor was a tantrum from the little boy, so Sukuna just had to accept the former, unless he wanted the latter . . . which he did not.

This was going to be a long night.

"Umm, can I have a Capri Sun? — Please?"

A very long night.

"Of course! I'll be right back with all of your orders."

Things weren't looking any better for the pink-haired man when the meals came.

Yuuji seemed to be struggling with his macaroni and cheese. Every time he tried to pick up a macaroni, it slid off his fork. Yuuji pouted, puffing his chubby cheeks out, and crossed his little arms.

"Aww, Yuuji. Do you need some help?" You turned to the boy, picking up his fork — that was specifically designed for kids, albeit it wasn't proving to be of any help to the toddler at the moment.

Yuuji fervently nodded his head, "Yes, please!"

"Alright, I'll help you," you ruffled his pink hair, eliciting a giggle from the boy. You picked up some macaroni and blew on it before feeding it to Yuuji.

"'s so yummy!" Yuuji exclaimed.

"Mhm," you wiped some sauce off the side of his mouth with a napkin.

When you had fed Yuuji an adequate amount of his dish, and he decided he wanted to take a coloring break, you began to try your own food. It's safe to say that after having starved yourself to feed a toddler, fettuccine alfredo is close to enchanting.

"Babe, this is so good. You have to try," you twirled the pasta with your fork and held your hand under it — avoiding any possible messes — before feeding it to the man sitting across from you.

Sukuna was ecstatic about having your attention back on him, and not on his little brother, and greedily accepted the food.

"It's not bad," Sukuna remarked, gesturing to you to give him more.

You took another bite of your pasta, before obliging to Sukuna's request, leaning over the table to reach the man.

All the while, Yuuji watched you feed his big brother with glittering eyes. "I wanna try, I wanna try!" He chanted repeatedly, in his adorable, squeaky voice.

"Okay, Yuuji. Just be careful, it's hot," again, you blew on the pasta before feeding it to Yuuji.

"It is dewicous!" Yuuji giggled, having not learned to differentiate between his l's and w's.

You set your fork down, grabbing your purse and getting up from your seat. Both of the Itadori brothers turned to you with looks of curiosity etched on their faces.

"I'm just going to the bathroom. Be right back," you rubbed Yuuji's cheek, making sure he would understand that you would only be away for a little bit.

Sukuna's gaze followed your back as you took your leave. He sighed, not wanting to be left alone with a toddler.

For a few moments, all was silent. Sukuna was glad for the lack of a squeaky voice. Unfortunately, a few moments does not last a long time.

"Umm, Sukuna. Can you help me?"

Sukuna closed his eyes, asking God what he did to be punished this way.

"Help you with what?"

"Can you help feed me, because, because my food is too hot." Yuuji looked at his brother, waiting for him to answer.

Sukuna has to face away from Yuuji, and take a deep breath just to restrain himself from going berserk on the little kid. Then he said, in the most calm voice he could muster, "First, you sit next to my girlfriend and make me sit across from her. Second, you steal her food. And third, you're making me feed you. Yeah, no way, little man." Sukuna shook his head.

Yuuji cocked his head at his brother. "But Y/N was helping me."

"Do I look like Y/N to you? . . . Don't answer that, brat." Sukuna scowlee, grabbing Yuuji's little fork and moving to feed him.

"Here comes the airplane, or whatever. I don't know what kinda shit Y/N says to you."

"Umm, it's too hot."

"That's not my problem, now eat it."

Yuuji gulped, deciding to blow on the macaroni himself, and eating it.

"See? Wasn't so bad."

This continued on for a whopping five minutes. Sukuna finally relented and blew on the macaroni before feeding Yuuji. The little boy was happy to spend time with his older brother, and was practically bouncing in his seat. On the other hand, Sukuna was just glad Yuuji wasn't crying about you not being there.

When you came back from the restrooms, Sukuna immediately put down Yuuji's fork and returned to eating his own meal.

"So, how was it, you two? Did you guys have some quality brotherly love time?"

". . . You are never leaving me alone with this brat again, ever."

Taglist: @starlets-things @sad-darksoul @mochimoee @r0ckst4rjk @lillycore @deepchromatose @yinyinyinyinyinyin

#sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sukuna fluff #em writes ˎˊ˗

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call-memissbrightside · 1 year ago

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imagine Katsuki is your baby daddy but he has the body of a zaddy

You hadn’t slept with him since you were eighteen? When you conceived his son…? 5 and some years ago?

You’re older, more level headed but still you can’t help but notice how Katsuki’s lean physic morphed into muscle and scars and has his voice always been this deep? And the way he says your name now, with a hint of affection in his tone… and his eyes are more clear, less angry, and set on you

You find yourself more self conscious of the way your hair falls when it’s his weekend to have Katsuma, you take extra time picking out your outfit and putting on your best lipstick

“Have fun okay?” You smile at how cute Katsuma looks in his bucket hat, his toothless smile wide as Katsuki picks him up for a father-son hiking trip.

“Can i bring home a turtle to keep as my pet?” The little boy asked you, and you just know Katsuki is looking at your cleavage that the new shirt you bought showed off. How could he not?

“Absolutely not,” you don’t skip a beat, laughing at Katsuma’s fake disappointed look. Finally, you get the courage to look at Katsuki and nearly gasp.

Katsuki looks hungry, for you. You know him, or rather you knew what he looked liked when he was horny. The slight red color of his cheeks, his jaw clenching, and his red eyes are pooling in arousal.

You knew deep down you should not sleep with Katsuki. It would mess up everything you and him have tried to work on for katsuma’s sake. Yet, it felt good that you still had it in you to rile up Katsuki.

“Have fun,” you smiled at your boys, and Katsuma leaped onto Katsuki’s back but he didn’t budge.

“Keep your phone on, I don’t want you out in case of emergencies,” Katsuki flared his nose at the idea that some sleeze ball saw you like this, all dolled up and lips red, waiting tentatively at home for him and his son who he gave you… fuck stop Katsuki!

You blushed at his order, and played it off. “Okay, but please be careful.”

You put a lot of trust in Katsuki to take his own son hiking, and even if you were wanting to bone… your baby came first.

“Remember to wear sunscreen and please no running off on your own,” you pass Katsuma’s backpack to Katsuki, and the little boy sighed in annoyance.

“Mom I know,” katsuma squished his cheek against katsuki’s shoulder as he patiently waited to leave.

Katsuki didn’t struggle at all with holding his son on his back with the bag, and he loved how your raw and tender ove for his son showed on your face. Fuck, now that’s sexy, he thought.

“Take this to the car,” Katsuki lightly shook katsuma off his back, handing him the bag. Katsuma ran off, leaving his parents alone with one another.

“I’ll take care of him,” Katsuki promised, and you smiled gratefully.

Yet, you were startled when Katsuki moved closer to you, his head tilting down to whisper in your ear, “and when I get back, I’ll take care of you.”

#bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katuski #bnha bakugou #dad!katsuki

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seiwas · 8 months ago

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if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas.

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.

You nod.

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.

He hums.

“But I couldn’t find you, so…”

He hums again.

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

A pause.

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.

You snort, “I wish.”

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.

An interesting man.

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.

“Do you come to this–”

“My studio is just by the corner, so–”

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”

“It’s on the way to work most days.”

You nod, humming.

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.

“And this?”

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer.

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.

“Just ask, I know you want to.”

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along.

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.

“Would that be troublesome?”

You laugh at his rigidness.

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.

So, no.

There’s no other place he’d rather be.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?

“Will you be free next weekend?”

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it.

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.

“Not for a session.”

You tilt your head curiously.

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.

“For a date.”

You begin to take up his weekends now, too.

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.

It’s unexpected, but you like that.

And you like him—quite a lot, really.

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him.

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.

Things are good a month until your exhibit.

Things are good until they aren’t.

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.

You groan, banging your head against the table.

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.

Nanami finds you in your studio that way.

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this.

And it’s too much—it’s all too much.

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.

Silence.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.”

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.

“Then we’ll do what we can.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”

“Who?”

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”

That makes you look up.

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.

You remold and repair to build up yourself.

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.

He smirks, “You’re a natural.”

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.

A gasp escapes you.

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.

A tear drips down your face.

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours.

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.

He smiles at you the same.

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.

It is as much you as it is him.

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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lemon-lime-behavior · 1 month ago

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i love ur expressions so much!!!!! Is it alr if I ask for u to share ur drawing process, if u don’t mind!! If you’d rather not that’s fine too :333

I can try!

now this does assume I have a consistent drawing process which I don’t, but ill share what I do most often?

So first of course I have an idea

Then I do some sketchies to figure out what exactly I want the pose to be. I dont always do this except when the pose is tricky and/or im just not being lazy that day

Then I go through my sketching and refining process:

I usually do two or three passes and I try and flip it at least once throughout, to help make sure everything’s balancing. For the final lines I’ll usually make them a medium red that I then set to multiply, but if I plan on coloring the lines later i dont do that and just make them black. This is also the stage when I’m scrabbling about for reference images, here are some of the ones I used here:

I usually hunt down references after I do my initial rough sketch, so I already know what im looking for angle and shape-wise in the references. Now for coloring ill fill in the whole area I’m gonna color with a gray then start putting down flats on clipping mask layers (so they dont go outside the lines)

then for quick and dirty shading and highlights I’ll duplicate the flats, flatten them into one layer, then make them darker and bluer and generally futz with it untill ive got a good shadowed color profile down. I’ll repeat the process but making it all lighter for the highlights. Then ill take both those layers, make them masks, and start painting on the shadows and highlights over the original flats.

then the very final step is the Fussing Stage where I make a new layer or two over everything and start fixing mistakes, adding new colors, adding rim lights, messing with levels, color correcting, adding details like flowers, etc. etc.

this can take a very long time or no time at all, depending on how much effort I wanna put in.

Then I slap a background on it which is usually a solid color or a gradient because im a hack and have no idea what i’m doing and ta-daaaaaa, something kinda okay!

And that is one of the many ways I “fake it ‘till you make it” my way through art!

#my stuff #tutorial #I guess?#black leg sanji

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f1byjessie · 9 months ago

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SUGAR, SPICE, AND EVERYTHING NICE ━━ FA14.

being the wife to a formula one driver is hard, especially when they're far away.

( fernando alonso x wife!reader )

━━ one shot.

When you were ten, you baked with your grandmother for the first time and fell in love. With the flour up to your elbows, an apron two sizes too big looped twice around your waist, and your grandmother's sweet voice crooning along to Sergio Endrigo, she taught you the differences between a teaspoon and a tablespoon, that a pinch sometimes means two, and when it comes to cinnamon you can never have too much.

“My angioletto,” she called you, her little angel, “it doesn’t have to look pretty when it’s done. When I was younger, I made my husband, your nonno, the ugliest cookies you could imagine. But I put my love in it, and he loved me very much, and he ate every single one and for the rest of his years claimed they were the best cookies I ever made for him.”

She’d lifted you onto the stool at the counter, so you could peer down at the mangled mess of cinnamon rolls. “It may look odd on the outside, but it is just as delicious as the others, and you know what? It’s even more special because it was made by my granddaughter.”

She’d wrapped you up in her arms then, pressing a kiss to your forehead and laughing loudly and warmly when you tried to squirm out of her arms with a giggle of your own.

“One day, my angioletto, you will find someone who loves you with their entire heart, and it won’t matter how pretty your baking is, because they will eat it, and to them it will taste like heaven.” She’d pulled apart the cinnamon roll, looked you in the eye, and smiled— “Until that someone gets here, I will stand in.”

You ate the whole pan together, and neither of you cared that it ruined your appetite for supper or gave you a stomach ache a little while later.

She’d driven you home that night after the sun had set, and when you got to the little shop on the corner of the market square, a little storefront overgrown with ivy, she’d slowed to a cruise and pointed out where the old sign used to be— where there was just an off-color splotch where the walls around it had been bleached by the sun.

She had regaled you with another story of her time as a girl in the kitchen baking bread with the owner, as she did every morning before school in exchange for a few dollars a month, and then she told you, as she always did, that one day she’d buy it for herself and turn it back into the best bakery Italy had ever seen.

When you were twenty— a law school dropout, struggling to find your place in a world that didn’t seem to have any room for you— you bought the small shop on the corner of the market square, turned it into a bakery, and named it after your grandmother.

It was all on a whim, a result of what you're pretty sure was some quarter-life crisis brought on by feeling as lost as you were. Still, you were living out the lingering ghost of a pipe dream from your teenage years that your father's harsh words and mother's disapproval had shattered to pieces, and following in the footsteps of the woman who inspired your passion for creation.

You’re nearly thirty now, and you still don’t regret buying the bakery. It’s your home away from home now— your home when your heart is halfway around the world and waking up as you go to bed. You love what you do, and you feel grateful that you’ve lucked out in being able to spend your days doing something that makes you so genuinely happy.

But that doesn’t mean that every day is easy.

Today is one of those hard days. Valentine’s Day is just a week away which means orders are coming in like crazy, and on top of the hecticness it’s also the thirteenth anniversary of your grandmother’s passing. Even though you’ve made it these thirteen years without her, the reminder of her legacy— her dream, which you now live for her— is no easier to deal with now than it was all those years ago when you’d just lost her.

The smell of fresh bread from the kitchen and the deep lull of Sergio Endrigo over the bakery’s speakers do nothing but remind you of her and the afternoons you spent in her kitchen, kneading dough and icing cookies. You feel like a little girl again, laughing over old stories of your mother and flushing bright red when she’d bump her hip against yours and ask if there were any boys at school that had caught your eye.

You’d give anything to hear her talk about her days at the bakery one more time, have her guide you through another recipe, or listen to her sing along to old Italian classics.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Beatrice asks. She’s a young American woman you met a few years back when she was studying abroad. She hadn’t known much Italian back then, and you were the first person she’d met who could speak English, so she’d asked you for directions to the nearest bus station and you had walked her there to make sure she wouldn’t get lost, which had led to you both talking, trading contact information, and eventually you offering her a job at the bakery when she announced to you months later after continued talking that she’d be staying for the foreseeable future.

You wipe your hands against your apron and offer her a smile. It doesn’t come as easily as it normally does, and you feel like it shows. “Just being a bit nostalgic today,” you admit, turning your gaze to the picture of your grandmother that hangs on the wall across from the display case.

There are other pictures hung up with her— you in front of the bakery on the day you bought it, the bakery back when your grandmother still worked there nearly sixty years ago, you and your husband the day you got married, and Beatrice with her three dogs to list a few, all things and places and people you love and want to remember.

“My grandmother, who I named this place after, have I ever told you about her?”

Beatrice hums, thinking back to the many conversations you have both shared you imagine. As she does so, she reaches for a cloth to start wiping down the front of the display case. “I don’t think so,” she finally answers, rounding the counter to the glass front. “I knew the bakery was named after her, and that she taught you to bake, but not much else. You don’t really talk about her much.”

You frown, “I guess I don’t.”

“But it’s okay,” Beatrice adds quickly. “I know family can be a touchy topic. If you’d rather not talk about her, I understand. I’m not very fond of talking about my brother, to be honest.”

The only time Beatrice does talk about her brother is when she’s drunk, which she usually tends to be when the two of you sit down over a bottle of wine and gossip about the happenings of your lives. You’ve heard plenty of stories about him, and thinking back to the most recent one in particular startles a laugh out of you.

Beatrice seems relieved when you glance back over to her with a soft smile.

“My grandmother was the greatest woman I ever knew,” you start. “Do you mind if I talk about her?”

Your employee— your friend— smiles gently at you and continues polishing away the smudges on the display case. “I would love it if you talked about her.

“She used to call me her little angel…”

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yourusername i’ll leave a piece just for you, nonna.

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user that looks delicious!!

user it’s actually my dream to visit y/n’s bakery 😍

↳ user no cuz literally same, idk anyone else who makes smth as simple as bread look so amazing

↳ user it’s like how irl some foods don’t look that good but somehow in cartoons they make it look like it’s the most appetizing thing in the entire world i would actually cut off my own arm and leg just to get to try a single bite

user così carino!! ❤️❤️

user how is it possible to make food look heavenly 😳

user every time she posts food it makes me want to marry a husband that can bake bc there’s no way i could ever do this myself but i do in fact want to live a life like this so very badly

↳ user FELT THIS OMG

user what a beautiful way to remember someone 🫶

user she’s gorgeous aND SHE CAN BAKE???

↳ user she’s really the most wag of all wags 😩

↳ user fell down a rabbit hole of wag interactions throughout the years and y/n’s introduction into the group is so iconic bc she baked them all cookies and brought them when she first met them all

↳ user i read that in an interview that she knows all their favourites and tries to make them all throughout the season when she goes to races

↳ user she’s actually such a sweetheart irl too, i visited the bakery before i ever knew who she was or what f1 is and if i hadn’t already seen that ring on her finger i would’ve shot my shot no joke 😔😔

↳ user what’s alonso’s secret??? where can i find me a wifey like that???

user this is gorgeous

user using food to celebrate a loved one is one of the most loving things a person can do in my opinion. so much love goes into food, but especially baked goods which take time and patience and practice. this is a really touching and beautiful way to honor someone, and i hope she’s watching down on you and thinking the same thing ❤️

↳ user didn’t think i was gonna be crying today but here we are ig 😭

fernandoalo_oficial mi vida, she would be so proud of you 💛

↳ yourusername i hope so, i am who i am because of her 💛

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yourusername arrivederci 💛

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fernandoalo_oficial and may it be soon, mi vida 💛

user obsessed with the way fernando is obsessed with his wife

↳ user the fact that he calls her mi vida every time he addresses her has me walking into oncoming traffic 🙃

↳ user “my life” in spanish 😭😭 i literally fucking can’t when is it my turn to get a man that loves and cherishes me like this

↳ user honestly i think it’s just time to accept we’ll be alone forever cuz if he don’t treat me the way fernando treats his wife then i don’t want him

user for the ppl asking, arrivederci means until we meet again in italian, it’s a pretty common way to say goodbye in italy

↳ user AND FERNANDO SAID AND MAY IT BE SOON OH I AM ILL

user when will he return from the war…

↳ user it’s only february the season hasn’t even started yet so why isn’t he with her??

↳ user aston martin’s hq is in the uk and fernando has to be there for the car reveal, testing/sims, training, promo content, etc. it’s the logistical pr side of formula 1 that makes the season start a lot earlier than what ppl might think

↳ user AND OVER VALENTINE’S DAY TOO??? 😭😭😭😭

user mama y papa

user i want to grow old with someone and have pictures of our vacations to look back on and remember and i don’t think that’s too much to ask for

user she’s posting like he’s dead or smth 💀

↳ user i mean i would be too if my husband was missing valentines day bc of work tbf 🤷‍♀️

user i can’t believe fernando alonso bagged a baddie who ain’t even 30 yet

↳ user i can have you SEEN fernando alonso?? 👀👀👀

↳ user have you SEEN y/n?? 👀👀👀

↳ user two baddies bagged each other guys there’s not a lot to try and comprehend

Fernando being gone has never really mattered to you much. You miss him, of course. He’s your husband and ideally, you would be able to travel the world with him on a whim without needing to worry about who’s in charge of the bakery, but despite how perfect your life seems with Fernando by your side, there are a lot of things that don’t go according to plan and Fernando’s hectic work schedule is one of them.

The constant traveling across the season is exhausting for both of you, even though you’re not the one doing the majority of it. You attend his races when you can— usually when Beatrice forces you to, which is more and more recently as of late, with the logic that you should get the chance to see the world while you’re still young and while Fernando is still racing— but even when you’re home in Naples, the worry that you feel for Fernando as he flies around the world and races in a dangerous car takes its toll.

You wouldn’t even think of ever asking him to give it up, but not being by his side is hard and you cannot afford— for the sake of the bakery— to follow him wherever his sport takes him. So for now, you will always worry and stress about the toll it all takes on him as well.

You honestly hadn’t given much thought that he’d be missing Valentine’s Day this year, but it occurs to you now as you scroll through the comments on your post.

It’s by far the first time he’ll be gone for the holiday, but something about this year just feels different. Maybe it’s the stress of the extra workload you’ve taken on at the bakery to make up for the extra orders this year and the employees that have had to call out, or maybe the anniversary of your grandmother’s passing is hitting you harder this time than it has in the past, but whatever it is, the idea of Fernando not being here to celebrate with you has your eyes filling with tears as you sit curled up in bed.

Alone.

As you have been for the last few weeks now.

Fernando is in Silverstone, preparing for the launch of the new car and getting back into the swing of things before the new season starts, and this is part of the job you understand. You’ve been his wife for many years now. The racing may start in March, but the real season begins much sooner, and to a certain degree it never truly ends.

There’s always a push to be staying in shape, eating healthy, and staying up to date with all the up-and-coming news. Fernando has worked hard to try and find the middle ground, to enjoy his break while he has it, and take a step back from the Formula One world if only to de-stress from the sport’s particular brand of pressure.

And you’ve worked hard to accept that he will always be thinking like a race car driver.

Nonetheless, though you have enjoyed the interview clips and photographs of him being posted around on social media, and you love even more the pictures your husband’s teammate has been sending you and you alone, you can’t help but want to be selfish. You want to have him with you, in your home, cuddled up beside you instead of 1700 kilometers away in another country.

But that’s the way of things.

You’re about to turn off the lamp and, maybe, cry yourself to sleep while ignoring the very cold and very empty other half of a bed that’s too big for one— a bed you haven’t slept in the middle of since before you ever met Fernando, too used to occupying one side and finding another body on the other— when your phone lights up with an incoming call and his contact image flashes across your screen.

It’s late in Italy, nearing midnight now, and the UK isn’t too far behind. With the strictness of his daily schedule and the importance of a full night of rest, he should already be in bed by now. He should’ve already been in bed hours ago, if you remember correctly from past seasons.

“Fernando?”

“My love,” he greets, soft and sweet and sounding like just hearing you say his name has left him breathless. You can practically hear the smile in his voice. “I am sorry that it’s so late. I hope I did not wake you up, but I am calling because I simply could not bear to fall asleep without hearing you.”

You sniffle, wiping away at the tears in your eyes, but the quiet noise must’ve been enough for him to hear because he makes an inquisitive sound.

“Mi vida,” he calls to you, concern seeping into his words. “What is wrong? Are you okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum back to him, shifting around in bed to face the window and the scenic view that lies beyond. You can see the ocean from your home— the dark water pulling in and pushing out and glittering with the reflected light of the moon, and the boats docked at the marina, still, silent, asleep. The moon’s glow paints the cityscape in an ethereal haze, like something from a fairytale. “I’m okay. Just a bad few days. I miss you, Fernando.”

“I know, my love,” he coos. “But we will be together soon. Do you remember what I told you when I left?”

As if you could possibly forget. The morning he left, a fog had rolled in from the sea and you’d swathed yourself in a shawl to chase away the early, damp chill as you stood on the stoep to see him off.

Fernando had wrapped you up in his arms, an embrace so warm and safe that the feeling had lingered for hours afterward still, and he’d whispered in your ear that he would move mountain and sea to get back to you if you ever needed him.

“But I always need you,” you’d teased. He’d chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, a promise, and then pulled you in even closer, tucking your head beneath his chin and letting his fingers run through your hair and comb through the remaining bedhead tangles.

You would similarly move earth and sky to be with him again now, just to feel his arms around you, or in the bed beside you.

“I meant what I said,” he says over the phone, drawing your attention back.

You hum again, “I know. But sweetheart, you have a job to do. It’s a very important job, too.” You curl the blankets around you tighter. “Pay no mind to my musings, okay? It’s just been a rocky start. The bakery has lots of orders to get through for Valentine’s Day, and I am short-staffed now.”

“What has happened?”

“What hasn’t?” You joke, heaving a sigh. “Rodrigo broke his hand in a biking accident this past Sunday, and the doctor says he’ll be out for a month at least. I can have him work the register and do minor cleaning chores, but we really need him in the kitchen because Andrea hasn’t yet been trained to use the equipment. I am trying to have Beatrice help with that, but it will take time we don’t have. On top of that, Samuel’s wife is having her baby so he has taken paternity leave, and Gemma has gone back to France for her mother’s birthday.”

Fernando makes a noise of understanding. “You are so stressed, mi vida. I wish there was more I could do. I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You have no reason to. In fact, I should be thanking you because I’m feeling so much better just hearing your voice,” you answer. Feeling the tears dissipate as your husband’s joyous laughter trickles into your ear from the phone’s speaker.

“And I am better just hearing yours,” he says. “But I will leave you to sleep now. It’s too late for you to be awake. Te amo, mi esposa.”

“Ti amo, marito mio.”

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lance_stroll i’m really only here to take pictures for his wife

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fernandoalo_oficial the heart is for her only

yourusername and i appreciate you very much for it lancino 🫶

↳ lance_stroll at least someone cares about the work i put in 😔

astonmartinf1 Breaking News: Aston Martin’s Lance Stroll challenges Aston Martin’s social media admin for their job

↳ lance_stroll thanks but i think i’ll stick to driving fast cars. it’s less stress.

user FERNANDO MAKING FINGER HEARTS FOR HIS WIFE 😭😭😭

user if you look closely you can actually see me about to jump off the roof in that last picture 🫠

↳ user real

user why is the first one so cute??

user lance is really just fernando and y/n’s kid at this point, he’s the disgruntled son who reluctantly takes pictures of his dad to send to his mom, and he complains about it, but he secretly loves doing it

↳ user i mean have you SEEN what y/n does for his birthday each year??

↳ user no????

↳ user she specifically learned how to make bannock and a bunch of other traditionally canadian desserts and baked goods for him

↳ user i bet lance’s trainer hates that lmao 😂😂

↳ user you all are talking about them like y/n isn’t just a few years older than lance himself is 💀

↳ user leave fernando and his controversially young wife alone

↳ user guys?? he’s literally only 42?? y/n is almost in her 30s, it could definitely be worse. at least they’re both well into adulthood

user nobody talk to me for the rest of the day this is all i can think about now

user HE MAKES LANCE TAKE PICTURES TO SEND TO HIS WIFE PLS OH MY DAYS

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fernandoalo_oficial throwback thursday, as they say, except it isn’t thursday and i just wanted a reason to post my beautiful wife. te amo 💛.

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yourusername i love you more mio carissimo 💛

↳ fernandoalo_oficial impossible, i love you the most

user adding “posts me just bc he can” to my list of standards for men

user SCREAMING CRYING SOBBING

user “just wanted a reason to post my beautiful wife” oh my god fernando alonso the man that you are… 😩😩

user guys he’s the blueprint

↳ user she’s so lucky

user WHEN IS IT MY TURN???? CAN I NOT BE HAPPY TOO????

user she’s actually so beautiful omg 😳😳😳

↳ user they’re such a power couple

↳ user super excited for y/n to be back in the paddock this year (fingers crossed it happens more) cuz she’s actually so stunning and her outfits are always very classy and fun to look at

↳ user is there a reason she doesn’t go to many races?? they don’t have kids iirc, so idk why she wouldn’t be able to attend more 🤔

↳ user she owns and runs a small bakery in italy, which means she can’t just travel for 9 months out of the year. she shows up when she’s able to, don’t get me wrong, but it’s definitely less frequently than some of the other wags

user gen imagine being fernando alonso’s wife

↳ user i think i would cease to exist

user cuando es mi turno 😭

Valentine’s Day arrives and with it comes the added stress of knowing you’ll be stuck in the bakery all day helping last-minute patrons sort through pastries and treats for their partners. This in and of itself is not a problem, you’ve always liked helping people and baking is your passion after all, but the idea of rising before the sun and being on your feet until long after it sets is not the most appealing, and even worse, your usual happiness is still overshadowed by the cloud of gloom that’s been following you since last week.

Ever since his first late-night call, Fernando has been good about making sure to ring you in the morning before he heads into the factory, and at night when he leaves. It’s helped, certainly, but nothing ever compares to the real thing and that thought makes you feel guiltier every day that you think it.

He has a job to do, a job that he loves. Neither of you should be forced to give up your passions, and that just means needing to make a few sacrifices every once in a while.

He doesn’t call you that morning, however, and though you hide it behind as much of a cheery grin as you can manage, it stings and you’re disappointed.

But throwing yourself into your work is always something you’ve been good at, so you focus instead on kneading dough, mixing pastry filling, and icing cupcakes.

Beatrice finds you back in the kitchen an hour before the bakery is scheduled to open, and the look on her face tells you she knew it’s where you would be.

“You shouldn’t be working today,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

You shrug, sliding a pan of bread from the oven. “We are too short-staffed for me to not be working today. Plus, what would I do anyway? Sit at home alone pretending that I’m not? At least in the bakery, I can put myself to use and be distracted.”

All she does is sigh.

The morning goes well. There’s a bit of a rush when you first open, the most notable of customers is a disgruntled older gentleman who you consider to be a monthly regular. He explains a long-winded story about his daughter’s boyfriend breaking up with her over text last night, and needing something to help cheer her up. He leaves with a box of cannoli, and an extra loaf of bread you threw in for him on the house.

Near the afternoon is when it starts to pick up, but in a lull between customers just after lunchtime, Beatrice corners you in the back. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her eyebrows are furrowed, and her mouth is set in a line.

“Go home,” she orders.

You huff. “Beatrice, I am the boss. Not you.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I am not going home! The rush will get busier later this evening and we are short-staffed—”

“Rodrigo’s coming in to work register in—” she checks the watch on her wrist, “—fifteen minutes. I ran Andrea through kitchen duty the other day and I’ll be supervising her the entire time, and Marco and Silvia both said they could pick up a shift. I also have a text from Samuel’s wife saying if we need even more help she would gladly get her husband out of the house if it means he’ll stop hovering over her, and I’m prepared to take her up on that offer should the need arise.”

You blink at her. There’s a reason she’s the one you leave in charge when you travel, but whenever you’re reminded of just how good she is at managing the bakery you’re always left a little shocked. She orchestrated everything in the span of a morning and you didn’t even notice.

“Why do you want me to go home so badly?” You ask her, shoving your hands down into your apron’s pockets. “Nothing is waiting for me there anyway. Even if we weren’t short-handed, I would’ve still been here.”

“You sure about that?” Is all she says before turning on her heel and exiting back into the front of the bakery.

You don’t pretend to understand what she’s talking about as you hang your apron up and head for home. Beatrice shoots you a wink as you wave goodbye, and it feels like some sort of foreshadowing for whatever awaits you.

Nothing, however, looks any different than it had when you left. You park your car in the empty driveway, collect the newspaper from the stoep, and unlock the door.

Your keys and the newspaper are both tossed onto the counter just inside the kitchen as you toe off your shoes. You hang up your jacket on the dining room chair as you make your way into the living room, and then you pause.

There, resting on the couch is a stuffed toy bear and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. In the bear’s arms is a little sign, and the handwriting is already enough to have your eyes filling with tears.

“Fernando?” You call out to the silent house.

You check the ground floor and find no other sign of him, so you take to the stairs and begin the ascent up to the next, continuing to call out the many different pet names you have given to him throughout the years.

You peek into the bedroom, “Mia vita?”

Stood in the center of the room, a big grin on his face, is your husband. Fernando looks mighty proud of himself, a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s had this planned for a while and he’s smug that he’s managed to keep a secret from you. He opens his arms wide when you just continue to stand in the doorway, and like a flip has been switched, you rush into him when a sob of happiness.

He wraps himself around you, and the feeling of his arms holding you so firmly in his embrace is warm and comforting, and everything you had missed in the weeks he was gone. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, and the smell of his cologne has you sagging even further against him, sinking as far as you can into his hold.

He presses a kiss to your head and sways the both of you back and forth.

“Mi vida,” he murmurs. “I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

“I didn’t know you were coming home,” you cry against him, voice muffled from where your face is still pressed against him.

He runs a hand through your hair, scratching his nails against your scalp in the way that always calms you down, and hums. You feel it in the vibration of his chest more than you hear it. “I wanted to surprise you after you told me how stressed you were. I told you, no? I would move mountains and seas to be with you whenever you need me.”

“Ti amo,” you whisper against his skin.

“Te amo,” he whispers into your hair.

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yourusername to the luce dei miei occhi, i love you more than life itself 💛

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fernandoalo_oficial mi vida i'll love you in this life and the next, until the very end of time itself 💛

↳ yourusername ti amo mia vita

user LUCE DEI MIEI OCCHI = LIGHT OF MY EYES

↳ user oh my days 🫢

↳ user i’m actually ill that is too cute

user they ARE that couple and they have every right to be

user WAR IS OVER

user i need them to adopt me right tf now it’s not a want it’s a need

user GUYS HE WAS JUST IN SILVERSTONE LIKE A DAY AGO??? FOR THE CAR LAUNCH??? THAT MEANS HE FLEW ALL THE WAY TO ITALY LAST MINUTE JUST TO SEE HIS WIFE FOR VALENTINES DAY

↳ user fernando alonso once again proving why he’s the best husband on the grid

↳ user i’m obsessed with them a totally normal amount

lance_stroll every time i saw him he was talking to someone about how he had plans to surprise his wife, i’m so surprised he didn’t end up ruining the secret somehow

↳ fernandoalo_oficial have more faith in your padre

↳ lance_stroll well i’ve seen my “padre” make the most cartoon heart eyes at a picture of baked goods so i don’t think faith is really gonna cut it. you’re whipped man 🤷‍♂️

↳ yourusername lancino you must put up with so much from this old man

↳ lance_stroll you know what? i really do

━━ tags: @maih23 @urfavnoirette @casperlikej @pear-1206

━━ a/n: this is the longest fic i've ever written, coming in at a whopping 5.4k words! and it's also the first request i've written for! so, cheers to that. this is my little valentine's day story, because i'm actually a big sap and i really do love good fluffy romances, so writing this distracted me from the fact that i'm actually very alone at the present haha! anyways, hope you all enjoyed! i also wrote this in under 24 hours, and it's a lot, so if there's any editing mistakes please ignore them, i genuinely could not bring myself to re-read all of this looking for every single mistake.

#formula 1 #formula one #f1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #social media au #fernando alonso #fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso imagine #fa14 #lance stroll

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