#i thought it looked kind of like gold flecks

[val-cansalute]

☆ 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊 ☆

sub!ellie x dom!reader

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚈𝚘𝚞, 𝙳𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙴𝚕𝚕��𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚝-𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗. 𝙽𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙳𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙳𝚒𝚗𝚊'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘, 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝚊/𝚗: 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝-𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 kind of shitty really bad 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 that i absolutely despise but spent too long on to keep in the drafts 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚒 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝e𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 ♥︎

It's been dark for a few hours now, light pooling into your room from the flicker of a candle and the red lava lamp you stole from Dina's room.

She's gone again and the apartment feels hollow. Still, you're sat at your desk working as the regimented tick of your clock beats on in the background.

A shuffle and the click of a door capture your attention.

Ellie's here. As per usual.

You let out a strained puff of air and swivel your chair around to face the source of the thud that’s now aggressively rubbing her eyes and sitting at the foot of your bed.

“Ellie.”

“Hm?” she croaks out.

“You bored?”

“Hmmm…” She finally looks up from her palms with slightly blood-shot eyes and freckled skin splotched pink to meet your inquisitive gaze.

“Dina said she was gonna watch Back to the Future with me and then she ditched me for Jesse… So, now I’m left with you, the roommate.”

“The roommate, huh? I see how it is. What if I beat your ass? Then what?”

Your attempt to lighten the tired atmosphere lacks much spark, but Ellie’s bored enough to bite. Her green eyes are illuminated by the dim glow of the lava lamp as she waves you off dismissively and, for a split second, they’re flecked with the purest gold you’ve ever seen.

You play it totally cool, with your arm strung over the backrest of your chair nonchalantly, as though you didn’t just witness a scene that will be burnt onto your retinas and play late at night when you’re trying to sleep.

“Pfft, like you could fight anyone.”   

You scoff indignantly, mock offended, and stand up from your seat, leaving it spinning behind you.

“Uhhh, at least I got meat on my bones.”         

“Yeah! And absolutely none of it is muscle.”

“You askin’ me to unleash the beast, E-bone?”

God, you become the biggest dork around her… It's like you both morph into your thirteen year old selves, sitting on Ellie's disheveled bedroom floor after school and bickering about anything and everything until Joel yells up about dinner being done.

Times were simpler. Then, you got older and the buzz you felt each time your hands brushed, which was so easy to downplay, gradually became gaping - virtually impossible to ignore five years down the line. Once the door was open, there was no looking back.

Didn't help that Ellie only got hotter and hotter.

The thought of losing her over something like this makes your stomach writhe inside you though, so you keep the fantasizing to a minimum. Kind of.

The apples of her cheeks puff out rosy in an unrestrained grin, as she announces,

“Bring it, dude. I’d like to see you try,”

“I’m gonna rip your non-existent balls off,”

“Oh, I am just shaking with fear!”

“Fuck off, you little greaseball,”

“Pfft, please, that’s just my aesthetic appeal. You’re gonna have to try harder than that to insult me, bud.”

Your mind flurries with a million responses but the beckoning of your open laptop, begging for your attention before the fast approaching deadline, cuts through the buzz with ease.

Unfortunately, you can’t just ignore it this time. You’ve got less than twenty four hours to complete the soul-draining assignment, and you've spent the last few hours sighing periodically as you looked over the mediocre jargon you’d written so far instead of adding anything.

Great.

But it’s so tempting to forget about the essay completely and let go: focus all your attention onto doing dumb shit with Ellie like you usually do.

“Okay, I do not have time for this, I’ve got a whole ass essay due.”

Ellie sits up with an exaggerated groan, tugging you in by the arm.

“You always have something due!”

“Not always… And, yeah, Ellie! That’s college.”

“Dude. You’re either studying or working all the time and you barely leave this room.”

“Hey, I happen to think it’s pretty cozy in here.”

Ellie rolls her eyes before taking in the contents of the room, scanning the papers and lone items of stationery cluttering, no, invading your cramped desk space.

“Yeahhh… real ‘cozy’ in here. Do you ever clean?”

“Oh, big talk from someone who lives in a literal pig sty! I'm working so this doesn't count. Plus, it’s paper mess, not actual junk.”                 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. At least your bed’s comfortable…"

She turns her head to face you, watching your expression become slightly conflicted.

“Come on, dude, take a break from working for five minutes! Just five!”

You look back at her for a moment, at those eyes you desperately want to please even in the pettiest of situations, and sigh before sitting beside her.

“For the record, it won’t be ‘just five’, and you’re a bad influence on me.”

Ellie chuckles as the bed dips nearby with a soft creak.

“How am I a bad influence? I’m simply encouraging you to relax with me.”

The weird thing about your relationship is that, having been friends for so long, the bickering is intrinsically woven through every conversation you have, and it often leads to the kinds of petty arguments you're having now: the kind that you don't even remember the cause of.

“Uh, yeah?”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Suuuuuure-”

“Shut up, Ellie.”

“No.”

“You know what? Get out of my room.”

“Fine. Asshole.”

The kind of dumbass arguments that Joel would have to come in and alleviate without knowing the cause of either, because it was always something incredibly stupid anyway.

Joel's still back in Jackson though, while the two of you are miles away, and sulking's kinda pointless when there's no one around to see, so Ellie gets back up from her sprawled out position on the living room couch out of boredom and asks if she can come back in.

Same solution you used back when you were 12: you smirk deviously to yourself as you recall the memories before muttering,

“You can come in but you have to sit on the floor.”

Ellie scoffs, recognition evident in the unimpressed raise of her eyebrows. This pissed her off beyond measure back when you were kids, but now it weirdly brings on a sense of nostalgia, so she lets it slide, coming in and suppressing the small smile playing on her lips.

“Fine… Jackass.”

She lowers herself to the scratchy rug beneath your bed and leans against the wooden frame. She’s facing away like she used to too, always trying to avoid the embarrassment of having to look up at you. She still looks up over her shoulder at you with an exaggerated expression anyway though.

“Happy now?”

You look down at her and smirk.

“Very.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You're really enjoyin' this, aren't you?”

“Yep! You know, you’re still so easy to work up. Must be pretty uncomfortable down there, huh?”

“Shut up, asshole. I’m waaaaay more cozy down here. This carpet's amazing; you're missing out. I could fall asleep any second.”

Ellie's voice rasps as she rambles on, looking up at you with those big eyes that make you weak in the knees, and you can't resist the urge to just reach out and ruffle the auburn tufts of hair laying chaotically on her head, smirking as you mutter,

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Ellie’s cheeks almost immediately flush. Her gaze begins to flicker away from you, no longer so unaware of the intricacies of holding eye contact.

She opens her mouth in shock, and then her eyebrow furrow quickly to cover up with a scoff,

“You are such a dick.”

“What? I didn't even do anything!”

“Dude, you do this every time and it pisses me off! You can cuss me out one minute and say you hate me and then be all corny the next?!”

“Okay, that was in the heat of the mo-”

“Yeah, right, 'in the heat of the moment.' You say shit like that every time we argue and you don't even apologize. At least be honest.”

Her expression looks earnest and it makes your heart contract a little tighter, the hot bite of guilt nipping at your insides. But something else stirs too.

You hate how attracted you are to her when she’s frustrated.

This room, with the warmth of body heat and candlelight intoxicating you and the red glow that casts over Ellie’s pretty face, makes the gaze she holds up at you so sweetly drowsier through the obscurant of her thick eyelashes, makes the swell of her bottom lip as she releases it from a harsh bite seem so much more enticing, makes you feel like your inhibitions are strapped to a ticking time bomb.

The pull is electrifying - more than magnetic, and you'd give anything to lay your skin onto hers, to feel each touch, so gentle, ignite your skin, and embrace her wholly. Consume doesn't even seem too strong a word.

“I don’t hate you, Ellie. Here, come sit."

You shift aside and pat the space next to you, watching intently as she huffs and rises to her feet before flopping down beside you.

Unbeknownst to her, all her movements are so much more sensuous now - you’re trying desperately to ignore the sliver of skin that showed as her shirt rode up her stomach when she got up, but it’s almost getting painful.

So much so that you have to physically drag your mind away from it.

“Anyway, have you had dinner yet?”

Ellie blinks a few times, caught in the crossover between the two completely separate conversations as she fumbles her way through a response,

“No, not yet. I was planning on ordering something later though. Why?”

“I’m starving.”

She chuckles and you feel the tense disposition of your muscles physically loosen.

“Oh, you’re hungry, huh? You want me to order food for you too, don't ya?”

“And you’ll do it because you’re the absolute coolest, most awesomest person in the whole entire world, right?”

She smiles softly, "Alright, alright, tell me something I don't know."

As your eyes meet, something in you clicks into place.

Your heart is thumping erratically in your chest. She’s so close; her hands are so near. You could lean in ever so slightly and your lips would meet.

For some reason, something in you is saying that it’s now or never, so the petrifying thoughts of any possible consequence arise again.

It’s realistic to be scared. That’s why you pushed down these feelings away for so long. But, in a moment of clarity, you realise your relationship is strong enough to withhold something like this, even if it would be devastating if Ellie didn’t feel the same way. You’ve known each other since you were children, your childhood homes are only a few houses away from each other, all your friends are friends, and even your parents are friends. There’s no escaping this.

Even if it doesn’t go as planned, you have to take the leap or you’ll never get over her.

“Thank you, Ellie... God, this is gonna take a really long time though, isn’t it?"

“Pfft, you’re such a baby. It’s gonna take like 30 minutes max, just chill.”

You smile, the thumping of your heart becoming supermassive. You can feel it filling your being and surrounding you completely. Then, you mutter,

“Maybe we can keep ourselves entertained in the meantime,”

and the seal is broken.

Ellie is perplexed. From where she sits on your bed, you’ve suddenly become a lot more tense, and your gaze bears into her much more sharply than she’s ever noticed before. But it makes her feel weird… in a good way, and her throat runs dry as she raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?”

You shrug,

“Can I try something?”

“I’m kinda terrified but okay,” she chuckles

You hum, falling into a rhythm, the nervousness so intense that it numbs you.

“Lay back for a second.”

Ellie’s eyebrows draw together with a burning curiosity, feeling a heat rise in the pit of her stomach which seems to answer her unspoken questions.

She know what’s going to happen now, but it feels so surreal, it can’t be.

She shuffles back and lays into the embrace of your pillows, surrounded by the sweet scent of your perfume. She’s been dreaming of this moment as soon as she realized she saw girls differently.

How could she not? You've always been right next to her, and you were perfect in every way - you are perfect in every way. You’re smart, funny, sweet, and she thought you were beautiful as soon as she saw you for the first time, gazing at you with her jaw dropped for, most likely, a few too many seconds. Then it happened again one day when she was 16.

You’d both gone out to get ice cream and she became enraptured by the hazed look in your eyes as the liquid dripped down your chin and over the smooth skin of your hand, your soft hair, tussled by the summer breeze. Her breath caught in her throat as she scrambled to look away. She knew there was no turning back.

But most of all, you’re the one she goes to before anyone else, and it’s always been that way. You’re the only person that brings her a different kind of peace, that indica high, calmer than she feels with anybody else. You’re her girl. Always have been; always will be.

All the playful flirtation and lingering glances - she’d never imagined would really result in this.

 “What now?” she whispers, her voice coming out quieter than she intended for it to, giving her away in an instant. She clears her throat but you can't help but play into her discomfort, pleasure woven through the feeling you get when you make her needy. You already feel a buzz from the fact that she’s not pushing you away or playing you off. This was only ever a daydream in the past, but so, so much better than you'd hoped.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that; you just make sure you’re comfortable. Are you comfortable?”

She stutters through an answer, taken aback by the silkiness of your tone. God, she had dreamed about this so many times and never imagined you so like this, never imagined herself so submissive.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comfortable… You… You aren’t fucking around, are you?”

“Fucking around? Gonna need you to be more specific, Els.”

She forces a gulp down her now dry throat, looking up at you and she mutters,

“Uh, I don’t know… Like… Like that one time you twisted my arm because you wanted to see-”

She hesitates, cutting herself off, her eyes drifting down to the curvature of your body that she’s wanted to feel for too long for just a split second.

“Can I touch you?” she splutters as soon as the thought enters her mind, overwhelmed with a sudden panic, her eyes flit up again to meet yours, flickering between each pupil in desperate search of any confirmation.

A shudder ripples through her body as your hands move closer, taking the lead before you give her the chance to. Her heart is racing.

“Can I touch you?”

She nods, almost too eagerly.

She curses internally.

You let your hand hover over her shoulder for a moment,

“Hmm, and where is it okay to touch you, Ellie?”

Ellie feels dangerously flustered. She tries to regain her composure, but it’s long gone out the window, and she’s like a handful of clay, soft and malleable, pervious under the sensational pressure of your fingertips.

“Anywhere.”

A soft smile graces your lips.

“Thirty minutes.”

You run your hand down her arm, grazing the skin gently with your nails and then down her stomach to her hip under her shirt, taking time to fully feel the gentle grooves and curves of her body for the first time.

“Is this okay, Ellie?”

She lets out a shaky breath at the feeling of your hand trailing over her skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. She swallows once more before replying, her voice unsteady.

“Yeah… Yeah, that’s fine. It feels… nice.”

“Hmm,”

Then, you place your palm on her ankle and begin to move up, ghosting your hand over her inner leg,

“I want you to tell me what feels good. Okay, Ellie?”

“Y-yeah. Sure. I can… I can do that.”

“Good. Good girl.”

You sit up and straddle her lap, and it catches Ellie off guard, suddenly feeling so much more at your mercy as you stare directly down at her, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her pink ear. Her breath hitches but she instinctively brings her hands to rest on your waist. You lean in to whisper,

“You look comfortable. Are you comfortable? I want you to feel good.”

And she tries to make sense of the fuzz in her brain to answer the influx of questions you’re asking. They’re barely keeping her grounded. Her hands move down to hold your thighs.

“Y-yeah, I’m good. You… You’re making me feel… good.”

“That’s good.”

Though you're dragging it out, teasing her because her neediness makes you wetter, eager to make her eager, you are just as needy, if not more. You're desperate to taste her, to be close to her, to feel her lips moving sensually with yours.

You place your hand over one of hers on your thigh and mutter, your words like the wisp of a feather caressing her skin,

“I’m gonna kiss you, Ellie, is that okay?

Ellie thinks she might die. The way her heart buffered in her chest once she processed your words felt too intense to not be her going into cardiac arrest. Either way, she's happy. What a way to go.

Somehow, all her feelings have culminated in this moment, in something she would never have expected, and her grip tightens to remind herself that that is really your body she’s feeling and this is really real.

She nods slowly, drowsy eyes meeting yours.

“Yeah… Yeah, yes, fuck, y-you can kiss me. Please.”

But, fuck, you just can't help teasing when she looks like she's yearning for you so sweetly that it makes your pussy flutter.

So, instead, you lean forward and kiss her forehead, listening to her labored breaths catch and watching her lips twitch in confusion when you pull back with your hands on either side of her head supporting you. You look her in the eyes and move one of them to caress the red stray hairs clinging to her face away.

“You look so beautiful."

“Th-thank you… You’re…”

It's obvious she's flustered, and it only makes you feel more high, so you pull back and kiss her cheek, mocking,

“Hm? You gonna finish that sentence, Els?”

“You’re- fuck… Y-you’re beautiful… too.”

“That’s my girl.”

You kiss the corner of her mouth and Ellie’s heart is beating hard enough for her to feel like her whole body is pounding as she squirms to lean into your touch.

“Y-your girl?”

“Yeah, Ellie.”

You lean in and finally connect lips, words blanketed by the contact.

“My girl.”

Ellie melts beneath you as you finally kiss her properly. Despite her usual nature, she finds herself completely powerless against the feelings coursing through her body. You’re completely overwhelming her senses, and you’ve never seen her like this.

She wraps her arms around your waist, and presses into the small of your back to pull you impossibly closer as she kisses you back deeply, losing herself in the moment.

You sink into her, deepening the kiss with impatience and roaming your hands along the expanse of her freckled skin while gently rutting your hips into her.  

Ellie moans against your mouth at the pressure, and you use the opening to circle her tongue with your own, making her body arch up into you.

She runs her hands along your sides, her fingers groping the fat of your ass as you grind against her. The sensations are overwhelming, arousal pooling in her underwear as her desire for more continues to grow.

“God… Please…”

You pull back, sealing your thirst with a peck on her lips.

“You’re so good for me, Ellie. You want me somewhere else?”

When she looks up at you, her eyes are clouded with desire. She can’t find the words to express herself properly, the intensity of the moment rendering her speechless, but she pushes through the fog,

“Y-yeah… I need you… more, fuck, please.”

It's blatant that your own arousal is overtaking your need to push her, so you lift her shirt up and place kisses along the soft, velvety skin of her chest, circling her pebbled nipples with your tongue. Ellie lets out a soft gasp at the warm and wet feeling, tingles erupting through her chest, and her body caves to feel the gentle pressure deepen before you get up from her lap and lift her thigh.

She watches you go with wide eyes, following you away by pushing herself up off the mattress in a subconscious attempt to remain close to you. You’re already looking back at her for permission before tugging off her sweatpants,

“You know something, Els?”

Her eyes are dark with desire and her response is hoarse.

“What… what is it?”

“I’m still really hungry.”

You push her leg up and place an anything-but- chaste kiss upon the fat of her inner thigh, watching her shudder and her eyes roll back ever so slightly in pleasure,

“Can you help me?”

Her breath hitches in her throat. She nods once, swallowing hard before replying.

“Yeah... Yeah, fuck. Just... Please,” she thrusts her hips up against you.

You run your fingers down her stomach, over the wispy auburn curls trailing down to her pussy and and over the damp fabric of her underwear, drunk off the sight of her flushed beneath you,

“Do you think you can handle that?”

Ellie's body tenses as she gasps out,

“Y-yeah, I can handle it… Fuck... You're making it really hard to think straight.”

You just smile as you drag her underwear down her legs agonizingly slowly before throwing it aside haphazardly. She watches you lower yourself in front of her pussy and it makes her throw her head back.

It's swollen and glistening, squelching quietly as she tenses above you in hungry pulses, and the exhale of a warm breath over it causes her to shiver. You chuckle.

Ellie bites her lip to muffle a moan, knowing how fucking pathetic it is that she finds it hot when you're mean, and that the breathy melody of your laugh only turned her on even more, when she didn't think that was possible.

“Please, baby…”

You run your tongue over your bottom lip and push your face in to kiss her protruding clit gently, feeling her convulse before you. She wants nothing more than for you to give her the release she craves but, before she knows it, you’re pulling away abruptly, and her throbbing pussy is left dripping again.

“Patience, okay?”

She strains out a scoff with the last shred of sanity left in her and mumbles,

“You're really testing my limits here,”

“What was that, sweetheart?”

Ellie meets your gaze with frustration, her body thrumming with need. Your teasing and the way you tower over her laying body are making her feel insane, making it difficult to get any words out. She swallows hard before replying, her voice slightly breathless.

“I said... You're testing my limits... Don’t tease me... Fuck, you’re such a dick,”

“I don’t think…”

You lean closer and run the tip of your tongue from her hole over her swollen pink clit, smearing her slick up crudely. Ellie squirms, her body taut with need.

“I don’t think I like your tone, baby, do you want me to stop? Is that what you want?”

Her eyes widen as she shifts into pleading,     

“No, no, don't stop. Please... I don't want you to stop. I'm just... Fuck... You're driving me crazy.

“I’m the one who gets to call the shots, okay, Els? I’m gonna need you to say sorry and then maybe I’ll consider giving you what you need.”

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, just... I need you so bad. Please, baby, fuck…”

Ellie feels a surge of impatience, desperate for your touch and frustrated by your insistence on making her wait. She needs you, and she'll do anything to get you to give her what she wants, but what you want is to make her writhe. You kiss her forehead,

“Good girl,”

and then you crawl back to where you desperately need to be: between her legs, and push her thighs up to her chest before burying the lower half of your face into her core without warning, your tongue flexed erotically as you slurp the slick from her pussy like you're starving, flicking your tongue erratically and eagerly.

“Oh, fuck... Just like that... Please, don't stop...”

Ellie’s moans are sweet and debaucherous, with her hands scrambling for purchase, grasping at the wrinkled sheets beneath her when you thrust your tongue into her.

Your eyes never leave her face, watching the way she sinks further into the loss of control, mouth opening wider, eyes rolling back further. You slowly sink a finger, and then another, into her drooling hole with ease, feeling her pussy flutter around you.

The hold you have on her thighs is tightening mercilessly, but you're losing yourself too, untouched and squeezing your legs together to satiate your own ache.

Quickly, intoxicated by the depraved squelching sound filling the room and the suction of her walls taking in your digits, you plunge them deeper, in and out, in and out.

“Oh, oh god... Fuck, baby, please don't stop... Fuck, I'm cumming, I’m-”

Ellie arches her back, lifting off the mattress, her body tensing up as the pleasure builds to a peak within her, faster than you had anticipated. You keep your eyes trained on her, and they meet when she looks down on you, bottom lip red and raw, tugged between her teeth, eyebrows knitted in rapture.

She's completely captivated by you, her body trembling as she teeters on the edge of climax, but the sight of your half-lidded eyes gazing up at her knocks her over the edge with intensity.

She lets out a groan and then a cry of ecstasy, her body trembling beneath you as the intense waves of pleasure wash over her. You don't let up. She gasps for air, her hands rushing to your head to simultaneously push your face into her as she thrusts her hips against you, and pull you away by the hair as the pleasure becomes too much.

Her chest heaves for a moment before reaching a pinnacle in a soft sigh and, gradually, the room floods with silence. Ellie turns her head to gaze at you hazily, eyes honeyed with affection and exhaustion, and she grins toothily,

“That was... amazing... Holy fuck… You're amazing...”

Finally, you lift yourself up and hover over her.

“Yeah?”

Ellie wraps her arms around you, pulling you against her, and the tenderness of it all makes your chest fill with a tingling warmth reserved just for Ellie.

Her body still thrums with the aftershocks of pleasure,

Yeah... Yeah, that was... incredible."     

“You’re pretty cute when you get all flustered, Els.”               

Ellie blushes at your words; you hoped to draw that out of her, and she huffs slightly in feigned annoyance, though it’s completely half-hearted.

“Shut up.”

You chuckle, but it dies out quickly as she looks down at you longingly, elaborating,

“I... don't know if it's kinda late to say this now but... I love you... I mean, obviously, I do, but as... more than just a friend. I've known for a long time, I've just been too scared of ruining things to actually tell you-”

“Pussy-” Ironic.

“Shut up - you know, that is incredibly rich coming from- fuck, forget that, it's been... building for a while now, and, if you feel the same, I wanna take you out... Maybe, next Friday? Or whatever day works for you…”

She pauses before meeting your gaze, her eyes searching yours intently as she mumbles,

“Please say something. Preferably other than ‘pussy.’”

“Ellie.”

“Yes?”

“I love you too, as more than just a friend... I would love to go out with you and thanks for letting me eat you out. That was pretty awesome."

She grins stupidly,

“You're welcome, it was pretty awesome for me too.”

“Nice.”

Ellie smiles, the furious blush unfading on her cheeks as she studies your expression.

“You're enjoying this, aren't you, you little asshole.”                                                        

“Oh, absolutely.”                       

You place a gentle kiss on her freckled cheek and pull back to see the way she grins, but then her face drops.

“Fuck, I forgot to order the food.”

[midnightorchids]

OMG OMG.

Jason teaching reader how to make a beautiful pottery piece with his large and calloused hands ontop of hers, it's all sticky and gooey from the clay but who cares lol.

THIS IS SOO YUMMY!! I hope you like it!!

You sit in between Jason’s legs with your body pressed flush against his. He feels warm and comforting. You lean back into him and he smiles. He bends his head down to kiss your forehead.

“You ready sweetheart,” he asks softly. You nod, before giving him a nervous smile. He takes your hands and gently places them on the slab of clay sitting on the pottery wheel.

It was an odd feeling. The clay on your hands felt cold and sticky, almost like a gelatinous honeycomb. Jason hovers his hands over your own.

“Don’t be nervous okay,” he says, while placing another kiss on your cheek. “I know it feels weird, but trust me, you’ll have fun.” You smile and ask him what to do next.

He grins and puts his foot on the small pedal to move the wheel. He then places his large, calloused hands directly on your skin. The clay twists and turns under your touch.

Your heart seems to be in a similar state.

You liked being close to Jason, but this was different. It was another form of intimacy, it was pure and kind. He wanted to teach you one of his favourite hobbies.

The way his fingers danced across your own made your heart jump, his body heat radiating on to you and the feeling of his breath on your skin, made it impossible to concentrate, almost impossible to breathe, yet you wanted more.

“Hey, are you paying attention,” Jason interrupts your thoughts, you look up at him. His eyes are soft, and you’re so close to him. So, so close.

You can see the flecks of gold in his dark emerald eyes and the faint scars that coat his skin. He looks beautiful. You want to touch him, but the clay on your hands makes it difficult.

You ask to kiss him and he smiles at your politeness.

There’s a small crinkle in his eyes and he nods. You place a quick peck against his lips and then, turn back to the lopsided piece of clay on the pottery wheel. Jason frowns.

“If you’re going to kiss me, do it properly,” he says, almost sternly. You can feel your skin going warm. You turn to face him again.

He lets go of your hands and places them firmly on the apron around your waist. Then, he kisses you. It’s short, but it’s sweet. You both pull back satisfied and you can’t help yourself from smiling.

“Are we ready to pay attention now,” he asks, sweetly, and you nod your head once more. He places his hands over yours and begins to teach you the basic principles again. Though this time, he’s not as serious, there’s a small grin on his face as he explains the details.

The pottery date was a success.

[yelenasfloppyhand]

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Summary: Spencer is feeling insecure about his glasses, good thing you are there to help him see his beauty.

Warnings: none?

You glance up, concerned, as you see your boyfriend squinting at the television in front of him. His face looks scrunched up uncomfortably as he tries to read the subtitles that he insists on having on every time he forces you to watch a documentary with him, mainly because he talks over the documentary so often that it would be practically impossible to follow without them. This is a bit unusual, which makes you wonder: what is bothering him? "Why're you squinting?"

He breaks his gaze from the screen and looks at you with a puzzled expression, the kind of look that a child would give a parent after receiving a scolding for misbehaving. "Umm... could you repeat that I didn't hear you?" He asks sheepishly.

That was the moment it clicked. Whenever Spencer wasn't wearing his glasses or contacts, he often exclaimed that he couldn't hear without his glasses on. Most people didn't understand, considering glasses aided sight - not hearing. However, to you it made perfect sense. Spencer often relied on lipreading to prevent any miscommunication. He feared it would lead to an accidental offence. "You aren't wearing your glasses" it came off as more of a soft accusation than an observation.

A delicate pout graces his plump lips as he glances bashfully at you before sighing. "They make me look ugly..." His tone is dejectful as he breaks eyecontact to stare at the soft tartan blanket on his lap.

You feel your eyes widen as a frown pulls at your lips, there are many adjectives you could use to describe Spencer: awkward, intelligent, sweet, loving, beautiful, thoughtful... never in a million years would the word ugly even cross your mind. He was truly gorgeous, his eyes were a light brown with flecks of gold near his pupils, his nose was button like with a small bump on the bridge, his lips were plump and pink, he had alluring crinkles at the corners of his eyes each time he smiled (which was frequently around you), his hair oh his silky hair that he often begged you to play with in order to help him fall asleep, it was soft and a light shade of brown that shined bronze in the sunlight. You could use a multitude of synonyms to describe how beautiful he is but never would you describe him as ugly.

"Spencer Walter Reid, I'm appalled! How dare you call yourself ugly?" Your anger simmers as you stare at him with a pointed look, utterly disgusted with his self-deprecation. "You're not ugly," you add, softening slightly, "And I think your glasses make you even hotter." His cheeks flush with color and he looks away, clearly embarrassed.

"If you'd let me, I'd kiss each and every part of your beautiful body, I love the small freckle on your forehead, and your toothy grin, I love the way your glasses sit on you're gorgeous nose" you continue, you've been with him since you were both in your 20s and despite him now being 30 he still looked just as beautiful as ever.

"My confidence always takes a hit with my glasses on. The frames make me feel like an even bigger nerd than usual." His gorgeous gold eyes usually wore contact lenses, a solution to his glasses related insecurity. But recently, he developed a slight allergy to the contact lens solution he uses meaning he was now forced to wear his glasses. The whole situation leaves him feeling like more of a wounded puppy.

You could cry at his self deprication. You wished you could see him the way you see him. You immediately have a great idea. You stand from your spot next to him on the couch before rushing away, leaving him confused and slightly curious.

You return wearing his glasses, admittedly you can't see much considering how strong his prescription is, it distorts your vision an uncomfortable amount. But you watch as his expression changed to utter disorientation as he trys to understand what you're doing. "Do you think I look ugly?"

You watch as he is taken aback by your question, he cannot fathom ever finding you anything other than breathtaking. His eyebrows furrow as he answers quickly. "No, you're absolutely breathtaking as always." You can't help the grin that pulls at your lips at his compliment.

"So you don't think these glasses make me ugly, don't they change how I look? Do they make me unappealing to gaze at?" You ask confidently, praying to whoever is listening that you can help him see himself in a more positive light.

"How can I ever see you as anything other than beautiful?" He asks with confusion. He frowns before continuing. "Nothing could ever change how I view you, you're the sun in my solar system." You can feel yourself metaphorically melt at his words, he was always sweet with his complments, its what made you fall for him.

"You've just proved my point pretty boy." You smile before walking over to him and placing his glasses on his face, you can see the slight relief in his eyes when his vision focuses. "Hey." You grin and wave slightly at him. "There's my love. I promise you that just because you wear glasses doesn't mean you're ugly, you aren't ugly and you know why?" You watch with amusement and adoration as his eye brows furrow in confusion as he waits for you to answer your own question. "Because despite your gorgeous face, it's your heart I feel for, and as long as you're heart stays just as sweet and lovable as always I will always find you beautiful."

You realise how clichet and corny it sounds the second the words leave your mouth but you can't help but find the truth in them. He is gorgeous and not even his glasses could change his beauty. After all his nickname was 'pretty boy' for a reason.

Note: I'm so sorry if this was badly written it's like midnight and I'm sleepy, this was inspired when I remembered that mgg wore glasses as Spencer in season 2 because he developed an allergy to his contact lens solution (thank god that happened if not we would've never been blessed with glasses reid). Also you can request stories using the request box in my bio :)

[delulustateofmind]

Potions & Shadows (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: An old neighbor of Feyre's is revealed to be not who they seemed when Feyre was a child. Leadign to Feyre needing the once village apothecaries help. Inspired by Frieren: Beyond Journey's End.

A/n: I posted a preview a week or two ago. I enjoyed writing this one, I've been super busy at work and with a family wedding so probably won't have a part two anytime soon. Hope you enjoy! Thank you all for the support on my last few fics! :)

Word Count: 2.5k

Part two, Part Three, Part Four

Warmings: None? Let me know if there's any.

Feyre would often find herself lost in memories of their old neighbor, a mysterious figure from her childhood spent in the manor with her sisters. Little did she know, her encounter with the apothecary would soon unveil new mysteries. Years later, as Feyre bid farewell before their departure, she decided to revisit the familiar door, hoping to uncover the enigma of the past.

In the hustle of their impoverished days and the chaos of her transition to fae life, Feyre scarcely pondered the mystery. It wasn't until Nesta mentioned seeing the apothecary, unchanged from their childhood encounter, right before the human queen's arrival, that Feyre's curiosity stirred. She made a mental note to pay a quick visit to the apothecary's cottage down the road after their business with the queens concluded.

The meeting with the human queens did not end too well, though they did manage to secure the book. With Rhysand somewhat strict on their schedule, Feyre knew she couldn't risk being late. The crunch of the dirt path under her feet felt oddly familiar yet different in her new fae form. The smells of the pine trees now heightened, and the distant streams seemed closer than ever. Pulling her out of her trance, she arrived at the apothecary’s cottage.

The moss on the roof indicated the cottage had been there for centuries, perhaps even when the village was being built. Feyre walked up and knocked on the door, her heart pounding with anticipation. The shuffling of footsteps inside signaled someone approaching. When the door creaked open, Feyre was met with a familiar face.

A short woman stood before her, her scent unmistakably human, yet intertwined with a hint of something elusive. Her hazel green eyes, flecked with gold and blue hues, seemed to hold secrets as deep as the mountains' morning dew. The apothecary wiped her hands on her apron, stained with various herbs and powders, and greeted Feyre with a small sigh and a bright smile.

"It's you... but different?" she remarked, tilting her head curiously. Feyre released a breathy laugh. "Yeah, you could say I am a bit different... you're back," she whispered.

The apothecary moved aside, inviting Feyre into the familiar interior of the cottage. Bookshelves lined the walls, while towers of books stood around tables filled with bottles and concoctions. The atmosphere was comforting yet tinged with a sense of mystery. As the apothecary made tea, Feyre couldn't help but notice the intricate organization amidst the apparent chaos.

"No longer human, now a fae?" the apothecary mused as she prepared the tea. "Haven't seen that before." She smiled to herself, lost in thought for a moment before continuing. "I always thought you were human, I mean you don't seem fae," Feyre whispered.

"That's because I'm not fae, though I am considered a fae creature," the apothecary explained with a soft smile. "Long story short, as I have a feeling your companions only gave you a few moments to visit. I am half human, half-elven... one of the last of my kind."

Feyre looked puzzled before asking, "How come you don't age? I mean the human counterpart should... make you age, right?" The apothecary poured the tea, the pink hue swirling in the cup, before joining Feyre at the table. "You're right, I should age, but there's this thing called the 'settling.' It's based on mana. The more mana you have, the more likely to reach immortality."

The apothecary glanced up at Feyre with a soft smile. "I stopped aging around... don't know, maybe 19 or 20 years old?" Feyre looked at her in astonishment, trying to reconcile the fragile appearance with the revelation of her age. "How old are you now?" she asked softly.

You smiled, reminiscing about your past travels as you glanced at your spellbooks and then back at Feyre while taking a sip of your tea. "I am roughly 300 years old this year, give or take a few," you admitted with a hint of nostalgia. "You tend to lose count on the road."

Brushing your long hair aside, you pulled up your sleeve, revealing the insignia of an adventurer guild—a small blossom marking. "This is from my guild," you explained. "I'm a mage, so I embark on journeys from time to time. It's how I honed my skills in concocting medicines and remedies."

Feyre looked taken aback, unable to sense any magic radiating from you despite your mage status and half-elven heritage. She was filled with questions, but time was fleeting, and there was much to be done.

As Feyre finished her tea, she felt a sense of urgency creeping in. "Listen... there's something that might be coming, would you watch my sisters?" The apothecary met her gaze with a reassuring smile. "I leave tonight for another quest, but the wards should be stable around their house. I'll reinforce them before I leave."

With a nod of gratitude, Feyre rose from her seat, her mind buzzing with newfound revelations. Little did she know, her visit to the apothecary would mark the beginning of a journey fraught with unforeseen challenges.

******

Certainly, unforeseen challenges indeed. In fact, the wards failed to hold as Hybern seized Feyre’s sisters while you were away on your travels seeking new spell books, a hobby of yours. Across the continent, whispers of war spread like wildfire. Perhaps this was what Feyre had alluded to—a war brewing on the horizon? After completing your quest, you returned home to find a letter from Feyre—a proposition of sorts.

“War is coming, we need healers like you to join us. Let me know your response when you see this.” 

Magic paper? Intriguing, something you will inquire about later on. You write your response. Perhaps, a new adventure wouldn’t be bad. You’ve never visited Prythian before. Given that elves used to be seen as slaves there, that elves were seen to be just one step above humans, being a half-breed who know’s where that would place you. Feyre was kind though, you knew that from the moment you met her. A war would be brutal, if the fae were asking for help, that meant it would be serious enough to involve others. 

“Sure, I’ll give my commitment for a few years,” you wrote. The paper vanished almost instantly, leaving behind a faint scent of smoke—a curious phenomenon indeed. Moments later, a message appeared, promising someone would visit you at the cottage within hours. With a shrug, you began to pack your belongings, including spell books, herbs, clothes, and trinkets. You were prepared.

That's when you met Mor, a lively fae whose energy belied her formidable power. She winnowed you to the healer’s cottage, where Madja, the head healer, resided. Mor apologized and hurriedly departed, leaving you to converse with Madja. The healer welcomed you warmly, showing you to a modest room furnished with essentials. The bed with white bedding and an old green quilt laid on top. Madja pointed out that the nights here might be too cold for creatures like yourself. 

"Haven't seen a human in years," she remarked as she led you to the apothecary storage room. "But I sense something else about you," a twinkle in Madja’s eye hinted at her awareness of your half-elven heritage. You responded with a smile, "Most don’t catch on too quickly," you murmured.

Madja returned your smile, her expression warm yet knowing. "You're probably the last of your kind," she remarked casually, her tone tinged with humor. "Your kind was always more focused on mana and magic than finding love. Perhaps your human side will help you with that," she teased, reaching for a mortar and pestle.

"Now, kid," Madja continued, her demeanor shifting to business-like. "I want to see what you're capable of. Make a few hundred healing potions—some for minor cuts and bruises, and others for those foolish soldiers who find themselves impaled one too many times."

You immersed yourself in your work, with Madja checking in every few minutes to monitor your progress. Impressed by your efficiency, she peppered you with compliments, acknowledging your skill. Together, you labored until late afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the cottage.

Feyre stopped by to offer a brief greeting before departing to attend to war preparations and assist her newly transformed sisters. Their transformation weighed heavily on your conscience—if only your wards had been stronger, perhaps you could have prevented their fate. Pushing aside the guilt, you ground a few more herbs, determined to focus on the task at hand. Or perhaps you were trying to push that guilt away by keeping yourself distracted. 

The soothing scent of herbs filled the room, mingling with Madja’s quiet humming—a melody unfamiliar to you yet strangely comforting. You found solace in the routine of potion-making, a respite from the chaos of the outside world.

As you worked, memories of your travels surfaced—the thrill of discovering new spells, the camaraderie of fellow adventurers, and the satisfaction of aiding those in need. Though your main quest was to collect spells, you found fulfillment in helping others, a testament to your kind-hearted nature.

Completing the last batch of potions, Madja introduced you to the other healers, who welcomed you with open arms. Over dinner, you exchanged stories of your respective lives—Madja sharing tales of her long existence, while you recounted your travels across distant lands. The other healers listened in awe, their curiosity piqued by your adventures beyond Velaris. Constantly asking questions of your adventures, asking about the dragons you’ve came across. About the handsome warriors that you went through dungeons with. A smile tugged your lips as you bid them goodnight and headed to your room. 

As you lay on your bed, enveloped by the chill of the night air, you found comfort in the warmth of the quilt that Madja had provided. Retrieving a book about defensive magic from your bedside table, you delved into its pages, seeking solace in the familiar words until sleep claimed you. 

****

As the end of the first week approached, you found yourself manning the desk, processing orders for sleeping tonics, stomach remedies, and various other mundane requests. It was the less exciting aspect of your work, but you understood the necessity of attending to such matters. After all, not every day could be spent brewing exotic potions and elixirs. Madja had left to replenish the inventory and wouldn't return until nightfall. Before her departure, she mentioned that someone from the court would be coming to collect a 'private' order and instructed you not to charge them.

As you cleaned the countertop, the door creaked open, and a chilling breeze swept into the room, carrying with it the scent of mist and cedar, tinged with a hint of blood. You looked up and found yourself locking eyes with a figure standing in the doorway. My stars, he was strikingly handsome in a deadly sort of way—a sight that momentarily stole your breath away. You recognized him as an Illyrian, though you had never seen one before. There was something about his wings that instilled a sense of fear in you, even though they remained folded tightly against his back, shrouding his features in shadows.

Azriel dipped his head in acknowledgment, his golden gaze piercing as he spoke in a low, almost hypnotic tone. "I am here to pick up a prescription," he stated, his voice like a captivating melody that seemed to draw you in.

You nodded, trying to maintain your composure as you retrieved the bag containing the requested item. It was a rare occurrence for you to feel flustered, especially in the presence of another. As you handed him the bag, your hands brushed briefly, and you couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth flood your cheeks. The label on the bag revealed its contents—a contraceptive tonic. Oh... he was an active male too.

Azriel murmured his thanks before casting a lingering gaze over you, his expression unreadable behind his hand. As he turned to leave, you couldn't shake the feeling of self-consciousness. Did you smell bad? Was your human heritage too obvious to the fae? Such thoughts raced through your mind as the door closed behind him, leaving you to ponder the encounter long after he had gone.

****

Azriel departed for the House of Wind, where a family dinner awaited. Elaine had begun emerging from her room, while Nesta remained ensconced in her moody disposition. Lucien had ventured to the continent, leaving an absence felt at the table. Feyre was already seated next to Rhys when Azriel arrived, discreetly passing the tonic to Cassian, who muttered a quick thanks before Azriel settled in beside him.

"I didn’t realize Madja had taken on a new apprentice," Azriel murmured, his gaze shifting to Mor as she joined Cassian. Feyre glanced at Azriel, her curiosity piqued. "You met her today? She’s a friend of mine from the village. I knew her growing up," she explained. Azriel took a sip of the wine passed to him by Cassian, his mind wandering to the petite healer who had left such an impression on him.

Elaine's transformation from human to fae had only heightened Azriel's attraction to her, raising questions about his preferences. Was he developing a preference for humans? Could he handle the brevity of their lifespans? Feyre's voice broke through his reverie, drawing his attention back to the conversation. "She’s half-elf too, are they rare?" she inquired.

Rhysand nodded, his expression softening as he delved into the history of elves and their dwindling numbers. "They used to be slaves for the Fae, around the same time as the humans," he began. "Perhaps that's why she has never been to Prythian until now."

He paused, his tone softening even further. "Also, the elves were known to lack emotions, which led to them not reproducing that often, ultimately to their demise. There’s a few around, but not many anymore."

As food was placed on the table, Azriel found himself consumed by thoughts of the healer. Her scent lingered in his mind, reminiscent of cherry blossoms on a warm day. Though he had only met her briefly, he felt an inexplicable pull toward her that tugged at his heartstrings. It was a feeling he had never experienced before.

An idea struck him. "Don’t we need to deliver the potions to the camps? I could help with that tomorrow, I finished the reports," Azriel suggested, turning to Rhysand. A smirk danced on the high lord’s lips—a silent understanding passed between them. "If you want," Rhysand replied casually, gesturing with a wave of his hand. "Perhaps show her around Velaris while you’re at it."

Azriel nodded, anticipation stirring within him. Tomorrow promised to be an intriguing day, his shadows seemed almost restless to meet the little healer again. A new sort of feeling fueled both him and his shadows.

[angelbaby191]

Midnight Comforts

Hanta Sero x Reader

The dimly lit dorm kitchen is a sanctuary at this hour, humming softly with the residual warmth of evening. A light golden glow from the overhead lights illuminates the countertop, casting a soft halo around you and the mixing bowl in your hands. You move quietly, not wanting to break the peaceful silence that wraps itself around the room, stirring the bowl of thick chocolate batter in a steady rhythm. It’s just you and the chocolate cake—a little midnight indulgence you hadn’t planned for but now find yourself grateful to make.

The familiar clinking of metal against ceramic fills the space around you, a meditative sound that soothes the edges of your mind, calming the churn of anxious thoughts beneath your calm exterior. You don't let them show, of course; the small waves of anxiety find an outlet in your productivity, keeping your emotions in check in a way that feels healthy. The simple ritual of baking has become a kind of therapy—a moment of creation, and sometimes, solace. The batter is rich and dark, its sweetness filling the air around you with a deep cocoa scent as you work.

Your fingers lift a small handful of flour from the bag on the counter, sprinkling it into the bowl. A few flecks drift up, landing on the counter and smudging across your cheek as you swipe your hand absently. You don’t mind the mess; it makes the kitchen feel warm and lived-in, cozy even. The quiet is comforting, only occasionally broken by the muffled laughter from the nearby common area, where a few of your friends linger, unwinding from a long day. Kirishima’s deep voice followed by Mina’s laughter cuts through the stillness, reminding you that, despite the peace of the moment, you’re not alone.

But then, a sound closer than laughter catches your ear. You hear the quiet padding of footsteps moving across the tile, approaching slowly, though they don’t startle you. Somehow, you know exactly who it is before he even steps into view.

“Hey there.” comes the familiar voice of Hanta Sero, his tone warm and sleepy. He stands in the doorway, his lean frame relaxed, his dark eyes reflecting the soft light, making them look almost gold. There’s a hint of a playful smile on his lips, and you can’t help but return it, a little warmth creeping into your cheeks despite yourself.

“Hanta,” you reply softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you glance down, focusing on the way the chocolate batter thickens under your spoon. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He shrugs, a soft chuckle escaping him as he moves further into the room. He has this way of existing in any space, effortlessly filling it with his presence while somehow keeping the mood light and comfortable. “Figured I’d find you here,” he says, watching you work with that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Whenever it’s late and you’re not around, I know I’ll find you baking up something good.”

You chuckle softly, cheeks warming a little under his gaze, though you keep your attention on the bowl. You can feel his eyes on you, the familiar comfort of his presence settling over you like a cozy blanket. Sero smells like oranges, warm and bright, with a faint earthy undertone lingering on his clothes. It’s grounding, and you find yourself breathing in a little deeper, enjoying the mix of scents that now fill the kitchen.

Without warning, he reaches out, scooping a bit of flour from the counter and brushing it across your cheek with a mischievous smile. You scrunch your nose, brushing it off with a huff, only for him to laugh, clearly pleased with himself.

“So, what are we making?” he asks, settling himself on the counter beside you, swinging his legs as he watches you stir, his attention steady and soothing.

“Just a classic chocolate cake,” you answer, focusing on the batter’s texture as you lift the spoon and let the mixture drip slowly back into the bowl, thick ribbons leaving trails in the dark, glossy batter. “Nothing fancy. Just wanted to keep my hands busy.”

Sero hums in acknowledgment, watching as you pour a splash of vanilla into the bowl, its sweet, rich scent mingling with the cocoa. You glance over at him, noticing his calm, easy smile and the way he’s looking at you—like he’s known you forever and can read you without any effort. It’s comforting, grounding even, in a way that makes you feel seen.

You reach up to grab a whisk from the cabinet, but before you can, Sero’s already there, leaning over and handing it to you with a lazy grin. His fingers brush yours, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Can’t let my angel do all the work, can I?” he says lightly, though there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes you pause, cheeks tingling. He shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and you can feel his breath warm against your neck as he watches the batter swirl.

You don’t say anything, but there’s a quiet understanding in the air between you both, something unspoken but clear. He leans over, one arm casually draped across the counter beside you, but the closeness feels intimate in a way that makes your heart quicken just slightly.

He moves behind you, his hands slipping around your waist, his fingers grazing the soft material of your shirt. He doesn’t say anything, but his touch is gentle, grounding, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles along your sides in a way that’s both reassuring and comforting.

“Hanta…” you say softly, the word barely a breath as he rests his chin on your shoulder. His scent—warm and familiar, with that hint of citrus and something more earthy—wraps around you, filling your senses. The steady rhythm of his breath against the back of your neck sends a calm shiver down your spine.

With the kitchen bathed in a warm, golden glow, you lean back against him, feeling his warmth seep into you. For the first time in a while, your mind feels at peace, the ever-present buzz of anxiety fading in the quiet of this moment.

Then, without a word, he leans in, his lips brushing softly against the back of your neck in a way that’s both gentle and full of meaning. The contact is tender, and you let out a soft sigh, your shoulders relaxing as you sink into his embrace.

[etherealily]

𝕓𝕦𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 // 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗱𝗮𝗶𝗿.

Finnick Odair + fem!reader, brother's best friend (ahhh!), you don't get it, i love this man

Warning: Cuss words .

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Finnick makes quite an impression.

══════════════════ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ══════════════════

"Hey, what's up, man, if you could just pack up- oh."

You don't even have to turn to know just who in the hell was standing in front of the window of your family's bakery. And this is the one day you decide not to care about how frosting-splattered your apron is, how flour-smeared your hands are. So your brother wasn't lying. He really was all buddy-buddy with Finnick fucking Odair. And this was the one Thursday you decide to actually fill in for him.

"Uh, be right out, sir."

Sir? Sir? Did you really just call him Sir? Well, I mean, yeah, he's a customer, but still... sir? That's too fake. He's going to wig out, he's going to-

"Of course. Take your time. I'm in no rush."

-Be uncharacteristically patient. Hm. Weird. Odd.

Quickly patting off the flour on your hands and watching the flakes fall onto the counter, you wipe your palms roughly on your apron, turning around.

His eyes are fucking ethereal. It's everything you can do to not immediately think of how you would go about replicating the sea-green of them into a frosting colour, or something. However, you decide, it'd be very hard, seeing as there were a kaleidoscope of other hues in there, a tinge of gold, here and there, like flecks of stardust, for one.

The muscles at the front of his arms - across his chest, as he stands - clench, as though he's tightening them. And then you realise : he's waiting.

"So sorry for the wait. How can I help you?"

"Who are you?"

What ?

"Excuse me?"

"Not interrogating you.", he informs you, raising a hand to cut you short. The fucking audacity . "Never seen you before."

"Well, you're seeing me now."

"How do I know you're not just someone stealing from the store?", he inquires, in mock concern. His eyebrows raise just slightly, playfully, even, as he trains his eyes on yours.

Does he also think about how he can replicate the colours in other people's eyes, or is he normal?

"Uh, I've got a key , for one.", you retort, jiggling the keys that you've shoved deep into your apron's pocket.

He shrugs, interlocking his fingers tightly as he cracks his knuckles, tilting his head. "Could be stolen."

"I'm the owner's daughter, Y/N ?"

"Insufficient proof of that.", he shoots back, teeth grazing ever so slightly on his bottom lip as he battles a smirk. "C'mon, do better than that. I'm this close to calling the Peacekeepers, y'know?"

"I can bake a cake?", you suggest, unsure why you're even going along with this.

Oh right, because he's Finnick Odair.

"So can I.", he replies, now resting his elbow down on the windowsill of that godforsaken window your family sold their goods from. You'd always thought it was cute, but now, with the lack of a counter between the two of you, like the normal bakeries, you were resenting the idea. "You're not really selling your identity, you know?"

"I'm literally baking a cake right now.", you exclaim, pointing at your clothes and the oven in which a hopefully delicious cake was rising. "What kind of pathetic thief would help the store they're stealing from?"

"You could be trying to blend in."

"Okay, look, I don't care what you think, Sir. I'm the owner of this place, so you either get your goods or go."

"Good.", he chuckles, softly, although his tone turns slightly, seamlessly more serious. "That's good. That's the response you give, you got that?"

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What?"

"If someone ever makes you doubt who you are, if someone ever...", he swallows, licking his lips for a moment, looking away before continuing, "... ever forces an identity on you. I don't care what you think, I know who I am . That's what you say."

"You came all the way here, did all that, just to... teach me a life lesson?"

"You don't like it? Come on, that was a cool segue, you gotta admit.", he asks, clearly shoving whatever else he was feeling into the back burner as he snickers.

"Threatening to call the Peacekeepers on me? Oh, yeah, that's very cool ."

"Hey, I managed to get your name, didn't I? Doubt you'd have let me get that far any other way."

Not true. You'd have given him your name. Hell, you'd have given up your last name for him, had he asked normally.

"And what do you need my name for?"

"I don't know.", he shrugs, palpably pushing any dirty responses he might've had away. "Maybe I just want to know?"

"You must have a reason."

"You know what, yeah, usually, I have a reason for everything.", he replies, giving you the charming smile you've seen on television almost a thousand times. "But this time, I don't."

That was so infuriatingly expected. Of course Finnick Odair couldn't have just fucking asked for your name like a normal person.

"Do you at least have a reason as to why you're at my store?"

"Your family's store, sweetie, and yeah, I do.", he says, pointing at a tray of half-a-dozen shimmery blue cupcakes with the number '4' frosted boastfully onto them. "Pack those up for me, will you? My order."

"Insufficient proof of that.", you reply, crossing your arms and mirroring his position from when he'd said those words. "Unless you've got a receipt, which we don't give to urgent orders so there's no chance you could have one , I don't see how you're walking away from here with them."

He laughs, heartily, nodding as though impressed. "Funny. Look, let's not make this more complicated than it should be, yeah? You're a pissed off, whiny little girl who can't take a joke, and I'm Finnick Odair. Just give me the cupcakes."

You scoff, audibly scoff at that. The nerve of him. "I'm not a little girl."

"Your brother tells me you cry when you see butterflies? Like... full-on bawl?"

You'd fucking murder your brother the next time you saw him, that was for sure.

"They're ethereal, and very rare."

"They're insects.", he reasons, shaking his head as he rests his head on his palm, tilting his head and gazing at you condescendingly, like you really were a child.

"Shut up."

He snorts, softly. "Give me the damn cupcakes, sweetie."

"Or what, you'll seduce me into giving them to you?"

His face falls, for a moment, his grin faltering. Then, with a sigh that was an infuriating mix of amused, disappointed and enigmatic, he nods. "That's what I'm known for, right? I could do it, you know? Really effectively, too."

"That wouldn't work on me."

"Give me the damn cupcakes, Y/N."

"How do I know you've paid for them?"

"You'll have to take my word for it. It's called trust, ever heard of it?"

"It's called not being a pompous asshole, ever heard of it?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you turn your back to him, bringing the tray over to the window sill. "Brought your own bag?"

He nods, a slightly triumphant smile - that you choose to ignore, thank you very much - on his face as he hands it to you, then nodding to the bag. "It's all the rage in the Capitol, you know?"

"Oh, I know. I see the Capitol freaks with it all the time on TV.", you mutter, gently bringing out each cupcake and placing them in each indent in the box you'd brought out. "Any embellishments you want before I put them in the bag?"

"Like a bow or something?"

"Yeah, like a bow, a card, some extra sprinkles taped to the box.", you shrug, feigning nonchalance. The urge to draw him was getting way too strong, and it was the most peculiar feeling ever - one you'd never felt before. Capturing him, in a way the cameras he was always swarmed by never could, that would be perfect.

"Yeah, card would be nice."

"What would you like on it?", you ask, sliding a card over from the cardboard box overflowing with them, as you click open a pen.

He raises a brow. "Do you have good handwriting?"

You tsk, shoving the pen in his face. "Here, you do it, then."

He giggles, mischief swirling in his eyes as he takes the pen from you. "Probably best." He clears his throat, dramatically, giving you a matter-of-fact look before he begins writing. "Dear President Snow, wishing you a Happy Reaping Day, with a delicacy from District Four- uh, what do you call these, sweetie?"

"Cupcakes?"

"Something cooler." He narrows his eyes at you, tapping the pen on the counter.

"Cupcakes from the Bakery Around The Corner? Seriously, this is District Four, we're not the Capitol - we don't have fancy icing and a quirky little name for each of our orders."

"Yeah, but he does this thing where each year, you have to bring a new delicacy from your District.", he mutters, a slight scoff present in his voice. "Reaping Day special. So I need a cool name."

Interesting. That almost sounded like resentment, from the Golden Boy to the President.

"I'm flattered you consider my cupcakes delicacies."

"Okay, look, your cupcakes are good, delicious, even, but they're not delicacies.", he reminds, keeping the stream of insults you were throwing at each other going. "I just need to give him something other than seafood this year, apparently."

"Well, that's stupid. We're the fishing district."

"Like he gives a flying fuck. What Coriolanus Snow wants, Coriolanus Snow gets."

You snort, covering your mouth. "That's his name?"

"What, did you think it was President ?", he asks, still not looking up from the card as he spins the pen around between his fingers - both calloused and delicate, preserved and wild.

"No, I thought it'd be something more normal."

He tsks. "Seriously, come up with a name for these things."

"They're for you , so call them Odairs, or something, I don't know. Should stroke your ego, too, so it's a win-win."

"These are supposed to be delicacies. Like, a form of pride among our people. I can't name them after me, no matter how awesome that would be.", he adds, with a slight grin.

"Whores from District Four.", you chuckle, shaking your head. "Call them that."

"Why, 'cause I'm the 'Whore from Four' ?", he asks, smirking. "That's a no-no word, you know?"

"Yeah, well, my patience is thinning with you, Odair."

He snickers, softly, chewing the inside of his cheek, still staring at the card. "You know what, fuck it. Whores it is."

"Really? Just go with no card."

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, a card is expected.", he sighs, spinning the pen around. "I should just call them whores. But, you know, spelt with an 'h'. What's he gonna do, ask around the District 4 marketplace for 'hores'?"

You laugh. "Hey, if that works...", you salute him, nodding. He writes with soft, almost enchanting strokes, and then signs his name.

"Thanks, Y/N.", he adds, after you finish taping the note precisely to the centre of the box's lid, before gently lowering it into his Capitol bag. "If this works, I'm paying you extra."

"If President Snow comes around asking for my District-famous 'hores', I'll pay you extra."

══════════════════ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ══════════════════

The muffled rush of the waterfall, and the feathery tufts of grass you were laying on almost help you enjoy life , for once, and help you forget that Reaping Day is tomorrow. Almost.

"You know you're not supposed to be out here, right, sugar?"

And then suddenly, the 4 o'clock sun isn't the thing that's blinding your senses.

It's him, instead.

Towering over you, almost gleaming hair threatening to spill over and disrupt the calm in the pool of his eyes, he tilts his head mockingly.

"I know."

He gapes in mock scandal. "Aren't you the little rebel?", he muses, raising a brow in amusement before offering you his hand.

You grab it, and he hauls you up with admirable ease. "Your cupcakes were a hit, sweetie. Absolute hit.", he informs, with the twinkly grin that comes with being Finnick Odair.

His mildly calloused hand still grips yours tightly.

"I see. You're welcome."

He shrugs, nodding. "Yeah, I suppose you deserve the thanks."

The silence sweeps past you, the only sounds embossed in both of your hushed breaths, in the gentle songs of birds, the faint roar of the waterfall, and suddenly, his voice, smooth as a wave embracing the shore.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Trust me."

When Finnick Odair asks you to trust him, you do. Rule number one of the rule book of... well, life.

"If you take me to some Capitol party-"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I promise, the last place I'm ever taking you is the Capitol. In fact, it can be said I'm doing the exact opposite."

You raise a brow. "What, you're taking me in the opposite direction? As far away from the Capitol as possible?"

His eyes dart around, above, behind and beside you, before they finally land on yours, and he nods, slowly, hesitantly. "Yeah, exactly.", he muses, his words drawn out as if he was unsure of them, too.

Bad sign.

"You're taking me out the borders?", you hiss, lowering your voice and glaring sharply at him. "That's illegal, Golden Boy."

"Don't call me that. Not here, in District 4."

You scoff. The audacity running through his veins was insufferable. "I'll call you whatever I damn want to. You trying to get me killed or turned into an Avox?"

"I'm trying to show you something!", he snaps, using his tense grasp on your hand to draw you closer, so that your foreheads were borderline touching. See, this was bad, this was bad, this was-

"Just let me!", he continues, his voice almost pleading. "You think I don't know it's Reaping Day tomorrow? That you could get picked to go die in the Games?"

"No, you're just the one helping us go die."

"You shut up.", he hisses, a finger in your face. "Don't say things you know nothing about. I'm a mentor."

"Did you even try with the tributes from last year? Or the year before that? Because I heard that-"

"What you heard is fucking-", he cuts himself short, taking a deep breath. "Please. Just follow me. For the love of God.", he orders, gently tugging you along.

Not like you even wanted to pull away - this was Finnick Odair.

"What is it you love most about District 4?"

"What?"

"District 4. What is it you love most about it?"

"It's home.", you shrug. "What else is there?"

"Yeah, but I mean, with time, any place is home. Have you never wanted to leave, to explore?"

It's times like these you realize your parents' bakery isn't that important- you'd sell the whole thing to figure out what was going on in that angelic head of his. His words lilting through your senses like sea-breeze.

"I'm exploring as much as I can right now."

He pauses for a moment, turning around. Dimples. "I'm glad I can be your guide, then."

Shut the fuck up, freak of nature. Stop with your beautiful words.

You almost say that. You don't, though.

"Okay, can you jump for me?"

"Jump?", you ask, looking over his shoulder at the huge gap between the part of the rock you were on, and the one you were supposed to go to. "No way."

"Come on, you can do it.", he says, leaping over the humongous gap as if he were playing hopscotch. "I'll catch you."

That's not the part you're worried about. The part you're worried about is you chickening out in front of the Finnick Odair. The interviews he would go through.

'Oh, yes, Hunger Games or not, tragic deaths have always been part of my everyday. Just the other week, a girl I knew slipped near a waterfall and plummeted to her death. Tragic. But I got over it because I'm Finnick Odair. I'm hot. And rich. And did I mention, hot?'

The entire nation wouldn't mourn you. It'd mourn the fact that poor Darling Finnick Odair had to watch you die.

"I don't know about this, Odair."

"Trust me."

That's the second time this man had asked you to trust him tonight. Rule of life.

"I swear, it'll be worth it. Take a leap of faith. Literally."

You grimace, pursing your lips. Your eyes move-

"Don't!", he yells, suddenly, waving his hand from across the abyss so your eyes land on it. "DON'T look down. Just look at me. Leap to me."

Reach for his eyes. Those pools of moss green and cerulean blue that make you want to embrace and destroy the planet for being able to create something so perfect.

It takes a couple of seconds for you to convince yourself he'll catch you. It's an excuse to look at his muscles, yeah, but still, he's strong enough. He'll catch you.

I won't die in front of Finnick Odair.

And you leap.

Instantly, your feet slip on the wet rock on the other side, and you grip onto Finnick's shoulders as he wraps his arms around you.

"Toldja."

"Shut up. I almost died."

"So dramatic.", he chuckles, gently letting go of you as he leads you further behind the waterfall, the tufts of grass on which you lay now faintly visible through the gushing water between you and them.

"There's a tiny cave kind of thing here. Look."

You squint, kneeling down in front of the entrance.

"Don't be shy. Come in."

You crouch down, taking his hand as he leads you further into the cave, walking gingerly until you see a tiny pool, illuminated by a golden ray of sunlight spilling through from a crack in the stone above.

Good god.

And around it, as though crafted for you, placed for your perusal, were hordes of glass-blue butterflies, fragile, delicate, and oh-so-ethereal, twirling around each other, bathed in all directions by the beam of light, which flowed through their transparent wings.

Finnick Odair, marry me.

"So?", he asks, breath gently brushing your ear. "What do you think?" The eagerness in his eyes was obvious, as though he were a child showing you the scribbles he'd just made.

"I..."

"I thought, y'know, I mean, I get excited about the ocean, so there's no reason for you not to get excited about butterflies."

"How did you find this place?", you ask, breathless.

"That's a secret."

Your eyes are transfixed onto the flapping of wings, the distribution of gold, the surreality of it all. It's almost godly. It's so breathtaking, you genuinely need to sit down. He sits with you.

"Are you scared for tomorrow?"

"That's a secret."

He smiles, softly, though the sadness in his expression is palpable and inevitable. It irks you. The way he is supposed to be, according to you, is spinning around the shoreline, laughing as he dances with the waves, sand on his hands and knees, a tan kissing his skin. That's how he must remain, and that is how you will draw him, if you ever get to.

After a tiny while, though, he leans back, against the rock behind him, eyes still trained on your awe as you watch the butterflies glide around blissfully, before looking out, at the curtain of water flowing and concealing the entrance of this little slice of paradise he'd found for you.

"You know, you could just stay here till tomorrow. You don't even have to go to Reaping Day."

"Oh, yeah, because that's smart. I'll be arrested."

"Then just don't go back."

"Leave my family to get punished?"

"Please tell me you didn't need tesserae."

"Well, before you, barely anyone from our District won, and if they did, they most definitely didn't share."

He groans, running his hands over his face. "So it's not even a fair chance."

You shake your head. "It's fine, though." Has been for five years.

He scoffs, borderline laughing at you, derisively. "Please elaborate."

"If you managed to find the one tiny place on earth where butterflies still thrive, and it happened to be here, by the waterfall I spent my whole life admiring, then, there's a chance I won't be reaped."

"You're extraordinary. Genuinely. Phenomenal. Splendid. Fabulous. Amazing." Was that awe in his voice? Awe at... you? What you just said?

"Are you buttering me up because I might be picked to die tomorrow?"

"I'm buttering you up because you're incredible."

Drawing him isn't enough.

Sonnets, prose, stories, love songs, ballads.

Those would be enough.

"If I get reaped, you better mentor me good."

"If you get reaped, you'll win. I'll get you sponsors, I'll train you so that you'll be an absolute force to reckon with."

The promises are beautiful and fragile and absolutely ludicrous. But that would be the name of his biography.

"If I survive, we're coming here every day."

It's like you've already resigned yourself to the fact that you were going to get chosen.

"You're a Career. You'll be fine."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Silence suddenly enters the cave.

"We should go."

Both of you say it, both of you agree, and both of you get up.

"Thank you, Finnick."

His name tastes oddly sweet coming out of your mouth. However, the next moment shows that his lips taste even sweeter.

His fucking dimples.

"C'mon. I think this time, leaping will be easier."

What he means by that, you don't know.

Not like you want to, not immediately. Spending your whole life trying to figure him out seemed like a solid career plan.

You leap again.

[raisin-writes]

Asking to paint their nails- Donquixote family:

sfw, no warnings, just for sillies :) read as platonic but can also be read as romantic (minus sugar- i dont care that shes 22- and dellinger, dont be a weirdo).

Doflamingo:

He prefers to call in a nail tech and have a little mani-pedi spa day with you instead.

It's nothing personal, he appreciates the thought, but if hes gonna get his nails done, he wants it to be professional.

Wants you to match with him more often than not and gets a little mad when you refuse to, but wont hold it against you for very long.

A classic french tip girlie but may mix it up with a nice pink or a light glitter overlay from time to time.

Trebol:

He'll allow it, but god does he make it an insufferable experience.

He loves messing with you by intentionally making his hand twitch/flinch/shake.

"Bweheheheh! oops, guess you gotta start over now!"

He'll finally stop when you threaten inform him that you only have so much nail polish remover left and he'll end up with messy, ugly, clumpy nails that you wont be able to fix.

He's fine with whatever you give him, just dont make it look stupid.

Diamante:

Absolutely!

He's tickled that you would want to spend time with him like that.

Requests things like flashy white or gold stars, sparkly reds, or a nice baby blue to match his eyes.

A little bit of a stickler about your technique, but he wont be too hard on you if you mess up.

It's just nail polish after all.

Surprisingly will want to paint yours in return to match his.

His technique is ironically not that great.

Pica:

...... Reluctantly agrees.

He's silent as he watches you work, but his gaze is very intimidating and scrutinous.

Kind of a mouth breather, dont comment on it or he'll get mad at you.

If you ask him very nicely, he'll let you experiment on his toe nails, painting them however you want.

He's satisfied with a simple matte dark purple, but his favorite is a metallic gold- not the regular nail polish, but the holographic powder, he likes the shiny chrome finish.

Vergo:

Some days he'll say yes, sometimes its just not a good time.

He's a busy guy, he doesnt have all the time in the world to sit down and let you fiddle with his nails.

Sometimes he just doesnt want his nails painted and thats that.

On the off chance he agrees, he prefers a simple solid black or a plain white.

Giolla:

Yes, but she's such a karen about it.

So passive-aggressive and indecisive.

Makes you never want to paint her nails again.

Likes loud, contrasting colors and sometimes fun stencil patterns.

She usually compliments your work after its over, but will sometimes make a back-handed comment if she isn't completely satisfied with the results.

Lao G:

Surprisingly agrees to it.

However, shaky hands make for many mistakes.

Dont bother putting a top coat on.

regardless of the outcome, he'll give you a thumbs up and a "GREAT WITH A CAPITAL G!"

Gladius:

Bully him into it a little and he'll cave.

He's used to this, having been the test subject for a younger Baby 5 when she first got into nails.

At least you seem to know what you're doing, comparatively.

Prefers plain black but can be swayed into dark colored marbling with gold flecks.

Machvise:

Another test subject for young Baby 5's nail journey, and Dellinger's.

He thinks it's funny to walk around with bright, obnoxious nails, but really could care less what you give him.

He actually kinda liked the time you gave him pizza slice nails.

Draws the line at press-on nails.

Sugar:

Allows it, but will very bluntly tell you you're doing it wrong.

The best compliment you will get from her is, "its not the worst."

She likes when you put cute stickers and stencils on a pretty pastel blue color.

Señor Pink:

Needs to be lead to believe it was his idea, otherwise the answer is no.

Watches intently, doesnt speak much.

Sucks his pacifier suddenly from time to time and the sound in the otherwise silent room makes you flinch.

He doesnt have any preferences, but appreciates when you make the color match his bonnet.

Might make you do his toe nails too so they match.

Viola:

Of course!

Her favorite is a dark mauve with white hand-painted flowers on the thumbs and/or ring fingers.

Dont worry if you cant paint the flowers correctly, she still appreciates it all the same.

She'll ask to paint yours in return.

Dellinger:

Slay 💅✨

You can use his nail polish.

Teases you if you mess up but genuinely starts to get annoyed if you make too many mistakes.

Likes cat-eye and holographic effects; don't worry, hes got the magnets and powders for it.

If he's feeling generous, he'll return the favor, but he might give you what he thinks would look good instead of what you want.

Buffalo:

Nuh-uh, no way.

......... Unless?

Easy to bribe into getting his nails painted.

Lets you paint them however you want, as long as you fullfill your end of the deal.

Baby 5:

Yes!!!

She loves getting her nails painted.

She'll even paint yours, however you want them!

She likes lace tips, but can easily be swayed if you think something else would look better on her.

(Please be kind to her; if you really must, meet her in the middle so she still gets what she wants.)

Bonus:

Bellamy:

Beg him over the course of a week and he'll eventually cave, but only his toe nails where nobody will see them.

Prefers plain black or navy blue colors.

Is very fidgety and uncomfortable the entire time.

(ironically, he doesnt like people touching his feet (he's ticklish))

Groans and complains, asking every 5 minutes if you're done yet.

Such a big baby.

Corazon:

Yes!!!

He's giddy at the thought, he would love for you to paint his nails.

Really, he just likes the quality time he gets to spend with you.

His favorite is a dark plum color with soft pink heart stencils.

He'll offer to paint yours in return, but knowing him, he'll just end up spilling a bottle or two.

Or three.

[zoeydripdoria]

Teacher's Pet ୨୧

*Kny college AU

18+ minors DNI !!

⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢

As you turned around, your gaze immediately locked onto a man with long, blond hair, the strands framing his striking face with unruly perfection. His eyes were the most unique color you had ever seen - a vivid red with gold flecks dancing within them, almost like tiny embers trapped in ice. You couldn't help but feel mesmerized by his beauty, and for a moment, you couldn't find your voice. He smiled at your obvious awe, his lips curving into a playful smirk.

"I take it you're new here?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk. It was deep and resonant, with just the slightest hint of an accent that sent shivers down your spine.

You finally found your voice, "Y-yes, I am. My name's Y/N." You extended your hand in greeting, feeling self-conscious about your own appearance in comparison. You had always thought of yourself as plain-looking, with your hair and average features.

"Ah, a pleasure to meet you, Y/N," he said, taking your hand and giving it a firm shake. "I'm Professor Rengoku. I've only been here a few weeks, but I must say, it's been quite refreshing teaching such a lively and eager class. I hope we can work together to further your education." His smile widened, revealing a dimple in his left cheek that made your heart skip a beat.

"I-I would love to work with you, Professor Rengoku," you stammered, your cheeks flushing. You were grateful when he let go of your hand, or you might've been redder than a tomato by now. "Thank you for your help."

"Oh, don't mention it. Now, if you don't mind me asking, what class are you here for?" He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest, and tilted his head slightly to the side. The sunlight streaming through the window behind him cast his features in a warm, golden glow.

You hesitated for a moment, feeling self-conscious about admitting your lack of familiarity with the department. "Well, I'm actually not quite sure." You laughed nervously, hoping he wouldn't think you were completely clueless.

He grinned widely. "Ah, I see. Well, I teach World History I, World History II, and Eastern Cultures. Which one are you interested in?"

"Oh! Well, I'd love to take your World History II class. I think it sounds fascinating." You felt a thrill of excitement run through you at the thought of learning from someone so knowledgeable and charismatic.

"Wonderful!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "I'm sure you'll love it. And if you ever need any help finding the room or navigating the campus, don't hesitate to ask. I'm always happy to help a new student." His warm smile made you feel welcome and at ease.

You smiled back, feeling grateful for his kindness. "Thank you so much, Professor Rengoku. I'm really looking forward to it."

"Excellent!" he exclaimed, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Oh, by the way, I have office hours every Thursday from two to four. Feel free to stop by if you ever have any questions or need some extra help." He paused, tilting his head to the side again. "Unless you'd rather not, of course. I wouldn't want to impose."

You considered his offer for a moment. On one hand, you were nervous about asking for help, but on the other, you didn't want to pass up the chance to learn from such an amazing professor. "No, no, I'd love to take advantage of that," you said, mustering up your courage. "Thank you, Professor Rengoku."

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together again. "I'm sure we'll have some stimulating discussions." He paused, studying you for a moment. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should be getting to my next class. It was lovely meeting you, Y/N. I look forward to seeing you in class soon." With a final smile, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there in awe of his presence.

As you continued to stand there, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation building within you. You couldn't wait to start your first day of class with Rengoku and dive into the world of World History II. The campus was bustling with activity, and you found yourself eagerly exploring your surroundings and meeting new people.

Finally, you located the classroom building where Mr.  Rengoku's World History II class was held. The room was spacious and well-lit, with comfortable chairs arranged in a semicircle around a large wooden table. At the head of the table was a podium, and behind it hung a beautiful tapestry depicting scenes from ancient civilizations. As you took your seat, you couldn't help but feel grateful for this new opportunity and excited to begin this journey with Mr. Rengoku by your side.

The rest of the class filed in, filling the room with a buzz of conversation. You recognized a few familiar faces from the orientation sessions, but most of the students seemed to be new to you. When the clock struck eight, the door swung open and Mr. Rengoku walked in, his presence immediately commanding everyone's attention. He smiled warmly at the class before taking his seat at the podium.

"Welcome, everyone, to my World History II class!" he boomed, his voice filling the room. "I hope you're all as excited as I am to begin our journey through the fascinating world of ancient civilizations. Before we start, though, I just want to remind you of a few important things. First, my office hours are every Thursday from two to four, and I encourage you to come by if you have any questions or need extra help. Secondly, please feel free to email me anytime if you have questions or concerns about the class. And lastly, always remember to put your name on your assignments!" He paused, looking around the room with a twinkle in his eye. "Now, with that out of the way, let's begin!"

He launched into a captivating lecture on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, weaving together stories of brave emperors, cunning politicians, and tragic heroes. You found yourself hanging on his every word, taking notes frantically but not wanting to miss a single detail. As the class progressed, you noticed that Mr. Rengoku had a talent for making even the most complex historical concepts accessible and engaging. You couldn't help but feel grateful that you had chosen his class.

At the end of the hour, the bell rang, signaling the end of the first class period. As students began to file out of the room, you stayed behind, eager to speak with Mr. Rengoku. You approached him hesitantly, not wanting to seem overly eager or annoying. "Professor Rengoku," you began, "I just wanted to thank you again for being so welcoming and for making the class so interesting. I'm really looking forward to learning more from you."

He smiled warmly down at you. "Oh, Y/N, you're quite welcome. I'm just happy to share my passion for history with such an eager audience. If you ever have any questions or need help, don't hesitate to ask. And remember, my office hours are every Thursday from two to four." With a wink, he added, "I'll expect to see you there."

Your cheeks flushed at his comment, and you found yourself suddenly more self-conscious. "I-I will," you stammered, nodding quickly before hurrying out of the room. As you made your way to your next class, you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness about your newfound connection with Mr. Rengoku. You hoped that you could maintain his interest and confidence in your abilities throughout the rest of the semester.

The rest of your day flew by in a blur of lectures and notes. You tried your best to focus on the material, but your mind kept drifting back to Mr  Rengoku and his class. You found yourself looking forward to Thursday afternoons, not just because of his office hours, but because you genuinely enjoyed spending time with him.

As the weeks passed, you began to feel more and more comfortable in his presence. You started contributing more in class discussions and felt confident enough to approach him with questions after lecture. He always took the time to engage with you and offer guidance, and you couldn't help but feel grateful for his support.

The more you learned from him, the more you realized just how passionate he was about his subject. His lectures were no longer just recitations of facts; they were vivid storytelling sessions that brought ancient civilizations to life. You began to understand why so many students flocked to his classes and why he had such a reputation as one of the best professors at the university.

One particularly cold afternoon, as you were leaving campus after a late-afternoon class, you noticed Mr. Rengoku standing outside of his office, wrapped in a thick scarf and shivering.

 "Professor!" you exclaimed, hurrying over to him. "Are you all right? You don't look so good."

He smiled warmly at you. 

"Oh, Y/N, thank you for your concern. I'm just feeling a bit under the weather today. But don't worry, I'll be fine. Why don't you get to your car and head home? You must be cold too."

You hesitated for a moment, but something inside you urged you to stay. "I-I could give you a ride home if you'd like," you offered timidly. "I'm not in a rush, and it's on my way."

His eyes lit up at your offer, and he smiled gratefully. "That would be very kind of you, Y/N. I would appreciate that very much." Together, you made your way to your car, and as you drove through the quiet streets of the campus, you found yourself chatting with him about your favorite historical novels and movies. It was a pleasant, easy conversation, and you felt a sense of closeness with him that you hadn't experienced with anyone else in a long time.

When you finally pulled up to his house, he insisted on paying you for the gas. You protested, but he wouldn't hear of it. "No, no," he said, handing you a crisp twenty-dollar bill. "You've done enough for me today. I hope you'll accept this as a small token of my gratitude."

You took the money, feeling both touched and a little embarrassed. "Thank you, Professor Rengoku," you said quietly. "It was really nothing."

He smiled gently at you. "Oh, Y/N, you're far too kind. But I do appreciate your kindness. I hope you know that I consider it a privilege to have you in my class. Now, go home and get some rest. You've earned it."

With one final smile, he closed the car door and waved goodbye. As you drove away, you couldn't help but feel a warm glow in your chest. It had been an unexpected turn of events, but you were glad that you had been there for him when he needed someone. And you couldn't help but hope that he felt the same way about you.

As the days went by, your relationship with Mr. Rengoku only grew stronger. You continued to excel in his class, and he continued to shower you with praise and encouragement. Sometimes, after class, he would invite you to join him for coffee or tea, and you would spend hours discussing history and your shared interests.

One afternoon, as you were leaving campus, you noticed a flyer on a bulletin board advertising a local museum's upcoming exhibit on ancient Egypt. Intrigued, you grabbed the flyer and tucked it into your bag, intending to ask Mr. Rengoku about it later. That night, you texted him, asking if he would like to go to the exhibit with you. He replied immediately, expressing his excitement and gratitude for the invitation.

The day of the exhibit arrived, and you met up with Mr. Rengoku outside the museum. He looked dashing in a dark suit and tie, and you couldn't help but feel a flutter in your stomach when you saw him. As you walked inside, you felt a sense of anticipation building inside you. The exhibit was spectacular, with detailed displays of artifacts and informative placards that brought ancient Egypt to life. You and Mr. Rengoku spent hours exploring the exhibit, engaging in deep discussions about the significance of each artifact and the culture that had created it.

Afterwards, you decided to grab lunch at a nearby cafe. As you ate, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment and peace. You realized that you had never felt this way with anyone else before, and you knew that this feeling was something special. "Y/N," Mr. Rengoku began, his voice soft and earnest, "I want to thank you for inviting me today. This exhibit was truly wonderful, and I'm so glad I got to share it with you."

You looked up at him, feeling a blush creep into your cheeks. "Thank you, Professor," you said softly. "I'm glad you enjoyed it too. It means a lot to me that we could share this experience together."

As you finished your lunch, you couldn't help but wonder where this newfound connection was leading. You knew that he was your professor, and that there were certain boundaries that needed to be respected, but you also couldn't deny the intense feelings you had for him. You found yourself fantasizing about what it would be like to be with him outside of the classroom, outside of the museum.

When the check came, you reached for your wallet, intending to pay for your own meal as you always did. But before you could even pull out your money, Mr. Rengoku had already grabbed his credit card and left a generous tip. "Y/N," he said gently, "please let me treat you today. You've done so much for me already. It's the least I can do."

His words made you feel warm inside. You knew that you had formed a special bond with him, but hearing him say it out loud made it all seem so real. You couldn't help but feel grateful for his kindness and his friendship. As you left the cafe, hand in hand, you knew that your life was about to change in ways you never could have imagined.

Over the next few weeks, your relationship with Mr. Rengoku deepened. You continued to excel in his class, and he continued to praise your work, but now there was an added layer of intimacy to your interactions. You found yourself spending more and more time together, exploring the city and sharing your favorite experiences. You talked about your hopes and dreams, your fears and insecurities, and it felt as though you could discuss anything with him. Despite the risks, you couldn't deny the happiness you felt when you were with Rengoku. 

As the weeks turned into months, you found yourself falling deeper in love with Mr. Rengoku. You continued to excel in his class, but now your focus shifted from just getting good grades to impressing him in every way possible. You started to wear your hair down more often, and you began to experiment with more daring outfits. You felt confident and beautiful when you were around him, and it showed.

One night, as you were walking home from a late-night study session at the museum, Mr. Rengoku took your hand in his and led you to a quiet bench overlooking the city. The moon was full, casting a warm glow over everything. He turned to face you, his eyes burning with desire. "Y/n," he whispered, "I can't keep these feelings inside any longer. I want to be with you, truly be with you. Will you let me?"

Your heart raced as you stared into his eyes. You knew that this was the moment you'd been waiting for, the moment you'd been dreaming of since the first day you met. You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the softness of his lips. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer, as if he could never let go.

Time seemed to stand still as you kissed, lost in the moment. You could feel the tension building between you, and with each passing second, it grew more and more intense. Finally, you broke apart, gasping for air. "Mr. Rengoku," you whispered, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. "I want this too."

He smiled at you, his eyes filled with love and desire. "Then it's yours," he said, before leaning in to kiss you again. His lips were soft and warm against yours, and you could feel the strength of his arms as they held you close. You moaned into his mouth, feeling a shiver run down your spine.

As you continued to kiss, he began to explore your body with his hands, tracing gentle circles around your nipples, teasing them until they hardened. You arched your back, pressing your chest against his, wanting more. He reached down, unbuttoning your blouse slowly, revealing your lace bra beneath. He ran his fingers along the delicate fabric, teasing your nipples until they were hard and erect.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as he continued to touch you, his hands moving lower, over your hips, to your skirt. With a gentle tug, he pulled it up, revealing your black lace underwear. You felt his breath against your thigh, and you shuddered with desire. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and intense, and you knew that he could see the need in your eyes.

He leaned in, kissing you again, as his fingers traced a path down to your center. You gasped, arching your back further, pressing your wetness against his fingers. He circled your clit, teasing it mercilessly, until you were moaning his name. Finally, he pushed two fingers inside you, filling you with his touch. You cried out, feeling overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through your body.

As he continued to thrust his fingers in and out of you, you wrapped your legs around his hips, urging him to go deeper. You could feel the heat building between you, the need growing stronger with every passing second. You knew that this was it, that you were finally with him, truly with him.

 "I want you."

He pulled back, looking down at you with eyes filled with desire. "Are you sure, my dear?" he asked, his voice hoarse with lust. "Because once I take you, I won't be able to stop."

You nodded, biting your lip, the words caught in your throat. "I want this," you managed to whisper. "I want you."

He smiled, his fingers finding your clit once more, rubbing it gently before pushing inside you.

 "Then take it," he growled, thrusting his hips forward. 

You cried out, feeling the weight of him as he filled you completely. He began to move, his rhythm steady and sure, driving you wild.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, arching your back as he took you harder and faster. The sensations were overwhelming, the pleasure coursing through you like a raging river. You felt your body trembling on the edge, the release building inside you.

" Ren-," you gasped, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart. "I'm close."

He groaned, his thrusts becoming more urgent. "Then come for me, my dear," he whispered, kissing you tenderly. And with those words, you felt yourself falling, plummeting over the edge, as your body was wracked by an intense, shuddering orgasm. Your muscles clenched tight around him, and he followed you over the edge, crying out your name as he spilled his release deep inside you. 

As your passion reached its peak, he arched his back, pressing you deeper into the wall, and you then felt the first wave of release wash over you, followed by another, and another. Your body convulsed in his grip, and you let out a hoarse cry into the night, as your essence spilled forth, mingling with his on the cool cobblestones below.

You collapsed against him, your heart still racing as you felt the aftershocks of pleasure wash over you. He held you close, kissing your neck, your cheek, your lips, as you both caught your breath. You were finally together, truly together, and it felt like everything you'd ever wanted.

He pulled away, looking down at you with a mix of tenderness and desire. "My dear, that was... beyond anything I could have imagined." His fingers traced lazy circles on your stomach, making you shiver. 

As the last tremors subsided, he leaned in, kissing you softly on the lips. "There's more where that came from," Mr. Rengoku whispered, his breath hot sending shivers down your spine. 

 "Come with me." And with that, he took your hand and led you deeper to his apartment complex, toward a world of pleasure and desire that you had only ever dreamed of.

The air inside was thick with anticipation as he guided you through the stairs and finally to his apartment. 

Finally, he led you into his dimly lit room, the walls adorned with beautiful wall art, and billowing curtains. In the center of his room stood a large, four-poster bed. So dimly lit, casting shadows that danced across the walls and ceiling.

"This is where we belong," he said, his voice a sultry purr. "This is where we can be free, and explore our desires without judgment." With that, Mr. Rengoku turned to face me, his eyes burning with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. He reached out, running his fingers through your hair, before trailing them down your chest, teasing at the buttons of your shirt.

Your heart raced as you watched him, helplessly drawn to his touch. You wanted nothing more than to feel his skin against yours once again, to lose yourself in the heat of the moment. As he undressed you, his hands gliding over your body with a familiarity that bordered on intimacy, you couldn't help but wonder how long this night would last, and if you'd ever be able to go back to the way things were before.

But for now, you were content to let yourself be swept away by his touch, his words, his presence. He climbed onto the bed, purring invitingly, and you followed, unable to resist the pull of his gaze. As you lay beside him, you felt a sense of peace wash over you, knowing that this was where you belonged, with him, in this world of passion and desire.

And as he kissed you again, his lips soft and demanding, you gave yourself over to the moment, surrendering to the rapture that only he could provide.

The bed shifted beneath you as he moved against you, your bodies intertwined like two dancers in a sensual waltz. His hands roamed freely, exploring every inch of your skin, leaving trails of heat in his wake. He nipped at your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine, and whispered words that made your heart race and your breath catch in your throat.

You could feel the tension building within you, the need for release growing more insistent with each passing moment. As he guided your hands to hid hips, urging you on, you pressed forward, eager to please him, to make him feel the same intense pleasure he had given to you.

The bed creaked beneath you, the blanket beneath you soft and inviting as he arched his back, pushing your hips up to meet yous. His breath came faster, shallower, as his fingers dug into your shoulders, urging you on.

With a growl of satisfaction, he threw his head back, his eyes closed tightly as he surrendered to the sensation. "Yes," he moaned, his voice rugged and raw. "That's it..."

You felt your own release building, threatening to overwhelm you. You couldn't help but arch into him, meeting his movements with equal fervor. "I-I'm close," you managed to say between gasps for air.

He opened his eyes, meeting yours, and in that moment, you knew he wanted you to stay with him. He wanted this night to go on forever. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice soft and gentle, despite the urgency in his touch. "Don't let go."

You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the soft strands slip through your fingers like water. His skin was warm and smooth, and you could feel the muscles in his back tensing as he arched into your touch. He moaned, a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers down your spine.

And as he came apart beneath you, his body shuddering with pleasure, you felt your own release wash over you, hot and powerful. Your breathing slowed, becoming shallow and ragged as you clung to each other, your bodies still tangled together on the bed.

The silence that fell between you was deafening, but it was a silence that felt right, felt intimate. It was as if you had shared something sacred, something that bound you together now in a way that went beyond words or understanding.

Finally, he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look up at me. His gaze was steady and intense, as if he were trying to imprint every detail of your face onto his memory. "Will you stay?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Will you stay with me?"

You lay there, your heart still racing, your body tingling with the afterglow of your lovemaking. His fingers traced gentle circles on your back, his touch soothing and comforting. 

The air in the room seemed to shimmer with a sense of peace, of contentment, and you couldn't help but wonder how you would ever be able to go back to the way things were before. Would you try to forget this night, this connection you'd shared? Or would you find a way to carry it with you, like a secret treasure, into the chaos of your everyday lives?

You knew that the answer to that question would depend on him, on you, and on the strange, inexplicable bond that seemed to exist between you. For now, all that mattered was this moment, the warmth of his skin against yours, and the feeling of being completely and utterly known and accepted, just as you were.

“Yes, I'll stay with you” you uttered.

As you drifted off to sleep, his soft breaths and the gentle rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a deep, dreamless slumber, you couldn't help but feel a sense of hope, of possibility. Perhaps, somehow, you would find a way to make this work, to make your lives together as beautiful and as meaningful as this one perfect night.

[604to647]

Strawberry Shortcake (part 2 of 2)

13.4K / Frankie Morales x fem!reader

Summary: How are you supposed to avoid Frankie when your son and his daughter are becoming best friends?

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Angssssst and mutual pining. Single parenthood, mention of the death of a spouse, divorce (no detail). Mention of f!masturbation, slow burn, nicknames (Shortcake, baby, hermosa), minor appearance by TF boys. Everyone is a dummy. Wee bit of spice for these dummies at the end (no spoilers but let’s just say Frankie may be a dad, but he's also daddy).

A/N: Uhhhh sorry for the word count 🫣 Thank you so much for the lovely reception to Part 1 🥹🍓🍰The feel of this part is very different than the first; due to the setting of Part 1, it was a lot more sensual. This part is more domestic, almost a friends-to-lovers slow burn - I hope people who liked the first part will still find it enjoyable 🫣 Unfortunately, Frankie does not get 🍴😺 in this part (spoiler) which is honestly just a darn shame, so I wrote an Epilogue that I will post together with Part 2, which is a bit more of mixed vibe of the two previous parts. Thank you for reading!

Part 1 / Epilogue / Series Masterlist 🍓🍰

Strawberry dividers by @saradika-graphics 😘🍓

It could be two seconds.  Possibly a whole minute.  Maybe even ten.

You honestly can’t tell how long you and Francisco stand outside the kindergarten class room staring at each other.

At a loss for words, you don’t even know how to begin a conversation that you couldn’t have imagined ever having.  You never thought you’d see Francisco again, and certainly not under these circumstances – that he has a daughter is entirely news to you, though not unfair.  Afterall, he didn’t know you have a son.  During your time together, you had omitted certain personal details out of self preservation and it would seem, so did he. 

After you had left the club, Francisco remained an ever-present figure in your fantasies: your handsome and courteous gentle giant who made you feel safe and desired, and whose touch you only knew once – a first and last kiss that still makes your body strum just to recall.  His soft looks and soulful expressions dominated your nighttime dreams and sometimes even your daytime ones.  He wasn’t supposed to come to life. 

And yet, here he is, standing in front of you looking even more striking than you remember.  Your memories failed to capture the way his brown eyes fleck with gold, or the way the facial scruff you loved running your fingers through is adorably patchy in that one spot along his left jawline.  His hair is slightly longer than you remember, but the curls that peek out from beneath his familiar Standard Oil cap look to be just as touchable as the ones you’d twist around your fingers in that private room at the club.

Your fingers itch as if recalling some latent muscle memory, but it’s Francisco who moves first.

Stepping forward, he approaches you with his hand out to shake yours, “Hi, I’m Frankie. Valentina’s dad.”

Oh.

That’s what you’re doing.  You’re pretending you’ve never met before.

Your heart constricts painfully in your chest as you reciprocate his gesture and introduce yourself as your son’s mother.  Francisco’s smile at your name is kind, but you see nothing more to it behind his eyes. 

It’s not lost on you that this is the first time Francisco has reached out and touched you of his own volition.  Unless you counted that soft kiss you had felt on your back after he helped you redress on your last night together; in this moment, you think you must have imagined it – perhaps it would be best not to count it at all.

Frankie’s warm, firm hand lets go of your softer one as quickly as he had grasped it, darting past you to shake the hands of the other parents standing in the same hallway.  You turn and smile, introducing yourself as well, and for the next several minutes your small group of parents makes small talk about your children and continue to sneak peeks into the kindergarten classroom until the teacher comes to close the door with a reassuring smile.

Once the remaining parents have said their polite goodbyes, you turn to look for Francisco but find that he’s already left the building.  You see his retreating figure halfway down the path to the parents’ parking lot, walking hurriedly.

He can’t get away from you fast enough, you realize, devastated.

You manage to hold your tears in until you park outside of work.  Sitting in your car, you sob stupidly.  You had thought of Francisco every day since you left The Midnight Palace.  Wondered if he had been hurt when he had come back and found out you had left.  Thought about what he might be doing and if work at the hangar was less stressful these days.  Fantasized about where your relationship might be if you had met and dated like regular people.  Heard his soft voice in your head while in bed, guiding your hand between your legs and bringing you to a thundering climax to images of his handsome face, playful smirk and lustful gaze.  But never in your wildest imagination did you think he would pretend not to know you.

The rest of your work day is filled with free floating thoughts about Francisco popping up to distract you from your work - all depressing.

Could he be married?  You suppose you had never asked, just assumed he wasn’t from the lack of ring.  With some distress, you allow that you didn’t know he had a child - a hidden wife wouldn’t be too farfetched.

Suddenly ashamed, you realized that while there had definitely been some kind of connection, due to the nature of how you met, every physical advance had been made by you.  You were the one who had pushed forward your physical relationship, taking every next step that he had never asked for. 

No.  You can’t bring yourself to believe it.  The Francisco you had met didn’t seem like the type to cheat – he had been honourable, respectful, kind.  But then again, it’s possible you didn’t know him at all, you concede sadly.

Maybe his reaction this morning’s reaction had been due to shock.  You had felt it as well, and you suppose everyone processes the unexpected differently.  Perhaps after school you’ll get a chance to speak with Francisco, or rather Frankie, and the two of you can figure this out together.

But pick-up goes much the same as drop-off.  You see Frankie among the other parents waiting in the hall, amiably chatting, and though he acknowledges you with a small nod when he sees you join the conversation, he otherwise ignores you.  You’re grateful for when the bell rings, not sure how much longer you can maintain a neutral expression and keep the tears prickling the corners of your eyes at bay.

The children stream out of the room in a sudden burst of activity, each ramming themselves into a waiting parent, excitedly chatting about their day.  Your full attention happily turns to Raynor, and you don’t even realize that Frankie has left until you see him drive by on the way to your car, Valentina’s smiling face pressed up against the back window waving wildly to your son.

And it’s the same every day after: simple salutations and impersonal small talk at drop-off and pick-up.  More often than not, Frankie barely looks at you - he’s never rude or unkind, but disappointingly detached and uninterested.  It’s as if those summer nights in that private room never happened, or worse, they did but didn’t mean to him what they had meant to you.  It becomes painfully clear to you that they didn’t.

Some time during the third week of school, an epiphany hits you like a ton of bricks: he’s embarrassed.  Maybe even ashamed.  And while you don’t think it’s warranted, you can empathize.  Maybe he’s embarrassed to have seen the mother of his daughter’s friend half naked.  Or maybe he’s embarrassed that someone outside his army buddies knows how often he frequents a strip club.  As far as you could tell, he had been candid and honest with what he did choose to share with you in that room, and perhaps he hadn’t expected those raw and vulnerable feelings to be known by someone he would see nearly every day.  Maybe he was just embarrassed by it all, you.  It crushes you that what are cherished memories for you would cause Frankie any distress, but you’re not so unfeeling that you would want to force him to feel any more discomfort than he already does.

So, you don’t push and you don’t engage; you let Frankie ignore you and even though your heart is broken, you can’t find it within you to harbour any malice towards this man who was once the source of so much comfort and desire.

This works as well as it can until Raynor starts asking if he can have a playdate with Valentina.

“Just call her.”

Completely useless advice.  His friends are full of absolute nonsense suggestions.

Frankie has no idea what to do.  You’re slipping away again and he has no clue how to coax you back to him.  And neither do Santi, Will or Benny, apparently.

Every recommendation they make is predicated on Frankie having not made a total ass of himself since the start of school.  So absolutely useless.  Frankie presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and groans in frustration.  You’re an idiot, Morales.

On that first day of school, he had been so preoccupied with comforting Valentina that he hadn’t noticed you until you turned around in that hallway.  It was you – in a much more covered up state of dress, hair and face softer in the light of day that he had been used to, but it was you.

A million emotions race through his very soul the second he recognizes your face: shock, disbelief, relief, desire being the most prominent.  Frankie’s immediate instinct is to pull you into his arms and cup your pretty face in his hands – to trace every slope and line with his fingers (and maybe his lips) to make sure you were real.

Fuck.  He had missed you so much. 

Returning to The Midnight Palace two weeks after that unforgettable kiss, Frankie had been confused, then worried when you weren’t there.   He knew you were planning on going back to your lab assistant job at the end of the summer, but that wasn’t supposed to be for a few more weeks.  Your unexpected absence left him hallow and worried, realizing that he actually knew very little about your life – something could have happened to you and he would never know.  He had sat stage side with the boys, fidgeting and anxious the whole night; eyes darting to the employee entrance every time there was movement - thinking, hoping you might walk in and flash him that drop-dead gorgeous smile of yours that he took comfort in every day.

But you never showed.

And two weeks later you still weren’t there.  After Frankie had sulked for hours, terrifying the new cocktail waitress with his scowl, Will had taken pity on him and asked Sasha, the dancer from whom you borrowed the strawberry scented glitter gel that he loved so much, and that’s when he finally learned that you had left three weeks ago. 

Frankie was despondent.  He hadn’t felt the way he felt about you in a really long time and he had harboured secret hopes that the two of you might try take what you shared in the private room out of the club, into the real world.  After one too many pep talks from his friends, he finally worked up the courage to ask you out only to discover you gone for good, leaving him no way to find you.  The boys tried to cheer him up by offering to buy him a lap dance, but Frankie had refused – he didn’t want it.  He wanted you.  He had cut the night short and hadn’t joined his friends at The Midnight Palace since; he didn’t need your absence thrown in his face on a regular basis.

He dreams of you constantly.  Hazy, dimly lit dreams illuminated by that smile he can’t forget; flashes of soft curves and barely-there wisps of fabric that laid snug overtop.  Your lithe fingers dance into his mind’s eye until his sensory memory kicks in and his skin prickles while he sleeps, remembering how it felt when you would touch him – silky soft caresses along the worn lines of his face, lips, hands that always made him long for more of you.   He wakes up hard and missing you more than when he went to sleep, deflating when he remembers that he’ll never feel your touch again.

Now here you are and it’s not a dream.  You’re here.  Close enough to touch.

But just as Frankie is about to reach for you, two things happen simultaneously.  The first is he realizes the two of you aren’t alone and that a few other kindergarten parents stand behind you.  He suspects that you might not want to share your reunion with strangers or field any potential questions about how the two of you might know each other.

The second is that he’s hit with a wave of crippling doubt.  What if you weren’t happy to see him?  Maybe you hadn’t thought and dreamt of him every day since that last, incredible encounter together like he did you.  Afterall, you hadn’t left him a note or any way to contact you; perhaps you had put him out of your mind and left him behind as a memory of the summer, much like you did the club.

So, at the very last second Frankie pivots and shakes your hand, introducing himself then immediately does the same with the other parents, not wanting to single you out in front of them.

The look of hurt on your face flashes for only a millisecond, but Frankie sees it.  He immediately regrets his actions, but as the subsequent minutes tick by, filled with inconsequential small talk among the parent group, he can’t think of a way to recover and like a coward, he runs.

Frankie meant to start over with you at pick-up, but once more the two of you aren’t alone so he again opts for a polite interaction over an overly familiar one.  And then his priority is Valentina, as yours was your son, and the chance to reconnect once again slips through his fingers.

It’s same the next day and the next, and the following week and the one after that, until it’s been so long and the list of things left unsaid between the two of you grows overwhelming, that even if you had missed him and wanted to rekindle something, you most certainly didn’t anymore.  Maybe you even hated him a little.

So, Frankie resigns himself to having what he can of you without crossing any lines, just like it was for him back at the club.  He steals glances at you at school when you’re not looking and catches up on your life based on what he overhears you sharing with other parents or when he’s lucky enough to be part of the group you’re addressing.  The more he learns about you, the more he admires you – you make juggling parenthood and an impressive career look easy.  You were still the sweet and gentle creature he had fallen for over the summer, but now he knows you to be whip smart and a wonderful mom.  He didn’t think you could be any sexier or more beautiful than how he remembered you, but he’s happily proven wrong day after day. 

And you still smell like strawberries. 

Sometimes it takes all of Frankie’s self control not pull you into his embrace and spill out his feelings right there in front of your children’s hung artwork, so he tries not to look at you too much.

His heart calls for you.  But you aren’t his to have.  Maybe you never were.

It’s possible that Frankie may have just gone on living with this ever-present dull ache in his heart, resigned to being near but so terribly far away from you, if it weren't for his darling precocious daughter who insisted on being best friends with your son. 

Fed up with her father’s evasive answers and non-committal promises of talking to you about a playdate, young Valentina Morales decides that she’s going to try her hand at those “good decisions” her teacher is always talking about.  She and her best friend Raynor whisper secretly as they exit their classroom at the end of the day, looking up in tandem when they’ve stopped right in front of you.

“Raynor’s mom?  Could Raynor and I have a playdate?” Valentina smiles sweetly.

“Oh!” they’ve surprised you but not really - Raynor has been ask for the same for the past two weeks.  Your son and his best friend look up expectantly at you, eyes full of hope and excitement – manipulative little buggers, you chuckle to yourself.  Valentina’s little smile is especially beguiling; Francisco must never be able to say no to this face. 

Francisco.  Right.  You look up to see Frankie looking at his daughter with a mortified expression – you almost laugh out loud.  Yep, it’s clear who the boss in the Morales household is.

You kneel down to get to the kids’ level, “Alright.  How about this, girly-pop?  I’m taking to Ray-ray to the aquarium this weekend and if,” you pause here for effect and reiterate again, “if your father says it’s okay, you should definitely come with us and we can get lunch, and catch the walrus show, and stick our hands in the touch pools until they tell us to stop.  What do you think?”

Valentina and your son nod their little heads eagerly.  You smile at them and then up at Frankie, the two of you exchanging soft, familiar smiles.

“What about right now?”

Your head snaps back to your son and his friend, the two of them now smiling conspiratorially.

“Mama, Valentina says her and her dad are going to the park right now.  Can we go too?”

Ohhhh… you had underestimated these two.  Completely unable to come up with an excuse on the spot, you open and close your mouth two or three times, “Well… um… I’m sure that… uh…”

Frankie saves you, “If you’re free, we’d love for you and Raynor to join us at the park.  It’s the one a few blocks from here and we were just going to walk.”

You look at Francisco, wide-eyed.  This might be the most he’s spoken to you since the start of school; this smidgen of attention shouldn’t make your heart beat the way it does, but you feel nervous and maybe even excited about spending some time with Frankie after all this time.  Dumbly, you nod.  The children cheer and high-five each other.

The walk to the park is short and easy, the children happily skipping hand in hand ahead of you and Frankie – but between the two of you, there is a vague undercurrent of tension that settles in the pit of your stomach as you walk.  This is the first time since the club that you’ve been alone with Frankie – it’s funny, in the private room you wore nothing but your underwear and never felt as exposed as you do now.

The children run straight to the playground as you and Frankie settle on a nearby bench, sitting on opposite ends with snacks for the kids laid out between you. 

Frankie opens a Tupperware container full of cut vegetables and unscrews a little container of ranch dip, sucking his fingers clean of any overspill; you can’t help but stare, practically drooling at the sight of him popping his thick, meaty fingers between his plush lips.  When Frankie catches you looking, he chuckles and you avert your eyes quickly with a smile. 

To save face, you say the first thing that comes to mind, “That’s a lot of snacks.”

The two of you share an easy laugh while Frankie offers you the container and you gladly select a few cucumber slices.

“Gotta have all the options,” explains Frankie, “Valentina changes her mind about food constantly.  Never know if this is the week she decides grapes are evil.”

“Oh, Raynor is the same way.  Some days I feel like the lunch I pack him is just performance art for the teacher.”

There’s a pause of quiet after you both chortle at the ridiculousness of your children’s eating preferences.  It’s not uncomfortable, but it is palpable.

You find yourself obliged to fill the unaddressed divide between you and Frankie; you’re almost loathed to broach this topic, but you can’t be sure this new pleasantry isn’t a one-time thing so tentatively you ask, “Does Valentina’s mom ever do drop-off or pick-up?  I work at home at night as part of my flexible hours arrangement so I can do both, but it can’t be easy as a mechanic and pilot.”

It’s the first time either of you has made even the slightest allusion to having known each other previously, and though you look nervous to have done it, Frankie finds it a relief that you broke the ice.

“Twice a month I work weekends to make up the hours, but the boss isn’t that strict – it’s Pope,” he grins, and you do too, having forgotten that his friend helped run the hangar Frankie worked at. 

“Oh my goodness!  How is he?  How are Will and Benny?” you ask amiably.

“They’re all great – I don’t see Will and Ben as much as I do Santi, but at least once a week, they come by for tea time with Valentina,” Frankie grins.

Your giggles at this image are so pure and unadulterated, Frankie feels his heart lighten just from the sound.  You seem to have forgotten the part of your original question about Valentina’s mom, but Frankie hasn’t, “… and Valentina stays every second weekend with her mom.  Friday night to Sunday afternoon… so no school stuff.”  He flits his eyes to the playground to check on the kids who are playing some type of pirate ship pretend, and mouths the word ‘Divorce’.

“Oh,” you nod, sympathetically, “I’m sorry.”  You realize this explains why Frankie would only come in to the club every second Friday.

“It’s okay,” says Frankie, matter-of-factly, “it’s better this way.  We’re both happier.  And I think that’s a good thing for Valentina.”

You nod because you vehemently agree.  From what you’ve seen of some of your friends’ marriages, divorce is hard on kids, but an unhappy household is worse.  You follow Frankie’s lead and watch the kids for a bit too before you hear him hesitantly clear his throat, “And Raynor’s dad?  He isn’t one for pick-up and drop-off?”

Eyes shiny, your tone is gentle, “Raynor’s dad passed when he was just a baby.  He never knew him.”  It’s been over five years and your grief still comes and goes, sometimes sharp, other times dull.  Sometimes Raynor will do something that reminds you so much of your late husband, you find yourself locking yourself in the bathroom and sobbing.  Other times, the resemblance will fill you with nostalgia and joy, and you’ll startle your son with your seemingly sudden burst of affection – you never really know how it will go, but you’ve learned to let it come in whatever form it chooses; just feel it and ride it out.  Today, here with Frankie, it’s a small tug to your heart that prickles just a little so that tears mist your eyes but don’t spill over.  You glance over at Frankie who’s looking at you with such a kind and loving expression that you have to turn away, afraid your naïve heart will misinterpret his look for feelings that don’t exist; you finish softly, “It was a car accident.”

Frankie feels his heart clench upon learning that you’re a widow.  He would have never guessed.  At the club, and during the limited time he’s spent with you at the school, you always seem to carry yourself with such an unflappable grace - voice gentle and laughter ready and light.  That you do so having suffered such tragedy in your life makes him admire you more than he already does; Frankie’s heart is bursting with emotion and his hands itch to pull you in for a hug.  Instead, he clenches his fists and says with as much tenderness as he can, “I’m sorry for your and Raynor’s loss.”

“Thank you,” you say softly; you don’t detect any pity in Frankie’s voice – only sympathy and compassion.  You’re grateful for him.

You wouldn’t have predicted it, but this small moment of vulnerability seems to wash away all the awkwardness and hesitancy that you and Frankie never even acknowledged.  Your conversation flows easily afterwards, much like it did back in that private room when you would sit in his lap and the two of you would just talk.  Talking to Frankie now is as easy as it was then - he’s as good of a listener as you remember and his own stories and comments are shared with an infectious light humour, engaging and inviting.  In fact, you end up so engrossed in the conversation, you absentmindedly eat half of Valentina’s snacks – for which Frankie teases you mercilessly.  In response, you pull secret snack bags out of your purse and he doubles over in laughter, “You’ve been holding out on me!”

When the kids have had their fill of play and snack, your foursome starts on the walk back to the cars.  During this time, you easily pull from Valentina that she prefers your snacks over her fathers; you mockingly pat Frankie on the shoulder and declare that it’s about variety.  When Valentina pointedly says to you she hasn’t forgotten about the aquarium playdate, Frankie leans over and whispers, “Now we know why she said your snacks are better,” and you giggle uncontrollably.  Frankie thinks his heart might burst out of his chest.

And that’s how your friendship with Frankie Morales begins.

He comes to aquarium on Sunday and the visit is beyond pleasant, all the more so due to the company – you and Frankie hang back while the kids walk hand and hand from exhibit to exhibit, only being called forth when they need an adult to read from info cards about the exotic marine life.  The two of you chat animatedly with no awkward pauses, the only breaks coming from gentle looks exchanged when you pause to take in the happiness and joy of your children.

You have to admit, in the darkness of the aquarium, Frankie looks exceptionally handsome – reminding you a little of how he looked in the dim lighting at the club.  The shadows cast by the watery tanks accentuate his strong jaw line and aquiline nose, making Frankie’s already striking profile all the more breathtaking.  When you unexpectedly see him through the jelly fish tank, a gasp escapes on the soft exhale of your breath at how his expressive eyes catch the light reflecting off the water; he’s really so beautiful.  You quickly look away so not to be caught in your ogling – the two of you have only begun to reconnect as friends; you don’t want things to go back to being awkward and stilted just because you can’t keep things appropriate.

The walrus and seal lion show put Raynor and Valentina in such high spirits, that you can’t bear to separate them so soon after; all agree to extend the playdate longer to a fun and lively dinner, where you and Frankie show off your crayon colouring skills on the restaurant placemats. The children declare your masterpieces to be a tie.

Your renewed ease with one another and Raynor and Valentina’s fast blooming friendship lead to more afterschool park playdates with Frankie during the week and you hosting playdates at your house on the weekends.  Every so often, Frankie’s friends will organize an activity for the kids; it might be a small cookout, some mini sports game for the kids (t-ball, soccer, touch football), or even one of those famous tea parties that Benny likes so much – but Uncle Santi, Uncle Will and Uncle Ben welcome your son with open arms and you couldn’t be more grateful. 

You don’t have any brothers, and one thing you’ve always felt a little insecure about is the lack of male figures in Raynor’s life – you don’t think it means anything’s missing, but the truth is you don’t know how what you can’t provide impacts your young son.  You’re thankful for the positive male camaraderie energy and filial love that Frankie and his friends demonstrate and shower upon your son; when you tell Frankie this, his heart shatters and soars at the same time.  He finds single fatherhood to be more challenging that he’s sometimes willing to admit, but in some ways, he chose it with open eyes – he can’t imagine what it must have been like to have Raynor’s father, your partner, ripped from you, and have to carry forth taking on both parental roles.  Frankie thinks you’re doing a more than admirable job and when he tells you so, you cry a little.  

You’ve watched Frankie as a father: he’s kind and doting, gentle and patient when he needs to be, and models for Valentina how to be selfless and considerate.  Ever aware of his own and his daughter’s limits and boundaries, he keeps her safe while encouraging her in the most energetic and supportive way in all her endeavours.  You find Valentina to be a charming, smart and forthright child, capable of a wonderful mix of compassion, sweetness and playfulness – her outgoing personality is such a welcomed compliment to your son’s sometimes more cautious nature; Raynor’s own strong confidence often tempering her impulsiveness.  She’s such a lovely friend to Raynor and you find that you love her very much.  You attribute so much of what you love about to Valentina to her fantastic father; for him to compliment your own parenting means the world.

As the months go on, the children’s ever more frequent playdates tie you and Frankie together for most days and even some nights.  Daytime play easily extends to include dinners at your respective houses, and somehow dinners start to transition into movie nights on your couch that are spent with the four of you under blankets and passing the popcorn back and forth.  On that first night of many where the kids fall asleep before the movie ends, you agree with Frankie that it would be a potential disaster to move Valentina too much when transporting her home and risk a full out melt down – you offer the guest bedroom as a much more amenable option.  A relieved Frankie sleeps on the couch. 

The next morning, the two of you wake before the children and meet in your kitchen, already bright with sunlight streaming in through the big bay window that overlooks your backyard.  You realize with an ache that Francisco does smile at you in the morning light the way he used to in the club: soft and disbelieving.  You hope he can’t hear the loud beating of your heart as you make coffee, and try to settle the racing of your heart before the two of your sit at your kitchen counter and enjoy the luxury of a warm cup of coffee in the quiet, a rare respite from needing to cater to the needs of your small children.  The quiet conversation during what becomes a regular weekend morning occurrence is always comforting and comfortable; it confirms what you’ve always known: Frankie Morales is a catch.

During these tranquil mornings, there’s always a moment when you have to catch yourself from falling into the dangerous trap of admitting just how attracted to Frankie you are.  Sometimes you do deep breathing exercises while you rinse out the coffee cups, other times, you’ll have to step away to ignore how sweet Frankie is when he draws smiley faces on the kids’ waffles with the whipped cream.  But you always have to do something.  You can’t let yourself fall for Frankie.

As your children grow closer, so naturally do you and Frankie, but neither of you ever bring up your past together at the club.  Not a word about how you met or what you shared those months in the summer, and certainly no mention of that last night where you bared your body to him and the two of you shared a kiss that still haunts your dreams.  Any time one of you alludes to something about the other that you could have only learned during your time together in the private room, you carry on without acknowledging how you might be privy to that tidbit.  It’s as if it never happened.  And while those summer months live in your memory as a time when you had felt special and desired, you accept it doesn’t hold the same sentiment for Frankie. 

Frankie.  Always Frankie.  You never ever call or think of him as Francisco.  Francisco is a man who only exists in your dreams – a fantasy who openly desired a you who was sexy, in control and mysterious.  He was kind, respectful, and made you feel gorgeous and wanted.  For your own sanity, you force yourself to separate him from Frankie.  Frankie is the father of your son’s best friend.  You’re no mystery to him: he sees you at your most frazzled, tired - when you forget it’s pizza day or when you’re so late for drop-off that you’re still tucking your shirt into your skirt while rushing Raynor down the path to school.  He’s kind and respectful as well, but about different things – he understands your struggles as a single mom and knows just how to lift your spirits and encourage you when you need it the most or lends a helping hand with the kids and household tasks before you even had to ask.  He makes your life happier, lighter. 

Francisco had been yours for a short time, and for that you remain grateful, but he wasn’t someone you would ever hold or kiss; you’d never know him like you had known him for those sweet summer months.  He was gone.

Frankie is your friend.  He’s here now and you don’t ever want to lose him.

You don’t conflate the two men because you can’t – it’s too dangerous to want something that isn’t meant for you.  So, you mourn Francisco and you cherish Frankie, always holding yourself back from loving him, except perhaps in the deepest, most secret chambers of your heart.

Raynor’s birthday party is in full swing.  You found one of those bouncy castle rental places that set-up inflatables in people’s backyards for a totally reasonable price and now your backyard is full of happy, bouncy kids having the times of their lives tumbling and scrambling through giant blow up houses and castles; there’s even a maze that ends in a massive ball pit.  There are kids from school, kids from the neighbourhood, a few of your friends and co-workers’ kids, and even some kids whose moms have moms that play mahjong with yours.  Raynor is over the moon and as far as you’re concerned, the more the merrier.

Frankie and Valentina had come over before the party started; Valentina wanting to give her best friend his present early and maybe sneak in some extra bouncy castle time.  While the kids bounced, Frankie helped you set-up tables and chairs and inquired if he could run the BBQ for you; you had protested, saying that you would be able to handle it, but Frankie insisted.  Now that the party is underway, you have to admit that between greeting all the kids and parents, supervising the bouncy castles and making sure that drinks and snacks are readily available, you would have struggled to cook lunch as well.  As a bonus, you admit, grinning to yourself, Frankie is looking pretty good at the grill.

Getting an early start on dishes before prepping the cake, you have the perfect view of Frankie through your kitchen window; turning over hotdogs with his tongs and plating cooked hamburger patties in an adorable blue apron, Frankie looks positively delicious.  His tan face brightened by his good mood and sweat from the heat of the grill dotting his rugged neck, he’s smiling a smile that reveals his elusive dimple as he takes pride and joy in his domestic responsibility. 

Maybe, you think, just maybe you can allow yourself just one moment of fantasy where the food Frankie’s currently grilling is the main course to a side salad you’re preparing in the kitchen of the house the two of you share.  And he’ll come in when the meat’s done the way he knows you like and wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing sweet, but hungry kisses to your neck before murmuring cheekily that he really could eat.  In your daydream, you squeal when he spins you around with blinding speed before sighing into the slow, tender kiss pressed to your lips. 

And perhaps your imagination might even take your make believe even further if at that exact moment you didn’t see Amanda, your mom’s mahjong friend’s daughter sauntering up to the grill flirtatiously.  The happy illusion you conjured dissolves as you watch her chat up Frankie and put her arm on his bulging bicep just before his piercing brown eyes crinkle and he throws his head back in a loud laugh at her touch.

Immediately, your eyes fill with tears and the devastating scene in front of you blurs.  Unable to stop them from spilling over, you strip off your dishwashing gloves and run to the bathroom as quickly as you can; locking the door behind you, you lean over the sink and sob.

Stupid.  Stupid.  Why are you crying?  Frankie isn’t yours. 

If anything – he’s less likely to be yours than anyone else’s; the two of you forever separated by your shared past at the club that embarrasses him so.  And yet, you can’t help wanting him, and not even Francisco, but Frankie – the considerate man who derives simple joy from helping others, whose unwavering support has made you a more lighthearted, joyful parent, and who has readily taken up the mantle of being a calm and stable presence in your son’s life.  It seems this same Frankie can also be flirty and coy, but that was for other women.  Not you. 

Stupid.  Stupid.  He doesn’t want you. 

But you still wanted him.  Gosh, you wanted him so much.  But he isn’t yours to have.

It's so dumb to cry over a boy, you tell the tear-stained you in the mirror.  You grin, imaging yourself saying that to an older Valentina one day; but even that small comfort is ripped from you as you realize with sadness that it may not be your place.  No.  Frankie will meet someone, it’s inevitable.  He’s sweet, smart, funny and kind, and stupidly gorgeous – one day, there will be a woman who captures his heart and then you’ll have to give up your friendship for fear of succumbing to a broken heart.

Wiping away your tears and cleaning up the best you can, you tell mirror you to get it together.  It’s your son’s birthday – today is about him and not your pathetic pining over his best friend’s father.  The comically accusatory look you give yourself galvanizes you enough to exit the bathroom, and you walk back to the kitchen ready to finish your chores and check in on the party.  Instead, you find the object of all your desires and the source of your current distress waiting for you in the kitchen.

---

Frankie’s sweating – the BBQ is hot and the party guests are gobbling up everything he cooks before he even has a chance to put more on the grill.  As sweltering as it is, he’s very glad to play grill master if it means one less thing for you to have to do.  He’s spent most of the party watching you juggle your multiple roles with hurried grace: mom, party host, snack fetcher, drink refiller, clean-up crew, boo-boo fixer.  When he saw you bravely dive into the ball pit to help a child find her lost shoe, he had grinned to himself so goofily he almost burned the chicken wings. He didn’t think he could be more hopelessly in love with you, but he should have known you would prove him wrong, as you often did with matters of his heart.  The only downside to being stationed at the BBQ is that he hasn’t spent any time with you today.  He thinks he saw you duck back into the house with a stack of dirty dishes – have you eaten today?  He closes up the grill and does a quick check on Valentina and Raynor before plating you some food and heading in.

He's just been standing in the kitchen wondering where you were for a few minutes when you emerge looking a bit off coloured and somewhat startled to see him.

In what has now practically become second nature, Frankie forces his body to ignore the near constant urge to reach out to you – his immediate impulse being to hold you close and stroke your face with his fingers to soothe and comfort you.  You wouldn’t want that, though. 

Instead, he shows his concern another way; holding out the plate of food in front of him, he looks at you with some tenderness, “Have you eaten, Shortcake?”

Heart racing upon hearing this long lost term of endearment, you’re too stunned speak, able only to silently shake your head in response.

Frankie knows that you’ll come up with some excuse to put your needs behind that of the party goers, so he puts the plate down on and guides you to sit before you can do so, “You have to eat.  I’ll keep an eye out on things from here.”

Admittedly, you’re starving and the food Frankie’s brought you smells mouth watering good; with a small nod of thanks, you acquiesce.  For several minutes there’s a comfortable silence while you eat and Frankie looks out the window to keep watch on the party.  Between bites, you gaze adoringly at the handsome profile of the sweet man before you - he knew you hadn’t eaten and he came to take care of you, feed you with food he cooked himself.  Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness and quietly you say, “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”

Frankie looks back at you.  He doesn’t need to ask what you mean, “I didn’t think I should.  Not in front of the other parents.”

You nod, understanding, “I guess it would be rather embarrassing to have to explain.” 

Brows furrowing, Frankie looks at you for a beat before turning to face you fully, trying to keep his voice even, “I want you to know, I would never tell anyone about the club… please know, I’m not embarrassed by it and I don’t think you should be either… not saying you are, just that you don’t have any reason to be… but some people can be weird and judgemental about that kind of thing… I want you to rest assured that I won’t ever put you in a position like that.”

It’s the first time since the start of the school year that Frankie’s acknowledged how the two of you met or even mentioned the club – it never occurred to you that his avoidance of the topic was to protect you.  For the billionth time since you met him, you’re touched by the considerate nature of this man, “Thank you, Frankie.  I wasn’t worried that you would, but I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Always, Shortcake.”

The two of you exchange a soft smile, not unlike the ones you used to share back at The Midnight Palace, as if you’re each thinking back to your time together there.  Afraid of becoming too wistful, Frankie jokes lamely, “Plus, I would be outing myself as a loser who has to pay a beautiful woman to talk to me every two weeks.”

Even if he’s saying it like a joke, there’s an undercurrent of melancholy to Frankie’s tone that you don’t understand – but you try to reassure him anyways, “No, no - don’t say that, Frankie.  I could never think you’re a loser.  And it was never about the money for me – I wanted to talk to you, really.”

Lifting his cap and running his hand through his hair before rubbing the back of his neck, Frankie chuckles softly, “Ok, thanks… that’s good to hear.”

It strikes you that he may be looking for some similar reassurance that you won’t “out” him, the way he had assured you, “And same here.  I would never share that about you.  You’re right, you never know how people might react to that kind of thing.  I look back at the time we spend together so fondly and I’m so very appreciative of how well you treated me… I could never forgive myself if how we met somehow caused you any problems, or got in the way of anything you wanted.  So, please don’t worry about me telling anyone either.”

Your wording choice seems a bit odd to Frankie, but still, his heart perks up a little to hear you say that your memories of your time together at the club are pleasant, and he simply says, “Ok, thank you.”

You didn’t realize that having this unspoken thing between you and Frankie had been like an albatross around your neck, but suddenly you feel a lot happier and cheery.  Having finished your food, you clean up after yourself and head to the fridge, chirping, “Do you mind helping me with the cake?”

You know Frankie’s answer without even seeing him nod; this generous man has never turned down an opportunity to help you.  When you place the cake in front of him, he beams, “Oooh!  Strawberry shortcake!  My favourite.”

Smiling, you say somewhat shyly, “I remember.”  Your mind immediately travels back to sitting in Frankie’s lap, scantily clad, the very glitter gel that inspired him to tell you this fact about himself spread generously over the ample curve of your breasts.  Frankie’s mind goes straight to the same memory and his face reddens.

Practically stuttering, you try to explain, “… but that’s not why I made it!  Raynor requested the cake!”

Your flustering doing nothing but endearing you to him further, Frankie can’t help but tease, “Sure, sure.”

You swat at his arm, playfully, “He did!”

Grinning, Frankie lets you off the hook, “Okay, okay - lil’ dude has good taste in cake then.”

And though your heart is still far from healed, this is the best you’ve ever felt around Frankie, so reminiscent of how he and you would flirt and tease back when you first met, easy laughter always coming naturally to the two of you.  You smile gratefully at him and pretend not to notice when he steals two strawberries off the top of the cake while you go to get the candles.

---

“Hey, come look.”  Frankie calls to you softly from the kitchen doorway that leads to the living room.  Putting down the containers of leftover food you were trying to fit into the fridge, you wander over to be greeted by the sight of Raynor and Valentina completely passed out on the couch.

A smile comes over your face when you hear their peaceful snores and you whisper to Frankie, “Can I admit something to you?  It’s been ages since Raynor dropped his nap, but sometimes I really miss it.”

“Oh, I know.  Sometimes I want to say to Valentina that she might be willing to give up naps, but I never agreed to forgo MY nap.”  The two of you chuckle heartily. 

If it were Friday or Saturday, you would offer to let them sleep and then stay up for a late sleepover, but tomorrow is the start of the school week, “What do you say we let them sleep for… an hour?  Enough to burn off today’s sugar, but not too long to ruin bedtime?”

“Sounds good.  I can help you clean up.”

You try to protest, Frankie has already helped so much with the party today, “Oh!  Don’t feel like you need to at all!  You’ve already helped me so much today, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.  You really can just put on some TV or something.  Sit and relax, I’ll bring you a drink.”

Frankie cocks his eyebrow at you, and it takes you a minute to realize the humour in you offering to serve him a drink.

“No!  That’s not what I was… shut up!” you laugh, spinning to return to the kitchen with Frankie following, snickering.

The two of you in good moods start to do the dishes, you washing and him drying – him knowing where to put things away, having done this with you many times over the last several months.  It’s quiet and comfortable.  You hum to yourself a little, and while you seem content – the party having gone off without a hitch, Frankie can’t help but remember the sad look on your face from when he had come into the kitchen earlier to bring you food.  He could have sworn you had been crying.

“You had an okay day, Shortcake?”

You nod, “Just a little tired, maybe?  But it was so worth it.  The kids all had so much fun!”

It was just like you to put others before yourself, Frankie thinks; he finds it to be one of your sweetest traits, but wishes you would take care of yourself too.  Maybe let someone take care of you.  He tries to push down the plea from his heart that wishes he could be that someone.

He’d like to think he’s gotten rather good at reading you after all this time together and is sure that there’s something still bothering you.  While he dries the dishes, he thinks back to your conversation earlier; it had a been a long time coming and he’s glad the two of you finally ripped the band aid off the one topic you never seemed to talk about.  He didn’t know how heavily your opinion of the time you shared in the private room mattered to him until he heard you say that you looked back upon it fondly.  Upon him fondly.  That you hadn’t thought him a total creep.  He had felt a weight lifted off him immediately, and in truth, a little hope started to burrow into his heart that maybe that time had meant something to you the way it did him.  He suddenly recalls something you said that he remembers puzzling over, but hadn’t asked you about at the time.

“What did you mean earlier when you said you didn’t want how we met to ‘get in the way’?  Get in the way of what?  You said something I wanted.”

“Oh,” you look down, embarrassed at the tears that are starting to form at just the thought of Frankie dating, “I just meant… like you said, sometimes people get weird and judgmental about strip clubs… and if you were interested in someone… like that girl, Amanda?  I wouldn’t… I mean…”  You’re tripping over your words.  The last thing you want to talk about is Frankie being interested in someone else, the whole concept feels like a vice around your heart.  “… you shouldn’t be judged for something like how you and I met before they get a chance to know you.  You’re so sweet and respectful, and just kind and such a good father… but… I… any girl would be lucky to date you.  And I would never want to get in the way of that,” you finish lamely.

“Is that what you want, hermosa?” Frankie takes a step forward, causing you to look up.

There’s a look in Frankie’s eye that you haven’t seen before.  No, wait – that isn’t exactly true.  You’ve seen it before but on Francisco’s face.  It was the expression he had sometimes when you would just look at each other, no words exchanged – one filled with longing and desperation.

“You want me to date other girls?” he practically spits out the words, as if they don’t belong anywhere near his mouth.

You don’t know how to answer, except honestly. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” you say quietly.

Frankie looks at your fallen face and thinks he might have to walk back his earlier self assessment that he knows how to read you.  You seemed sad, disappointed – but why?  A big part of him just wants to comfort you and make you feel better, regardless of the cause of your unhappiness; but another part of him, the part where hope had been planted earlier and is starting to grow at a rapid pace, watered by the mere idea that you might care at all who he dated, has to know if you feel something for him.  His selfishness wins out and he decides to go for broke, “It matters to me what you want.”

Your eyes soften at this declaration, and the downturn of your mouth rights itself slightly into a quizzical ‘O’, but still you say nothing so Frankie presses on.

“It matters because I’ve thought about you every single day since I met you.  The whole summer, all I thought about your sweet laugh and the way you always smiled at me like what I was saying mattered to you.  And how those pretty eyes of yours would light up every time you said something you already knew was really funny and you were just waiting to see if I would catch on and laugh.  I thought about what it would be like to take you out, court you, treat you like you deserve.  Hold you without a time limit,” the look Frankie gives you at this confession is of both despair and relief, as a dam has broken and now nothing can stop his words from overflowing. 

“And since that first day of school when I found you again, I’ve only thought of you more.  I think of the way you’re so full of patience and compassion, and that your son is so kind and considerate because of you.  And that my daughter and I are so lucky to have you both in our lives.  I think about how Valentina told you once that she liked those cheese biscuits you made, and now every time you bring her a snack, there’s always at least one included.  I think about how you always take of others and how everyone around you is happier for being in your presence.  I think about how I want to take care of you too.  I think about how I used to think you were beautiful in that club, but now you blow me away time I see you at school, or in the park, or when we’re just hanging out with the kids.  I think the way you look in the kitchen on those mornings when it’s just you and me before the kids wake up is the most gorgeous a person has ever looked.  It makes me think about how much I wish I was waking up next to you instead of just meeting you in the kitchen.  I think about what it would be like to fall asleep holding you.  I think about making you feel good, the way you deserve to feel good.  I think about what it would be like to take you to bed and make you scream my name.”  You’ve never heard Frankie talk like this before and your breath hitches in your throat – this is everything and more that you’ve always dreamed of hearing him say; you’re afraid to interrupt, for fear he might say it’s a mistake and take it all back.

Frankie seems to collect himself, calming, “Did you know the night I went to the club and you were gone, I was going to ask you out?”  You shake your head, you didn’t know – you had harboured your own hopes, of course, that you and Francisco might see each other outside of the club, but the possibility seemed so slim and laughable, you had never even spoken them out loud.

“The guys finally hyped me enough to convince me you might say yes.  I wasn’t sure, you know?  I only saw you every two weeks, and I thought I was probably making more of our time together than it really was… it would have been perfectly within your rights if you were… just doing your job, you know?” Frankie is miserable at the thought.  In truth, he still harbours this insecurity – since the two of you have reconnected, you haven’t given him any indication that you had thought him as more than just some patron you had to entertain every two weeks.  Then again, the two of you never spoke of the time at the club at all; he had worried that this was a sent message in and of itself.  Moreover, you haven’t said anything since he started his confession and he’s starting to think he might just be humiliating himself and ruining your friendship at the same time.

You shake your head violently.  No, no, no.  This won’t do at all! You really don’t know how Frankie could have ever thought that, but then again, you had thought he was ashamed of your time together – you can’t let another minute go by without him knowing how you felt, how he made you feel, “No, please, Frankie – don’t ever think that please.  It wasn’t my job – I never went to the room with anyone but you.  I never wanted to go with anyone but you.  I only wanted you.  I looked forward to out time together and every two weeks never felt like enough.  You were so sweet and respectful, and you made me feel so perfect and desired, and so very cherished.  I wanted you more than you know, Frankie.  Everything that happened in that room, everything I said, everything we did – I loved it all.  It was real to me.”

“Yeah?”  Frankie’s feels hope he’s never felt before when he sees you smile and nod, “When you weren’t there, I was so confused.  You didn’t say goodbye, so I didn’t know if something had happened to you, or if you were sick, or… I don’t know.  Then I realized, you didn’t owe me a goodbye – I was just some guy whose lap you sat in…”

“Oh baby,” you reach out to touch his face.  Baby.  Frankie closes his eyes and leans into your touch.

“I’m so sorry!  I wanted to leave you a message, but I… didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t know what was okay to ask from you.  Maybe I was just a girl who sat in your lap, you know?”

Eyes still closed, Frankie nuzzles deeper into your palm, “No, hermosa… you weren’t.  You’re so much more than that.  You’re everything to me.”

Tears now prick at the corners of your eyes for a much happier reason and you cup Frankie’s face fully in your hands and soothe him by scratching his scruff, hoping he’ll recall the affectionate gesture as you say sincerely, “I would have said yes.”

“Hmmm?” Frankie revels in the feel of your soft strokes on his face – this simple but loving gesture taking him back to the club when he had you to himself, when his want for you always simmered close to the surface but where he wasn’t allowed to let it boil over.  But he’s not at the club now.

Smiling wide, your heart bursts with joy and affection for this sweet man in front of you that you’ve wanted for so long - you never want him to be unsure of your feelings for him ever again, “I would have said yes, if you had asked me out.”

“Yeah?”  Finally allowing himself to believe that you return his affections, that you’ve always felt the same for him as he did you, Frankie opens his eyes and allows his grin to overtake his face.

He’s so cute and boyish when he smiles like this – you spy that cute dimple making its appearance again and you beam back, “Yeah.”

Happy emotions spilling over, Frankie breathes out the question that he’s wished to ask since the first night he laid eyes on you, “Can I touch you, Shortcake?”    

Voice husky and so full of need you’re practically vibrating, you nod with conviction, “Yes please, Francisco.”

Upon hearing his full name roll so sweetly off your tongue, the only name you ever called him back at the club, Frankie closes the remaining distance and is on you in an instant - lips crashing to yours with a force that nearly knocks you off your feet.  His hands immediately encircle your waist to catch you just as you throw your arms around his neck and pull him close. 

It’s another first kiss of sorts, this one needy and expressive and full of emotions previously thought unrequited.  You kiss Frankie like you can’t quite believe you are, part of you still can’t - by some miracle of a second chance, he’s here: Francisco is here and he’s real.  And he’s also Frankie, who knows you in the real world and still wants you.  The very thought makes you dizzy and you take off his worn cap so you can thread your fingers through his soft curls for something to ground yourself.

Your mouths clash and tangle, every brush of your lips is frenzied, desperate, greedy.  Frankie urges you to open your mouth to his and when you welcome him, he licks in, over and over, exploring and claiming every soft moan you emit as his own.  His tongue slides alongside yours reassuringly and lets itself be captured by your teeth; you teasingly tug and suck on the muscle before letting it invade your mouth once more. 

You’ve dreamt about your and Francisco’s first kiss a hundred times, but this, this first kiss with Frankie is something for the books.  He can touch you – his hands won’t stop touching you and it makes your entire body sing.  Frankie cradles you head in his big hands and lightly tugs your hair back so that you arch into to him.  Once he’s satisfied, his hands roam your back, stroking up and down your spine with that just right pressure that toes the line between relaxing and electrifying; you want to melt into his touch and let him caress you with this type of reverence everywhere.  Then when his hands wander down over the plush globes of your ass with feather light touches, you giggle from the ticklish feel only to dissolve into a puddle when he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and kneads – his hands so big that the tips of his fingers nearly graze the core of you that’s already warm and clenching just from all this kissing.  And throughout all this touching, as if to make up for lost time, Frankie never stops kissing you.  He kisses you like he’s been starving for your touch, because he has – and now that he’s been given the go ahead to satiate his hunger, he positively devours you.  You think you might pass out from the way Frankie kisses.

As he continues to overwhelm your senses, Frankie slowly walks you backwards towards the dining table and helps you hop on top; without being asked, you spread your legs to accommodate his width as he presses himself against your centre; unable to help from grinding against him, you’re sure Frankie can feel how wet you are through your leggings.  You lean back, putting yourself on display and he takes the invitation readily, kissing down your neck sensually and teasing you slowly - a marked contrast from how greedy he’s been with your mouth.  First, he lets loose breathy groans by your ear right before lightly nibbling your earlobe and leaving you shivering.  Then, Frankie places fluttering kisses that alternate with the nuzzling from his strong nose below your ear; the subsequent transition to open mouth kisses, all nips and sucks, down your neck that ending in the laving of his tongue across your collar bones has you gasping for air.

Lightheaded and giddy, all you can do is take and whimper words of praise that have Frankie moaning against your skin:

“Oh god, Frankie, that feels so good.”

“Fuck, baby, right there… yes, oh god, right there.”

“Never stop, please.  Please, Francisco, I’ve wanted this for so long, I – OH!”

Frankie’s hands have found your chest, groping and palming – somehow managing to zero in on your nipples even through the layers of your shirt and lingerie.  He pinches and twists, tugs and rolls as you throw your head back and positively whine.  Chuckling into the sweet spot at the bottom of your neck, he murmurs, “Can’t wait to see you in some slutty lacy thing again, Shortcake.”

You’re practically bucking into him now - wet and throbbing, all the build up to this moment has the waves of your desire and arousal cresting shamefully quick; you’re starting to feel the telltale coil below your belly tighten when you realize with a start - “Frankie!  We can’t!  The children!”

Frankie looks like he wants to say something else as he pauses in his efforts, but he stops and presses his forehead to yours, panting, “Right, the children.”  And mutters something about how this might be worse than the no touching rule.

You giggle. 

Looking at you with a mixture of unadulterated joy and devotion, Frankie finally asks, months in the making, “Next weekend when Valentina’s at her mom’s, can I take you out, Shortcake?  Like a real date?  Dinner?”

Shyly, you nod, “It’s a date, Francisco.” And you press your lips hard to the giant grin that spreads across Frankie’s face, catching a glimpse of that dimple you love so much before closing your eyes and sighing in happiness.

---

*Bzzzz*Bzzzz*

“Hey Frankie!” Already laying into bed, you answer your phone - giddy when you see the caller ID.

“Hey Shortcake.”  You can hear Frankie’s smile.

“I miss you already.”

“I miss you too, baby.”

“Did everything go okay with bedtime?”

“Uhhhhhhhh….”

“Same here.  Valentina fought sleep like it was her job.”

“Raynor tried to bribe me with a ‘it’s my birthday’.”

“Little devils,” Frankie chuckles good naturedly, unable to hide his affection for your children.

“Totally.  We can’t ever let them gang up on us!  It would be the end, I fear.”

“Can’t be the end, baby.  It’s only the beginning for us.”

“I’m so excited for our date, Frankie.”

“Me, too hermosa.  I’m going to wine and dine you like you deserve.”

“What about the other thing you said you wanted to do, Francisco?” You’re feeling cheeky.

“The other thing?”

“Something about making me scream your name?”

Immediately, he’s stuttering, “Oh… fuck, sorry.  I- that was out of line.  I promise, I don’t expect anything like that…”

“Frankie.”

“I would never put any pressure on you for sex or for anythin-“

“Frankie.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you might like to make me scream your name right now?” Suddenly shy, you cover your face even though Frankie can’t see you.

His head spins, “Wh- oh, fuck.  Yes, baby.”

Your voice breathy and low, “You want to know what I’m wearing, Francisco?”

“More than anything.”

“I’m wearing that black lacy bra and panty set from the club,” you had put it on after getting ready for bed, inspired to set the mood for a solo session starring Frankie, but then he had called.

“The one from our last night together?”

“Mmmmhmmmm…. Do you remember, baby?”

Frankie groans, picturing you and the lace set so perfectly in his mind, “Remember? I can’t get the image out of my mind.  You know what it felt like to see you at school everyday in your pretty work clothes and know that underneath is the sexiest, hottest body I’ve ever seen?”

“Tell me what you liked about it, please.”

“So polite, baby.  Such a good girl.”

You actually whimper.  “Thank you, Frankie.”

“Love your pretty mouth, Shortcake.  And love how that pretty lace sits on those curves of yours.  Your ass bouncing just right, peeking out below the fabric.  Love how those gorgeous tits of yours look, ready to spill over the tops of your bra.”

“Ohhh… Frankie baby.  If we were back in that room and you could touch me, what would you do to me?”

“Holy shit, hermosa.  So many things…”

“Tell me, please.”

“First I’d ask you to dance and touch yourself like you did the last time, but over your bra.”

“Nghhh-huhhhh.”  You feel a warmth spread over your skin, remembering how sexy and desired Francisco always made you feel.

“Are you touching yourself right now, baby?”

Fingers tingling from just his voice, you run your hands over your breasts, softly rubbing and massaging, imagining your small hands are his. “Yes, Frankie.”

“Good girl, baby.  Feel those pretty tits for me, ‘kay?  I want you to grab them, be a little rough with them.”

“Oh god, yes…”

“How do they feel, hermosa?”

“The lace is smooth but the edges tickle my fingers.  My tits feel so soft and full, but Francisco, baby… they’re aching for you.”

“I’m right here, Shortcake. Hook those little fingers of yours in your bra and think about me pulling those lace cups down and playing with your pretty nipples when they pop out.”

“Please, yes… daddy.”  The honorific just falls from your mouth, wrapped around a soft moan that emanates from the very chest you’ve now uncovered.  Yes, he may be a dad, but right now, as you arch your tits up towards the ceiling towards his imagined touch, Frankie is also your daddy.

No one has ever called him that before, but fuck if Frankie’s dick didn’t just twitch.  “Oh fuck, baby… Daddy’s going to take real good care of you.”

“Feels so good… they’re so hard for you.”

“If I we were at the club, I’d roll them in between my fingers, pinching and pulling on them until you cried out, hermosa.”

You tug a little harder on your nipples at his words, before letting them drop, letting your breasts jiggle, “It hurts… but it hurts so good, daddy.”

“Let daddy kiss it better, Shortcake.  You’ll feel even better when I suck on your pretty tits, baby, don’t you think?”

“Ohhhh goddddd, yes please, daddy.  Want you sucking on my nipples and flicking them with your tongue.”

“Holy sh-.  Run your thumbs over them gently, ‘kay?  I wanna suck on those pretty peaks until you cry.  I still remember them from that night, so perky and pointy.  Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Francisco.  I love being your pretty girl.”

“You are my pretty girl.  Tell me what my pretty girl wants now.”

“I wish you were here to touch me, baby.” Your voice comes out needy, bratty.

“Need your words, hermosa.  Where?  Tell me where you want my fingers and daddy will give you what you want.”

“My pussy, please.  I want you to touch my cunt, daddy.”

“Didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth on you, baby.”

“I’m going to keep my lips and tongue on those gorgeous tits of yours and start to drag my hands down your sexy body.  Think I’ll take my time tickling your stomach and hips.”

“Then when you’re squirming and begging for more, that’s when I’ll dip my hand down the front of those lacy black panties.”

You follow the guidance of his words and goosebumps rise on your skin in the wake of everywhere you drag your fingers.  “Ohhhhh... baby.  You’re making feel so good.  I’m so wet, Francisco.”

“Want you to tell me, baby - are you touching that pussy the way you want to be touched?”

“Yes, daddy.  I’m petting my pussy so slow and gentle and I love it, but I don’t want you to be gentle.”

“I know, Shortcake, and I’m not going be.  Waited too long for this to be gentle.  Tell daddy how wet you are.”

“I’m so wet, daddy – I’ve soaked through these panties and I’m dripping out of my needy hole.” 

“Can you hear how I’m spreading it everywhere, even all over my swollen clit?”

“Holy fucking shit, Shortcake, the mouth on you.”

“I’m your dirty girl, Francisco.  My dirty mouth is all yours.  Wish I could take your cock in this mouth.”

“Jesus.  Baby, I’m supposed to be making you scream, not the other way around.  Slip a finger into that slutty little cunt for me, hermosa.”

“Ohhhh god yes, baby, I’m tight.  My pussy is hugging my finger so close.  Wish it was yours.”

“Oh, Shortcake, if you wanted it to be me, you would need to add a finger or two.”

You hiss at the stretch, “Gahhhhhhh – oh fuck, Frankie! It’s too much.”

“How many, baby?  How many did you add while you were thinking of my thick fingers?”

“Two more, daddy.  It’s too much, please.”  Whining now, you feel stuffed and full, the slight sting turning you on even more and a fresh wave of arousal coats your hand.

“No, don’t take them out.  Need you to stretch out your pretty hole for me.”  Frankie’s tone is dark and stern, and it makes you clench down on your slippery fingers.

“Uhhhh... Fuckkk.  Francisco, I can take it.  Please.” 

“Baby, your fingers are no match for this dick.  This dick is going to ruin you.” 

“I can feel my pussy gushing and dripping down my wrist.”

“If we were back in the club, I’d take your hand and lick those fingers until you were clean.”

“Frankie.  Mhhmmmhhhhmhhh.”  You make sure Frankie can hear you stuff you glistening fingers in your mouth and every single slurping and smacking noise you make as you lick them clean of your own juices.

“So fucking dirty.  Fuck, I’m so hard for you baby.  Need to get you ready so I can feed you my cock.  You want that, Shortcake?”

“Yes, oh yes please daddy.  All I ever wanted back in the club was to sink down on your thick cock.  Wanted you to fuck me till I was cock drunk and dumb.”

“I’ll give you everything you want, baby but we have to prep that greedy cunt of yours, okay?  If you want my cock, put three fingers back in baby.”

“So big, daddy.”  Sighing, you ease your wet fingers back in; the squelching sound of your fingers sliding through your slick makes you quiver with anticipation.

“Do you know now much I wanted to taste you when we were in the club?”

“Oh god, Francisco.  Please.”

“Wanted to run my tongue over that pussy of yours.  I knew it would be the prettiest pussy I ever saw.”

“Your pussy, baby.  This pussy is only yours.”  You sigh at the simple truth of your words as you work your fingers in and out of your cunt, pretending they’re Frankie’s.

“You still have my pussy stuffed full of your fingers, Shortcake?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl.  Now use your other hand to rub your little clit and pretend it’s me stroking it with my tongue.”

“Uhhhhhhh, nghhhh, fuckkkkkkk, Frankie… your tongue feels so good against my slippery clit.  Are you touching yourself, baby?”

“Got my cock out the minute you told me you were wearing that same slutty lingerie you wore at the club, hermosa.”

“Did you like what I wore at the club, Francisco?”

“Hell yes, sweetheart.  Everything you wore made me so hard.  You made me so fucking hard.  Made me want to rip those skimpy outfits off of you with my teeth.”

“I wish you did.  Wish you were here to do that right now.”  You look down and see your tits, having spilled over the band of your bra, bouncing while both of your hands are stuffed in your panties, and you visualize looking down past your feet and seeing Frankie’s gaze upon you with his big dick in his meaty hand, “Stroke yourself for me, daddy.”

“Stroking my cock right now, imagining what it would feel like in your tight little pussy, Shortcake.”  His hands glide over his length, throbbing just from thinking about the way you’re stretching out your cunt so that you can take him.

“Wanna feel your thick cock in my pussy, Francisco.  Can’t wait for you to ruin me.”

“Going to wreck that little hole of yours, hermosa.”

“Need you so bad, daddy.  Can you hear how wet you’re making me?  I’m going to come so soon.”  The wet sounds of your fingers pumping in and out of your pussy fill your bedroom - an obscene percussive beat to the song of your moans and cries; your arousal leaking down your ass and making a mess of your sheets underneath.  Frankie can hear it all and your whorish symphony urges him thrust into his fist faster to keep up.

“Keep rubbing that clit for me, Shortcake.”

“Wish I could see you, baby.  Wish I could see what your pretty face looks like right now, imagining my fingers curling deep inside that sweet pussy.” 

“Can’t wait until you give me that dripping wet cunt and I show you what I want do to you.”

“Please!! Francisco.  I’m close!  Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“I’m going to lick your clit until it’s swollen and puffy then I’m going to suck and nibble it with my teeth until you push my head away.”

“Gonna pound into that pretty pussy until your walls are stretched and bruised.”

“You won’t be able to breath.  I’ll punch every breath out of your lungs.”

“I’m going to fuck you until you scream that this is my pussy.”

“My pussy.”

“To fuck.”

“To ruin.”

“To wreck so no other man will ever be able to fill you the way I do.”

“Fuck you the way that I do.”

“Fuck you stupid like I do.”

“Fuck you until you don’t know your own name.”

“Fuck you until you’re just a cock drunk slut who isn’t good for anything other cock.”

“My cock.”

“Frankieeee! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…. Frankie I’m coming…. I’m coming, daddy, I’m coming!”  You seize and cry out to his name, chanting it over and over like a prayer as your orgasm overtakes all your limbs and you arch off your bed, practically pushing out your fingers from how hard you’re clenching down.

“Ohhhh fuck, hermosa.”  Frankie’s grunts are followed by heavy panting, his uneven breaths as he comes down from his high like music to your ears.

“Daddy, I came so hard.”  You giggle as you wipe your cum covered fingers on your stomach.

“Me too, Shortcake.” You can hear him grinning through the receiver.

“Really?  I made you feel good, Frankie?”  You wish so much that he was next to you right now.

“Always, baby.  You always make me feel good.  The best.”

“Good.  You made me ruin my sheets.”

“And I made you scream my name.”

“Just like you promised.”

“I always keep my promises, Shortcake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I promise I’m always going to take care of you, baby. Never letting you go again.”

“Oh, Frankie… how did I get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one, hermosa.  My perfect woman, screaming my name while she comes.  I’m living in a dream, I swear.”

“I always come so hard when it’s you, Frankie.  But it’s never been like this.”

“Yeah?  You touch yourself to the thought of me a lot?”

“Yes, daddy.  Always you.”

“I think of you all the time too, hermosa.  Always make such a mess, just like I did tonight.”

“If we were together right now, I would clean you up with my tongue.”

“Fuck… baby, you’re going to make me hard again.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Francisco.”

“That’s what I’m going to make sure of, Shortcake.  You’re always going to have a good time with me.  Going to make sure you come every time.”

“I believe you, daddy.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.  The moment I met you in that club, I knew you would make me feel so good with your hands.  And your tongue.  And your cock.”

“Jesus... Baby, what did I say?  Don’t start what you can’t stop, because if you keep talking like that I’m going to be hard again really soon.”

“Well, I’m still sloppy and wet, daddy.  Ready to scream your name again.”

“You’re a dream, Shortcake.  I’m going to make sure you come harder than you ever have.  Tonight, tomorrow, every day after.”

“Promise, Francisco?”

“Promise.  And I don’t break my promises.”

“Ok, daddy.  Show me what you got.  Just remember, tomorrow is a school day, so we can’t be up too late.”

“I also don’t make promises I know I can’t keep, Shortcake.  Now be a good girl and take off those messy panties.”

Epilogue

Tagging a few people who commented on Part 1 they were interested in Part 2 (thank you! 🥹): @aurorawritestoescape @magpiepills @pastelpinkflowerlife @southernbe @heareball

@mermaidxatxheart @nandan11 @mellymbee @jessthebaker @milla-frenchy

@littlemissoblivious @tuquoquebrute @inept-the-magnificent @posting-my-time

[xuchiya]

brewing romance {c.jongho}

cafe love m.list || k.hongjoong || p.seonghwa || j.yunho || k.yeosang || c.san || s.mingi || j.wooyoung || c.jongho

The bell above the cafe door chimed a cheery welcome as Jongho pushed through the frosted glass. He wasn't there for his usual afternoon coffee, though, no it was meant for a different reason. His gaze immediately snagged on you, the new waitress with a smile that could melt a glacier. Your laughter danced around the room as you took an order, the sunlight catching the flecks of gold in your hair. The way your hair flows gently in the comforting zone of the cafe had him melting on his knees.

It was unusual for Jongho to act so lovey towards someone hence anyone he had come across as he grew up. Jongho believes love comes to him when fate decides, but he had concluded that fate already did. But he isn’t prepared about what is gonna happen when he is under the influence of love.

He felt a ridiculous tug in his chest, a feeling he couldn't quite place. Was it the adorable way you tucked a stray strand behind your ear, or the genuine warmth in your eyes as you interacted with each customer? Whatever it was, Jongho knew he had to talk to you.

Unfortunately for him coming at the wrong time, the café was bustling. Every booth was occupied, and the line snaked its way out the door. Jongho sighed, deflated.  He couldn't just walk up to you and disturb you in the middle of your shift.

He shuffled to the counter, catching Wooyoung— his friend— also the resident barista, raising an eyebrow. "Just a latte," Jongho mumbled, feeling a strange shyness. Wooyoung, known for his teasing demeanour, smirked. "Finally making a move on our new girl, huh? Took you long enough."

Jongho flushed, "It's not like that…" he stammered, then quickly added, "Actually, can you make that two lattes?"

Wooyoung's smirk widened, but he busied himself with the coffee machine. Time crawled by as Jongho nursed his first latte, stealing glances at you whenever he could. The way you work effortlessly had him thinking how you were gifted with such beauty that never fazed. Imagining the hot clouded environment of the shop had him sweating on the neck yet you never break a sweat, not even one!

 Finally, the familiar lull before closing time settled on the café. Customers trickled out, leaving behind a comfortable quiet. Each of the staff— including Wooyoung— had a sigh in relief as the last customer thanked them before exiting.

He watched you meticulously wipe down tables, a hint of tiredness around your eyes. Wooyoung, who had been observant to Jongho who looks like he is close to shitting himself, said, “Don’t waste your muscles, lover boy and kiss the girl.” Jongho glared at his hyung, who is shaking his eyebrows, before looking back at you. Taking a deep breath, Jongho approached you, the second latte cupped carefully in his hands. "Excuse me?" he began, his voice a bit too loud in the sudden silence.

You turned, surprised, then your eyes softened as you took him in. "Yes?" you inquired politely, a hint of suspicion lingering in your gaze. You have not much notice his presence due to the hectic hours of the cafe but as the tension slowly dies down, you have taken notice of him by the same tall chair for the past few hours, conversing with Wooyoung.

Jongho held out the latte. "This… this is for you. The café was so busy, and I wanted to talk to you, but…" he stammered, feeling like a fool.

You looked at the coffee, then back at him. His sincerity shone through his nervousness, disarming your suspicion. "Oh," you breathed, a smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

Jongho relaxed a little. "I saw you working all day, and… well, you looked really tired. I thought maybe you'd like some company." You considered him for a moment, then a playful glint entered your eyes.  "Are you sure you just weren't trying to score a free latte by flirting with the waitress?"

Jongho's face flushed again. "No! Absolutely not!" he stammered, then seeing the amusement dancing in your eyes, he added, "Okay, maybe a little. But mostly, I just—"

The bell above the door chimed, a reminder of the closing time. You sighed, placing the rug back inside your apron, "My shift is over. How about a walk in the park? And then you can finish telling me why you bought me a coffee."

Relief and delight flooded Jongho. "Really? I'd love that."

Together, you stepped out into the cool night air, the warmth of the second latte forgotten. As you walked, laughing and talking, Jongho knew tonight had been anything but ordinary. The park lights twinkled, mirroring the spark that had ignited in his heart the moment he saw you, your smile the glimmer under the lamp post or the gold shade of bulb coming from the booths.

He doesn't know how or when it happens, loved just happen. It may be unusual for him but if this is what he’s gonna see every day as he visits the cafe love? Then it is worth waking up for.

[weaveandwood]

Weave and Woods Ch 15: Another Way

Gale/Named Tav | NSFW | Read on AO3 | Entire Work

Summary:

The fight with Kethric and Myrkul for the soul of the Shadow Cursed Lands is finally here. Auroria has a near death experience, and the two spend the night in celebration of their survival.

“It’s not fair, you know,” she said. “I just found you, we just admitted our feelings, and everything has been so…hard since we got here. This land has not been kind to you and me, has it?” “Tadpoles, orbs, curses, gods and goddesses, giant brains - it feels like we’ve been doomed from the start, my love.” He looked at her as if he were counting each freckle sprayed across her cheeks, committing every gold fleck in her eyes and every small crease in her skin to memory. His brow furrowed again as he smoothed her hair, tucking loose strands back into her twisted ponytail.

AN: Thank you so so so so much for your patience on this latest chapter! I have had such a brain block for BG3 since I finished writing Midnight at the Elfsong, but I've finally been able to pick it back up. I've missed Gale and Ora, I hope you're as happy to see them back as I am!

CN: violence, vaginal sex

The ground squelched beneath Auroria’s boots as they walked through the horrors under Moonrise Towers. This was it - this was the fight that would determine…well, everything as she knew it. She looked to Shadowheart, with bags under her eyes, who had to forsake her goddess to free the Nightsong, an absolute asset to have on their side in the initial fight against Ketheric. She looked at Gale, his hand in hers, his brow furrowed. She knew what he contemplated with each step that drew them nearer to their target. She glanced at the curling lines from his orb marking, each one a threat to take him away from her. She would not let him forget his promise, she thought as she squeezed his hand in solidarity. He weakly squeezed hers back. She heard Karlach up ahead, ready to get the next part of the fight started and over with, her impatience showing as she rocked back and forth, waiting for the door in front of them. The Absolute was behind this door, the Dream Guardian had confirmed it. Auroria felt a cold chill creep up her spine. This place was disgusting. If she never felt a squishy floor or saw wet walls again, it would be too soon.

The door rumbled open and nothing could have ever prepared her for what she saw. The giant brain and the three people claiming to be Chosen by their gods were one thing. The look in Gale’s eyes was a completely different thing. She had never seen that look before - awestruck tinged at the edges with hunger.

“Look at that crown….radiating power unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Oh, if only I could hold it, have it,” he whispered. She watched as his face turned steely with determination. “I can’t. This is it. I must do as Mystra commands.”

Auroria felt her heart drop into her stomach and time slow to a crawl. Just days ago he had promised to stay with her, to defy Mystra, to live. She stepped in front of him, feeling as if she was wading through the thickest mud. Heavy tears formed in her eyes at the possibility of an outcome she had thought was banished from both of their minds ever since he confessed his love for her under that star-strewn sky. She would not let them fall. Not yet.

“Gale,” she said as she reached for his hand. “You can’t. You would condemn all of us to death.”

“I must!” he argued, pointing at the Elder Brain. “What choice do I have? Entire worlds are counting on my courage to do what is required of me.”

She smiled softly at him and shook her head. “Gale, you have always had a choice. You can choose me. I love you. We will find another way,” she reached up and placed a hand on his cheek. “Together.”

He was still for a moment, as if contemplating. She desperately tried to push all of her thoughts into the tadpole connection they never used, doubting anything would happen. Still, she tried. I love you. Choose me. Choose this. He leaned his head into her hand, placing his own hand over hers, the hungry defeated look on his face replaced with the one he only gave her when they were alone in the darkest hours of the night.

“I love you too. More than myself. More than Mystra,” he whispered before placing a kiss on her wrist. “Very well. Whether I condemn this world or not, I choose you.”

She smiled, finally letting those tears fall down her cheeks, her heart soaring like a small bird in a cloudless vast blue sky. Her joy felt bottomless. He chose her. He meant it. He kept his promise.

That joy was short-lived as the ground rumbled. Auroria turned around quickly to see these apparent masterminds of the whole ordeal just…leave. Well, almost all of them. She reached behind her back to pull out her trusty bow and nocked an arrow while her team - no, her friends - took their usual fighting positions against Ketheric Thorm. She would take him down once and for all, no matter the cost. ***

Gale dropped his staff and sprinted, panting and sweaty as the avatar of Myrkul dissolved into thin air, the battered Ketheric left behind to spew his pathetic pleas and excuses for what he had wrought upon this land before he too succumbed. None of that mattered when he locked onto Ora, who lay unmoving on the other side of the platform. A cold dread seeped through him as the worst thoughts imaginable ran through his head. She had taken risks she shouldn’t have taken, gotten too close to enemies to be effective with her bow, tapped into more magic than she had reserves for. Was she breathing? Was she injured? Was she…No. He refused to finish that thought as he knelt before her, her face as placid as if she were just taking a short rest - a stark difference to the rage he had seen swell within her as she channeled the last dregs of her energy into a Lightning Arrow to finish off Myrkul and end the fight for them all. She was still. Much too still. He saw the pool of blood underneath her, and noticed the deep red stain on her leather armor near her waist. His stomach lurched.

“Shadowheart!” he yelled, frantically. “Ora needs help!”

She limped over and winced as she kneeled down beside him, her own injuries hindering her movement. “I don’t have much left in me, but maybe we can get her to a healer before…” she trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. Good, Gale didn’t want to hear it. Shadowheart laid her hands over Ora’s wound and muttered her healing spell, the faintest light emitting from her hands as what little energy she had was channeled into Ora’s body. She looked at Gale, her eyes watery with unshed tears. “I hope that is enough.”

He walked behind Karlach and Wyll, who carried Ora through the building - now eerily quiet and abandoned since the followers of the Absolute began their march to Baldur’s Gate. Thoughts swarmed his head as he focused on her hand hanging limply, each movement of her fingers only due to Wyll’s gentle steps. What if she…how could he…should he have? At least if he had gone through with Mystra’s demand, he wouldn’t be left here alone without her bright spirit buoying him. She was his tether, his anchor, and if she pulled through this, he would focus all of his energy on figuring out how they could be together until the end of their days. There had to be a way. The crown was now an itch in his head he couldn’t seem to scratch.

Chaos erupted when they entered the main lobby of the towers. Celebratory whoops were cut short once Ora’s lifeless body came into view. He heard Shadowheart call for a healer or a cleric before sliding down the nearest wall to catch her breath and calm her shaking hands. Wyll and Karlach followed the healers who jumped at the call into a room at the side, returning only moments later to provide comfort and reassurance to him, perhaps - he did not know. He felt as if he were underwater, the surface only inches above his head yet he could not muster the energy to break through for air. Not until she was with him again. Visions of her collapsing ran through his head, her brutal rage fading into blank nothingness as her limbs lost the ability to hold her up. He crouched into a corner with his head in his hands and waited.

And waited.

Hours passed, though it could have been days or maybe even years. Who knew what time was anymore in a place like this?

A pair of brown boots appeared in his line of sight, ones he would recognize anywhere. They were scuffed, scratched, and stained and as his eyes slowly looked up, they were attached to his favorite legs, his favorite hips, his favorite breasts, and his favorite face. Tired, drawn, a little pallid…but alive. She was alive.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He jumped up to his feet, both his knees and muscles protesting at the swift change in position, but he could not have cared less in that moment- she was alive, she was standing in front of him, and Ketheric Thorm was defeated. His lips crashed against hers as his hands grasped at her hair, the silken strands running through his fingertips.

“Should you be out here? Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asked, his thumb tracing the path of her scar down her cheek.

“I’d like to spend as little time here as possible,” she said softly, swaying a little on her feet. “I’ll be fine, let’s just…get back to camp. Away from this place.”

He kissed her again, softly, as if she were a precious, delicate thing that could disappear at any moment before taking her hand and signaling to the party they were heading out.

***

Auroria stared at the ceiling of the room at Last Light Inn, the faint sounds of water from the private bathroom filling the silence. She had tried to tell Jaheira that this was unnecessary, that she was perfectly content retiring to her tent, but she wouldn’t hear a word of it.

You defeated Ketheric, we can end the Shadow Curse with the sunrise, and you almost died. You are not sleeping on the ground tonight.

Gale had wholeheartedly agreed and saw her up to the private room, one of only a few at the inn, usually occupied by higher ranking Harpers. She wondered who had gotten instruction to give up their space for her though she supposed it did not matter, really - she just didn’t like someone else being put out while she was relaxing in comfort she did not feel she needed.Most times, Auroria preferred the cold ground and lumpy bedroll - especially on nights like tonight when the events of the day were so beyond her imagination she had a hard time believing they were real.

Gale walked back into the room, all traces of the day’s fight finally washed off his beautiful tanned skin. Real. If there was ever a word to describe him, it was real. She smiled at him and moved over on the bed to make room, allowing him to crawl in next to her.

“We did it, Ora, we - “

She crushed her lips into his and kissed him deeply, taking him by surprise. Tonight was not a night for words or affirmations. They came close to death, and they survived. His mouth parted for her as she climbed onto his lap, the wound in her side protesting slightly, not quite fully healed. It was nothing. She slid her tongue against his, running her hands through his hair, her nails scratching softly while he moaned softly into her mouth. She could feel him stirring beneath her, beginning to press against where she wanted him the most.

She kissed down his neck, tracing the lines of the orb with her lips to the collar of his fresh linen tunic. Too many clothes, she thought, the linen of her own shirt now feeling scratchy against her skin. She reached down, peeling it off, leaving her bare from the waist up.

Gale’s eyes immediately went to her side, to the fresh scar that now decorated her skin, a new trophy to add to all of the others. A record of times she should have died but didn’t. She was a map of danger and triumph all at once. It was raised, red, and angry, but closed.

“As much as I love this view, are you sure you’re alright? It’s only been a few hours,” he said, running his fingertips lightly over the swell of her breasts, illuminated by the dim candlelight. She closed her eyes and let herself focus on the feeling of his featherlight touch on her skin.

“It will take a couple days for it to completely heal. They did what they could. I’ve had worse,” she smiled. “I want you. I need you,” she said, pulling off his shirt over his head. “We defied two gods today. We lived.”

His eyes left her face and stared at a wrinkle in the bedsheet. “We almost didn’t, if I had had my way. I almost -”

She placed a finger under his chin, tilting his face back up to look at her and placed her other hand on the orb over his heart. “You didn’t - you chose me, us, this. You chose to stay. Just like you promised.” She kissed him again.

He hesitated briefly before returning her kiss. Gently at first, then growing with passion as their tongues slid together once more, finding the rhythm they desired while their hands explored each other’s bare chests. Auroria traced the fine dusting of hair from his orb down his stomach and back up, while Gale began rolling her nipples between his fingers, a jolt of electricity running through her at his touch, which then settled low in her abdomen. The sensation drew a soft gasp from her lips.

Something within him activated upon hearing that sound. He wrapped his arms around her tightly before twisting, turning, and she found herself on her back once more. After a quick glance at her injury to make sure she was still okay, he kissed her again - on her lips, on her earlobe, on her neck, taking the path her largest scar laid out before him. He took his time and moved slowly, so slowly, down her body until he got to her hard nipples, taking each one in his mouth. She moaned softly, threading her fingers through his soft hair while he sucked lightly, his hand attending to the other to make sure it wasn’t neglected. She watched him kiss down the soft plane of her stomach, tracing every scar with a finger, followed by his lips, including this new one. On any other night, she would welcome his worship of the topography of her skin. Tonight, she wanted to get lost in him.

She propped herself up on her forearms, making eye contact with him. “I need you, please,” she breathed. “Now.”

“As you wish, my love,” he said while smiling against her skin. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, baring her to him as he pulled them off her body. Climbing off the bed, his eyes never left her body while his fingers fumbled with the drawstring of his loose pants, taking her all in. She never shied under his gaze. He made her feel like she was the most rare and coveted work of art. “I will never get used to the sight of you before me, Ora. I am the luckiest person on this entire plane,” he smiled as he pushed the rest of his clothing to the floor, leaving him naked and hard before her.

“Same,” Auroria teased, breathless, as she watched him climb back onto the bed between her legs, already parted for him. He reached between them, to her center, and found her already wet and wanting. She arched against the bed slightly at his touch. “Please…” she begged.

He grasped himself at the base, running the tip up and down her slick entrance before beginning to press slightly, teasingly, causing her to groan. She felt herself open for him as he pressed further, and felt every inch of him sinking slowly into her. It had only been a few days since the first time he had been inside her, but every fiber of her being knew this was right, that he was the one she was supposed to be with. He leaned over her, careful not to put any weight on her new scar, his arms on either side of her body. With every roll of his hips against hers, her body became fire. She grasped at his arms, her fingertips pressing into the lean muscle. She looked down the space between their bodies and watched him as he thrust into her.

“Please, Gale, I need more,” she moaned before breaking her hold on his arm to bring his face closer to hers. She kissed him hard, hoping her kiss would translate her desire. She didn’t want tonight to be tender. She wanted tonight to be a celebration, a confirmation of their survival, of their defiance of the gods.

She had come closer to dying than she ever had tonight, and she needed to prove she was alive.

“You’re alive, Ora,” Gale whispered, as if he heard her thoughts. She thought for a moment that her injuries might have made her defenses on her mind weaker, letting the tadpole actually connect them for one of the first times since they all agreed to shield their minds from each other. Or maybe he was simply thinking the same thing she was.

“You’re alive, Gale,” she whispered back.

“I’m alive,” he confirmed, looking down at her hungrily as he settled back on his knees between her legs, his hands on her waist, his thighs spreading hers even farther apart. His hips snapped against hers as he drove his entire length roughly into her, pulling it almost out, then back in. Slow and steady and hard, each thrust punctuated by the sound of Ora’s gasps filling the room. She grasped at the blankets on the bed, needing something to connect her back to this plane of existence.

“Gods, you feel good,” she moaned. Real. He feels real.

He watched her breasts bounce with each hard thrust, her arched back showing off the muscles in her abdomen. He hooked his arms under her thighs and pulled her closer to him. She relished the feeling of his warm skin on the back of her legs, the pressure of his fingertips digging into her, the way he looked at her as if she were a painting come to life whenever they made love. It had all been so close to being taken away. She would never take this for granted again.

“More,” she whispered.

“More,” he nodded. His hips moved faster, harder against hers. She rocked her hips back against his with each thrust, causing him to moan loudly. The bed thumped against the wall, the mattress was squeaky, and she was certain everyone in the Elfsong would be able to hear them but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Tonight, this was the soundtrack to their survival. They could worry about propriety and privacy tomorrow. Now that they have a tomorrow.

Tension began to build within her, a flicker of a candle building into a roaring flame. She knew Gale could feel her tightening around him. She was so close, almost ready to tumble over that ledge and fall into the deepest bliss she had ever felt. He reached between them, rubbing her in that most sensitive spot as he continued his rhythm. The sound of their bodies hitting together grew louder as they both grew quiet, chasing their own releases. She looked into his eyes, her breaths heavy as she tightened and tightened and tightened until finally she cried out his name, sending it directly to the goddess who would have seen him wiped from this plane. He continued thrusting into her with much less restraint, close to his own precipice. His fingers pressed even harder into her thighs, and he pulled her body back against him with each thrust. His orgasm came with a cry to the heavens as she felt his release fill her.

Moments later, as they caught their breath side by side, she turned her head to find him looking back at her. His hair was disheveled, he was out of breath, and he was glistening with sweat, but underneath it all she saw for the first time the depth of his worry. It looked like it was simmering right under the surface, threatening to break through at any moment.

“Hey, I’m here, I’m alright,” she said, turning to her side to face him, her hand lightly brushing hair from his face. The line between his brows was deep, a sure sign he was replaying their narrow escape from death.

“I thought…I thought I lost you, Ora. You were lifeless on the ground, in a pool of your own blood. I watched Wyll carry you out and the only thing I could focus on was your limp hand jostling with each step. I thought you were dead. I thought…”

She saw tears flood his eyes before spilling out, leaving marks on the pillowcase. She wiped one away with the pad of her thumb.

“It’s not fair, you know,” she said. “I just found you, we just admitted our feelings, and everything has been so…hard since we got here. This land has not been kind to you and me, has it?”

“Tadpoles, orbs, curses, gods and goddesses, giant brains - it feels like we’ve been doomed from the start, my love.” He looked at her as if he were counting each freckle sprayed across her cheeks, committing every gold fleck in her eyes and every small crease in her skin to memory. His brow furrowed again as he smoothed her hair, tucking loose strands back into her twisted ponytail.

“I almost did it, you know,” he said quietly. “Mystra’s demand. It called to me so strongly when I saw the Elder Brain, it felt like it consumed every fiber of my being. It was as if the Weave itself was shaping into a dagger aimed at my chest, ready to strike. Something inside me whispered that this was the only way, that no matter what I thought I might do, nothing else would end the Absolute. It had to be done.”

“Mystra was wrong,” she said, defiant against the will of the gods, as always.

“She was. I know that now.”

“We are not doomed. If we make it through this, we will be able to weather anything, I think,” she smiled at him. “And we will make it through this. Together. There’s something out there we’re not thinking of, I know it.”

She thought she saw his eyes flash for a split second before he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her tightly to him, as if he couldn’t bear to have any space between them. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat - thump thump, thump thump, thump thump. Real. She would fight to make sure she could fall asleep to this sound every night for the rest of their lives.

“I love you, Gale,” she whispered, her eyes growing heavy as sleep finally began to take hold.

“I love you, Ora. Never leave me,” he whispered back, using his magic to snuff out the candlelight in the room before falling asleep.

"Never."

[sulkybender]

the poem of you: a Zukka fic

tags: established relationship, hurt Sokka, hurt/comfort, Sokka has OCD, loving and protective Zuko, modern au

He finds Sokka curled on the floor next to the bed and his heart falls.

He always looks like he’s trying to make a shell with his body, a shell against the world he doesn’t have. 

Zuko gets down on his knees, touches his back. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, and Sokka starts to cry. Zuko covers him with his body, protection. The soft weight of Sokka crying underneath, the raggedness of his breath. 

“I’m here,” Zuko says, kissing the back of his neck, that vulnerable place, the short hairs delicate under his touch. “Baby, I’m right here.”

“It’s bad,” he weeps, inarticulate. 

“I know,” Zuko says. “I know. I love you.”

He curls around Sokka and tries, so hard, to protect him. 

—

Sometimes the thoughts are bad; they don’t relent. It’s like being kicked in the head, Sokka tells him, by the same thought over and over. 

Fuckup. 

Fuckup. 

Fuckup. 

He helps Sokka from the floor and tries to be gentle with him. Zuko spoons him in bed, pressing kisses to his hands. His whole body is stiff, delayed, fighting an infection from within. And the infection is Sokka, and the infection is killing Sokka. Or trying its best. 

“I love you so much,” Zuko says, arms slipping around his waist, snug. “You’re my baby, you know that? You’re my turtleduck.”

Sokka is cried out, hunched in on himself, hurting. The shakiness of his breath is painful. Zuko wants to take the pain away. It’s always seemed so unfair that he can’t. 

He would do anything for Sokka, but there’s nothing he can do. 

“You want me to tell you about my day?” he asks, and Sokka nods. 

Sokka is the talker—Zuko isn’t the talker—but Zuko can do this, can talk for him, fill the silences that Sokka’s mind would try to fill with unkind things. 

“Hmm, let’s see.” Zuko noses at his ear, nuzzling kisses. “It was a slow day. Did some client research. Ate a shitty croissant.”

He hums, thinking. 

“I wrote poems for a bit.” He can feel Sokka smile a little. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Zuko says. 

He falls into silence again for a while, feeling the soft rise and fall of Sokka’s chest. He’s no good at this, the steady patter, the lull of it. He tries to think of other topics but all he can do is wonder how long Sokka was on the floor. 

“What kind of poems?” 

Sokka’s voice is hoarse. 

“Nothing special.” Zuko kisses the back of his neck. “I wrote them on sticky notes and then I hid them in my desk.” He can feel the little motion that means Sokka is laughing, suppressed. “Yeah, yeah. Go on and say it.”

“Nothing,” Sokka says. 

“It’s never nothing.”

“I just love you,” Sokka says, his voice cracking slightly, and Zuko feels warm all over. He could cry. 

“I love you so much it’s crazy,” he says. He cards his fingers through Sokka’s hair. He wants to take care of Sokka so badly. It’s this ache in him all the time. 

“Were the poems about me?” 

Zuko snorts. 

“I wanna know,” Sokka whines. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says. 

“That’s why you love me.”

He rolls over onto his back, smiling up at Zuko. And the smile is hesitant, his eyes still bright from crying, but he looks so handsome Zuko doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hair spills on the pillow, rich brown flecked with gold. He cradles Sokka’s cheek, thumb stroking the line of his jaw. 

He wants to write about the way Sokka’s hair looks, the way his face looks, the particular tilt of it, the thoughtful way his lips purse. He wants to write about wanting to take care of Sokka. Inadequate: his care, his words for it. 

“I would write such shitty love poems about you,” he says. 

“I’d love that,” Sokka says. 

“I’m sure you would.” He kisses Sokka’s head. “Only the shittiest.”

Sokka gestures, a little beckoning movement, and Zuko lies back in his arms, warm, Sokka’s hand protective on his hip. He can feel the tremor in Sokka’s hand, the exhaustion. He’s exhausted himself with the thoughts in his head, been pummeled by them. He’s pummeled still. 

“You’ll read them to me sometime,” Sokka murmurs. 

“I will not.”

“Someday you’re gonna be a famous poet,” Sokka says. “And then I’ll have to see your poems. There’s no avoiding it.”

He’s tracing circles in Zuko’s hipbone, delicate enough to make Zuko shiver with love. He wants to make Sokka dinner; he wants to wash his hair. He wants to do everything, because he can’t do the one thing, the thing that matters. He wants to fall asleep holding Sokka safe from the world. 

“Can we go on a walk later?” Sokka asks, hesitant. “Just to, um.”

It helps when he’s tired, too tired to think circles around himself. Zuko nuzzles him. “Of course, baby. I’d love to walk with you.”

He feels Sokka slump a little in relief. 

“God, you’re fucking lovely, you know that?” he says. 

And Zuko doesn’t know that, because there’s an infection inside him too, the thing that makes him doubt himself. The thing that makes him write poems on sticky notes and hide them away. 

He takes Sokka’s hand, presses it to his cheek. He’ll write a poem someday about that—the feeling of Sokka’s hand on his cheek. 

But he doesn’t have the words for that now. His words are so much less beautiful than that, such ordinary things. 

“You can always ask me to walk with you,” he says. 

And Sokka smiles like it’s a poem anyway. 

[blue--ingenue]

"Evasive Maneuvers" - Part 3

Read the next part

Summary: You've been in love with Sebastian since the moment you knocked him on his arse on your first day. Entering your sixth year, you finally begin working up the courage to confess your feelings when he suddenly becomes the best Beater Hogwarts has seen in decades - and subsequently becomes the school's most eligible bachelor.

Author's Notes: i'm having so much fun writing soft sweet Sebastian :) which means the next part is, of course, the sweet Garreth- jealous Sebastian chapter. thank you so much for reading, and for your sweet comments! each one is like a little treat i throw to my adhd brain to get it to write more

P.S. - let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist <3

In the days following quidditch tryouts Sebastian’s presence became increasingly sporadic. He had always excelled in academics, and now that Anne was back by his side for their final two years of school he felt that he truly had the time to absorb everything their professors had to offer. Every minute not spent at quidditch was consumed by a steadily-growing list of assignments. Well, almost every minute. Despite his packed schedule he always found a way to spend time with you. Whether it was a rushed breakfast before his first lecture or a stroll among the stacks at the library, you never went more than a few hours without his presence.

You were just buttering a vanilla scone and chatting with Natty when you heard the familiar cadence of his footfalls. Your cheeks reddened immediately and whatever you two had been chatting about flew in one ear and out the other. Natty noticed your change in posture, took one glance at Sebastian’s approaching form, and gave you a conspiratorial wink before getting up to leave. You shot her a grateful smile as she gathered her books in her arms and took off. She knew you’d fill her in on all the details later.

“Good morning, Natty,” Sebastian greeted as they passed each other. She glanced between the two of you before replying, “Indeed it is.” Sebastian plopped onto the bench next to you and you turned to face him, scone laying forgotten on your plate. His hair was damp, as though he’d just showered, and you pushed away the thoughts that spread a certain warmth through your chest and up to your cheeks. His brown eyes glittered as morning sun streamed through the stained glass windows and highlighted flecks of gold. You smiled as you looked him up and down before once again picking up your abandoned breakfast.

“What?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. You allowed your affection to slip into your smile as you tilted your head. “Nothing, it’s just good to see you,” you replied easily. Sebastian’s popularity had skyrocketed since joining the quidditch team. You were happy for him, to be sure, but the gaggle of girls that sat through his practices and trailed after him in the halls ignited a jealousy in you that you had never felt before. All this culminated in you upping your flirting with Sebastian. He responded in kind, and your back-and-forth banter pulled on your heartstrings with an unbearable ferocity. He had been play-flirting with you since the day you met, but you hadn’t the courage to reciprocate until after he’d taken the fall for you in the Restricted Section. While you meant every word, it was clear that flirting for him was as natural as breathing. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing his friendship if you decided to tell him the truth. At least for now you could almost pretend that he meant every flirtatious wink, grin, and suggestive whisper he shot your way.

Sebastian hummed in a tone that indicated he knew she was holding something back, but he didn’t press on. “You see me every day,” he commented as he ladled porridge into a bowl. He dumped a generous helping of sugar into the mix before spooning some into his mouth. A fleck of porridge stuck on the corner of his mouth and you laughed. You leaned close to him and adopted the most demure voice you could muster. You traced a finger from his cheek to the offending bit of breakfast and swiped it off with the tip of your finger. 

 “I do,” you whispered. “And each time is just as delightful as the last,” you retreated back to your spot, but not before licking the porridge from your index finger with a deft swipe of your tongue. You held his gaze for a second more before bursting into a fit of giggles. A few moments later you glanced back at him, expecting a mirror image of your own amusement, but Sebastian wasn’t laughing. In fact, he seemed petrified. If it weren’t for the scarlet flush in his cheeks, you’d have suspected someone had hexed him when you weren’t looking.

“Seb?” you asked, now genuinely concerned. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Instinctively you placed the back of your hand upon his forehead before placing your palm against his cheek. 

“You’re burning up! Did you wear that extra scarf I told you to wear to practice last night? Have you caught a cold?” you fretted. He swallowed and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, coloring his soft lips a plush red. You couldn’t stop your gaze from drifting down to his lips. Involuntarily, you shuddered. Mortified, you were about to jerk your hand away when he caught you by the wrist. His grip was firm, yet gentle and you suddenly realized how close the two of you had drifted. 

“Yes, I- I’m quite…” he was hoarse, voice trailing off as his eyes darkened. You were bewildered. You couldn’t have moved even if you had wanted to. As though someone had snapped their fingers and pulled him from a trance, he seemed to remember himself. He dropped your hand and your heart stuttered at the sudden loss of contact. He straightened his back and cleared his throat. Whatever mood had possessed him was gone in an instant. “I have something for you,” he declared.

You plastered on a fake smile and scooted back, keeping a healthy distance between the both of you. “Oh?” He reached into his robes and pulled out a familiar blue and brown box. Despite the fading ache in your heart, you grinned. You accepted it gratefully and tore into the packaging, catching the chocolate frog before it could make good on its jump.

“When did you have time to stop by Honeydukes? I thought practice ended just before curfew last night,” you questioned before taking a bite and sighing contentedly. Sebastian watched you with a fond smile. 

“I flew by Hogsmeade after Imelda dismissed us. I’ve gotten a lot better at sneaking past the prefects in Central Hall since our little escapade in fifth year,” he grinned. You picked up the card tucked into the bottom of the box. A miniature captain of the Pride of Portree stood proudly, her arms crossed and broom propped up next to her. You held out the card for him to inspect. 

“I reckon I’ll be seeing your pretty face on one of these in a few seasons,” you teased. Sebastian preened, puffing out his chest and running a hand through his curls. “You think I’m pretty?” he grinned. You rolled your eyes.

“Pretty insufferable,” you responded. This banter was much easier. No room for misinterpretation or wishful thinking. He perked up, hand flying to his other pocket.

“I almost forgot! I got you something else, too,” he exclaimed. A few moments later his fist curled around something you couldn’t quite make out. His earlier blush had returned with a vengeance and he seemed almost…sheepish? He coughed nervously. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. You obliged. Your heart was thumping like a runaway rabbit. So loud was the heartbeat in your ears that you almost believed the boy next to you could hear it. He gently unfurled your right hand and dropped something light and metallic into it. “Alright, you can look,” he said.

You opened your eyes and looked at the small gift. It was a necklace. A delicate silver chain slipped between your fingers and shone in the sunlight. In your palm, secured to the chain, was a crystal. It was rough-cut and encased in elegantly looping silver. You could have sworn it was changing colors with every turn of your palm. You squinted, inspecting the pendant closely. The swirls reminded you of something. “It almost looks like - ”

“Your ancient magic,” he finished. With deft fingers he stood, took the necklace from your open palm, and secured it behind your neck. “Well, the symbol, anyway,” he said quietly. He was rubbing the back of his neck and hadn’t yet met your eyes. You didn’t realize you’d been grinning until your cheeks started to ache. 

“I bought it from a traveling merchant as I was leaving Honeydukes,” he explained. You gazed down fondly at the little crystal as he began rambling. “It’s a ‘mood necklace.’ Not like one of those muggle trinkets, mind you. This one actually changes colors to match your mood.”

He noticed you still hadn’t said anything and went on, “Not that there’s anything wrong with muggles! I know you came from a muggle orphanage before coming here. If you don’t like it, I could always return it. Or, er, I’m not sure the merchant will still be there, but-”

“Sebastian!” you cut him off with a laugh. “I love it,” you assured him. He grinned, his relief palpable as his shoulders visibly released the tension he’d been holding.

“I mean, I knew you would,” he said, chin tilted up with a confidence that was so typically Sebastian. You turned the crystal, trying to catch the moment it flickered from color to color. 

“What moods do each of the shades correspond to?” you wondered aloud. His gaze flickered away from yours as he replied, “I’ve no idea. The merchant gave me a bit of parchment that explained each of the colors, but I must have lost it on the flight back.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “Either way, thank you. Sebastian. It’s truly beautiful.”

“Yes,” he breathed. Your gaze flickered to his, and for a moment, a fleeting second that felt like forever, his eyes weren’t on the pendant, but on your face. You cleared your throat.

“We should head to Potions,” you said, trying to bury the wanting and wishing feeling you had become all too acquainted with over the past few years. Sebastian nodded, his gaze unreadable, and gathered both of your books before leading the way to your first class.

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Taglist: @snickette, @findingtruenorth23, @plooloo, @paganicher, @smilesworldsposts, @snoozebun

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Rusty | Chapter 3 | S.R

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Chapter Summary - Spencer invites you to stay with the provision you help him out around the ranch before you get a taste for the locals. Spencer’s stubbornness leads to your first fight.

Paring - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - mildly flirty banter, mentions of past addiction and prison, stubborn Spencer, arguing, past violent behaviour, dissociation.

WC - 6.1k

Chapter 3 - I Walk the Line

There was an unfamiliarity between strangers which always set you on the defensive. Strangers were such for a reason and you didn’t often make a habit of them becoming anything more. 

Of course all friends started as strangers, most people in your life had at one point been unknown to you. But there was a fear that came with ageing, an wariness that was ingrained in us for our own self-preservation. 

As children it was no big deal to go and speak to a person you had no prior relation with, but as adults seeking the solace of strangers would be seen as exponentially dangerous. 

Spencer Reid posed little threat to you, that of which you were certain. He was enchantingly awkward, not necessarily shy but definitely uncomfortable talking to people. He was meek and soft spoken, he had a gentle aura for which you felt safe around. He was not intimidating or threatening in any way.

But you exercised your prudence, just in case. It was far better to be safe than sorry and so you kept him at arm's length, dismissed any personal questions or changed the subject onto him. 

In return he was almost as guarded with what information he readily shared. Conversation became a little stifled because you were both clearly trying to keep pieces of yourself under wraps. By the time you were half way between the hospital and his ranch, you were both silently staring out of the window. 

Perhaps hanging around here wasn’t a good idea. It may be a port in the storm but it was abundant that you and Spencer were both determined to keep your cards close to your chests and no matter how safe it might be here, the awkwardness was grating. 

The drive was long and slightly arduous and you were relieved when you pulled into the dirt road that led up to his ranch. You parked the car more or less where you had last night and killed the engine. 

You turned to Spencer and he to you, a look of what could only be described as embarrassment on his features. You inhaled sharply and shook your head.

“You need help inside, right?” Your tone was laced with irritation.

“It wasn’t that.” He puckered his lips. “I, uh, realised I have no particularly edible food in my fridge aside from some butter and some take out that I’m fairly certain would make me ill if I dared to eat it.” 

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“You really are relying on that kindness of strangers thing.” You baulked. 

“In case it wasn’t perfectly clear, I am all alone out here and I don’t own a car. I know I’m asking a lot of you, but it really would be a huge favour and I would owe you so many in return.” He looked pleading at you and there was something about that look that was nigh on impossible to say no to.

In the light of day he was somehow more handsome than you’d thought him last night. His face was sculpted of sharp lines and angles, there was a part of you that had an urge to reach out and touch his stubbly, carved jaw. His eyes were even more fervent now, looking at you with profound concentration. The little flecks of gold still shimmered like they had last night.

You hadn’t noticed in the dark the purple-black circles under his eyes making him look as though he hadn’t slept a day in his life. They had small crinkles in the corners, and more laugh lines around his mouth when he smiled.

You would assume him to be pushing forty but he still had a boyish look to his features. He was pretty in an understated kind of way, maybe not the kind of man to turn heads wherever he went but you were sure he got plenty of attention in his own right. 

You pulled a face, snapping yourself out of your thoughts and huffing once again.

“I told you, I really am in a hurry and this whole saga has set me back already.” You drummed your fingers on your thigh.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” His brow furrowed curiously.

“Here and there.” You shrugged. 

“Look I am happy for you to stay a little while longer because I get the impression you’re not actually in a rush at all. If you were you wouldn’t have stayed as long as you had. I have the space, I’m out here all alone and to be honest I could probably use some help around here while I’m healing.” He wet his lip with his tongue, your eyes were drawn to it like a magnet. 

“I, uh…” You looked back to his eyes, ignoring the way your stomach coiled. “You’re suggesting I help you around your ranch?” 

“Not for nothing of course. Like I say I can offer you a room and I can keep you fed.” He shrugged again, flexing the fingers poking out of his cast a little. 

“I’m from the city, I know nothing about being a rancher.” You sat back in your seat. 

“It’s all fairly simple stuff, just cleaning out the animals, taking the horses out and some-”

“Whoa no, see you lost me at taking the horses out.” You cut him off. “Taking them out as in…” 

“Riding them.” He chuckled. 

“Not gonna happen.” You reached into your pocket for your smokes whilst opening the window. You lit one without even asking if he minded. 

“I struggled at first but once you get the hang of it, it’s just like…riding a bike I guess.” He used his good hand to waft to smoke out of his face before turning and opening the passenger’s window. 

A breeze fluttered through the car, sending the smoke spiralling out of the window and thankfully out of Spencer’s face. 

“They aren’t the kind of stallions I usually like to have between my thighs, if you know what I mean.” You smirked around the cigarette and sent a wink his way. 

Spencer noticeably tensed. Your unexpected words and mildly flirtatious tone smacked him around the face and sent all the blood in his body rushing south like a waterfall. 

He clenched his jaw, shifting in his seat again and thankful his hat was still cradled in his lap. He could feel his cheeks pinken, his embarrassment and discomfort evident. 

A slight stirring in his groin, nothing ordinarily of note except for the fact it was the most excitement that appendage had shown since - 

“What’s wrong, Spence? What’s happening? Why aren’t you, uh…aren’t you enjoying this?” 

- Prison. 

Thoughts coalesced inside his brain, many thoughts which were particularly unwanted at the best of times let alone now. At least it still worked, he considered morbidly. 

“I, uh,” he croaked. “Duly noted.” 

You tried to hide the smile on your face by taking another drag on the cigarette. His reddening cheeks were utterly adorable. 

“I’ll take you to get some groceries but as for the ranch work…” you steered the conversation back on track. 

“What is it exactly you’re running away from?” His words surprised you and it was your turn to tense up. 

“E-excuse me?” You stuttered, cigarette wobbling precariously between your fingers. 

“It takes one to know one.” He shrugged. “How do you think I ended up out here?” 

You took another shaky drag and puffed the smoke out of your mouth while you contemplated this. In the distance with the radio shut off, you could hear the same shuffling from the stables you’d heard last night. 

“What were you running from?” You turned it back on him. 

“A series of poor life choices.” His lip turned up at the corner. “You?” 

“Much the same.” You agreed. 

“Look, Y/N, I’m not gonna sit here and beg you or anything because I still have at least a fragment of my dignity intact. But it would be a huge help for me if you stuck around a little while. I can teach you everything about horses and cattle and you’ll have a place to rest your head at night. It’s safe out here, whatever it is you’re running from won’t find you here.” He punctuated his sentence with a heavy sigh through his nose. 

You closed your eyes and puffed on the cigarette. You knew he was right, you’d felt that wave of safety wash over you last night and it was still blanketing you now. 

But if you stayed, even for a short time, were you putting this man in danger? What if it did find you and not only you suffered but this kind and handsome stranger? 

Mexico was just in your sights, so close yet just out of reach. There was nothing waiting for you there except a long and lonely existence. Here though, in this slice of seclusion on Spencer’s ranch, you could at the very least have basic companionship. 

And god knows he clearly needed that. 

Taking another long puff on the cigarette, maybe in an attempt to make him sweat a little, you opened your eyes as you exhaled the smoke. Spencer was watching you expectantly, drumming the fingers of his good hand against his thigh in anticipation. 

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, puckering your lips. “I’ll stay. But just until you can do all this stuff for yourself again. Not a second longer.” 

Spencer breathed out in relief. He told himself it was because it would be almost impossible for him to look after this place by himself but he knew that wasn’t the full story. 

He knew that despite his instant attraction towards you, things couldn’t develop beyond simple friendship. He was acutely aware that even after all this time he wasn’t ready to venture into anything deeper than that, specifically things of a physical nature. 

Some things just can’t be undone and unfortunately for him he’d suffered one of those very things. It didn’t matter how many years had past, there would never be enough distance between himself and his trauma. 

But he still liked the idea of you staying for a simple comfort. A friend, or even just a companion might ease his troubled mind, might aid in quelling the demons he’d travelled halfway across the country to out run. 

But they never truly left, they were always there lurking in the shadows. Maybe you could shine a little light on them, banish them for even just a short while. 

“Thank you.” He replied much meeker than he’d meant to. 

You shrugged as if it was no big deal, turning in your seat and flicking the cigarette out of the window. You started the engine again with little notice. 

“Right then, point me in the direction of your hick town general store.” 

***

Bandera General Store was, for all intents and purposes, exactly as you imagined it to be.

Its wooden blue facade was wearing slightly, in need of a good lick of paint. Inside it sold everything from groceries to souvenirs to cowboy boots and books. 

Tucked away inside the front door was a sign meant to attract tourists. It informed you the store was built in the early nineteen hundreds and still had its original wood floors and tin ceilings. It had previously been a movie theatre, saddle shop and feed store. 

Supposedly during the prohibition era caskets were sold from the basement and cowboys would drink beer and play cards on the empty drums. 

It promoted a fully functional nineteen fifties ice cream fountain, only one of eleven in the state of Texas. And aside from their town library, Bandera General Store was the only place in town to get books. 

Honestly it was all a little too stereotypical for your liking. 

You stood out like a sore thumb, like a horse in a field of cattle. Patrons and workers offered you curious sideways expressions while Spencer simply waved amicably to them. 

He didn’t speak to anyone, just waved or occasionally nodded with the brim of his hat. He certainly knew these people in passing but not well enough to talk to them. 

You pushed the cart while Spencer limped by your side, cradling his arm against his chest. He filled the cart with essentials, but nothing that required a concerted effort to cook. You would soon come to learn that was because, despite the fact he’d lived alone since he was a teenager, he had no idea how to cook. 

He bypassed the liquor shelves but you did a one-eighty and circled back. You grabbed a bottle of scotch and dropped it into the cart, tucking it away between a carton of milk and a box of cereal. 

You hurried to catch up to Spencer who was perusing the collection of riding boots with a keen eye. He heard the cart cluttering closer and glanced at you briefly. 

“What size do you wear?” He asked, looking back at the array of boots. 

“In cowboy boots? Size absolutely never gonna happen.” You scoffed. 

“You can’t ride a horse in sneakers.” He scoffed, tipping his hat at you. 

The more he talked the more you could tell he wasn’t from the south. It hadn’t struck you as odd at first until you’d heard other voices in the store. 

Spencer’s accent you couldn’t quite place, but it didn’t certainly didn’t fit in in the Deep South. 

“I don’t want to ride a horse full stop.” You clipped back. 

“You said you’d help right?” He tilted his head in your direction. “Part of that helping is taking my horses out. And to do that you need the proper footwear.” 

“Goddamnit.” You grumbled with a shake of your head.

“Are there any you like the look of?” 

“No.” 

“I like these ones.” He plucked a fire engine red pair with blue stitching off of the shelf and mused over them. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” You shook your head again. 

“What size do you take?” He asked you again. 

With a sigh and a groan you told him nonetheless. It seemed easier than fighting with him and drawing attention to yourself. 

He rifled through the display for your size before finding a boxed pair near the back. Checking inside briefly to ensure it was the garish red pair, he closed the lid and with a smile deposited them in the cart. 

By the time you reached the checkout he was limping really fitfully, grimacing as he went. Each step seemed to cause his face to contort further, creasing and puckering until he had to lean against the cart to keep himself up right. 

You didn’t want to fuss over him, noticing the way his cheeks reddened slightly in his embarrassment so instead you started unloading the cart onto the small conveyor belt. 

“Hey Cosmo,” the elderly lady behind the counter glanced up over her crescent moon glasses. “You got a little hitch in your giddy up?” 

“Oh, no it’s nothing.” Spencer waved a dismissive hand, his one good hand. 

“You look awful worse for wear.” She pulled a face whilst she started ringing up the items and bagging them. 

She had a sweet southern lilt, kind eyes and she was clearly concerned for Spencer. 

You looked between the two of them in mild confusion at the strange nickname she’d bestowed upon him. He must have heard it before because he didn’t seem perturbed by it. 

“Shoulda seen the other guy.” He forced a laugh, pushing himself back up straight. “I’m fine, honestly. Thanks though.” 

He shuffled to the end of the belt in time to see the bottle of scotch make its way through. He shot you a look as it was being bagged and you offered him a shrug of response. 

“And who might your pretty lady friend be, Cosmo? Never seen ya with company before.” She tittered, smirking wildly between the two of you. 

“Uh,” Spencer furrowed his brow, looking to you for an answer. 

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Parker. Cosmo here is my lover.” You teased and Spencer turned exactly twenty shades of red. 

“Friends, we’re friends.” He was quick to correct. “She has a particularly abhorrent sense of humour.” 

The woman blinked at Spencer several times, clearly not quite understanding but nonetheless shrugged and continued her work. 

“Ain’t one to judge honey-pie.” She sighed wistfully. “In my day I was a regular harlot.” 

You almost cackled at the mere thought but managed to cover it with a cough and turned your face away from the elderly woman. 

Spencer was now at least ten extra shades of red. 

“Uh, good to know.” He nodded with a tight lipped smile. 

Conversation gratefully waned and the old lady rang everything up and Spencer paid while you transferred the bags back to the cart. She sent him on his way with a take care of yourself and he returned the gesture with a tip of his hat. 

He started outside and you followed, watching the way he had to stop briefly after every few steps. You pushed the cart to the car and insisted he get inside and sit down, no matter how much he wanted to argue that he would help. 

Eventually he relented and got in the car while you deposited the bags in the trunk and returned the cart. 

He wouldn’t make eye contact when you got in the car, staring out the window instead. You started the engine and pulled away from the curb in silence. 

He was flexing the fingers poking out of his cast and his other hand was circled around his knee. Even out of the corner of your eye you could see his winces of pain. 

It was obvious to you he wasn’t used to asking for help and wasn’t comfortable having people see him in pain. He’d asked you to stay but you could tell his resolve in that decision was waning. 

He was trying to put on a brave front but his demeanour was a clear sign he was uncomfortable with this. 

His shoulders were tense and his brow was deeply creased. He was deep in thought, desperately trying to hide how much pain he was in and failing. 

You got about a mile or so down the road before you glanced at him again and huffed out a breath. 

“So, Cosmo?” 

His head practically whipped around to face you, his lips parting slightly as he exhaled. 

“Uh, yeah,” he wrinkled his nose. “Short for Cosmopolitan. City slickers stick out around here. When I first came to town I reeked of the city apparently.” 

“City boy, huh?” You nodded to yourself. 

“Originally Las Vegas but before I came here I was living in DC since my early twenties.” He gnawed on his bottom lip. That would explain The Washington Post on his coffee table. “How about you? You said you’re a city girl.” 

He noticed the way your hands tightened a little on the steering wheel. He had already sensed your reclusive nature, the way in which you weren’t comfortable sharing facets of yourself with just anyone. Information was privileged and you regarded who you shared that information with readily. 

Whatever demons you might be running from contributed to your closed off sensibility and he wondered if you might even begrudge him the simplest knowledge of knowing where you were from. 

You sat back against the chair, eyes no longer flickering over to him but remaining firm out of the window. Your chest heaved slightly with your breaths and the furrow of your brow told him you were weighing up your options. 

Eventually your grip loosened a little on the wheel but when you spoke, you spoke quietly.

“New York.” You muttered. 

Spencer watched the side of your face, even after all this time he was unable to stop himself falling into old patterns of reading behaviour. He didn’t think you were lying, he was sure of it in fact. 

“Why do you do that?” Your voice startled him a little.

“Do what?” He frowned. 

You hit your blinker and were soon taking the right turn off the road onto the dirt path that led to his ranch.

“Study me, like you’re trying to read me.” You remembered the behavioural books you’d seen on his bookshelves. 

“Force of habit.” He spoke without meaning to.

As the car jolted along the uneven track, you glanced at him briefly.

“What does that mean?” You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “What exactly did you do in DC?” 

Spencer swallowed around his dry tongue, ignoring a pang that spiralled through his knee at a particular dip in the road. Soon you were rolling the car to a stop near his lodge and cutting the engine. You turned to face him. 

There was no way he was telling you the truth. Spencer liked it out here where no one knew who he was or where he came from. Down here he wasn’t the son of a schizophrenic, his father hadn’t abandoned him. He wasn’t a former drug addict or convict. 

He wasn’t SSA Spencer Reid, or Doctor Spencer Reid. He was just Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid and his horses and his cattle living on his small slice of paradise. 

“I was a professor.” He answered, knowing he was still able to control his expression so as not to give away the lie. “Psychology.” 

Ah, that would explain those sweater vests, you thought to yourself.

“Big leap from professor to cowboy.” You smirked a little at him. 

“What about you?” He ignored your sentiment. “What do you do?” 

“This and that.” You shrugged, suddenly turning and swinging the car door open. “You need a hand getting out?” 

Spencer watched in mild confusion as you got out of the car and closed the door. He shook his head, not surprised you hadn��t willinging given any more information over. He opened his own door slowly and carefully.

“I’m fine,” he replied, internalising a groan that wanted to escape when he manoeuvred his legs out of the car and onto the ground. 

Using his one good hand he braced it against the bucket of the seat and used all of his strength to push himself to standing so he didn’t have to put an unnecessary weight on his knee. This time the groan erupted and from where you were standing at the trunk you came rushing to his side.

“Stop, stop,” you fussed. “Let me help you.”

You reached for him, hand brushing against his arm but no sooner had you come into contact, Spencer flinched and pulled his arm out of your reach as though you’d burned him.

“I said I’m fine.” He spat harshly, stubbornly pushing past you and starting to limp towards his lodge. 

Ignoring his grumbles and groans of pains and the fact he had to stop every few steps was hard even though he was a virtual stranger. You didn’t want to see him in pain but it was becoming evident he wasn’t willing to show weakness around you. 

You couldn’t help but replay in your mind the way he’d flinched when you touched him. The brief look he’d given you as he’d pulled his arm away was one of terror but had only lasted a fraction of a second. 

You recalled the medication in his bathroom cabinet. Paroxetine. Used for treating depression, OCD, panic attacks, anxiety and…

…PTSD. 

Post-traumatic stress disorder could explain his aversion to unprovoked physical touch. You’d had your suspicion when he’d told you he had been a professor that it wasn’t the truth. 

Perhaps he was a vet. Perhaps he’d been in the army in a former life and was dealing with the aftermath of serving for his country. 

It would explain his desire to isolate himself, his flinching at your touch. The medication. 

Whatever it was, Spencer Reid was an enigma. And you were sure if he had his way, he would remain as much. 

You watched him struggling with the steps up to his lodge, fighting back the urge to help as he leaned almost all of his weight against the bannister. 

Instead you focused yourself on gathering the bags from the trunk. You cradled them in your arms and by the time you caught up with him he’d only just managed to get the door unlocked. 

You followed him inside and placed the groceries on the breakfast bar next to the old coffee mug and even older phone. 

He removed his stetson and denim shirt, hanging the former up on a hook by the door and tossing the latter over the arm of the couch. 

His white t-shirt was stained with dirt and mud. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair before turning towards the bags on the counter. 

Before he could start unpacking them, the phone caught his eye. He picked it up and leaned back against the counter while tapping a few buttons. 

His throat dried out as he looked at the text message that was waiting for him. It was time stamped late last night. You watched the way the light in his eyes dimmed, the way he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip before rolling it between his teeth. His brows furrowed in a look of concern. 

He opened the message, despite his better judgement. 

📲 Luke Alvez: Hey man, haven’t heard from you in a while and wanted to check in. Penelope says she’s been trying to call you over the last week but you haven’t been answering. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. I know I’m not exactly on the list of people you want to talk to, but can you at least let me know you’re okay? Let someone know you’re okay. 

His lips moved in tiny fractions as he read the words on his screen but you couldn’t ascertain what he was mouthing. His grip on the device was tight, his knuckles white. 

“What’s up?” Your voice snapped his attention away from the device and he looked at you in slight shock as though he’d forgotten you were there. 

He locked the phone and slid it into his pocket with a shake of his head. 

“Nothing just…a message from a, uh, friend.” He swallowed thickly, turning away from you and starting to empty one of the bags with one hand.

“Nuh uh, that’s not the face you pull when a ‘friend’ texts you.” You chuckled, sidling up to him. 

His back straightened, you noticed a brief flare of his nostrils. 

“It’s…complicated okay? I don’t wanna talk about it.” You shook you off. 

He fumbled with the milk carton, almost allowing it to slip through his hand. You managed to reach out and take it from him without touching him again. You set it on the counter.

“I can handle a few groceries, Spencer. Why don’t you go lay down or something?” 

“I’m not five years old.” He barked with an over exaggerated roll of his eyes. 

“I didn’t say you were. But unpacking groceries is not a two person job so why don’t you rest up for a bit?” You remained softened, not wanting to bite back.

“I need to feed the horses.” 

“Well we can do that together once I’m done here.” You exhaled. “If you don’t want to rest, how about taking a shower? You’re kinda filthy.”

He glanced down at his body now, seemingly forgetting that fact. You noticed something falter in his eyes and you had a pretty good guess what it was. You’d seen his shower, it was over the tub just like in his spare cabin. Getting into it wouldn’t be an easy feat with his injuries.

“You need me to help you?” 

Once again his eyes shot up to you and there was a flash of terror behind them again.

“What? No!” He shook his head, his tone incredulous. 

“You think I’ve never seen a naked man before, Spencer?” You cocked an eyebrow and put your hand on your hip. 

“You…I…I can shower just fine.” He spat. “The doctor gave me a sleeve thing to go over my cast. I’ll be fine.”

“Say it one more time and I might believe you.” You rolled your eyes.

“What?” 

“I’m fine, I’ll be fine.” You did a pretty poor imitation of him. 

His jaw tightened, clearly not impressed by it. 

“I can shower by myself. And I don’t appreciate your teasing. This is my home. I invited you into my home, the least you can do is show me some respect.” He growled at you. 

No, no way. This jagoff doesn’t get to talk to me like that when I’m doing him a favour! 

“You invited me into your home to help you, asshole! Which is what I’m trying to do but for some reason you won’t let me.” You crossed your arms over your chest. 

“I wanted your help with my animals. I don’t need you treating me like an invalid and trying to wrap me in cotton wool! I’m not a child, goddamnit.” 

“Well you’re certainly acting like one!” You bit back. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?” He tried to fold his own arms to mirror you but it was cumbersome due to his cast. 

“A grouch?” It was the nicest of things you could have said. 

“Excuse me?” He scoffed. 

“I just want to know what to expect if I’m going to be staying here. Are you always like this? Will I constantly have to walk on eggshells around you? Or are you just being an asshole because you’re in pain?” 

His back straightened again at the same time as his jaw tightening. His eyes turned darker, it was slightly intimidating. He squared his shoulders and once again his nostrils flared. He wasn’t of a thick build but he was tall, much taller than you and he was using his height to unnerve you. 

“You can go now.” He spoke relatively calmly given how angry he felt. 

“I’m sorry?” Your face contorted in bewilderment. 

“You can go. I don’t need you here, I’m going to be just f-”

“If you say you’re fine one more goddamn time, I swear to god!” You cut him off, your voice raising a few decibels. 

“Get out.” He shook his head, sounding less angry and more fed up. 

“With pleasure.” You spat back, unfurling your arms from across your chest and turning on the heels of your sneakers. 

You didn’t turn back. You didn’t take one last look at him or anything of the sort. You stormed towards the door and flung it open with such force it swung against its hinges. Your footsteps on the stairs were heavy as you descended them. 

You still didn’t turn back, despite the fact you could feel his eyes piercing into the back of your head. You kept walking, slid into the driver’s seat of your car and within seconds he heard the engine scream to life. 

And you still didn’t look back when you reversed the car, turning in a quick and tight circle. Once facing the road you slammed your foot on the accelerator and sent a flurry of gravel and sand flying behind you as you peeled off down the dirt road. 

Spencer felt the anger rising in a bubble in his stomach. He’d never been an angry person, he was always so passive even in light of his countless traumas. 

But prison had brought out a side of him that he’d managed to keep contained his entire life. A part of him that had always hidden just beneath the surface but had never been facilitated. His inner Hulk, that’s what his therapist had named it. Spencer liked things to be named, it helped him make sense of them.

His inner Hulk had been dormant his entire life up until he was arrested in Mexico. What those men did to him on the inside unleashed that beast that he’d kept under lock and key up until then. 

The first time he let that Hulk out was when he held Cat Adams by the throat as he shoved her against the wall of the interrogation room. He’d hoped it was just a one time thing, he was on edge and his mother was missing. 

He stemmed it for months after, but eventually the Hulk appeared again. And this time that anger had been entirely misdirected. 

“What’s wrong, Spence? What’s happening? Why aren’t you, uh…aren’t you enjoying this?” The other man looked at him with a sadness in his eyes and Spencer felt his gut coiling into knots.

“I, uh, I just…I’m not ready.” He suddenly shot up from the couch. 

The other man stared at him through hooded eyes, his lips puffy from their intense make out session. 

“It’s okay,” the other man cooed. “We don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry if I rushed you.”

He stood up too and came closer to Spencer. He placed his hands gently on the younger man's shoulders but Spencer wouldn’t make eye contact with him. 

“Spence?” The man whispered. “Did something…did they do something to you in prison?” 

A flash of something indiscernible in Spencer’s eyes and then suddenly - 

“Don’t touch me!” Spencer spat, shoving the other man roughly by the chest. “And don’t talk to me about that place.” 

“Spencer?” The man sucked in a breath. “You know you can tell me anything. This is a safe space, baby.” 

When the hand came towards him, Spencer felt that bubble of anger in his stomach. It rapidly spread up his chest, down his extremities. Before the hand could touch him again, Spencer reacted without much thought behind it.

He was surprisingly swift when he wanted to be and he circled his hand around the wrist of the hand that was edging near him. He gripped it tightly and in one quick move he was able to spin the arm, and the man it was attached to, pinning the arm against his back.

The other man groaned in pain, at the twisting in his shoulder blade, at the nails digging into the skin of his wrist. 

“S-Spencer,” he stuttered. “What are you doing?” 

“I told you not to touch me.” He gave the arm another tug, the other man wincing. 

“I’m s-sorry,” the other man sniffed. “Please, I won’t do it again.” 

Somewhere in Spencer’s brain a light seemed to turn on and he snapped back around. He blinked several times in quick succession as his arm fell to his side, letting go of the other man.

He stumbled backwards, staring at his hand as if it were an alien appendage. His heart thrummed violently against his chest. What had just happened? One minute the hand had been reaching for him and the next Spencer was holding that hand hostage by the mans own back. 

The other man turned to him cautiously, a look of fear apparent in his eyes. He’d never looked at him in the same way again.

To this day Spencer couldn’t remember giving the command to act with such force towards the man who had only ever loved him. A combination of time and therapy had helped him understand what had happened and even though this was given a name, it was one time he’d rather it was unknown. 

He’d dissociated. For less than a minute in time his brain detached itself from reality and his trauma had acted on his behalf. 

He’d acted on compulsion, the way in which he’d wanted to be able to fend off the unwanted touches before but didn’t have the compunction to at the time. 

The rage bubble, the Hulk, the dissociation. The symptoms were treated by his medication but they were still a part of him. Pieces of what made him who he was. 

Part of the reason he’d moved out here was to keep others away. But it also served the purpose of keeping himself away from others. 

He no longer trusted his own actions. If he could become violent towards someone he loved, who was to say he couldn’t be that way with anyone? 

And he’d invited you into his home. He’d put you in danger by asking you to stay. For two years he hadn’t had a violent outburst but that was only because he’d isolated himself, kept himself locked away where he couldn’t hurt anyone else. 

He closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his good hand at his side. When he felt the bubble of anger rising, he was to close his eyes and count to ten. 

He did as his therapist taught him, slowly but surely feeling the anger start to calm. He hadn’t taken his medication. He needed to. But the moment he opened his eyes again the rage came flooding back like a tsunami and before he could even take a single step, his mind divorced itself from reality and he spiralled into the abyss. 

@andiebeaword @muffin-cup @measure-in-pain @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @thebloomingeagle @kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3

[sailtomarina]

I don’t want to be alone right now

fred weasley & hermione granger | friendship, fluff

He found her huddled in the garden, the curls a stark difference from the hydrangeas and rhododendrons flanking her on both sides. Ugly, gasping sobs rent the otherwise still space. It wasn’t yet midday, but rather that brief break after the morning bird calls and just before the afternoon drone of insects.

Fred didn’t know what had compelled him to walk out the back door. Call it a sixth sense, or whatever else. There was a tug; he followed.

Now, he stood watching her. Hermione. 

What is she doing here? he thought. Why is she crying?

Fred’s first impulse was to hunt down his baby brother and drag him outside. Surely he was the cause of all this, or, at the very least, knew what had happened. Fred could never figure out what it was that bound the two together aside from–and here, he scoffed–life and death. Without Harry Potter, without Hermione’s propensity to help, help, always help, the two shared very little in common.

He loved Ron, but he also knew Ron was a bit of a dunderhead.

“Hermione?” Crouching down, he tried to keep his voice soft. He didn’t want to scare her off.

She gasped anyway, face jerking up to reveal blotchy skin wet from distress. “F-Fred?”

He held both palms up in an entreaty. “What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”

He knew what her answer would be before she voiced it, because this was Hermione. She’d rather bear all the weight of her troubles until she collapsed rather than burden anybody else. She was like Harry, in that way. Maybe that was where Ron fit in–the only one of the three who sought help, and received their trust in kind.

“No, I-I’m fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have–” Now she stood, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her jumper. Her eyes darted around as if she was ashamed. He could tell she was looking for an avenue of escape.

“Don’t apologise. I come out here, too, sometimes.”

“You do?” There was so much hope in those two words.

“I do.” And he did. 

Of all his siblings, only he and Charlie seemed to take comfort in Mum’s garden. The others would rather sprint off to the fields for Quidditch, or to the orchard to get lost among the trunks and apple-laden branches. He did, as well, but when he wanted quiet–true quiet–he came here.

“Why?”

“It’s one of the only places where nobody thinks to look for me.” Except for George, of course. But George, unlike the rest, knew when to give him space without being told or asked for it. “Is that what you would prefer? For me to give you privacy?”

She chewed on her lip as she seemed to consider him. He observed her back, waiting patiently for her to reply. Moisture still clung to her lashes, framing her dark, gold-flecked eyes and making them appear even larger. They reminded Fred of fire sparks in the night.

“No. I don’t want to be alone right now, even though I did earlier.” The small smile she sent him felt like a win. Her cheeks flushed as he rewarded her with a grin of his own.

Almost shyly, she took his offered hand, biting her lip all the while. She allowed him to lead her over to the stone bench above which wisteria hung with its heavy perfume. She didn’t pull away when he continued to hold on.

“Now, who do I need to go and beat up?”

Her tinkling laughter was a balm that soothed as much as delighted. Fred didn’t know it yet, but this was the start of something lasting and beautiful, a connection that would save him when all seemed lost.

Written for Weasleys, Witches, & Writers 7.19.24 HumpDay prompt, “I don’t want to be alone right now

626 wc

Cross-posted on Facebook and Tumblr

[redhairedmuses]

in which a captain is finally captured by a siren...

I recently commissioned my dear friend, @imrowanartist to create a wonderful piece to really capture this moment in my Pirate/COD AU. Rowan did *such* a wonderful job I was completely awestruck by the final image. Absolutely breathtaking and beautiful.

So, without further adieu, here is an excerpt from my upcoming long-fic, Half a Creature from the Sea.

Stormy blue eyes find brown with flecks of gold and Price is not sure if it is desire or desperation fueling his veins. His heart is already threatening to burst out of his chest. He can feel the hard pounding of it against his ribs. It aches and burns in such a way he's half-tempted to cut it from his chest and present it at Kyle's feet as a sacrifice. 

Perhaps that would satisfy him long enough where these feelings, these desires, would finally leave him. 

How one man, a siren, managed to seduce him in just a few short weeks baffles him. He’s not entirely sure when it changed. When the lines blurred and he found himself wanting Kyle in a way he doesn’t deserve. But now, even as his eyes search for answers in Kyle’s golden eyes, he finds none. In fact, there are no answers to his question. He supposes that it just happened. 

His arm starts to give way, and he no longer has the strength to maintain his composure. He’s lost this battle.

The siren has him. Kyle has him. 

And like a shark smelling blood in the water, Kyle strikes, surging forward and crashing their lips together in a messy tangle of teeth and tongues, and John finds himself sinking under the waves and into the abyss.

He responds to the aggressive nature of the kiss with a quick nip of teeth on Kyle’s bottom lip. Kyle’s answering gasp adds more fuel to the growing fire between them. The air is already thick with tension and now it threatens to crack. He licks into Kyle’s mouth, tasting every inch he’s allowed until his lungs object. He ends the first of many kisses and drops his mouth to Kyle’s exposed collarbone, panting and aching for air. 

"Christ, Kyle," he rasps. He noses at Kyle's collarbone, inhaling the young man's scent again, committing it to memory. "I’m not going to be gentle with you." 

His hands, wrought with so much sin, grip Kyle’s hips, tight like a vice. He presses closer, unable to let the other man go. A hand rests at the back of his neck, steadying, grounding. It squeezes once and he almost sinks to his knees. He takes a breath to right himself. "I’m not–" He hesitates again. Words fail him. He forces himself to look at Kyle despite the gnawing feeling of guilt that curls inside his stomach. 

"I’m not a good man, Kyle," is what he manages to choke out. 

Kyle nods, so easily and accepting. He shouldn't want him, not with all the red in his ledger. "I know." 

"I’m a killer too."

"I’ve seen you in action, Captain. Quite attractive." 

John licks his lips in an effort to hide the smile that threatens to spread. "You deserve a better man than me." 

Kyle’s long fingers drift to grasp him by the chin and holds him steady, forcing him to really look at him. "Let me be the judge of that, John." 

For a moment, John is unsure if he heard Kyle correctly. In just a few simple words, Kyle has laid his heart out. Baring his intentions, his desires. He is unfazed by the killer standing in his boots. 

He knows what he is. He has always known. 

Ferocious. Ruthless. Dangerous. 

He should be soft with Kyle. Gentle. Kind. Kyle deserves that and more. He deserves a better man, but it is clear that the man wants none of that. He’s not afraid of sharp claws and teeth. John briefly forgets that Kyle is a siren too. A creature of legend, and one with a reputation just as deadly as his own. 

A thought looms in the darkest parts of his mind as he draws his eyes to Kyle’s unblemished neck where the faint lines of his gills grace his skin. The marks he is going to leave on this man will be a symbol of his prize. His victory. They will not become a bad memory. He refuses to let that happen. 

John surges forward, capturing Kyle’s lips again, mirroring their first kiss. He crowds the younger man into the door, pinning him there. Teeth clashing, tongues wrestling, and hands seeking out skin. One hand abandons Kyle’s hip, opting to grasp at the back of his neck while the other slides under his loose shirt, grazing against skin. His fingers dig into the meat of Kyle’s neck, just shy of that pressure point he knows will have the other man on his knees for him. Kyle’s hand slips from his chin to fumble at his neck. Those long fingers he’s fantasized about for far too long curl around his neck while the other is clutching his shirt sleeve. 

"Alright there, Gaz?" John asks against Kyle’s lips. He draws back to provide Kyle a reprieve and take in the bewildered and wild look in the siren’s gold eyes. 

Kyle nods, lips swollen from the kisses and bites. "Yeah. I can handle myself. Don’t worry about me, sir." 

John shakes his head briefly before leaning back in and kissing Kyle again, softer this time. "I think you can drop the ‘sir’, now." 

"And I-" Kyle punctuates with another kiss of his own. "Think you like it."

(tbc...)