#it just touches a far part of my heart and itches a part of my brain so deliciously I can’t put it into words only feelings

[enruiinas]

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ They really should have started with this, he reflected in hindsight. Words may not have come easy upon the redhead's surprising arrival, but the language that passed between them when Law's lips pressed against Nami's once more was something no amount of time could take away from them.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Far more than any spoken word might do, the sense of overwhelming relief Nami's body provided as it melded against his was all the answer the surgeon had needed. No, she was not mad at him, and no, he wasn't the only one who'd hoped this moment might happen: Law could feel in every brush of the redhead's lips against his own - some part of her had hoped there might still be a chance of salvaging what had flourished and bloomed between them all those weeks ago. Despite everything that had happened and whatever voices in their heads had tried to tell them it was too much to hope for. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ And yes, (if the way she pressed her nimble frame so eagerly against him were any indication), she did want him here. His mouth glued to her own; his hands to wander elsewhere and map out every change the months had made to the body he'd worshipped so tenderly the last time he had seen it -

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ But as eager as he was to oblige her, tattooed hands nearly itching with the need to explore every inch she was willing to give him, there was some part of the surgeon-in-training, however miniscule, that liked to think he had learned a thing or two from the last time. Things about moving too quickly. About losing one's self in the physical desire for another only to wake up alone a few days later and spend every night that came after wondering if it had ever even mattered in the first place.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Everything inside of him wanted to believe her. That it was more than physical desire or her hormones that had Nami molding herself against him. But as badly as he longed to touch her again, to keep kissing her like this until both were breathless with it, he was going to tear himself away from her. He had already decided - was already dreading the moment he'd talked himself into when he would break from those perfect, plump lips and leave the woman to her shower for both of their best interests.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Because no matter how badly he wanted her, he would take it slower this time. He would be patient because he knew it would be worth it in the end. Just as soon as Nami knew for certain what she wanted, and Law could take her word for it without wondering how much of it came from the hormones wreaking havoc on her body than from genuine affection, it would be worth it to take this slowly--

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ But just as he'd made up his mind to step back from her, Nami broke the kiss for him. Could she feel the way his heart sank in his stomach the second she drew apart from him? Or the way the entire world seemed to come to a sudden, screeching halt when she drew back to tell him the only thing he had ever wanted to hear from her?

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Heart thundering in his ears and all plans of withdrawing to the living room forgotten, for several long moments it was all the man could do to simply stare at her. His cheeks were flushed with color and his hands came to a stop as far as he'd let them wander, to the curve of her bare sides beneath her ribcage.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ I love you.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ You are my home.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Just like that, Law could not have dragged himself away from her if he tried. There was nowhere he might have gone - no living room to return to - no universe beyond the woman who stood before him awaiting an answer he could not muster. There was no running water. No fear of waking up to empty bedsheets beside him in the morning. There was only Nami and those eyes that drew him in like gravity, and the need to make certain he had heard her correctly and not simply imagined the words he'd so ardently desired.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Voice soft as a whisper, Law drew back away from her, just far enough to gauge for any sign of uncertainty in her features as he asked her carefully, as if he needed to be sure before he could decide what step was to follow, ❝Are you sure about that? You're sure that it's not just...❞ Gaze slipping away from hers, he dragged one hand rather pointedly to the curve of Nami's bare midriff. ❝This talking? Because if you're worried I'll change my mind if you don't, I won't. It doesn't have to be this way - like this,❞ he added, gesturing at their newfound proximity ❝If you don't want it to. It doesn't have to be anything, I'm not gonna change my mind about this. But if that is what you want, I need to hear you say it again. Are you sure this time?❞

Within the span of a breath and moment it took Law to recollect his mouths, the ginger was almost sure she could read his mind. As if all she needed to do was take a moment and push her own fears regarding the situation they'd found themselves in from Nami's inability to communicate. Or her tendency to act in rashness from time to time.

In the furrow of dark brows she recognized once again that she wasn't doing the best at communicating- She thought it was obvious- That there was not a world in which she could ever be mad at him- Not really. Making light of the situation only caused orange brows to shoot up in return before meeting in the middle. Had she been more clear, Law might have realized that no such words were needed.

She was already home. This place that stood in time, waiting for her return as if she were simply away on vacation, due to return home. Homesick. The word hit her like a ton of bricks. A word that had been on the edge of her tongue for months- Nami had not just been heartbroken, she'd been homesick. Which explained the strange comfort found upon Law's couch, surrounded by a scent that was wholly him.

I missed you.

Three words repeated over and over in her head with each quickened beat of her heart from the sensation of Law's lips on her own for the first time in months. Imagining this moment and it happening were very different after all. It was perfect. Maybe when they retold the story it wouldn't have taken place in the bathroom, but it was perfect to her. Butterflies erupted in her stomach, through her heart and releasing every thought that that'd crossed her mind in the last handful of months without him in her life.

Eyes fluttered closed and Nami pressed her body wholly and completely to Laws. Melding against him, Nami offered her body so that he might feel and appreciate the newfound curves to her body in an entirely different light- If he so chose to, that was.

“Law-” A breath of his name, as the next words tumbled out. So many times she thought them, but not once did Nami allow herself to utter them. Not even to herself or their baby. They were words meant entirely for his ears and his ears only. “-I love you. You are my home."

[angie-baebii]

You truly had to be there at the time to understand just how amazing this song is, Jae Han’s vocals mixed with the rappers like it was just a feeling in your soul I can’t express it in words or details just listen to it 😭

[leona-hawthorne]

KINKTOBER #6– MY PRETTY LITTLE WIFE / mattheo riddle

october 21st somnophilia , body worship , overstim

mattheo riddle x fem reader

summary: one year anniversary with your husband

warnings: unprotected piv, somnophilia, overstim, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise, body worship, arranged marriage

words: 4.9k

a/n: the struggle that i had writing this was insane… i just never felt like i could get it quite right, but i’m gonna stop overthinking it. don’t really love it but that’s alright!

navigation kinktober masterlist

Mattheo lay beside you, staring at the ceiling, eyes tracing the same cracks in the plaster as they have for months. The morning light slipped through the curtains in thin slivers, cutting through the quiet of the room like the unspoken words that have hung in the air since the day you both said, “I do.”

It had been a year. A year of stolen glances and lingering touches that never went too far. A year of pretending the hunger in his chest wasn't real, that the way you looked at him sometimes didn't make his heart race in ways it shouldn't. He couldn't deny it anymore, not to himself. He wanted you—had wanted you for longer than he was willing to admit. But want was dangerous, and with it came the risk of exposing everything he'd been trying to keep buried.

So he stayed still, as he had for the past year, his heart pounding a rhythm that only he could hear. The tension remained, hanging over him, heavy and unrelenting, a constant reminder that something had to give. He just didn't know when—or how—it would finally break.

You were still asleep, your body turned away from him, and for a moment, Mattheo wondered if it was better this way—silent. No more venom-laced words. No more walls built so high neither of you could see over them.

His eyes raked over your figure, the rise and fall of your breathing hypnotic, and his fingers itched with the urge to reach out. He wouldn’t, though. Not after the way you’ve pushed him away all this time. And yet, here you were, in the same bed, your presence so close it suffocated him with all that’s left unsaid.

A year. A fucking year, and it felt like neither of you had taken a single step toward each other. But in this quiet morning, something was different. He could feel it, hanging heavy in the air. An anniversary isn’t just a date, it’s a reckoning—a moment to confront what’s been festering between you two for so long.

You stirred, rolling onto your back, eyes still closed, lips parted in a soft sigh. Mattheo’s heart stuttered. That sigh—it wasn’t laced with frustration. It was almost peaceful. For a split second, he wondered if you might wake up and look at him without that familiar disdain.

But then you turned again, away from him, and the moment slipped like sand through his fingers.

Mattheo clenched his jaw. He was tired of this—this endless dance of anger and yearning, frustration and desire. He hated you for how you’d made him feel—helpless, raw, desperate in a way that terrified him. And yet, he wanted you more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

Today was supposed to mean something. The thought burrowed into his mind, gnawing at him. It’s your anniversary. One year of this madness. One year of pretending like it doesn’t hurt to be this close and yet so far.

He shifted, sitting up, his gaze never leaving you. The silence was heavier than it’s ever been. It was thick with the weight of everything unsaid, every insult, every half-glance, every touch that never happened.

“Happy anniversary, princess,” he muttered under his breath, the words dripping with sarcasm—but also something else, something bitter and almost…sad.

You didn’t stir. You didn’t hear him.

Of course you didn’t.

Maybe that was for the best.

Mattheo’s heart twisted in ways he didn’t want to admit as he watched you sleep. In sleep, you were untouchable, your face a canvas of peace he's never had the privilege of seeing when your eyes are open. No biting words, no tension pulling at the corners of your mouth. You were beautiful in a way that cut him to the core—a beauty that made him ache, made him question if he's ever hated you at all.

Gods, you were unreal.

He hated how easily that thought slipped in, how it consumed him as his eyes drank in the soft curve of your lips, the way your lashes fluttered ever so slightly against your cheek, even in sleep. There was no defense here, no barbed words to keep him at bay. Just you, unaware of the havoc you wreaked inside him.

Mattheo swallowed hard, his hand twitching at his side. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the need was there, creeping up his spine like a poison he couldn’t shake. Just one touch—just to feel you without the wall of tension between you.

His fingers moved before he could stop himself, ghosting over the back of your hand where it lay beside you. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver through him all the same. He watched your face for any sign of waking, but you remained still, lost in whatever dream kept you so blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside him.

His heart pounded in his chest as his hand trailed upward, brushing against the soft skin of your forearm. He couldn’t help it. The urge to feel more of you was overwhelming, drowning out every rational thought that told him to stop. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as if he were afraid to wake you, to break whatever fragile peace had settled over this moment.

You shifted slightly, and Mattheo froze, his breath catching in his throat. But you didn’t wake. Instead, you murmured something incoherent, a soft sound that tugged at something deep in his chest. His fingers itched to go further, to trace the curve of your jaw, to let his thumb brush over your lips—lips he’d thought about far too many times in the dark when sleep refused to come.

He moved closer, his body inching toward yours, until he could feel the warmth of your skin radiating toward him. His fingers hovered just above your cheek now, hesitating. If you woke up now, what would you do? What would you say if you saw him like this, caught between resentment and something far more dangerous?

But you didn’t wake. You stayed still, serene, and Mattheo’s fingers finally grazed your cheek, the softness of your skin like fire under his touch. His thumb brushed just below your bottom lip, and his heart stuttered in his chest. He was too far gone now. The beauty of your silence, your stillness, had him unraveling.

For a moment, he let himself imagine a world where this wasn’t an accident, where you wanted his touch. A world where you turned toward him, those lips parting beneath his thumb, inviting him closer instead of pushing him away.

But that world wasn’t real. And he knew the second you woke, that wall would slam back up between you, higher than ever before.

Still, in this stolen moment, with you so close and unaware, Mattheo let himself fall—just a little further.

"Just a dream, princess..." he whispered, voice low and sultry, as if the very words could tether you to this moment forever. It was a lie, but one he relished—the illusion that this was safe, that you wouldn't wake up and shatter it all with your reality.

He leaned closer, just inches from your face, his breath mingling with the morning air. Your lips were soft, slightly parted, and he felt an overwhelming urge to taste them. Instead, he pressed a gentle kiss against the corner of your mouth, his heart racing at the intimacy of it, but the touch was still too innocent, too soft for what he craved.

"Mattheo..." you murmured, stirring slightly but not waking, and the sound sent a thrill racing down his spine. That voice—so full of vulnerability, so beautifully unguarded—made him ache in ways he didn't know he could.

"You don't even know," he breathed, his fingers trailing down to your neck, the warmth of your pulse thrumming against his skin like a live wire. He wanted to mark you, to claim you in a way that was irrevocable, but he held back, letting the reverence of the moment wash over him instead.

But the longing grew insatiable. With a slight hesitation, he slid his hand lower, fingertips brushing against your collarbone, down the slope of your shoulder, and over the soft swell of your breast, barely there but electric all the same. The connection sent shockwaves through him, a heady mix of need and desire surging like wildfire beneath his skin.

You shifted again, breath hitching in your throat, and Mattheo's heart raced. He leaned closer, lips hovering just above your ear, whispering like he was sharing a secret that belonged only to the two of you. "Just let me touch you... just like this."

His fingers curled gently around the curve of your breast, a cautious exploration, but the warmth spreading through him ignited a deeper hunger. He longed to feel every part of you, to drown in the intimacy that had always felt just out of reach. The feel of the soft fabric of your nightgown beneath his palm only fueled the fire inside him.

You stirred once more, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The sound cracked through whatever restraint he had left. With a sudden rush of desire, he pressed his palm firmly against you, feeling your heartbeat.

"Stay still," he murmured again, his voice thick with something almost raw. "Let me have this."

He wanted to hear you say his name, to see the look in your eyes when you realized this wasn't a dream. He wanted you to respond to him, to melt under his touch, and it drove him wild, the thought of making you unravel.

Mattheo’s other hand came up to cup your cheek tenderly, angling your face toward him as he deepened the pressure of his palm against your breast. He was drunk on the sensation of you against him—the warmth, the softness, the quickening rhythm of your heart beneath his fingers.

A part of him feared waking you now, fearful of losing this ethereal contact before it faded away. Somnolently, he tilted your chin upward, his thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip, tracing the delicate curves. His own breathing grew ragged, punctuated by low, steadying exhales.

The darkness of dawn clung to the edges of the room, yet in that moment, illuminated solely by the glow of the sun seeping through the curtains, they might have been lost in some alternate realm where such actions were permissible.

Slowly, deliberately, Mattheo leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips, teasing them apart just enough for his tongue to graze your inner flesh. The gesture, though chaste, buzzed with unspoken promises.

His gaze flickered down to your nightgown, the lace edges calling to him in a way he couldn’t resist. Before long, your eyes fluttered open to the feel of his fingers skimming your damp folds, prodding and poking at your entrance, his touch feather-light and hesitant. His eyes darkened as they met yours, a soft hum escaping his lips as he noticed the drowsy lust in your dazed eyes.

With agonizing slowness, his fingers traced your slit, gathering the dewy evidence of your arousal. “Shh, sleep a little longer,” he coaxed, voice dripping with desire, circling your entrance with his thumb. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just sleep. You’re dreaming, princess.”

Then, without warning, he sank a finger deep inside you, reveling in the tight heat that welcomed him. He moved languidly, savoring the slick glide as he pumped in and out in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Your body reacted instinctively to the invasion, tiny gasps spilling from your lips, though your mind lingered in the haze of half-sleep.

Confusion swam in your half-lidded gaze as you stared up at him, your brow furrowing slightly as you struggled to make sense of the sensations assaulting your senses. A soft whimper escaped your throat, part protest, part plea, as your hips canted upwards almost imperceptibly into his touch. “What are you… Stop…”

But even as you whispered the denial, your body betrayed you, a fresh surge of wetness coating his invading digit. Mattheo swallowed hard, his free hand coming up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your parted lips in a gesture meant to soothe even as his touch between your thighs grew bolder, a second finger joining the first in their relentless quest to unravel you completely.

His fingers stilled momentarily, the contrast between his touch on your cheek and the intensity between your thighs palpable. “Don’t fight with me, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice low and raw. “For once, please don’t fucking right with me.”

Desperation lingered in his plea, a vulnerability he rarely showed. “Let me take care of you… just this once. Let me show you how good it could be between us.”

Your chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, your eyes drifting shut as you surrendered to the unfamiliar sensations, the resistance in your muscles melting away.

With a tender kiss to your forehead, he resumed his gentle assault, pumping his fingers in and out of your slick heat with increasing depth and purpose. The wet sounds of your heat filled the room, punctuated by your own ragged pants and the occasional whimper that escaped your throat.

"You're so beautiful like this, sleepyhead," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper against your skin. "So perfect..."

As he continued to stroke you with deliberate slowness, he could feel your walls beginning to flutter around his fingers, a sign that you were nearing the precipice of release.

"Come on, baby," he coaxed, his tone a seductive purr. "Let go for me. I want to see you fall apart. For once, let’s use this bed for what it was made for.”

Your climax crashed over you in waves, nails digging into the sheets beneath you, fisting the fabric as you rode out the aftershocks, shuddering with the force of your orgasm.

Mattheo watched you intently as he withdrew his fingers from your spasming channel, bringing them to his mouth to taste your essence. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he savored the flavor of you, his eyes darkening with renewed hunger.

"Do you have any fucking idea what you do you me?” His voice was raw, a broken show of the desperate man he’d become. “Prancing around the house in those tiny little silk shorts, cursing up a storm at me anytime you got the chance," he muttered, his voice roughened by need. "So fucking hot. Wanted to touch you, taste you, take you in every position possible."

His lips trailed a searing path up your inner thigh, pausing to nip at the tender flesh before continuing his ascent. "Can’t count the amount of times I’ve imagined bending you over the kitchen counter and fucking you raw every time you’ve screamed at me for leaving my dirty clothes on the floor.”

Mattheo's words painted a vivid picture, each filthy promise igniting a firestorm of desire within you. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined your cold, distant husband harboring such primal urges towards you.

He paused as his lips reached your cunt, breath fanning over your wetness. "Tell me to stop, Y/N,” he growled, his voice a low challenge. "Order me to leave you alone, and I will. But if you don't..." His tongue darted out, licking a broad stripe up your center, tasting the lingering proof of your recent climax. "If you don't say 'stop', I'm going to devour you whole."

Mattheo's threat hung in the air, a tantalizing promise that sent shivers down your spine. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to push him away, to reclaim the distance that had grown between you over the past year.

Instead, you felt your hips twitch upward, seeking more of that intoxicating contact. A soft moan escaped your lips, the sound barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat. "Please," you breathed, the single word a plea and a surrender all at once. "I...I don't want you to stop."

A triumphant growl rumbled in Mattheo's chest as he claimed your submission, his mouth descending upon your dripping core with unbridled hunger. His tongue delved deep, lapping at your folds with reckless abandon, savoring the unique taste of your arousal.

“Mmphh—” You tried forming coherent words but they wouldn’t come out. Your hands flew to his head, tangling in his hair as you held him close, encouraging his relentless assault.

Mattheo sucked gently on your clit, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue before moving lower to lap at your entrance, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. "Fuck, you taste incredible," he rasped, his voice muffled against you. "Can't get enough."

As your moans grew louder, more frantic, he slipped two fingers back inside you, curling them just right to hit that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea for more, for everything he could give you.

He obliged, doubling his efforts, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your quivering body. "That's it, baby," he urged, his words vibrating against your core. "Let go. Come for me again."

Your second climax slammed into you with the force of a tidal wave, stealing the breath from your lungs and rendering you boneless beneath Mattheo's ravishing mouth.

But Mattheo didn't relent, not even when you went limp, your body thrashing in the throes of ecstasy. If anything, he redoubled his efforts, suckling harder on your oversensitive clit, dragging out another orgasm from you.

His actions bordered on cruelty, yet you couldn't bring yourself to protest, too lost in the overwhelming sensations he evoked.

Despite the blissful haze clouding your mind, a faint thread of panic began to unfurl, urging you to put a halt to this merciless onslaught before you shattered completely.

With a shaky hand, you managed to grasp Mattheo's hair, attempting to gently push his face away from your throbbing sex. "S-stop," you whimpered, the words tumbling out in a desperate plea. "Too much, can't take it..."

Mattheo ignored your feeble attempts to push him away, his mouth continuing its ruthless assault on your oversensitive sex. He pulled his fingers out of you and hooked your legs over his shoulders, only burying his face deeper in your cunt. "Not gonna stop," he groaned against you, his words a heated whisper against your slick folds. "Making up for all the times I didn't touch you. That's my job as your husband, right? To make you feel good. Let me make up for all the times I denied you that."

"Oh god, oh fuck, please..." you gasped, your hips bucking erratically as Mattheo drove you to new heights of ecstasy.

Tears streamed down your face, the overwhelming sensations threatening to tear you apart at the seams. Yet, even as your body trembled with exhaustion, you craved more, desperate for the release only Mattheo could provide.

"P-please," you sobbed, your voice raw and broken. "I n-need...I need..." Words failed you, your mind too fractured to articulate the depths of your desires.

Mattheo seemed to understand, his gaze locking onto yours with fierce intensity. "Shh, I know,"

He murmured soothingly, his warm breath caressing your fevered skin. "Just let go, baby. Give it to me. I've got you."

With those reassuring words, he sealed his lips around your throbbing clit once more, sucking hard. The sensations proved too much to bear, and with a keening wail, you surrendered to the torrent of pleasure crashing over you.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck.” Your orgasm ripped through you like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. You convulsed wildly, your vision blurring as waves of ecstasy washed over you in relentless succession.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his lips glistening with your essence. "Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes burning with a possessive heat. "So fucking beautiful when you come undone for me."

With gentle hands, Mattheo reached for the hem of your nightgown, slowly peeling the fabric upwards to reveal inch after inch of smooth, unblemished skin. His gaze followed the movement, drinking in the sight of your bare flesh as if it were the most exquisite treasure he'd ever laid eyes on.

"God, look at you," he whispered, his voice thick with awe and hunger. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

He cupped your breasts, thumbs grazing over sensitive nipples, coaxing them to peak under his gentle touch. "And these...fuck, these are gorgeous. So responsive, so eager for my attention." He leaned in, capturing a nipple between his lips, suckling softly as he rolled the other between his fingers.

Every part of you was adored, worshiped, cherished—from your soft throat to the dip of your waist, from your round ass to the delicate skin of your inner thighs.

"You're stunning," he murmured, his hands gliding over your body with a reverence that took your breath away. "Every curve, every shadow...all mine. You’re fucking incredible."

His touch was tender, almost shy, as if he feared you might vanish if he wasn't careful. But there was a hardness to his gaze, a wildness that promised untold pleasures.

Mattheo trailed his lips across the landscape of your body, his mouth worshiping every swell and hollow with heartfelt devotion. From the elegant column of your throat to the tantalizing curves of your tits, he savored each inch with tender care.

Kisses peppered the valley between your breasts, his hot breath fanning across your skin. Downward he moved, tracing the gentle arc of your ribs, the dip of your navel, mapping the secrets of your body with lips and tongue.

Your skin tingled under his ardent attentions, each brush of his lips stoking the embers smoldering low in your belly.

He continued down your quivering body, trailing open-mouthed caresses along your thighs as his strong hands gripped your calves, kneading the supple flesh with appreciative murmurs.

"You temptress," he chided gently, pressing fervent kisses to the arches of your ankles. "For months now, you've been driving me mad without even realizing it. Sleeping in your tiny shorts, bending over just so, glaring at me with those eyes..."

"You're not serious," you mumbled, your voice laced with disbelief even as your heart raced at the thought. Could it really be true that he'd been craving you for so long? That you had unwittingly tormented him with your mere presence? You couldn’t bring yourself to believe it.

Yet, as you looked into Mattheo's intense gaze, saw the hunger and admiration etched on his features, a small spark of hope flickered to life within your chest.

"You have no idea what you do to me. One glance from those gorgeous eyes, and I'm putty in your hands. I’m fucking defenseless against you."

He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your skin with a feather-light touch. "Look at you, spread out like a feast before me. My God, you're breathtaking. Every curve, every freckle, every goddamn thing about you is perfection incarnate."

Mattheo's eyes burned into yours, his gaze heavy with lust and need. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he urged you closer.

"Tell me, Y/N," he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Are you going to let me fuck you? Are you going to let me be your husband properly?”

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke. "I want to do this shit right. Just give me a do-over. Let me fuck you. Please let me fuck you. Let me love you like you deserve to be loved.”

After a moment of hesitation, you felt your resolve crumble under the intensity of Mattheo's gaze. A shaky exhale left your lips as you nodded, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"Show me," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your own heartbeat. "Show me what it means to be your wife."

Your words seemed to ignite a fire within Mattheo. In an instant, he was hovering over you, his body a delicious weight pinning you to the mattress. His lips crashed against yours in a searing kiss, desperate and hungry, as if he were trying to devour you whole.

Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips along your jawline, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin until you were writhing beneath him. "Fuck, baby," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this."

He rocked his hips against yours, the hard length of him grinding against your core through the thin fabric of his boxers. The friction sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins, stoking the flames of your own arousal.

With a rapid urgency, Mattheo yanked his boxers down, freeing himself from their confines. His erection sprang forth, thick and hard, the tip glistening with precum. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your slick folds.

"Are you ready for me, princess?" he rasped, his voice strained with barely contained restraint. "I promise I'll make it good for you. So fucking good."

Without waiting for a response, he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat. A guttural moan tore from his throat at the exquisite sensation, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored the feeling of finally being one with you.

Mattheo's hips snapped forward, driving deep into your welcoming warmth with each powerful stroke. He set a relentless pace, his thick cock stretching and filling you completely with every thrust.

"Oh, fuck, Y/N," he groaned, his forehead pressed against yours as he battled to maintain control. "Tight little thing, aren’t you? Just relax, breathe."

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you onto him, meeting each of his deep, punishing drives. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, punctuated by your moans.

Mattheo's movements became more erratic, his rhythm faltering as he neared the edge. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped down the sides of his face, mingling with the strands of hair that clung to his forehead.

"You feel...fuck, you feel incredible," he panted, his breaths coming in short gasps. "Like heaven wrapped around my cock."

With a final, brutal plunge, Mattheo buried himself to the hilt and held there, his pulsing cock throbbing inside you as he rode out his orgasm. A hoarse moan ripped from his throat, his body shuddering with the force of his release as he emptied himself deep within your welcoming depths, but your own peak still remained frustratingly out of reach.

"Don't stop," you pleaded, your voice a breathy whisper against his sweat-slicked skin. "Please, Mattheo... I need..."

You trailed off, unable to find the words to express the aching emptiness that still gnawed at your core.

A wicked grin spread across Mattheo’s face, his spent cock still buried inside your fluttering sheath.

"Mmm, greedy girl," he purred, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "So eager for more."

He rolled his hips, grinding against your sensitive clit as he began to move again, his strokes languid and deliberate.

"That's it, baby," he coaxed, his breath hot against your ear. "Give it to me. I wanna feel you fall apart on my cock."

Mattheo's words, his fingered squeezing your hips hard enough to bruise, the way he moved inside you—it all combined to push you closer and closer to the brink.

"Yes, oh god, yes!" you cried out, your voice high and urgent. "A-ah, don't stop, please don't stop!"

Your nails dug into Mattheo's back, scoring his skin as you arched up to meet his thrusts. The coil of tension inside you wound tighter and tighter, until finally, with a sharp cry, you shattered. Waves of ecstasy washed over you, your pussy clenching around Mattheo's still-moving cock as you came hard. His gaze softened as he stared down at you.

"Precious girl," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your quivering lip. Slowly, he withdrew from your slick heat, allowing your tender folds to flutter closed around the departing intrusion.

Rolling onto your side, you tucked a pillow under your head and turned to face Mattheo, who was now propped up on one elbow, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"What does this mean, Mattheo?" you asked quietly, reaching out to trace a finger along the ridges of his abdomen. "For us, I mean. What happens now?"

Mattheo's gaze drifted from your face to the path of your wandering fingertip, a small, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. He reached out, capturing your hand in his and bringing it to rest over his heart, which thumped steadily beneath your palm.

"We’ll figure it out.”

kinktober taglist: @mattheoriddles-slutt @theeslutintheroom @esmerai-artemis @gigival @cloudyyydayzzz @sn000py @abeoavita @yesiamthatwierd @shaquilles-0atmeal @roseofsharron438 @iouinotes @romantasyreader28 @c3liaaaaa @sleepiibunniiii @chemtrailsoverhogwarts @daenerystorgaryen @catching-fire-in-the-wind @emma-grace0 @tori-303 @ilovehpb0ys

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.77)

(sneek peek) (Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Tae and Hobi help Yoongi during your first wave of heat.

Tags: heat sex, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, fertility kink, Dom! Yoongi, foursome, fluffy, no hurt just comfort, alot of smut but it's also very loving, coming prematurely, breeding kink, cum play, sleepy sex, mommy kink, talking her through it, dirty talk, exhibitionism voeyeurisim, teasing, flirting, biting,

W/c: 11.3k

A/n: thank you guys for being so tolerant of my brief absense, i didn't intend to take so long to update this but unfortunately sometimes living through historical events can be really tough to get through.

Previous part- Masterlist - First part

You laugh until you hiss, curling to the side just a little, a wave racking through you. Burning and stinging from your stomach outwards.

Yoongi stills, one hand on your knee the other pressed to your stomach flat, eyes wide. Tae lets your wrists go so you can clutch at your stomach. Holding your face through it. "oh my little honey, don't worry, we'll make it better, shh just-" She's a little more panicky than the rest of them are. Hobi's hand is just hard on your shoulder, knuckles white, expression stricken but unsure.

Yoongi holds your stomach too. Alarmed by your trembling. "Are you- do you need-“ a knot, hovers on the edge of his tongue.

But you just blink. “Yoongi- it's too much- it burns- Sore- so sore here” You touch your stomach gently, but it's so sensitive it still makes you hiss.

but after a moment you relax, stretching back out in the nest. breathing heavy until you aren't until the cramping, the aching need want filled need to be filled in your head quiets.

Yoongi's fingers swirl on your stomach, gently. it's sensitive, but it actually does make you feel better. “You ran, do you want us to wait for Namjoon or-" You’re already shaking your head no when Yoongi cuts off. settling back against the nest, letting your legs flop open so that he can shuffle forward closer.

You don't wonder why Yoongi mentions Namjoon. He's the pack alpha, and the right to breed you first in heat is his as dictated by old laws and rules and all manner or propriety.

But Namjoon is not your mate and he's not like that. He cares about your wants first. His own ego is very far down on his list of priorities (probably ranks just after Noodle's wellbeing in terms of Namjoon's pack alpha priorities. Dominance is its own kind of submission)

And, judging by Jin's snarling from the other room- he'll be preoccupied for at least the next hour. You don't know if you can wait that long. A whine drips out of you, a sound small and weak.

Hobi shuffles closer to you. Bare-chested, his red shorts looking tight. Looking unsure. "You did run, do you not want-" us, does not come out.

You shift, futile trying to get comfortable, it's impossible with the weight of your instincts pinning you down. “Nah, just ran cuz it’s fun. Not cuz I didn’t want you to fuck me.”

Yoongi huffs, his anxiety dissipating, fond with it, fingers itching up your thighs, parting them just a little so that he can shuffle forward closer to you. Until you can feel the heat from his tummy against yours.

You can feel so much. Your whole body one big nerve ending. You can feel the slight fluff and softness of the peach fuzz on his tummy dragging against yours as he gets closer. The feel of his slender but strong fingers circling your ankles. All of it.

You like this, you always like it when Yoongi's close.

“Glad we cleared that up, it’s not like I can’t literally see you slicking up but-“ you laugh and try and swat at him. He drops one of your ankles to catch your hand and tangles it with his for good measure.

A small smile hovers on the edge of his lips. He searches your face, smiling at what he sees- your dopey smile and endeared indignation. The heat might be new, but this is so familiar his heart aches with it.

“If you’re gonna tease me while I’m in heat can you at least make it good?” Your breath goes heavy. Warm and sweet, fluffing over him. Everything; the sweetness to your scent, the ruddiness of your knees and stomach, the messy fluff of your hair over the pastel pillow, the relaxed sprawl of your body, a siren song for Yoongi.

Above you- Tae and Hobi stay quiet. Just watching, Tae drags a lock of your hair away from your face. Patient while you and yoongi flirt. “I thought you liked my teasing.”

Your tone sounds petulant even to you, “I do just not-”

Yoongi presses your knees apart, up towards your chest putting you on display and bare. abrumptly cutting off your words as you let out a broken moan. He puts a bit more force behind it than usual, But you feel yourself clench and his gaze flickers down.

The smile on his face widens just a bit, and you hiccup through the shudder that rocks through you. Your body burns, your stomach churns, your skin simmers where he touches craving for more more more.

A breeding press. That's what Yoongi's just put you into. knees to your chest, your sensitive heat slit ripe and wet between your thighs, ready for the taking. a breeding press infront of two alpha's, infront of Tae and Hobi, watching with wide dark eyes.

“Hold her.” Yoongi’s command is not snapped or growled out but Hobi and Tae follow suit regardless. Hobi fumbles, grabbing one wrist and Tae grabs the other.

Boneless. Ready for breeding. Settled. It’s a bit of a strange show of dominance. But inside, Yoongi isn’t surprised that you needed it. to be held down and puppeted and propped. To know that they’re in control before you let your alpha's breed you.

He says your alphas- but he's the only one you're looking at. The only one you're whining for.

It’s hard to articulate your hands or your mind, tongue wrapped around a sound that can only be an endless whimper. Tae leans low when you try to squirm again. Her teeth nip at your ear, a shock to your system that makes you leak a fresh gush of slick half onto Yoongi's lap.

You have to be spilling and dripping by now. You try and press your legs back together and hide but Yoongi keeps you spread.

“No pup, settle.”

Coming Saturday November 23rd at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below)

[oepionie]

THE WOES OF A JEALOUS FISH. octatrio

Characters: GN! Reader | Azul Ashengrotto x Reader, Jade Leech x Reader, Floyd Leech x Reader

Tags: Octatrio and jealousy, Pure fluff w/ very petty boys, Reader wears makeup in Azul's part, Jade blows a hairdryer in Floyd's face, Malewife Floyd

WordCount: 1.5k+ | 💌Masterlist

A.A | AZUL ASHENGROTTO :

Azul blinks once, twice as he stares at the merman who was animatedly conversing with you. Rielle, Azul's old schoolmate, a prince of Atlantica, and the owner of this wretched cafe called 'The Secret Grotto'. The same cafe you've been ogling at for the last 20 minutes or so.

"Isn't this place amazing, Azul?! They even have a souvenir shop!" Now, Azul would normally find your eagerness adorable since seeing you happy was oh-so precious and priceless to him. However, this time, your enthusiasm made his heart sink while his mood deteriorated. On the surface, however, he keeps his calm and maintains his professional businessman persona, or at least he tries to.

"Monstro Lounge is far more superior. I mean...th-their cutlery doesn't even match their tablecloths here." Azul blurted out, crossing his arms over his chest and scrutinising the area intently.

"Well, we wanted to add a little bit of uniqueness! My cafe is all about personal touches, we focus more on making things look cozy!" Rielle chimes in, all bright and charming, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. Azul narrowed his eyes, his hands itching to sever the prince's arm for touching you. Oblivious to Azul's ire, you stared at the cafe in awe, pointing out the small touches thrown about here and there.

Azul frowns, sulking and wanting to leave. He wanted to leave the moment he stepped into this place but he didn't have the heart to tear you away from the cozy small cafe. Especially since you were looking forward to this date for weeks, you even got Vil to doll you up and do your makeup today.

Deep down inside he felt a tinge of insecurity because he knew you were right. The cafe really was amazing. The grove was lit up with warm lighting, and everywhere you looked was all soft and homely. Unlike Azul's cafe, this place was much less formal making it seem more down to earth.

Perhaps he should make a few tweaks to Monstro Lounge? Just to fit your tastes?

"Angelfish, I'd hate to break it to you but it's getting rather late. I'm sure Jade and Floyd are already waiting for us back at the dorms." Azul cuts in nonchalantly, a cool smile on his face. You turned to gaze out the window, seeing the sunset and the sky darkening. You nod and swiftly seize Azul's gloved hand in your own, bidding Rielle goodbye.

"Ah, I see it really is getting quite late! Feel free to visit soon!" Rielle bids you goodbye with those words, as you and Azul walk out of the quaint little cafe.

Once outside, Azul reflexively rests his hand on the small of your back, and you lean in, your head resting on his chest. It was silent for a while, both of you just enjoying the comfortable silence before Azul pulled you into an alley.

"Azul? Is something wrong-" He abruptly interrupted you and smashed his lips against yours. Azul backed you up against the wall, his hands finding purchase around your waist as you snake your arms around his neck. Minutes pass before he finally draws back and presses his forehead to yours, a heavy flush on his cheeks. You took this time to admire his dishevelled appearance, which was quite a rare sight. His glasses were crooked, the lipstick Vil picked out for you was smeared across his lips, and his vision was dazed.

"Angelfish...wouldn't you rather spend time with me instead...?"

J.L | JADE LEECH :

He's in absolute denial.

Jealousy. What use would such petty and trivial emotion as jealousy serve? Jade already knew you were bound to him. Despite his distant and cold demeanour, you somehow pushed your way into his heart and fashioned yourself a nice little home.

Furthermore, Jade liked to consider himself as someone who was rational and level-headed. He was always in full command of every situation he was put in. The eel was cruel, merciless, and uncompromising. Him getting jealous? Jade Leech, jealous? It was a laughable thought.

Nonetheless, as he stood behind the lounge's bar, he couldn't help but feel a pang in his heart while he glared holes into the back of Floyd's head. His gloved hands were grasping onto a teacup a little too tightly. He was supposed to serve you tea.

Tea, that he brewed and prepared personally for you, ensuring that each step was meticulous and precise so that the drink was properly suited to your preferences. You, his precious pearl, who was too preoccupied running your fingers through his brother's hair.

The lounge's air conditioning had broken down, and at some point, Floyd apparently decided that it was far too hot and dumped an entire cold smoothie over his head. Now, you were fussing over the eel's damp hair, trying to get the liquid and chunks of fruit out of his locs.

Crack! Jade looked down to see the cup split in half, the warm tea he prepared for you now spilling onto the floor. Azul would've probably had his hind if he found out the eel broke such an expensive and delicate piece of china. Despite that, he had a much pressing issue to focus on. Jade's inexhaustible patience had finally run out, and he concluded that enough was enough.

He quickly poured you a new cup and walked up to the booth you were sitting in. He held a hair dryer in his left hand and the tea he had carefully made for you in his right. Finally, you had stopped fretting over Floyd and instead focused your attention on him. When you spotted him approaching, your face lit up. A smile grazed his lips for a brief moment. How lovely you were.

"Darling, why don't you take a break. Here, it's your favorite. Let me handle this." Jade murmured, running a gloved hand along your cheek. You leaned towards his touch, smiling, and took the cup from him. "Thank you, Jade. I managed to get most of the fruits out but his hair is still so wet."

"Not to worry my pearl, this isn't the first time this happened." With a chuckle, Jade plugged in the hair dryer and grabbed Floyd's chin, forcing his brother to face him.

"Now...allow let me help you, brother dearest." Jade muttered, the corner of his eyes crinkling as a sharp grin spread across his face. He set the dryer to the highest setting and directed it straight at Floyd's face. When the heavy gust of wind hit Floyd, the eel clamped his eyes tight. He whined and attempted to push Jade away, but the latter just refused to let go.

Yes, Jade is most definitely not a jealous man.

F.L | FLOYD LEECH :

That should have been him. The eel glared at Grim who was seated in your lap. Your lap that he loved so much. Your lap that he used as a pillow every time he was slacking off at Monstro Lounge. Your lap that was supposed to be for him, not that skrunkly little cat.

To make matters worse, you were currently feeding Grim some tuna you cooked up yourself. Oh, the nightmare.

The reason? Grim had recently scored a perfect score on his exam without cheating this time! and you wanted to reward your companion for his efforts. Still, Floyd couldn't understand why you had to feed him. Isn't the baby seal big enough to feed himself? He was pretty sure he saw Grim inhale an entire tray full of food in seconds!

Growling, Floyd stomped towards your table and plopped down beside you. He huffed and started side-eyeing the cat who was dozing off and slowly chewing the tuna in his mouth. To Floyd's despair, you were much too preoccupied with fawning and cooing at the tiny brat to notice your moody lover. This was absolutely unacceptable. He demanded your attention.

"Shrimppyyy..." Floyd whined, smushing his cheek against yours, basically asking for attention. Taken aback, you jumped and whipped your head around to face him, finally acknowledging his presence.

"Floyd! How are you? How'd that test with Crewel go?" You smiled at him and moved in to peck both of his cheeks. This made him brighten up for a bit before Grim interrupted the moment.

"Oi, henchhuman, I'm out of tuna here." Grim drawled, patting his paws along your arms. Sighing, you picked up your utensil and turned away from Floyd. However, before you could bring the spoon anywhere near the container with Grim's food, Floyd's hand snatched the utensil away from you.

"Floyd, what are you-" You were cut off when he pushed a bento box towards you.

"Shrimpyy~ You gotta eat! I cooked that myself y'know." He beamed at you, draping his long arms over your shoulders. You opened the lid and gasped at contents of the meal inside. Floyd had made a Butter Salmon Bento, and you'd be damned if you didn't think it looked good. "Floyd, this is incredible...thank you very much!"

"Of course~ Here, I'll handle the baby seal for you." Before you could even say anything, he snatched Grim from your lap and tossed the cat onto the table in front of him.

"I'll even feed him for you!" Floyd laughed and took some tuna, pressing it forcefully on Grim's mouth. Grim, understandably, was reluctant to open his mouth. Floyd, on the other hand, was not about to give up so easily.

The eel hummed and leaned forward, gritting his sharp teeth as a deranged smile grew across his face.

"What's wrong baby seal? Eat it." Floyd hissed, malice oozing from his lips. Grim flinched and decided to just bolt, taking the tuna with him. "Like hell I'm doing that!"

Grim scutters away as you watch with a sheepish smile on your face. Floyd laughed contentedly and sprawled across your lap, staring up at you in adoration, his mission finally accomplished.

"Hehe~ Will you feed me next, shrimppy~?"

Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!

[garlicisgodsbestinvention]

perfect dimensions

(Carmy x Designer!Reader)

Summary: The Bear is weeks from opening, and Sugar hires an interior designer to bring the vision to life. Part 1/3.

Warnings: cursing, WILL contain smut later 👀NO use of Y/N because this is the 21st century. Carmy x female!reader, reader is described as having longer hair but that’s it for physical descriptions. NOT EDITED because I’m lazy girl tehe

—————————MINORS DNI——————————

“I hired a designer,” Natalie tells them in passing on Thursday, waving a vague hand when both Syd and Carmy open their mouthes to ask, “She’ll be here in like, twenty minutes.”

“Okay, heard, but we already have a design,” Carmy says, gesturing to the wall covered in layouts.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you had a degree in architecture and engineering. Those are fake dimensions, Bear; we don’t know shit about anything, so someone is going to come in and make sure that we’ve got the right fucking shade of white!” Natalie shouts before the office door slams shut, leaving Syd and Camry to stare after her with equal confusion.

“Pregnancy is making her…” Syd starts to say.

“Mean?”

“Yeah, mean. Definitely a little mean,” Sydney sighs, “She’s right though. Vibe doesn’t get us to opening night.”

And that’s how Carmen finds himself stuttering through an introduction from a now much-more-pleasant Natalie when she shows a woman through the front doors.

Carmen extends his hand to you, clearing his throat, nodding like a fucking idiot when you tell him your name.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m uh, I’m Carmen.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, mouth spreading into a smile that makes his heart beat a little faster. “Walk me through?”

Natalie takes the lead while Carmy and Syd hang back. One glance at the look on his partner’s face should have sent Carmy scrambling for something else to do, but he’s not fast enough to remove himself from her presence before a laugh is bubbling from between her closed lips and he’s desperately hoping his face isn’t turning red.

“Im, uh, Carmen,” Syd lowers her voice in a mocking tone.

“Fuck right off,” Carmy shakes his head at her.

“You literally forgot your name!”

“I didn’t forget my fuckin’ name—“

“Like oh my god, a pretty girl with pretty eyes appears and you forget how to talk!”

“Are you done?”

“Absolutely not. I can’t wait for Richie to meet her.”

Carmen wishes the day would never come.

Ten minutes later you appear back in the dining room, Fak following close behind with a shit-eating grin that makes Carmy wish he had never gotten out of bed this morning.

“Carmy! Did you know she likes to bake?”

“No, Fak, we’ve only just met. Would you let her do her job?” Carmen sighs, rubbing his fingers into his eyes to stop an oncoming headache. Syd snorts.

“We’ll chat more later, Neil, I promise,” you say.

“You might have just made yourself a new best friend,” Syd laughs.

Carmy looks away the moment your eyes swivel over to his, trying to disguise that he’s staring as best he can.

“So,” you say, “Natalie said you had drawings. May I see?”

Camry’s fingers itch in a weird way, but he manages a nod before striding over to his backpack to pull out the notebook while you scan the wall of swatches and inspiration photos. You nods your head a little, like you’re concocting an idea.

Carmy wants to twirl a finger through the strand of hair hanging loose out of your updo.

“So, uh, this is what I’ve come up with so far.”

He then spends the next ten minutes walking you through each of the drawings, explaining himself a little too thoroughly, and making random comments about lighting and booth fabric. You look intent the whole time, brow furrowed at the page, occasionally pointing and you don’t even have to say anything—Carmy just starts to over explain immediately following the point of your painted fingernail.

When he’s done, you nod your head slowly, the corner of your mouth twitching up. You’re wearing some sort of lipstick that reminds Carmy of the stain of touching a cherry pit.

“These are amazing,” you say finally, and Carmy feels his face heat. “I like the vibe. I love the vibe, actually. Are you a sensitive person?”

You look up at him and Carmy short-circuits.

Syd says yes, at the exact time he says no.

“Conflicting signals,” you say, “Anyone else to weigh in?”

It takes a second for him to realize that you’re making a joke, and he has to shake himself out of a stupor caused completely by the sight of your smile.

“Uh, no, no I’m good. Gimme feedback,” he says, and you reach out to flip the pages back, landing on the entry.

“Great. I’m going to tell you what we need to fix,” you say, straight to the point. “This entry is too small. Either we need to extend out into the sidewalk, or we need to push the kitchen back by at least five or six feet. The bar is going to create a bottleneck right here, and we need to inset these shelves to give you a little more working room. The lighting here needs to be sconces, and the bathroom doors need to slide to maximize space—this is too small for a swinging door.”

Carmen is fully intent on taking in every word you’re saying, but out of the corner of his eye he can’t help but see Syd’s face transform into something mildly resembling devious.

“Heard,” Carmy says, nodding his head as you looks back up. “Let’s rock.”

——————————————————————————

You become a fixture in Carmy’s life in the same way that Sydney or Richie or Nat are, appearing every time he turns the corner and whispering a hello in passing before you start barking orders to the contractors who listen to your every word. Strangely, he can relate. A week ago you told him, Carmen, please decide which side of the bar you want the ice machine on, and do it quickly so I can tell the water guy when he gets here. He’s never made a decision so fast in his life.

Even Nat had popped an eyebrow when he replied, on it, before you’d even really finished your sentence.

Usually, he’s on autopilot—walking in and straight back to the office or the kitchen and hardly ever stopping to notice what’s going on. He’s the first one in and the last one out by design, so he doesn’t even see everyone else arrive until they’re already there.

This morning, though, Carmy walks into the kitchen to see you already there, writing something out in a notebook as Natalie talks, waving her hands wildly.

“Okay, I got you,” you’re saying only glancing up when Carmy’s shoes shuffle too loudly on the floor. “Oh! Good, you’re here. I need you.“

Carmy raises his eyebrows. “Need me?”

“To look at paint swatches,” you say, ushering him into the main dining area. The words ring in his head like bells as he follows you, the scent of your perfume surrounding him as he walks through the crowd of it. You smells so good, and it reminds him of New York City somehow, the faint scent of rain.

He figures that you must have come in even earlier than he and Natalie both, because you’re dressed more casually than usual, and there’s a charm necklace dangling over your tee shirt that he tries to identify when you turn without you realizing he’s staring. He makes out a paintbrush and nothing else.

“Right, so,” you start, gesturing to the wall. There’s a beat of silence with them both staring at the three swatches on the wall, and then Carmy turns towards you.

Your words overlap.

Carmy says, “I hate them.”

At the same moment, you say, “They’re horrible, right?”

Carmy laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, not it.”

“Okay, so hear me out.” You say, leaving his side to pull something from your folder. “Pink.”

“Pink?”

“Like, oyster shell pink. Neutral enough that in the low light it’ll look pale, almost indiscernible from white. And this wall—“ you point to the back where the booths will be and shake your head. “Has to be a mural. It’ll look unfinished if it’s bare.”

Carmy nods along with everything that you say, trying to envision it. “What kind of mural?”

You tilt your head, chewing at your lip. Carmy completely short-circuits for an embarrassingly long second.

“I might have some ideas,” you say in a soft voice, crossing over to the table where you’ve set your things and pulling out a black sketchbook.

“Two artists in residence, huh?” Carmy jokes, his stomach fluttering when you smile.

“Do you draw anything other than food and restaurant interiors?” You ask.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” you repeat, looking up at him. He knows that you want him to elaborate—he would never admit out loud that he spends the hours he’s not cooking trying to replicate the way your necklace hangs off of your neck and the curve of your wrist.

Occasionally he doesn’t do weird, obsessive, borderline creepy things—sometimes he sketches the buildings outside his window as the sun goes down, or tries to remember what the boat in Copenhagen looked like, or that one place he used to drink coffee at in New York.

Your eyes narrow at him just a little, like you’re trying to read all the things he’s not saying.

He dips his head, half to look at the page you’ve opened the notebook to and half to get out from under the scrutiny of your pretty eyes.

“That’s insane,” Carmy finds himself saying, looking down at the waves of color on the page. “It looks like, almost like wood? Or marble. That’s—fuck, that’s so cool.”

The page is covered in shades of brown and deep green and black, melding together into something that reminds him of tree rings or stained wood panels, muted like an old chinoiserie river painting.

“You could hire someone to change it out seasonally maybe, it’d be cool, but I think something like this would look nice with the color of the wood we picked for the tables—“

“Will you do it?” Carmy asks, fingertips tracing over the edge of the paper and coming away brushed with color—oil pastels. “Could you, I mean, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it like this.” He tells you, rubbing the tips of his fingers together and watching the color meld together before meeting your eye.

Your mouth is parted, eyes wide as you look at him, and he gets the urge to flick your bottom lip to see if it’s as soft as it looks.

“I,” you start to say, “Yeah. I can do it. If you want me to.”

“I do,” he says, too quickly. “Want you to. Paint it.”

Because what else would he be asking you to do? He wants to throw his entire brain into the blender on high.

“Okay,” you say, “I’ll start tomorrow.”

He makes a mental note to make sure he’s there all day to peer through the windows and watch you work.

[withonly-sweetheart]

Skin Out of Stone

He frees you from the confines of the Earth you were born, yet your feet grace the same ground that his does. He pays you an homage, and doesn't expect your reaction to be so... grateful.

a/n: so erm... this was supposed to come out a long long time ago but i couldnt find my rb of @chesue00 's art (middle image in header) in my fic ideas tag and thats bc i never rbed it.

kmsing rn. but erm YES SCULPTOR LEON HAS ME THINK A WHOLE WHOLE LOT BC UR BRAIN IS SO SCRUMPDIDLYUMPTIOUS SO YES THIS IS SOMEWHAT LIKE TO KEEP AN ANGEL I THINK ITS SET IN THE SAME TONE? idfk take this and gn 🫡🫡

tw: mentions of sex, nsfw, nun too bad i think, ig implied stalking but its all in good faith trust 🙏🙏

wc: 1.3k

All he’s ever wanted to do is capture you, a moment in time, in that block of concrete delivered to him the moment you had appeared into his life, a sequence of events he knew he was tumbling far too fast towards, yet unable to stop it anyway. The curve of your hip, where he braces his palm, flattens it against the clay that so easily succumbs to his touch, unable to think on its own. It serves his purpose to adapt to his thoughts, molding to his vision.

The vision of you, standing in the golden afterglow of mysterious sunlight, dappling you in unthinkable shadows, how you would be melting honey dripping between his fingers if you would just give him a chance. But your worlds, however you might begin to appear in the stone in front of him, will never collide.

Secretly, one part of him hopes that you might see it one day, appear at his doorstep, perched over his shoulder like a songbird waiting to serenade his work, his devotion to you. But your eyes will only ever be directed at him through the vivid ink in magazines, or the pixelated photos posted of you.

He feels disgusted with the people who breach your privacy for their shameful desires, for their aching heart, but he knows that he is doing the exact same thing. But how can he help himself, when your lips are the identity of his statue, days and days of work uncovering the perfect angle.

The chisel breaks off chunks of your body, carving you from the rough edges, smoothing you like unblemished paper, the divine goddess you are. In a way, he feels just like that; a worshiper to a deity who will never know of his existence. But he reluctantly accepts his fate, in his quiet, cozy studio, and he brings you to life.

Under his fingers, under his guidance, you emerge from the stone with each tap, each chink, revealing yourself draped in shadows, ones he has never seen. He plays a torturous game with himself, itching to get back to his work when the sun rises, the furrow in his brow deepening every day he is away from his idea of you.

He grasps your chin, wishing there was living, moving flesh underneath him, but alas there is no movement. Only the tilt of your eyes glancing downwards, destined to never drag your gaze over his body, raking him with unseen flames.

Without another moment of hesitation, he inches closer, thinking if he squeezes his eyes hard enough, you’ll materialize in an ethereal manner, bringing his fantasies to life. But his nose only brushes the rough peak of yours, smooth yet never in the way skin would be.

And under the lamplight, he envisions that he is still uncovering parts of you, secret to the world, save for you and him. An empathy felt only for him, only his fingers prying away your barriers.

Your blood runs gray and stony, cold to the touch, where he runs his fingers down what he assumes to be the shape of your body, hidden in the pictures he uses as references. He thinks, a time ago, he disdained the people who did the very thing he’s guilty of at this moment.

Strange, though, his frenzy only grows with every new discovery he creates, mapping your body with the landmarks, the dips of your crescent shaped thighs, admiring how beautiful you look when you’re just… simply his.

But there comes a time when his work must end, when his brush and tools must be swept aside, so he can marvel in your glory. And where he expects to feel immense pride, he only feels guilt.

Disgust that churns his stomach, turning him inside out, skin green with envy. His references were all locally sourced, but how could he have foreseen any of this? It was a simple thing, the sweet girl who lived next door, too innocent to know the power her beauty held over him.

So his only choice of action is to come clean, to hand over the hammer that could easily destroy weeks, even months of hard, untainted work. A single blow would be all it takes, and when the hammer falls limp in your hands, he is more than confused.

He watches your lips separate, the same way he had imagined all your fluid motions, your eyebrows raised, knocking against one another as you turn to him, setting his skin on fire. And unlike you, his skin is not of stone.

“You… did this?” you ask, skeptically, as if you are doubting him. The only reason that leads him to further reveal his mishaps.

“You were too beautiful to resist,” he admits, lowering his gaze in shame. Anger thrums with his heartbeat, if only he had just asked for your permission!

But to his surprise, you turn back to yourself, a mirror image of you set in one singular moment, with your gaze pondering the floor, barraging it with your thoughtful questions, and the corner of your lip quirks upward, he hopes.

“This is a strange way to ask someone out,” you murmur, voice as soft as he had imagined those words leaving your lips. Exactly how he had envisioned it, although in his dreams, you were saying more than just that.

“Sorry?” He’s blanked out on other excuses, words to fill in the silence he wishes wouldn’t be so awkward. Majoring in art left no room for any friends, unless you counted the ones online, only known in their identity overseas.

“It’s lovely,” you settle for after a second of readjusting your thoughts. He can almost see them clicking together like a jigsaw puzzle before your silky hair casts a protective sheen around it.

He wants nothing more than to pry them back apart, inspect how your mind works, to finally see the inside of your morals, how far you’d be willing to traverse with him by your side.

“Lovely?” he asks, tentatively.

<><><><>

Truthfully, in all aspects, the conversation had seemed drawn out, bland if he might venture to share his true opinion. But when you're gliding down his skin, all his rationality buries itself into an impenetrable box and refuses to come back.

“Oh, fuck, yes, just like that,” he stammers into your ear, attempting for praise but sounding weaker than he had planned.

There's an astonished look on your face, curving your lips and sweeping the lilt of your cheekbones to the side as you pant into his neck, thighs trembling around him.

And your reluctance speaks volumes to him, so he presses back for once, speaks up to keep the one thing that's grounded him to art, keeping you sane in his presence. Or somewhat the other way around.

This time, he finds what he's looking for. With every gentle stroke, every deep thrust, he breaks you even further, exposing you to his hungry eyes. He drinks up every last bit of your vulnerable form, savoring the sounds that tear themselves from your tired throat.

He cradles you, long after you've drifted off. He knows there is no use in dreaming when he's living it right now, experiencing what it feels like to be content with just rubbing your skin, soothing the reddening patches with his cool touch.

You shift to face him, and the moonlight filters through the window to illuminate your radiating, peaceful expression, as serene as it was the day he caught you sleeping in the library. He's always wanted to see that face in his bed, facing him, with your skin pressed tightly together, slick and smooth, miles of what feels like one being.

He finally reaches out, and for a moment, he fears you will turn to stone under his touch. So he squeezes his eyes shut and waits for it to happen, for the inevitable to crash down onto him.

But it never does. In fact, all that meets him is warmth, rigid from the chill that creeps in through the walls. And he realizes something.

Your skin is not of stone, it never was.

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 11.4k

Warnings: series rewrite, start of season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, eventual pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, health problems, lightheadedness, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend {You Are Here}

Part 3: Blue Handprints

The summer heat had finally decided to die down to a reasonable temperature. It was the only reason your mother decided a picnic at the park would be nice. It was equal parts safe for you and enough of a distraction that you could pretend you were a normal kid.

At just four years old you were starting to notice how you didn’t live like the children you saw outside your window. You had started to grow bored of your usual antics stuck at home.

You lay on your stomach near the edge of your blanket. Along the blades of green grass you spotted a ladybug climbing towards the sky. You were practicing counting the spots on its back when the beat in your chest became noticeable.

The pressure from laying on your tummy made it easier to feel your heartbeat unevenly.

“Do you want another grape, sweetie?” your mom asked, stretched out and enjoying the shade.

You reached out a smaller, pudgier hand, accepting the grape with a hungry toddler’s mouth. Your eyes looked above the ladybug grass and stared at the playground, complete with twisting slides and a rubber rock wall.

“Mom,” you say in your timid tone. “I want to play.”

“I know, honey,” she says, “But you know how that’s not safe for your heart.”

A pout grew instantly, “I am careful!”

Sensing your coming tantrum, your mother drew your attention away from the other children playing with a lacrosse ball in the nearby field.

“Yes, you are very good at being careful. But remember your heart sometimes has a mind of it’s own. Sometimes being careful isn’t enough. The doctor said not to be too crazy.”

You ball your little fists but hold back the angry words. “I don’t like my heart.”

Your mother cooed, reaching for you, “No, sweetie, you have a wonderful heart. It’s big and warm and full of love for far too many things. It tries its best to take care of you. So we need to try our best to take care of it, okay?”

You snuggle into your mother’s arms, upset feelings turning into tears, “Okay, mommy.” You feel a kiss on your head when the children playing in the field came running past your blanket.

They stopped on the other side of your shaded spot and conversed behind dirt smudged hands. They were both rowdy boys with scabbed knees and grass stained shirts, but they had wide smiles as one approached you.

He had unruly hair and sunburnt cheeks.

“Hello,” he said in a nervous voice, “What’s your name?”

You rub at your eyes, “(Y/N).” You sink further into your mom.

The boy was out of breath and already itching to run again judging by his fidgeting. He said quickly, “Hi my name is Stiles. Do you want to come play with us? We were playing sharks and minnows, but it’s not so fun with only two people.”

You look up at your mother’s chin and ask quietly, “Can I go play?”

Your mother sighs, tickling your sides, “If you don’t run around so much and stay on the playground…”

You were instantly crawling out of her lap, “Okay!”

“And if you start getting out of breath you need to tell me!” your mom continues, “Be careful climbing the ladders and don’t you dare stand on the slide!”

“Bye!” you yell in reply, already jogging away with Stiles to meet with his other friend.

He touched your shoulder, “Do you like chasing bad guys?”

“I’m not supposed to chase,” you say seriously, “But I do like to catch bad guys.”

Stiles nodded his head in deep thought, “Okay. How about we make traps for bad guys under the slides.”

You agree enthusiastically, grateful at your young age for someone who didn’t know about your heart. Grateful that they played with you like any other child.

And you schemed underneath the slides, building traps out of woodchips and leafy twigs. Innocent kids that didn’t know any better. Didn’t know that you wouldn’t remember this first meeting.

~~~

“I’ve started TAing.”

Allison gives you a strange look, “What?”

“I’m a teacher’s assistant now,” you lead the way into the school, “I have a free period since I finished a core class during my homeschooling.”

“Who will you TA for?”

You hold back a grimace, “Coach Finstock.”

Allison snorts, “You know I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what’s going on half the time. He forgets which periods he’s teaching economics and which periods he needs to be in the gym for P.E..”

“All the more reason why he needs a TA to sort things out,” you say, straight-backed. “And it means I can help out at lacrosse games too.”

“What, like a waterboy?”

You bump into Allison’s side, “No… well maybe. Just helping out with supplies and plays and locker room stuff.”

“Locker room stuff,” Allison says with raised eyebrows.

You choke on a laugh, “Don’t start. I reserve the right to ban you from the locker rooms. Especially seeing as that’s become your new make out spot.”

That caught her off guard, ramming right into the person in front of her. With a squeal she drops everything in her arms and put her hands into her hair. It was Scott who turns around after the collision.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Allison laughs, joining you as you help pick up her things.

Scott looks terrifyingly relieved, “You’re okay.”

“Once my heart starts beating again, yeah.” You smile ruefully at that statement. “What?”

“I’m just happy to see you.”

You thought Scott looks more like seeing Allison walking and talking was a miracle. Like he couldn’t believe that she was alive. You hand Allison her pencil case and folders, watching their goodbye with skepticism.

“What was that?” you whisper as Allison walks away to first period.

Scott was still breathing shallow, “She’s okay.”

You snap your fingers in front of his dazed eyes. “Are you okay?”

The speakers suddenly turn on with a crackle of fuzzy interference. “Attention, students, this is your principal. I know you’re all wondering about the incident that occurred last night to one of our buses. While the police work to determine what happened, classes will proceed as scheduled. Thank you.” With another crackle of microphone feedback the principal’s voice was gone.

You return your eyes to Scott and furrow your brow.

He took in your confusion and whispers, “I had a dream last night where Allison and I snuck into the buses behind the school.”

“Oh?” you say, still skeptical but now with a smile on your face.

“And I sort of had… an outburst.” He seems to struggle with finding the right words. “I killed Allison and broke through the back of the bus.”

“Well, shit that sucks Scott,” you fold your arms, “But I don’t think you’re capable of all that.”

He grimaces, “No, when we showed up to school and saw the bus out back – and how it looked just like it did in my dream – I thought maybe I had actually killed Allison somehow.”

You reign in your teasing smiles and bump into his shoulder, “Scott, like I said, I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body. There’s no way you could kill someone and tear up a bus.” He still slumps as he follows you to first period. “I can understand why that would still be scary regardless.”

It was his turn to bump into your shoulder, but with more force, causing you to trip into a row of lockers. “God! I’m sorry, (Y/N),” he pulls you closer by the hand.

You laugh, ignoring the jump of your heart. “It’s okay, let’s just get to chemistry.”

Stiles was already sitting down, bouncing his leg against the table stool. He looks at Scott as if asking if everything was okay. Scott gave him a reassuring nod as he took a seat at the table in front of him.

You smile at them as you took the remaining empty seat at a back table. You immediately start copying the diagram drawn on the blackboard, taking out your science project notes for inspiration.

You could hear the frantic voices of Scott and Stiles near the front, and a needle of hurt stuck in your chest as you remember the secret that Stiles wasn’t ready to tell you. You had to remind yourself that the friendship was still relatively new.

There was still a secret you hadn’t told them either.

“Mr. Stilinski, if that’s your idea of a hushed whisper you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while,” Mr. Harris says from the blackboard. “I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?”

Stiles begrudgingly moves his stuff to the back but stops when he spots the empty seat next to you.

“Hey, trouble,” you say quietly.

He sat clumsily, “How was the rest of your weekend?”

“It was fine. Just a lot of reading.” You finish copying the blackboard notes.

Stiles leans on his elbow, “Still reading that werewolf book?”

“You mean Harry Potter,” you snicker, “Yeah I’m on the fourth one now.” Turning your head you could see Stiles staring at you, “What?”

He swallows hard, awkwardly straightening himself, “Nothing just… I like that coconutty-strawberry smell.”

Warmth came up your chest, “That would be my shampoo.”

“Then thank god for personal hygiene.” He grimaces and smacks the back of his head.

You ignore it, pulling your notebook closer. You could still feel his eyes on you as a classmate jumps to the window, “Hey, I think they found something!”

Everyone ran for the wall of windows. You stood quickly from your stool too when a fuzzy feeling flickers on in your head. You grip the table, closing your eyes and frowning.

No one notices as you compose yourself, waiting for the fainting feeling to go away. You wander closer to the group of kids terrified at what they were seeing. A tingling was making its way down your legs – the blood rushing to your toes.

You felt uncomfortably warm when a cool hand touches your shoulder, “(Y/N)?”

Stiles was at your side, unsure of what was happening. “You look ashy. Are you lightheaded again?”

The breath leaving your lungs was shallow and rapid, cotton was building pressure in your ears. “I’m going to faint, Stiles.”

“Mr. Harris!” Stiles yells, “(Y/N) needs to get to the nurses office!”

Not that the student body would know, but every teacher at the school knew of your health problems. They knew it was a possibility that you would require medical care. Mr. Harris, as cynical and distrustful as he was, let you leave promptly despite his feelings.

“You may leave, Miss. Westbrook.”

“Sir, I don’t think she should be walking alone to…”

Mr. Harris was using his phone as he looks out the window, “Get out of my classroom, Stilinski!”

Stiles keeps a hand on your back and another on your arm, watching your face the whole way. His voice was frantic and small as he talks you through it.

“It’s like I can see the blood draining from your face. Does that happen a lot? I mean, I know you get head rushes a lot, but the fainting thing? Do you just have bad blood circulation? Was it something I said? Look I know I’ve mentioned how good you smell twice now and while it is true I acknowledge that it’s a little creepy of me to be sniffing your hair so much. I probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Not gonna lie it’s kinda freaking me out that you’re not saying anything.”

You struggle to breathe, “It’s sort of hard when you don’t give me time to answer.”

The shallowness of your breathy words put a strange feeling in Stiles’ chest, “Do you need me to do something else? Does the nurse… what the hell is that?”

Your watch was suddenly beeping with an alarm. Your heart rate was far too high and had stayed that high for more than thirty seconds. A pain enters your chest, and your walking slows.

Stiles starts panicking, “What does that mean? (Y/N), what’s happening?” He yells down the hallway towards the office, “Hey! We need help over here!”

It was hard to keep your eyes open as you start to slump, “Stiles…” you mumble. And you lost consciousness, falling into Stiles and in return he fell to the ground to catch your body.

He held your back and shoulders, using his free hand to brush the hair from your face. Your skin was still gray-tinged. An office lady and the school nurse came rushing down the hallway. Their heavy footfalls matching the hard beating of your heart.

Stiles was finally at a loss for words, holding you like you had just died. “(Y/N)?! Oh my god, I think she just fainted,” he says to the incoming help, “I hope she just fainted.”

The nurse asks Stiles to help drag you to the sickbed. He complies, frantically asking questions until the nurse ordered him to stop.

“Alice, will you call her mother and I’ll get her doctor on the line,” the nurse says to the office lady. She dials a number and holds it to her ear as she elevates your legs and checks that your airway wasn’t obstructed.

“What did she say to you before she fainted?”

Stiles was still flabbergasted, “She turned gray and said she was lightheaded. She told me she was going to faint.” He ran a hand over his shaved head, “And then her watch started freaking out and she had a pain in her chest.”

“It’s been more than 90 seconds now,” she mumbles to herself, checking your watch monitor to measure your heart rate.

“Wh-What does that mean?” Stiles asks, blinking blearily. “Is she going to be okay?”

The nurse starts talking to a doctor on the phone and Stiles was ushered out by the office lady, forced to watch from a different room. He refuses to leave the office until he sees your eyes open just a few seconds later.

~~~

“By the time I checked with the office at lunch she was sent home,” Stiles vents, one hand on the wheel and the other in his short hair. “She hasn’t answered any of my texts or phone calls.”

Scott was stretched thin between worrying about his possible dreamlike wolf attack and the mystery of his newfound friend. In all honesty he was more worried about how worried his best friend was.

“I talked to Allison about it, she doesn’t know anything either.”

“God, I knew there was something wrong,” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “That scar she has… whatever I look up says it has something to do with her heart.”

Scott eyes his friend, unsettled by the palpable worry. “She’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We would have heard something if she wasn’t.”

Stiles grips the steering wheel, “We would have heard something if she was.”

They pull up against the fence to the bus drop off, putting the jeep in park. Stiles rubs at his worn face and Scott leans in with an edge to his voice.

“Listen, let’s just get this Derek theory over with and then we can go check on (Y/N). Sound good?”

Stiles grumbles, slipping out of the jeep with his friend.

“Hey, no, just me,” Scott says, “Someone needs to keep watch.”

“How come I’m always the guy keeping watch?”

Scott pulls on his friend’s arm, “Because there’s only two of us and I happen to have wolf-like reflexes and you’re distracted by your sudden love for (Y/N).”

“I am…” Stiles scoffs, caught off guard. “I am not in love with (Y/N).”

“The eight text messages and four phone calls would say otherwise.”

Stiles juts a finger in the air, “Hey, that is totally untrue.” He put his hands on his hips, “I only made three phone calls.”

“Whatever,” Scott whispers, “I’ll just be in and out.”

“Okay, why’s it starting to feel like you’re Batman and I’m Robin? I don’t want to be Robin all the time.”

Scott was bewildered, “Nobody’s Batman and Robin any of the time.”

“Not even some of the time?”

But true his word, Scott was quick upon entering the bus. Stiles surrenders and sits in the jeep ready to drive with the headlights off. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his messages to you, concern eating away at his stomach.

It was bad enough that he witnessed you fall ill so quickly and dragged you to the nurses office. But now he was realizing, through some personal investigation and the unhelpful words of Scott, that he had a crush on you.

He liked you.

With all the strange supernatural problems infiltrating his life, it was almost an unexpected surprise to have something so human as a little crush. His stomach flips. But what if there was something more supernatural about you?

Your heart rate was elevated when you fainted. Scott’s heart rate is a tell of an oncoming werewolf transformation.

Is that why you wanted to keep it a secret?

Stiles was sick of his investigative brain, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel. Couldn’t he have normal high school problems like fretting over the girl he liked instead of deducing if she was a shape shifter or not?

Flashlight beams could be seen from the school’s entrance. Stiles lifts his head to see them shining in his eyes, “Oh, shit…” he starts laying on the horn.

~~~

After dropping Scott off, Stiles sat in his jeep contemplating his next move. Staring at the clock on his dashboard he knew it was far too late for your parents to accept company.

But there was still that garden trellis outside your window.

Making his decision, Stiles drove to the end of your street, hopping out and running for your house. It was easier to climb the garden trellis now that he knew where to put his hands and feet through the vines and ladder.

He creeps over the roof tiles and squats outside your window. The lights were off, and he could just make out the human shape lying in bed… he still couldn’t help himself. He taps on the glass until he saw your figure stir.

Ruffled in white pajamas with little blueberries printed on the fabric, you carefully tip toe to the window to let him in.

“Stiles,” you yawn, the moonlight still bright enough to make your eyes squint. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles made a much more graceful entry, afraid to disturb your parents. “I wanted to check on you. You haven’t been answering my messages.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, clearly exhausted. Stiles remains standing – because he wanted to pace or because he was preparing to catch you should you fall, he didn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” you run your fingers through your bedhead. Stiles thought it was cute. “Between the hospital visit and the bedrest I haven’t even looked at my phone. My mom usually keeps it whenever I have a fainting episode. Gives me time to unplug and unwind.”

“But…” Stiles folds his arms, “But you are okay?”

He didn’t like that it took you longer to respond. “Yes, I’m fine. You know I get lightheaded a lot. Fainting is usually a consequence of that.”

“Your watch went off right before you fell,” he says quietly, his eyes dark and serious. “Like some kind of alarm.”

“Yeah,” you look at your watch that you wear even when sleeping. “It measures my heart rate. Whenever it spikes for too long it warns me that I might faint.”

“That’s why you get lightheaded… your heart?” his eyes linger at the collar of your shirt, hoping to see that scar again.

You fold your arms, protective, “When I get worked up it doesn’t beat enough to get oxygen to my brain. Then I get lightheaded and sometimes faint.”

Stiles nods his head and walks over to your bed, “Can I?”

A soft smile quirks your lips, “You may.”

He sits beside you, the mattress sinking down further. “So when we saw the ambulance and the bus driver all mangled like that…”

“It got my heart rate going,” you say easily. Of course you got lightheaded before even seeing the commotion outside the window. You didn’t feel like getting too deep into your diagnosis. This was a good start.

“It was really scary seeing you get sick like that,” Stiles says honestly, looking down at his hands. “Not knowing what was going on made me feel… like I was helpless to make it stop.”

You turn to him, silhouetted by moonlight. His eyelashes were so long that they were casting shadows onto his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, placing a hand on his forearm. It made him look up at you. “I should’ve been more honest with you.”

“Is this where I can ask you my one personal question of the day?” his eyes were warm as his voice held slight sarcasm.

You lean into him, “I suppose.”

“If you start feeling faint or if you do faint, what can I do to help? Just so I’m prepared if it happens again.”

You blow air between your lips, “Oh, it’ll happen again. That’s my curse.” You hum as you think, oblivious to how Stiles was unconsciously smiling at your thinking face. “I generally avoid things that would get my heart rate up.”

Stiles scoffs, having an epiphany, “Like a lacrosse game or an after party.”

“Or a crowded lunchroom,” you smile. “But if it goes up regardless, I usually try to ground myself. Like thinking about what my five senses notice. And I hold onto whoever I’m closest to. Doing that and taking deep breaths can control my heart rate.”

“I know a thing or two about that,” Stiles mumbles, “That’s a technique to control anxiety.”

You nod, “You’re right.”

“And if you faint again?”

“First step is to call for help and the second step is to make sure I’m stable.”

You turn to him, and he looks so sincere that goosebumps erupt on your skin. He was taking your words so seriously. Without interrupting your council he grabs the blanket off your bed and drapes it over your bare arms.

“Lay me down and elevate my feet. Make sure I’m not choking on anything. And then if I’m out for more than 90 seconds or I start seizing, then turn me on my side.”

“Why 90 seconds?” he asks.

You pull the blanket closer around you, “Because after 90 seconds then there might be some brain damage or something else seriously wrong.”

He turns his body towards you more, your thighs fully touching. “The nurse today said that you were out for over 90 seconds.”

“That’s why they sent me to the hospital,” you nod, “But they didn’t find any serious damage. I just can’t have any more fainting episodes like that.”

Stiles swallows hard, tracing the outline of your side profile with his eyes. Brow. Nose. Lips. Chin. “Why?”

“Because the more I have the weaker my body will become. The more damage I’ll get. We don’t want that to happen.”

He licks his lips and plays with his fingers, “Thank you for telling me.” He thought back to the scar on your chest and realized that some things still didn’t add up. Craning his neck to look at you, he asks, “That��s still not everything, is it?”

Your eyebrows slant and you look scared for the first time that night. “No.”

Stiles found himself closer to you than he intended, urgency laced into his next words, “(Y/N), I want to know everything. I want to be able to help.”

A sad smile crept onto your face, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You take a shaky breath, “Because then it’ll become too real. I’m not ready to share that reality yet.” You match his urgency as you express, “This is enough for now.”

Stiles suppresses the instant anger that brought up. He hated not knowing things. “Does anyone else know?”

“The school staff and most parents know,” you say, “Yes, even your dad.”

“My dad!”

You shush him, “It’s a small town and my mom works under him.”

“What about Scott and Allison?”

“Not yet,” you sigh, “But I don’t mind if you tell them now. It was stupid of me to keep it to myself when I could faint at any time around you guys.”

He bites his lip, “When will you be back at school?”

“Maybe Wednesday,” you shrug, “Fainting always puts my family in a tizzy. My parents don’t like me leaving the house until they’re sure I can handle the stress again.”

Stiles was sinking further towards you, your arms now touching along with your thighs. “Is that why you were homeschooled?”

“Yes. I finally decided to not let my problems stop me from living my life to the fullest,” you relish in his warmth beside you, the goosebumps going away. “I decided to go to school, to get a job, to do things my parents and doctors said I shouldn’t do. My heart rate will go up the same way if I get jump scared in my own kitchen. I might as well be out doing something enjoyable.”

Stiles sighs and he was close enough you could feel his breath on your cheek. “I like that.” You smile and cuddle further into your blanket. He felt reluctant to leave, but all the same says, “I should go.”

He stands and walks carefully to your window. “You’re going to miss a wicked history test tomorrow and the ‘hang out’ between Scott and Allison.”

“I thought they were going on a date?” you say, crawling back towards your pillow.

“Nope,” Stiles began to slide out your window, “Lydia and Jackson made it a hang out at the bowling alley.”

“Does Scott even bowl?”

He snorts, “Never.”

“That could only end in hilarity,” you grin, “I’ll text Allison about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Stiles mutters, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Stiles?”

He slips on the roof tiles, “Yep!”

You smile at his goofy face, “Thank you for helping me today. Not everyone would’ve done what you did.”

“I think anyone would be competent enough to cry for help when…”

“No, you coming to check on me. Asking me for details so you can help more in the future. Not judging me for having a problem. No one else has done that for me.”

Stiles nods awkwardly, gripping your windowsill. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

~~~

Wednesday evening you were on a mission to convince your parents that you were well enough to go to school tomorrow.

You stood in the kitchen, soft blue silk pajamas on and fuzzy socks keeping your toes warm. A home speaker was playing songs from your favorite playlist, coercing your body to nod and sway with the beats.

“Are you sure you feel alright enough to be alone?” your mother frets, putting a coat on as your dad grabs the car keys.

You hold up your wrist with the watch, “My heart has been steady all day.”

“Yes, but you don’t know if…”

“Mom!” you cry, “It’s Wednesday. Wednesday is date night. You should enjoy your Wednesday date night. I can make myself dinner and watch a movie before bed.”

Your dad nudges your mother towards the door, “Let her have some freedom,” he teases.

Angela smacks his arm, but keeps moving nonetheless, “You better believe I’m getting my own cheesecake tonight.”

Your father, Tom, gave you a wink, “Let’s treat ourselves tonight, sweetheart.”

And for the next ten minutes you were blissful in making yourself some chicken and rice, green beans on the side. Clad in your softest sleepwear and dancing around to your favorite tunes, it was hard to shift the mood when you receive a frantic phone call.

“Hey, Stiles. Sorry I wasn’t at scho…”

“(Y/N), I need your help,” he says quickly.

You turn away from the stove, “Cutting to the chase, alright. I’m listening.”

Stiles trips over his words, “Y-You work at the hospital right? You have a wealth of doctor knowledge? Like you could tell me a few facts about first aide?”

You lean against the counter, the marble cold under your arms. “Yes… Stiles what’s going on?”

“I might, sort of… maybe have a friend who is… very hurt.”

“Very hurt?”

“He has a wound that just keeps sprouting blood and he’s not looking so hot.”

You hum a ‘uh huh’ as you ponder who this friend might be, “Not looking so hot meaning what?”

“You know, just the general sweating, pale skin, heavy breathing.”

“He must be in a lot of pain then.” You could hear a slam on something metal in the background. Stiles must’ve jumped by how his voice rose an octave.

“Lots – lots of pain. Listen, what might we do to help said wound?”

You go to stir your sizzling chicken, “How does it look?”

“Red and gross and all around a major health code violation,” he felt his chest tighten at your slight laugh. “There’s also these purple veiny things creeping up his arm.”

The smile falls from your face, “That would mean he has blood poisoning. Whatever wound he has is infected and if it reaches his heart then it’ll kill him.”

Someone was rummaging through drawers; you could hear pill bottles flying around.

“That’s good, great,” Stiles curses, “What do we need to stop that from happening?”

“Well, you need to stop the infection with some pretty heavy antibiotics,” you rub at your forehead. “And you need to clean the wound to stop more infection from getting in. And you could put a tourniquet on to help stop the bleeding.”

Some heavy whispering was happening behind Stiles’ hand. Something recognizable was in the other man’s voice.

“Stiles,” you say warningly, “Who are you with?”

“Just some guy,” Stiles replies, moving around, “We’re putting a belt around his arm as a tourniquet now. Thanks for your help, (Y/N).”

A cry of pain was heard through the phone and you hiss, “Are you with Derek Hale?”

“What?! No way… not a chance,” he laughs weakly before growing silent. “Yes, I’m with Derek Hale.”

“What the hell, Stiles – I thought you hated that guy.”

A growl was heard behind him, “Listen, I gotta go. Talk to you later?”

“I’ll be here, making dinner and watching old Disney movies.” You wait for a goodbye, but the line went dead. “That was weird.” And it continues to be that way as you finish making the dinner and grab a soda from the fridge.

You sat on the couch, pulling a fluffy forest green blanket on you. It was quiet and serene as you pull up one of your favorite movies: Atlantis: The Lost Empire.

You weren’t even ten minutes in when there was a knock on your door. Slipping on your thick socks, you skid across the hard wood to the door.

Suspicious, you say, “Stiles… how is Derek?”

“He’ll live,” Stiles says, out of breath and wrapping his jacket tightly around him. “He’s having a chat with Scott right now about the Hale family or something.”

“About the house fire?” you ask, “So now that he’s innocent of killing his sister you’re suddenly buddies with him?”

Stiles had an exaggerated look on his face, “Well, not exactly. He’s still a big scary guy that we got thrown into jail for a day. And now the town thinks he’s some murdering recluse because of the evidence we put against him.”

You couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your face, “So it was just a favor you helping him tonight?”

“Yeah, it was a hunting accident,” he says casually, as if it were the whole truth. “And he didn’t have any friends to turn to.” He dances on his toes, looking up at the porch light, “While I love chatting out in the cold, do you think your parents would be alright if I hang out here and check on you?”

Leaving the door open, you walk inside, “My parents aren’t here. It’s date night.”

“Right,” he says, closing the door and kicking off his shoes, “How are you feeling?”

You sigh, “I feel fine. My mom is just determined to keep me couped up for the rest of my life.” Without prompting you prepare a dinner dish for Stiles and meet him in the living room, “I’ve only been in school a few weeks, but I miss it.”

Stiles eyes the plate of food with wide honey eyes, “Oh my god, that smells amazing.”

“Come on, I’m watching Atlantis.”

The boy was only too eager to follow you onto the couch. He flops down, staring at his plate hungrily. You share the green blanket, throwing it over his lap. He looks at you with big eyes.

“You said it was cold outside,” you shrug, picking up your plate. Your legs were touching again as the pair of you ate.

Stiles was eating the chicken and rice like his life depended on it, “This is the best food I’ve had in years.”

“You must be in love with it,” you snicker, “Judging by the sounds you’re making.” You laugh as he chokes on his fork.

“No, it’s just…” he scratches the back of his neck, “I don’t eat a lot of homecooked food anymore. My dad and I survive on takeout mostly.”

You push the rice around your plate, “Did your mom cook a lot?”

There was a shift in the air as Stiles continues to eat, but he responds with as normal a voice as he could manage. “Yeah. My dad used to say that… that she would bribe him with a good dinner to get him home from the station sometimes.”

Your voice was warm as you say, “She must’ve been an excellent chef if that got the Sheriff away from his caseload.”

“She used to make this delicious homemade mac and cheese, like fancy mac and cheese…” he made silly hand motions in the air, “Like with the little chopped up green things on top.”

“Parsley?”

He shrugs, but his eyes grew wide and bright, “And she’d serve it on top of a piece of garlic bread with some Italian sausage on the side.” He makes an overexaggerated chef kiss. “It was a masterpiece.”

“Sounds amazing,” you lean back into the couch, leaving your plate on the side table. “Like a fancy kid’s meal.”

Stiles guffaws, “That’s what it was! When I was little the only thing I would eat was kraft mac and cheese with chicken nuggets. She was determined to make me a better version.”

“I would’ve liked to have met her,” you say softly, fixated on the points where your bodies were touching. “She sounds like an amazing person.”

“She was,” Stiles says just as quietly, playing with his food like he had lost interest in it. “She would’ve thought you were sweet.”

You lean closer, intrigued, “Sweet?”

“That was her descriptor word for all things she liked.” He puts his plate aside too, resting against the couch and your shoulder that was so near. “We got a coupon for the arcade? Sweet! My dad picked her a flower from the woods? That’s sweet of him. I’m forced into a sailor outfit for family pictures? He looks so sweet!”

You take a deep breath, “That is pretty sweet.”

Stiles turns to you, startled to see you so close to him. His throat grew dry and his chest felt tight, all words trickling from his brain and out his ears. He never talked about his mom. Not to Scott, not to his dad, not to his pillow – not to anyone. But talking about her to you was… easy.

You were having the quick realization that Stiles had not just brown eyes, but the most glassy brown eyes you had ever seen. Like if sunlight were to shine through the liquid of a whisky bottle. Or if a sunset caught a glimpse of a glistening honeycomb. Or if a campfire reflected off a drop of amber tree sap.

“So…” Stiles clears his throat, not wishing to pull away but very conscious of how high his voice sounds. “You like Atlantis?”

The movie had been playing the whole time in the background.

“Yes! Have you seen Milo Thatch? I’d marry him in an instant.”

“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly for an animated man.”

You poke your shoulder into him, “Fictional men.”

“And the appeal is?”

“It’s in the name,” you snicker, “They’re fictional.”

Stiles hums a reply, turning his attention back to the tv screen. “I’ll add that to your case file: only attracted to fictional men and therefore can conclude that she’s never had a real boyfriend.”

“Oh, it feels real though.”

Stiles fought a shiver tickling the top of his spine. He instead readjusted his pants, “I think I’m going to need more research on these fictional men you’re so fascinated with.”

“We’d have a lot of ground to cover,” you sigh, “Seeing as I don’t think you’ll read any of the books I give you, we’ll have to have a lot more movies nights like this.”

“I think I’d be okay with that,” Stiles says with a smirk on his face. His hands were above the blanket you share, lying in his lap and fidgeting with the green fuzzies coming from the fabric he was pulling.

~~~

You sat on the windowsill in the girls bathroom the next day, reapplying your lipstick and combing your fingers through your hair. Allison was readjusting her hairband in the mirror while Lydia fixes her mascara.

“We’re going to have a movie night,” the redhead says, admiring her eyelashes. “All of us.” She turns with a flair and points to the other two. “It’ll be prime time for a little under the blanket action.”

You make a face while Allison coughs awkwardly, “You want to do a double date?”

“Triple if we can get (Y/N) a boytoy,” Lydia smirks.

“I’m not exactly in the market for boytoys,” you say, crossing your arms.

Lydia leans against the sink, “You will when I tell you half the lacrosse team wants to ask you out since you started helping with Coach.”

A nauseous feeling enters your stomach, “I’m not a huge fan of dating, Lydia.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handpick the perfect one for you.”

Allison was all skepticism as the bell rang, “There goes the last of English.”

“And now we can go straight to lacrosse practice!” Lydia claps her hands, “Let’s go shopping for (Y/N)’s boyfriend.”

The trio make their way to the field, each at a different level of enthusiasm, as you see Scott and Stiles in their uniforms. The boys were quick to pull you to the side.

“Why did you skip the rest of English?” Scott asks, “Is Allison okay?”

“We got an emergency text from Lydia,” you huff, “Turns out it was just the regular scheming and gossip.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, “Like…?”

“Like how Lydia is going to find me a lacrosse boyfriend to match her and Allison’s lacrosse boyfriends…”

Scott and Stiles spoke at the same time:

“I’m Allison’s lacrosse boyfriend?”

“You’re getting a lacrosse boyfriend?”

You roll your eyes, “And with all our lacrosse boyfriends we’re going to have a ‘movie night’ to coverup the sexcapade I think Lydia’s planning.”

Scott was blinking really hard, and Stiles seems to have left on a thought tangent based on the slack jawed look on his face.

You snap your fingers, “I need your help with Lydia.”

“No,” Scott mumbles, “She’s scary.”

Stiles was still lingering on his imagination as he says, dreamily, “You don’t want a lacrosse boyfriend?”

Your hands fall on your hips, “I just don’t want Lydia to conduct a speed dating the lacrosse team weekend.”

“WESTBROOK!”

You close your eyes, “Yes, Coach!?”

Coach Finstock stomps over, clipboard in hand as he struggles to wrap the whistle around his wild haired head. “I need you to register the team for a spring retreat.”

You blink blearily, “A spring retreat, Coach?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s good for bonding and teamwork and… bonding.” He threw his hands up, “We have the funds this year so we’re going out.”

The teenagers share looks as you attempt to get a baseline of knowledge, “What’s our budget? When are the dates? Who do I contact?”

“Everything’s on my desk. Now get to it,” he puts the whistle between his teeth, “The district likes to hear about these things in advance.”

You back away to the locker rooms as you silently plead to Scott and Stiles to handle the Lydia situation. They were frantically whispering back to you, making exaggerated and confused gestures. You could spy Lydia and Allison talking to a lacrosse huddle by the bleachers.

For the next forty-five minutes you handle the paperwork that the principal and district employees emailed Finstock. You create an excel sheet for signups and a budget tracker. You contact a sports summer camp that allows retreats and field trips during the school year. All you need was to pass out permission slips and gather player information.

You were on your way out of the copy room when you spot Lydia on Jackson’s arm, conversing with some players on the sidelines. Scott was playing goalie while Stiles and a few others were doing a play on the field.

“Give me some good news, Westbrook,” Coach grumbles, bending his clipboard to near splintering levels. “Because these dancing monkeys need some incentive to play better than my recently deceased grandmother.”

“I’ve got everything scheduled here,” you say, not even bothering to show all your hard work. The Coach trusts you enough to have it finished. “I just need to get players information.”

“Done. Boys! Get your pansy ballet asses to line up next to Westbrook! Do what she says fellas or you’re going to miss one hell of a weekend retreat.”

A herd of maroon jerseys and shoulder pads stampede towards you on the bleachers. Sweaty, and slightly smelly, boys began to filter past as you write down their names, shirt size, contact information, and give them a permission slip. You could feel Lydia and Allison waiting on the bench behind you.

Lydia’s heel toed boot prods the middle of your back whenever a boy she particularly likes came up.

“Ben Manley,” a blonde-haired, freckled face says. “I like your jacket.”

Seeing as it was a jacket you borrowed from Stiles’ jeep, you smile, “Thanks, Ben Manley. Get this paper signed if you want to come on the retreat.”

He looks a little dejected as he walks past. Another boy comes up, shiny with sweat on his wonderfully dimpled cheeks. His hair was chestnut brown and curly, “Andrew Wickstrom,” he says with a smile, “Thank you for helping Coach. He hasn’t been as manic since you started.”

“I’m glad my hard work is paying off.” You hand him a permission slip as another sharp poke was felt in your back. “Just turn that in within the next week.”

“Thanks, (Y/N). See you in gym.”

Right, gym class that you were a TA in instead of attending. You told the other students that you already got those credits during homeschool, but really you had a doctors note detailing how under no circumstances were you to get your heart rate up.

While others ran laps and did pushups and played volleyball indoors, you graded papers for Finstock from various classes.

Scott and Stiles came next in line. Scott gave a lovestruck wave to the girl sitting behind you while Stiles whispers to you.

“Hanging in there?”

“I think Lydia is making a March Madness chart with eligible lacrosse players,” you hand the boys permission slips. “She’s relentless.”

“You think I’ll make the bracket?” he asks clumsily, his cleats sticking into the grass.

You shrug, a teasing tone to your voice, “She’s very particular about who she adds.”

Stiles hopes he wasn’t hearing sarcasm, or even worse – dislike, in your voice. He was shoved to the side by a much taller boy coming in next.

“Josh Arnett,” he says.

He was broad, darkhaired, light eyed, and currently getting a dirty look from Stiles.

“Hi there,” you say, a little starstruck at the intense eye contact. You immediately recognize him as a narcissistic asshole, one that you’d still gladly kiss and get your heart broken over. He was one that made you think Greek gods still existed. He was one that made dirty look sexy.

And you just said, ‘hi there.’

His smile was killer, “Are you going to be at the retreat?”

You ignore the boot in your back as you fumble over your words, “Probably. Coach has kind of grown dependent on me to function.”

He took a permission slip, “I’ll go if you go,” and he winks. Like full on ‘sent-a-warm-river-of-shivers-down-your-chest-and-to-your-middle’ kind of wink. Your uneven heart patters at the sight of him walking away. Those wide shoulder pads… slim waist… and tight little…

You snap out of it as you realize the boy next to you was doing the exact same thing. Danny Mahealani was gawking as he groans under his breath, “Damn I love being on the lacrosse team.”

You laugh, shoving him away in a playful gesture. Danny was by far one of your favorites on the team. Lydia was right above your shoulder in an instant.

“I think we have our winner.”

“What?” you say a bit breathless, “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Philanderer?”

Allison was choking on laughs as Lydia huffs, “Come on, just a little movie date tonight. You don’t have to see him again if it’s really that bad.”

“You’re just trying to get a hot squad together,” you poke her button nose before you stand. “But you can’t force a healthy relationship on incompatible people.”

“Sure I can,” she scowls, “Jackson and I are still together.”

You share a look with Allison before packing up, “If you two are bringing dates tonight, I might as well bring the one that flirted with me.”

“Oh, please,” Allison crosses her arms, “All of them were being fl…”

“Perfect,” Lydia claps, “I’ll talk with Josh in the locker room.” And she flounces off in her skirts, leaving Allison to walk with Scott.

And Stiles appears at your shoulder, grabbing your leftover papers and the laptop from your hands. “So, has Lydia decided your fate?” He tries not to sound too eager (and/or desperate) to learn about the evenings plans, but he was hovering a bit close as you rub your temples. Your heart rate was a little high since encountering Mr. Philanderer.

“We have a big movie date tonight.”

He holds his breath as he continues, “… slash sexcapade?”

You snort, “I’d rather clean out whatever is festering in Coach’s desk drawers than have a sexcapade this weekend.”

His next breath was deep and tight, “Then who are you watching the movie with?”

“Josh Arnett.” Stiles stuck to the grass while you walk a few steps ahead. “What?”

“You are going to spend the night with Jealous Josh? Judgy Josh? Jockstrap Josh? Forget that last one.”

You giggle, “Yes, I’m going out with Jaw-dropping Josh.” You pull on Stiles’ arm, “It’s just to appease Lydia.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Of course you don’t,” you say, “It’s going to be just a one time thing.”

“But what if he charms you and kisses you and you agree to more dates…” he watches a dreamy look slide onto your face. “Oh my god, you’re thinking about kissing him, aren’t you?”

You open the door to the locker room, full of sounds and smells alike. “It would be a crime not to acknowledge that he’s hot. And I’d have more status by saying I kissed him once.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

“Because I’m going on a date or because I’m going on a date with him?” You try to keep your tone civil as you’re surrounded by changing lacrosse players.

“Because he’s a douchebag that will probably do something to hurt your feelings and I don’t want that to happen.”

You take all your supplies from him, speckles of anger popping up your spine, “You trying to control who I go out with is a little douchy, don’t you think?”

“I’m not trying to control…” Stiles threw his gloves on the ground, “I’m trying to look out for you.”

“I’m not going to catch feelings for him,” you say indignantly, “I just want to try it Lydia’s way for once. It’s just one date, how bad could it be?” A sudden rush to your head makes you stumble, ramming your shoulder into a line of lockers.

Stiles jumps to your back, hands on your arms as you screw up your eyes. You take a deep breath and force the black spots from your vision. Slowly the voice of Stiles enters your ears.

“I’m fine,” you say, standing straight, “My heart was just beating a little fast.”  

“Because of our argument?”

You turn to the sound of his voice. The previous anger was gone. In its place were fearful honey eyes and an open, honest expression.

“Among other things,” you say, trying to catch your breath. “I’ll see you later.”

Stiles was screwing up his lips, chewing the inside of his cheek, clearly worried as you retreat. “Call me if something happens!”

 ~~~

You wait at your living room window for over an hour. You wait in your comfy blue sweater that’s cute enough for a date and soft enough for cuddling. You wait with styled hair and a little lipstick.

You could feel your parents spying from the kitchen, disappointed that you were being abandoned like this. A pain creeps into your chest that has nothing to do with your heart. It made your stomach twist and your head hurt.

It did not feel good to be stood up.

You text Lydia to give her an update. Her quick reply was that she and Jackson would pick you up and you could pick out the movie together.

You didn’t wave goodbye as you left the house, embarrassed by the turn of events. “I was such an idiot.”

Lydia turns in her seat, “You’re not an idiot, you look gorgeous.”

“I’m an idiot for getting excited about a night out with that jerk,” you play with your fingers. “And I knew from the beginning that he was an asshole, and I still got all ready trying to impress him.”

“No, you got ready because you wanted to feel hot. Remember you were going to one and done him tonight; Josh should be the one feeling disappointed that he isn’t here with you.”

You crack a faint smile, “Where’s Scott and Allison?”

“Oh, Allison’s hanging out with her aunt and so Scott decided to make other plans.”

“Meaning it’s just us three tonight?”

Jackson sighs begrudgingly, “Yep.”

“Then we might as well make it a chick flick night,” Lydia says, cheery despite her boyfriends obvious disdain for the situation. “Let’s watch The Notebook.”

“Absolutely not,” Jackson says, “We are not doing chick flicks just because your friend was dumped.”

Lydia purses her lips, “You’re not making this any easier, Jackson.”

“Yeah, I don’t really feel like crying, Lyds,” you attempt, the video store just down the road.

Jackson starts to ramble about different action and sports movies, “We never choose a movie that I pick. How about Hoosiers? Not only is it the best basketball movie ever, but it is also the best sports movie ever made.”

Lydia was quick with her reply, “No.”

“It’s got Gene Hackman and Dennis Hopper.”

You grimace at Lydia’s same short reply. “We can go in and browse for a little bit.” The night was shaping up to be one of the worst by far.

“I am not watching The Notebook again!” Jackson raises his voice.

“Come on, Jackson,” you say, opening the door. “Let’s just go look around for a second. I’ll help pick a good one.”

You walk to the first aisle inside, both of you on edge for different reasons. Jackson makes no effort to make conversation as you peruse the romantic comedy shelves. “She means well. She’s just trying to cheer me up.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry if I don’t want my date ruined by turning it into a girls night.”

You cross your arms, “I’m sorry.”

Jackson scowls at your drawn expression, “Arnett really is an asshole, by the way. I told Lydia as much.”

“Again, she meant well,” you sigh, “But thanks anyway.” A phone starts ringing in the background and kept echoing through the empty store. “Geesh, you would think someone would pick that up by now.”

“Hello?” Jackson calls out, “Is anybody working here?”

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing at a pair of shoes sticking out from an aisle further down. “Did someone fall off that ladder?” The medical assistant in you was already in action, pulling your phone out as you near the shoes.

You both move slowly, tense as the atmosphere gives an eerie flicker of lights. As you round the aisle of movies, there laying on the ground is the store manager – his throat clawed out.

“Oh my god!” you scream, gawking at the blood soaking the front of his shirt. It was fresh and glistening, splattered up onto his face and glasses.

“Holy shit!” Jackson yells, jumping back and onto the ladder. It moves enough that a broken light fixture falls, ripping the exposed wiring and plunging the entire video store into flickering darkness.

One second it’s dull yellow light, and the next an awful red dark, and then light again. It was making your vision blur with spots. You fall to your knees, sickened by the sudden wet warmth that soaks your pants.

Your heart was racing, beating like a war drum as you fought to control your breathing. Jackson was standing in the middle aisle, clearly shocked into silence. You were fumbling with your phone, attempting to dial any number that came up first.

There was a low, deafening growl that ripples through the store. You eye the claw marks on the store manager and immediately think of something big and terrifying. Jackson did too as he falls to hide behind a shelf.

You could hear the growling towards the back, too near for your liking. You shuffle away from the body, aware that Jackson had just left you to fend for yourself. A row of shelves falls behind you as you make your way to the front, crawling on your hands and knees.

You finally manage to dial a number, the first one you could think of. And the sound of Stiles on the other end brought you a sense of relief. He would do something.

“Hello.”

“Stiles…” you whisper, crawling along the front of the store and next to the windows.

“(Y/N), what’s wrong?”

Your breath was shaky and came out in wheezes, “I need help.”

There was a rustling on the other end, “Where are you? (Y/N), you need to breathe.”

A snarling growl came from your left and you dread to turn your head, “Oh god…”

“(Y/N)! Stay awake – tell me where you are!”

But as you turn your gaze to the hot breath and red gaze of the growling creature, you let out a bloodcurdling scream. The giant monster swipes a paw at you, clawing at your shoulder and sending you spinning into the opposite wall. You slam against the brick with a sickening force, a crash of broken glass above you as the creature jumps through.

Shards of glass collect on your body, stinging some of your exposed skin. Warmth was spreading down your left arm as you fought to breathe. Your vision was blurring, and you were falling in and out of consciousness.

Jackson crawls out from under the fallen video shelves and finds you at the front, noticing Lydia screaming in the car. He kneels beside you and pulls out his phone, dialing 911.

~~~

Stiles sat in the parking lot of a burger joint, eating dinner with his father in the police car. He was reminiscent of the homecooked meal you made him, fondly thinking of his mother too.

“Did they forget my curly fries?”

He chides his father, “You’re not supposed to eat fries, especially the curly ones.”

The Sheriff smirks, “Well, I’m carrying a lethal weapon. If I want the curly fries, I will have the curly fries.”

Stiles took his bitten straw out of his mouth, “If you think getting rid of contractions in all your sentences makes your argument any more legitimate, you are wrong.”

His dad gave him a bewildered look, “Somethings off with you tonight. Did you take too much Adderall?”

“No,” Stiles grumbles, picking at his hamburger wrapper, “Just… thinking about school.” He watches his dad’s expression egg him on further, “… and lacrosse… and Scott…” He huffs and throws his dinner back in the brown bag. “And girls.”

The Sheriff scoffs, hiding a laugh, “Just the usual then.”

Stiles felt his phone ring and he was surprised to see your name appear. Thinking you’re going to tell him Josh Arnett is the asshat that they all knew him to be, Stiles says confidently into the phone, “Hello.”

There was a terrified whisper in reply, “Stiles…”

He sat straighter, his dad catching a soda before it fell to the floor. “(Y/N), what’s wrong?” You sound like you were on the verge of a panic attack.

“I need help.” Your breathing was erratic, and he knew your heartbeat was probably the same.

“Where are you? (Y/N), you need to breathe.” God forbid you faint in whatever terrifying situation you’re in.

There was a terrible growl behind your shaky words, and you sound so small when you cry, “Oh god…”

It sent a thrill of terror through Stiles, “(Y/N)! Stay awake – tell me where you are!” A million scenarios were flying through his mind. Was there a werewolf there? The alpha? What had happened to your date?

There was a deafening bloodcurdling scream as the phone must’ve fallen from your hand. It took Stiles a second to realize that it was you that screamed. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)!” Your cries flew to the side along with a crash of glass as the snarling beast left.

The line went dead and Stiles fell into a panic, “How do I… where… god, dad we have to find her!”

The Sheriff listens with sincerity as he had watched the entire conversation. “What’s going on?”

“That was my friend, (Y/N) Westbrook. She was supposed be out tonight on a date, but something went wrong. She sounded terrified and then there was a scream and a crash and then… nothing.” His arms were flailing as he sat on the edge of the car seat, “We have to find her!”

“Westbrook?” the Sheriff says, throwing his wrapper to the floor, “You don’t mean…”

“Yes! And I know you know about her heart.”

His dads eyes widen ever-so-slightly, “How do you know about…?”

Stiles slams a hand on the dashboard, half tempted to grab the steering wheel, “We have to go – she’s in serious trouble!”

“Now hang on just a damn minute,” was his reply, “We don’t even know where she is. And before you go flying out the window, let’s think about this with some sense. Do you know where she was supposed to be on her date?”

Stiles whacks his head, as if to jog some memories over the panic, “They were going to watch a movie.” He bounces his leg, pleading with his dad, “Please, dad, she’s going to have another fainting episode.”

The police radio turns on with some crackling feedback. The dispatcher on duty was a man judging by the voice. At least that meant Mrs. Westbrook wasn’t on shift that night.

“Unit One, do you copy?”

Stiles leapt for the radio and the Sheriff slaps his hand away. “Unit One, copy.”

“Got a report of a possible 187.”

Stiles jumps in his chair, shaking the whole car, “A murder!?”

“It’s at the local video store. Some teenagers are involved.”

The Sheriff confirms he’ll be there and felt a twang of guilt as he watches the fear bubble in his son. “Do you have confirmation on how many are hurt?”

“Negative, but the boy on the phone was in a frenzy about an animal attack.”

“Thanks, Johnson.” The Sheriff put the radio up, speeding down the street with sirens blaring. “Let’s not fear the worst, Stiles. They said there was just one possible 187.”

Stiles was biting his lips, drumming his knuckles over his mouth, “I should have stopped her from going out. I knew it was a bad idea.”

The drive was tense and painfully slow despite the speed the Sheriff was emitting. When they reach the video store it was swarming with EMTs and an ambulance. The store window was shattered, and Jackson was yelling at whatever emergency personnel he could. Lydia was huddled in a shock blanket on the curb, and sitting on the edge of the ambulance was you.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles cries, “Thank you god.” He was falling out of the police car before it even made a complete stop. “(Y/N)!” He ran for the Beacon ambulance.

You were leaning against the side of the car, an EMT bandaging your left arm. You had a few butterfly bandages on your face and a rapidly developing bruise to the side of your head. There were dark circles under your eyes and your skin was ashy again.

“What happened?” he asks, quiet compared to the panic he was in moments ago.

You turn your wet eyes to him, gulping, “Stiles. There… there was a monster.”

“She hit her head pretty hard,” the EMT says, finishing your bandage. “She needs to go home and get some rest.”

Stiles gave the man a nod, gently sitting next to you and giving his full attention. “What kind of monster?”

“It was like a bear or a wolf,” you whisper, exhausted. “I was so scared.” The break in your voice put a hitch in his chest. “Josh bailed on me and then Scott and Allison. And I just wanted to go home.” You turn to him, “I want to go home, Stiles.”

He clenches his jaw, his throat bobbing, “Okay. Okay, we can go home…” He stole a shock blanket from the back and wraps you in it, careful around your left shoulder. “Did you faint at all?”

You stare off, disassociating, “In and out.”

The Sheriff calls your parents as you lean into Stiles. Your head nestles into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He couldn’t put his arm around your shoulders for fear of hurting the new wound. Instead he wraps his hand lower on your waist.

With his other hand he reaches for your fingers, worry still eating away at his stomach. “Where are we on the possibility of fainting right now?”

You groan, “60% chance.”

He gives a painful smile, wrapping his hand in yours. With his fingers he felt for the pulse in your wrist. It was a little high and stuttering unevenly.

“What do you hear?”

You hum, “Sirens. People. You.”

Stiles felt a warmth seeping into his chest, it was loud and suffocating and squeezed at his heart. “What do you smell?”

“Rubbing alcohol. And you.”

He plays with your fingers, tracing them with his thumb, “What do I smell like?” A small huff of air escapes your lips, and he likes to believe it was almost a laugh. “Cause you know exactly how I think you smell.”

You try to clear your throat, “Like sandalwood.”

“I’m not even sure what that is.”

“Like the woods,” you whisper. “Like rain, and trees, and honey.”

“How did you know my favorite pastime was bathing in forest rain and honey?” He imagines the twitch in your cheek against his neck was an attempt at a smile. “What do you feel?”

You fidget in his embrace, “Tired. Pain. Fear…”

“Okay, bad question.”

“Your hand,” you continue, “You’re warm. It’s nice.”

The inflation of his chest was reaching a bursting point, and he laid his face against your hair. Holding you there, he checks your pulse again with his long fingers. It had lowered since his arrival.

Your parents came soon after that, fretful and terrified of your condition. They wanted to take you to the hospital for a full checkup and your grip tightened on Stiles’ hand as his dad took him away.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers in your ear, your parents approaching. “I’ll see you later.”

~~~

It was very late into the night when Stiles climbs the garden trellis to your window. He was delighted to see that it was left cracked open. He pushes it open the rest of the way and falls inside, careful not to make too much noise.

You lay in bed with the lamp on, illuminating the room with its peachy color. You were in midnight blue pajamas with little stars printed on them. Your left arm was stiff and heavily bandaged, painkillers adding to your collection of prescription meds on the nightstand.

“Hey,” he whispers, gaining the attention of your wet gaze. You must’ve been crying for a long time judging by the redness of your eyes. “How was the hospital?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t believe you. He sat on the edge of your bed, itching to grab your hand again but needing a good reason. “When I got your call… it scared me shitless.” A chuckle escapes him, “My dad was ready to clobber me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Stiles says, “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. You did nothing wrong. This was all just a terrible ordeal.”

You sniff, “I’m tired.”

Stiles nods, “Yeah, I just wanted to check on you before bed. I should let you sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

His chest tightens like earlier. He aches to touch you again, seeing you so fragile and tense. “(Y/N)…”

“Every time I close my eyes I see that thing clawing at me.” Another tear escapes your eyeline and runs down your cheek, “I’m too scared to sleep.”

“Well…” Stiles picks at a seam in his pants, “How about you call for your mom? I’m sure she’ll…”

“I don’t want to worry them anymore. I’m tired of making them worry so much.”

Stiles chews on his lip, “Hmm, okay. How about I stay? I’ll just sit at your desk and keep watch.”

You watch him with swollen eyes, “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m worried about you too. And I feel better knowing I can keep you calm.” He wasn’t going to tell her that for the last three hours he had been replaying their moment outside the ambulance. The way you leaned into him, and he got to hold your hand and listen to you talk about how nice it was to be next to him.

“I want you to stay,” you say quietly. “But you can’t sit in a desk chair all night.” You pat your uninjured hand on the mattress beside you.

Stiles feels warmth flood his cheeks, “Oh, yeah… well – great.” He sits down and stretches out on top of the covers, “This is a much more comfortable spot to keep watch.”

You pull at your blankets, turning towards him and grounding yourself in his presence. “There’s a squeaky floorboard in the hallway. You’ll hear if my parents are coming.” You place a hand on his forearm, “Thank you for being here.”

His throat bobs at your touch, “Always.” And he lays there well into the night, cursing when your hand falls away in your sleep. He waits for sunrise to leave, occupying himself with watching your breathing patterns and checking your pulse every once in a while. He even brushes the hair from your face and flattens the arm bandages that start to unstick.

He was just memorizing the curve of your nose and the slant of your cheekbone when the sun broke over the horizon.

He sighs, rubbing hard at his face. If this is what having a crush on you was like… it was going to consume him.  

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs

[joshfutturman]

'they'd find us in a week, ( lay here for years or for hours )'

oneshot - mike struggles to let you get close, but when your hands brush against his hair, he realises that he may not be able to keep you at arms length forever (1.7k words) pairing - mike schmidt (five nights at freddy's) & gn!reader tags - ok basically this whole thing was 'mike gets sleepy when you play with his hair because my headcanon is that his mom used to do it when he was younger', pre-established friendship verging on relationship, lingering feelings, pure fluff

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

you knew mike wasn’t really the super affectionate type, or at least. . . not with you, yet. each week you’d come over, he’d inch a little closer towards you on the sofa. every time, you felt your heart rate pick up. he felt so close yet so far.

this night, he was the closest he’d ever been. your eyes drift over to the armchair where he used to sit himself when you first visited, and then to him, inches from you now on the sofa. you often treated the situation like mike was an animal, your hand outstretched waiting patiently for him to sniff, get used to your scent maybe. one wrong move and he’d scamper away. you operated on his time, at his pace.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

his leg touches yours and you feel your face heat up at the innocent touch. you dare not glance towards him, relax, you think to yourself. mike probably thought nothing of it. but when you do glance despite your best efforts, you notice the red on his cheeks too.

you try to suppress a smile.

the room was lit with only small flickers from the television in his living room, some mindless action film playing. it was his suggestion, and you let him, loving the way his face lit up when he tried to explain the plot to you in a sheepish manner. his dad used to watch it with him, he said. it felt special that he wanted to share this with you, even if it wasn’t the best movie in the world, it would turn out to be one of your favourites anyway.

you try to focus, settling back into the sofa as you rest your elbow back onto the base of the sofa behind you, supporting your head as your cheek rests against your palm. your eyes drift to mike, watching him as he eyes the television with deep interest. he’s got that sleepy look he usually has and your eyes begin to study his face a little closer now that you’ve got the opportunity.

the dark bags under his eyes hadn’t gotten any better, in fact, they looked a little worse. but that leads you onto his freckles, one. . . two. . . three. . . four. . . more than you could count, dotted across his nose and cheeks. they were your favourite of his features, little constellations you wanted to connect, his face infinitely more interesting than any of the old stars in the night sky.

his stubble was growing a little long, longer than you’d seen it before - maybe tomorrow was his usual shaving day. you wouldn’t tell him, but you thought he suited it at this length. a part of you wonders what it would feel like against your own cheek, but you quickly swat that thought from your mind.

but god, his eyelashes. they were long, dark and delicate. with each blink, you wonder if mike knew how truly beautiful he actually was. he was handsome sure, but he was also incredibly beautiful. not just in looks either, he was beautiful in the way that he’d save you an extra donut - your favourite kind, he’d swerve in the road to avoid birds, he’d send you pictures of things that reminded him of you with no caption or explanation.

you loosen up, lifting your face from your hand. your fingers twitch, itching to reach out and touch his hair. that would be weird, right? but he’s so close. his head is almost resting on your shoulder. should you?

before you have a chance to stop yourself, your fingers briefly brush through a curl on his head and immediately he flinches back.

fuck. you’ve lost him. he’s scampered away.

mike looks at you with what you think to be an angered expression. his brows knit together, leaning away from you as his eyes glance from your hand to you.

“i’m. . . i’m sorry i-“ you begin to say in defence, feeling embarrassed.

mike continues to eye you cautiously. how could he tell you the kinds of feelings that stirred for him?

suddenly he’s just a boy again. he’s had another nightmare. his mom is beside him in his cramped single bed with patterned dinosaur sheets, her hand on his soft curls at the base of his head. her touch is delicate, like he’s delicate. fingers dancing through curls, mike’s eyelids flutter closed as she hums a familiar, comforting tune.

no one’s touched his hair since then. no one.

well, no one except you. right now.

he’s not sure whether to be angry or to be upset. to snap at you or to apologise for his own reaction. he can feel the sadness bubbling in his stomach, spreading up to his chest. he hadn’t thought about this in so long, convinced he’d never be comforted in that way ever again - or maybe it was that he’d never let himself be comforted like that ever again. yet here he was, craving it.

at this point, you’re convinced it’s over. he’s going to ask you to leave. you crossed a line. there was nothing here between you and him. you wanted to apologise again, but what was the use?

“did you just touch my hair?” he finally spoke up, voice softer than you expected it to be.

you swallow hard, “yeah, sorry, i just- i dunno. . .” your words fall away from you again.

mike visibly relaxes, his shoulders loosening up. “it’s okay,” he glances at your hand once more, then back to you as if he’s trying to decide something, “you can. . . if you want to.”

eyes widening, you simply stare back at him, what? you’re stunned into silence for a few moments. you’ve never heard him so soft, almost vulnerable. his gaze continues to flicker to you then away, settling back on the television and returning to the position he was in before with his head close to your shoulder. there’s a hint of red on his cheeks. you can tell he’s. . . scared.

your hand inches closer again, fingertips grazing across his dark, soft curls. immediately you see him take a deep breath through his nose, you can’t figure out what he’s feeling. secretly, he’s feeling relief.

each touch is ghost-like, hardly making contact as you switch between examining his reaction and then back to his hair. once it’s been a minute and you both relax into the interaction, you sink your hands in a little deeper as his hair glides between your fingers with ease. you flinch a little as your fingers reach scalp, splaying your fingers across his skin.

his eyes flutter closed, head slumping forward a little. you smile, drifting your nails across his head gently until you find a curl between your pointer and index finger. you twist it around, letting your fingers comb through it.

mike feels goosebumps pepper up along the back of his neck, soft tingling raining delicately along his scalp. he focuses on the soft, tender sensation of your fingers. suddenly he realises that for once, his mind is quiet. it’s not running ahead, it’s not jumping over hurdles he’d placed for himself, it’s not reliving anything, he’s. . . simply existing here, in this moment, with you.

and he’s letting you. mike isn’t shying away from the touch, instinctively rejecting any form of care. instead, he’s relishing it. his head rests against your shoulder in a final act of defeat, breathing softening to a slow pace.

if it wasn’t so goddamn relaxing, he’d probably allow himself to feel emotional. it had been so long since anyone had cared for him like this, taken the time, or even tried. his walls had grown so high that he was convinced no one would ever dare try to climb them, and if they did he’d snipe them down with a single, devastating shot.

but you? you kept climbing, taking those shots like a champ and continuing to climb anyway. slowly, but surely. and it was almost as though mike never saw you coming. like you were over that wall in a flash - waiting patiently for him to beckon you down to the other side.

and here he was as you approached.

mike’s hand finds your leg in his sleepy haze and gently, sheepishly, lets his fingertips trail across the fabric there. like he’s trying to return the favour.

this simply makes you smile.

your fingers continue to trace small shapes in his hair, a heart, a circle, a square. . . and then all your fingers at once combing through his thick curls. you can’t help but watch the way his head sinks deeper and deeper against your shoulder as he gives in to sensation.

for the first time in forever, he feels sleep beckoning him without the use of pills or any other sleep aids. just you, your simple touch and your body heat accompanying him. it’s incredibly adorable to you, watching him settle underneath your touch. his touch on your leg falters, slowing down to a halt after a short while.

gingerly, your hand snakes to the front of his scalp, running through the curls covering his forehead and exposing the skin there as if to take a peek at his face. your eyes widen and you smile as you see his eyes gently closed, mouth half open. was he. . . sleeping? he’d fallen asleep against you, your fingers still in his hair. and you wouldn’t dare stop. you’d do this forever if time and the world allowed.

it was the most peaceful you’d ever seen him, evoking deep feelings of protectiveness. mike deserved better than what this life gave him, or rather, took from him. you’d do anything to make him feel at peace, even for a little while. what little you could offer to ease the burden, you’d give.

you rest your cheek down against the top of his head, letting your own eyes close - your hands now on the back of his head, playing with the curls that settle there naturally. trying your best, you keep up the soft touches of your fingertips as long as you’re able to before sleep inevitably comes for you too. it comes in waves, your head growing heavier against mike’s as he breathes out light snores.

before long, slumber sweeps you away. both of you laying contently against the other in a sleepy bundle.

tomorrow, you’d both have to face the world, but for now? this moment was yours. and in sleep, mike would pray you’d be there when he awoke.

little did he know, you’d never want to leave his side ever again.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. ‧₊˚ dedicated tags: @helen-on-earth @fatinhadesiners06 @boonam @laurrrelise @sun-spider13 @sammygirlism @sleepyhutcherson ‧₊˚ ily!! .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

[wintersoldiersoul]

Hold Me

TW: Depression, weight loss, mention of suicidal thoughts

You heard the chatter from the living room when you stepped off the elevator at the tower. A chorus of laughter could be heard, laughter that typically you’d be itching to join in with. But recently, you couldn’t. You just needed to go to your room and curl up in bed. 

The depression hit you out of nowhere. One bad day turned into two which turned into weeks where you couldn’t stop your thoughts from spiraling to dark places. Places that terrified you. It was hard being an Avenger and a college student and battling depression definitely didn’t make it any easier. You didn’t wanna do anything. You didn’t wanna exist anymore. 

You passed by Thor, Steve, Tony, and Bucky all seated with beers in hand. “Hey, baby,” Bucky greeted you cheerfully. “Come join us!”

You gave them all a small smile. “I’m pretty tired,” you answered. “I think I’m gonna go lie down for a bit.” You didn’t want anyone, especially Bucky, to know how dark it was in your head. You were always the “nice” one. The “helpful” one. But it was so exhausting especially when every day you were battling the heaviness inside of your chest. You never got to snap. You always had to just be nice.

“Alright, sweetheart,” your boyfriend said with a smile. 

No, you thought. Come with me. Come hold me. It was like you had two different people in your brain. One terrified of Bucky finding out how miserable you were and one wanting to spill it all to him. For him to hold you and make the pain go away. But somehow that first voice always ended up being a little stronger.

You trudged to the oasis of your bedroom, quickly throwing off the clothes you had on in favor of pajamas. As far as you were concerned, you weren’t getting out of bed for the rest of the day. You never really felt hungry anymore, so you didn’t worry about skipping dinner.

You thought Bucky didn’t notice. You thought he was oblivious to the way your smile never reached your eyes anymore, or the weight you had lost. You thought he didn’t hear when you cried softly at night. But he did. He noticed it all.

“I’m worried about her,” he sighed out in the living room. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked. “She seems fine to me. You heard her, she’s just tired.” 

Bucky shook his head and took a sip of his beer. “It’s more than that. She-she doesn’t smile anymore. Not real smiles. She’s losing weight and she hardly eats anything. I’ve been waiting for her to come to me, I mean I never wanna push her but I don’t know how much longer I can just ignore it.”

“You should talk to her about it. Maybe you’re just overthinking and nothing’s wrong,” Tony suggested.

“No,” Bucky rubbed his face. “I know my girl. This isn’t her.”

Back in the bedroom, silent tears fell from your eyes. You didn’t even know what you were crying about. It was just a part of your daily routine at this point. You cried because you were frustrated that you felt this way. Because you just wanted it to stop.

The door creaked open, shining a streak of light into the dark room. You quickly turned your head and pretended to be asleep, hoping that Bucky wouldn’t catch on. But you were too late to hide it from your boyfriend and his supersoldier senses.

He sat down on the bed next to you and began to rub your back. “Y/N,” he whispered calmly. Seeing you cry broke his heart in pieces. He couldn’t just stand back anymore and watch you in so much pain. “Baby, you gotta talk to me. What’s going on with you, love?”

You didn’t speak at first. You just began to cry harder into the pillow at his words. The way he touched you like you were so fragile, the gentle tone of his voice, it was all too much. You didn’t deserve his sympathy.

“Oh angel…” he whispered, hearing your cries get more intense. “Let it out. It’s okay.” He continued rubbing your back as you cried for a little longer. “Can you sit up for me?” He asked, once you had calmed down. You did as he asked, positioning yourself upright and looking at him. Your eyes were red and puffy and the sight of you broke Bucky’s heart. “What’s going on, honey?” 

“I…” you tried to tell him, but you couldn’t find the words. You didn’t even have a reason to be depressed. Nothing happened that had triggered it. Who were you to complain when Bucky had been through so much? “I’m okay. Just a long day. I’m really tired.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, taking your hand. “You think I haven’t noticed you’ve been off? Baby, all you do whenever you get home from class is lie in bed. You don’t care about grades like you used to. You don’t eat anything and you’ve lost so much weight. I’m really scared.” His eyes held the kind of sincerity you could only imagine. No one had ever looked at you with so much love and care. 

“I can’t explain it,” you whispered so quietly that it was barely audible.

“Can’t explain what?” “I don’t know why I feel this way,” you continued, a few more tears spilling out. “I just feel like everything is hopeless. It’s like I have a bag of rocks sitting on my chest all the time and it hurts so much. And I don’t know why! Nothing changed. Nothing happened. One day it just came and it never left.”

Bucky inched a little closer to you. “Are you feeling depressed, honey?”

You looked down at your hands and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I think I’m really depressed, Buck. And I feel so stupid because I don’t know why! I’m supposed to be the happy one who’s there for everyone. I wanna be there for you! You have actual shit that you’ve been through. What’s my excuse?”

He pulled you tightly into a hug. He had suspected that you were battling depression but hearing you say it outloud terrified him. “Oh baby…” he whispered, stroking your hair. “You know depression doesn’t always have a reason. You don’t have to experience something big or traumatic to feel depressed. Sometimes it just happens. It’s just the chemicals in your brain. And that doesn’t make your experience any less valid or important. The fact that I’ve been through something doesn’t mean that you have to be my glue. It doesn't mean that you can’t fall apart too.” 

His words made you begin sobbing again. How was it possible that he still wanted you when he knew the truth now? He was seeing how much of a mess you were yet he was still here comforting you. “I feel like everything is so out of control,” you cried. “I wanna do my homework but I just can’t find the energy to get out of bed. I don’t have the energy to even care anymore. I just want it all to be over.” Your last sentence made Bucky’s veins go ice cold. “Y/N, I need you to tell me the truth right now, okay? A-are you thinking about hurting yourself? Do you wanna die?” He spoke, voice shaking.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t really think I wanna die but… I just don’t really wanna live. I know that makes no sense.”

“I understand. It’s like you’re not thinking about killing yourself but right now it’s hard to be alive and fight. Is that why you just come home and sleep all day?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s easier to just sleep the pain away. Being conscious in my head has been really tiring. And I’m afraid that if this continues that I might want to hurt myself. I don’t right now but what if it gets to that point?” You looked up at him with big eyes.

Bucky squeezed you tighter like he was terrified you would disappear from his arms. “I’m not gonna let you get there. Never, okay? You’re gonna get help. And you’re gonna feel so much better. Baby you have so much life left to live and enjoy. You and me, we have a whole life together to live. So you can’t let yourself fall into this hole, okay? It’s gonna be hard but I’m gonna help you through it.”

“Y-yeah. Okay,” You sniffled. “You can go back out with the guys. I didn’t mean to ruin your time.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Oh shh. You know I was only with them to distract myself from missing you til you got here,” he laughed. “You’re my favorite person on the entire planet, baby. And I’m really happy you opened up to me because I’ve been worried sick these past few weeks. It’s like I’ve been watching you turn into a ghost of yourself.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I thought you didn’t notice. I thought I was hiding it well.”

He looked into your eyes and touched your cheek. “I notice every single thing about you. I know when your smiles are real or fake, okay? I know when you don’t actually eat anything and you just shove food around your plate to make it look like you are.” he paused. “Speaking of, I’m really worried about that, too. Is that part of the depression?” 

You nodded. “I just never really feel hungry anymore.”

“We’re gonna work on that too. Okay honey girl?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now can I make you something small to eat, just to start? I’m so scared for you, baby.” His eyes were full of genuine fear at the size you were.

“Something small and simple, okay? I-I’ll try to eat it.” 

“That’s my girl.” Bucky left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of fruit in his hand. “Here, just try to eat even a little bit, okay? Then I tell you what. I’m gonna run you a nice bath and light your favorite candles. Then we can spend the rest of the night cuddled up together watching a movie. Tomorrow we’ll start to put in the hard work but for tonight just let me comfort my girl.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words. “That sounds perfect.” 

So that’s what you did. He ran a bath and lit cinnamon scented candles and you both sat in there for a while enjoying the relaxation of each other’s presence. You spent the rest of the night marathoning halloween movies before falling asleep in his arms. The hard work was about to begin. It was gonna suck, you knew that. But maybe there really was a light to look forward to.

[dnf171]

prompt—When we broke up but I'm still his emergency contact for maxiel

sad fic alert! i hope you like it <3

Max wakes up to the angry vibration of his phone on the bedside table, the flashing screen far too bright in the dark of their- his bedroom.

With heavy eyes, he tries to make sense of the blurred numbers, the ones that tell him it's four-thirty in the morning and the ones that tell him it's an unknown number calling. The area code is from here, from Monaco.

"Hello?" He answers after just a moment of considering letting it ring out. He'd been having a good dream, full of honking laughter and summer sun, in which the noise of the phone had been the waves of the sea until he'd woken up.

"Is this Max Verstappen?" A serious-sounding voice on the other end of the line asks. Before Max can ask in return, who wants to know- "I am calling about Daniel Ricciardo."

For a heart-stopping moment, Max wonders if this is him. The man Daniel has been photographed leaving clubs with, who has shown up to races with him, who is probably keeping his bed warm since-

"Who is this?" Max asks, hot anger boiling over his voice, replacing the previous lukewarm irritation. "What-"

"I'm a nurse calling from the Princess Grace Hospital," the voice interrupts, quick and professional, "Mr Ricciardo had an accident while out at a nightclub, intoxicated."

The words are icey water thrown over the furious fire in Max's gut. Goosebumps raise over his arms, his legs, his whole body as he throws the covers off, already scrambling for the jeans he shrugged off just before bed.

"An accident," he repeats, panic raising the pitch of his voice an entire octave, "is he-"

"Mr Ricciardo is fine," the voice interrupts again, smooth. "A few stitches in his arm where he cut himself on some glass in the bar, a bruised head from a fall. We have cleared the risk of a concussion. We just need someone to pick him up and take him home."

Relief threatens to choke Max, but then with it a sense of dread that coils tight in his stomach. It doesn't stop him from reaching for the keys of his fastest car, because he knows the answer already to the next question he asks.

"You want me to- To come and get him?"

"Yes," the man confirms, "He isn't sober enough for us to discharge him without a family or friend."

Max doesn't have the heart to tell this stranger that he isn't either anymore.

---

Sat on the edge of the hospital bed, Daniel has the nerve to look sheepish. It's obvious he's still a little drunk from the way he sways even sat down. It's obvious he's had more than just alcohol from the anxious way his foot is tapping against air, the bed too high for his feet to touch the ground.

"Hi Maxy," he says looking up to see Max standing in the doorway, and Max wonders when one nickname and the flash of a smile will stop him from remembering how happy he used to be.

At his sides, his fingers itch to reach out, to touch what Max knows too well are the softest parts of him, to make sure they are still warm.

"Daniel," is all he says instead, and for a moment they just stare at each other under the harsh glare of fluorescent hospital lighting. Then, "they called me, to come to get you."

Daniel nods, and then the nod dissolves into shaking his head from side to side as though moving it to music only he can hear.

"Yeah well," he snorts, "they think a few little stitches and a bash on the head is enough to require a babysitter. I did try to tell them I'm a badass race car driver and this-" he waves his left arm -"is nothing compared to my titanium hand, but-"

He punctuates his protests with a jerky shrug, and this is nothing like the Daniel that Max knows.

The Daniel Max knows would be pouting, asking if Max thought he was brave for doing it all alone. Better yet, the Daniel Max knows would have wanted Max here to hold his hand while the doctor threaded the needle through his skin. Would want Max to look after him afterwards, to make it all better with a kiss and buttery toast in bed.

With Daniel's arm still waving indignantly in the air, for the first time, Max looks at it properly. Before, he'd been too busy looking at his face, the red rim of his eyes, the dark circles underneath them, still so greedy to drink him in. At race weekends in front of cameras, he's made an art of looking away.

The bandages are thick, covering a lot of his forearm. The baby cupid with his bow is mostly covered, the delicate arch of his foot and toes are the only parts of him visible, peeking out from the bottom.

"Did it hurt?" Max can't help but ask, and it's stupid. That even after perfecting the hurt they caused each other with months of shouting matches, followed by even more of stone cold silence, the idea of Daniel in pain is still one that he can't quite stomach.

Daniel's gaze shifts down to fix on his own shoes as he answers.

"Nah," is all he says with another shrug. "Nah, I just- I'm tired mate, can you drive me home? Or to your place, I just- I need to sleep it off."

Max tries not to wince at the reminder that home and Max's apartment aren't the same thing to Daniel anymore.

"Okay," he says, nodding even though Daniel isn't looking at him. "Let me find the nurse, for your paperwork."

---

In the car, Daniel presses his cheek against the window and lets his eyes fall shut.

Months ago, in another life, Max could have told Daniel not to smudge the glass with his sweaty skin. Daniel would have giggle infuriatingly and told Max, you love my sweat. Maybe Max would have a hand on Daniel's knee. Maybe Max would have leant over at the traffic lights to lick his cheek and joke back, salty, my favourite.

Or maybe he would have got annoyed, like at the end, and told Daniel to stop being such a child.

"Did you ask them to call me?" Max asks eventually, just as the light turns green again. The question has been playing on his mind since the panic of being woken by a hospital phone call ebbed away.

On the other side of the windows, the sun is beginning to rise. A new day.

"No," Daniel says, his voice clear. More awake than he looks. "No they- I forgot to change my emergency contact info back to Blake."

Max bites the inside of his cheek and nods. It's not something he thought about, because it's not something he has had to do himself. His dad is still his number one 'in case of emergency' number, and his manager Raymond his number two. It's something they fought about, once, Max not understanding the big deal, but now-

Now, one day Daniel might get really hurt or worse, and it makes Max's stomach churn to realise he would have to hear about it from Instagram or the Daily Mail like everyone else who isn't special to him.

It's not until they pull up outside Daniel's apartment building that he opens his eyes again to see where Max is dropping him off. He looks disappointed, and then- Hurt.

It takes everything in Max not to tell him to wait, that he'll drive them back to Max's place, home after all. To promise that Daniel can sleep it off in their old bed, that Max will make him their usual hangover cure that Daniel teasingly nicknames 'Max-y-Million's breakfast of champions,' but-

It'd be too hard, to know that none of it would be real. That Daniel wouldn't stay, but that the images of him there amongst all of Max's things that used to be their things would. To feel the moment fade into another memory that haunts the apartment.

"Do you need me to walk you up?" Max offers instead, but he knows what the answer will be before Daniel speaks.

"I'm good," Daniel promises, face shuttering closed so Max can no longer see the soft vulnerability of his surprise at them winding up back here, at this crossroads again.

The last time Max had driven him here it had been with a car full of suitcases and cardboard boxes.

"Okay," Max says, and it's ironic how out of all the times he threw Daniel's immaturity in his face, he is now the one suddenly blinking back tears like a child. He fixes his eyes on his steering wheel, the bold yellow Ferrari badge, so he doesn't have to watch Daniel leave again.

The car door doesn't open.

"Maxy," Daniel sighs instead, and it's all it takes for the first tear to fall, to slide off his nose and into his lap. "Max, I-"

"Don't," Max pleads, even though he's desperate to know what Daniel might say.

I miss you. I love you. I hate you. I remember when we used to be easy, why can't it be like that anymore?

"Me too," he says, because no matter what it's the truth.

Daniel's fingertips on his cheek make Max jerk, the unexpected tenderness as he wipes away a tear startling him. When Max won't look at him, Daniel sighs again, a little harder. More softness Max has chipped away from him.

"I'll see you in Barcelona," is all he says though, and the next sound is the slam of the car door behind him.

[wentdownarabbithole]

There’s nothin sweeter than my baby

Content: S.coups x reader, Hoshi x reader, Woozi x reader (separate)

Inspired by Tobacco Honey by Guerlain - moments of devotion captured in honey and sugar, as sweet as can be with your boyfriend

S.Coups

Seungcheol loves mornings - if not just because of the way the sun peers through the window to paint streaks of light onto your skin. You're a vision, his own painting that not even the museums could think of touching as he cradles you - soaking in each moment that you touch. He loves the way the sun bathes you in warmth, loves the way his stomach mimics the heat of the sunlight, he loves you and the ability he wields to call you his. 

He’ll never admit it to you, afraid his little addiction might unnerve you, but right before you wake is his place of worship, like an artist to his swansong your the beauty he cannot truly part from. You're in his dreams, his thoughts and his movements even as you're apart - but here where the world cannot reach you he presses kiss after kiss to your skin, as if trying to steal a bit of your warmth for himself. Hands, arms,shoulder,neck and face he leaves whispered breathless prayer until he’s sure you’ll be able to taste his devotion on your tongue when you wake. Until he swears as he swallows he can taste sunlight. 

But undoubtedly his favorite part of the morning is the butterflies that carve through his stomach as he watches you wake like it's the first day you slept together over and over again. He watches your eyelids flutter, running hands over your figure until his fingertips have all but melted into your skin to coax you awake and closer to him in every sense of the word. He’s adoring and relevant in the mornings, patient as he waits for you to smile and then allows himself the pleasure of leaning forward to press you into a kiss he knows will leave him aching. 

He spends all the time he can spare tasting you so he might be able to lick his lips later in the day to have the flavor of sunlight and you on his lips. 

The sun is just barely peeking out from the horizon - struggling over the land to light your features with a halo befitting of an angel. There's nothing more natural to see in Seungcheol. He waits patiently - devouring ravenously the sight of your figure wrapped in his arms and the sheets you share. You're beautiful. Always beautiful - to Seungcheol this is a fact he knows more than he breathes air. So he waits for the sun to wake you this morning too as honey he swears he can taste on his lips is pressed to your skin with fever and devotion before he grants himself to the indulgence of your lips. 

Hoshi

Soonyoung has no need of a celestial body's gravitational pull when he has you to orbit. He circles you with an ease, as if there was truly some sort of gravitational push that demanded I'm near you, and if you were to ask him there is. When you're too far there's an itch to his skin , a wandering eye to spot you and sticky hands to grab you closer. If asked to point to the sun he would point to you, at the center of his galaxy curled up in his chest as his heart. 

Soonyoung’s endless devotion saturates the day, as if he’s afraid that an hour without expressing his love in some way might erase it from your mind. It's impossible, he practically waits on you hand and foot - memorizing the smallest details so he might engrave them so well into himself they become his. It's his way of becoming yours. It's not over, but rather his devotion is characterized through its dependable nature - the way it writes out like a script in daily activities. Without fail he says your coffee order before his own, your image pervades through his head any time he spots something pretty as he imagines you with it. This obsession may seem tiring to others but it's easy to him - how could loving you ever be difficult. 

Soonyoung is particularly fond of invading small moments layed unnoticed by the public - but not in isolation. He's the hand on the small of your back, your pinkies linking together as you cross the street, Hoshi is stolen moments and cherry cheeks as you laugh about a joke so awful it hurts. He practically drinks your laugh, as if it could truly nourish him - and maybe he believes it can. Maybe he believes that if he has you he’d need nothing else. Just your lips on his, your fingers intertwined and your gaze on him always. 

The tangerine is sweet as he bites down - tart and sweet juice coating his tongue and while his members all enjoy a quick treat the only thing he can think of is you. He can practically taste you in the sugar - he remembers the way you swiped your tongue across the bottom of his lip before you left and suddenly he finds himself more hungry than he was before he ate the fruit. I miss you, he thinks, before taking a tangerine and heading towards the door. You had said you wanted some fruit earlier hadn't you? He’d peel it for you. And feed it to you - if you’d let him.

Woozi 

Jihoon is a private person, he prefers what stays his, and to him there is nothing he covets more precious than you. It's not as if he’s cold in public - he could never be, not to you - but he doesn't pray himself open in the presence of others like he does when it's just you. There's a vulnerability he’s greedy for you to have - just as much as he’s greedy for you.

Jihoon is addicted to evenings with you - loves the way he can seek sin and pleasure  behind closed doors just for your eyes. When the population is just him and you - Orpheus and Eurydice reformed - he thinks that myths could be born just from this feeling that bleeds from his chest. Only for you - he promises - all of it just for you. He’s a delicacy only you can bite - and he lives for your moments of indulgence.

He thinks you're always so pretty, always the more euphoric symphony of all the world's pleasure wrapped into one being - but he’s especially weak to you when the moonlight hits you - allowing your visage to steal some of its luminescence .He never allows himself to touch a camera - it could never capture your beauty in the moment - so he allows himself remembrance by taking you to himself. The way your skin feels under him, the gasps that leave your lips, the gleam in your eyes as he steals, breathes and kisses, all of this he burns into his memory.

He has music made to his memories of you bathed in moonlight on the balcony, soliloquies and ballads that attempt to touch on his bewitching lover under the glow of the moon. He can never quite pull it off and part of him mourns this - but another rejoices the ability to keep you further to himself. 

To Jihoon there's nothing that's a higher law than you - nothing that can override the understanding you belong to each other. Beckon him with a finger and he’ll easily fall to his knees and crawl home to you. 

This is what men have gone to war for, Jihoon thinks as he walks into his own apartment and see’s beauty incarnate lounging on his furniture. It’s a silly thought, one that would never escape the confines of his skull where it sits like unspoken begging, but it's not one he can ever disagree with as he watches you swing your legs idly off  the side of his couch as the moon lights up your image. He’d be more embarrassed if he had more time to think, but you notice him too soon hovering near the doorway and you break into a smile - perhaps amused by his hesitancy in his own abode. This is what Orpheus went to the underworld to get, he thinks - and it's the last thought in a while as you crook a finger towards him - and all thought flees at your command. 

Authors note: First time writing for a non-fictional character and I’m PETRIFIED that this is OOC.

[msbigredmachine]

Voyeur (Jimmy Uso/OC) *Seven Paragraph Challenge*

A/N: Thanks to my girl @harmshake for another challenge! I know I'm supposed to be prepping for interviews but I needed a stress reliever.

By the way, it's my first Jimmy fic! 😁 He's a bit different to write and I'm a little nervous. I hope I did him justice.

Click here if you want to be on my tag list. If I’ve forgotten anyone please let me know so I can add you.

Word Count: 725

Warning: Smut

----------------

One wrong turn led you here. Dragged you down the unfamiliar, winding maze of the massive arena and unearthed a sight you should never have seen. But here you stood in the empty hallway, the sole witness to the sleazy tableau mere feet away. Only one month into your new job, you were convinced you had seen all of the wild antics of the wrestlers you were in charge of. But this…definitely took the cake.

Slumped against an equipment crate with an unknown woman kneeling between his spread legs, Jimmy Uso groaned. You stood frozen as you watched him watch her, his big paw cupping the back of her head as it bobbed back and forth, his grunts of pleasure mingling with the slobbers of her mouth around his cock. A voice in your head screamed at you to get out of there, that you shouldn't be watching this, but you just couldn't move. It was like you were mesmerized, unable to turn away from the erotic show. More interestingly, a powerful wave of jealousy washed over you, seeing the object of your affection being pleasured by someone else. You watched his mouth fall open and marveled at the beauty of his features; his full, parted lips, the thick healthy beard, the sheen of sweat lining the edges of his neat braids. As his head tipped backwards and his big body shivered in a telltale sign of an orgasm, you longed to be the one to do that to him, to bring him to that state of blood-pumping, soul-shaking euphoria. He let out a deep, satisfied exhale afterwards, gathering the woman’s hair in his fist and pulling her off him abruptly. Zeroing in on his exposed dick, your mouth watered. Fuck, it looked so good...

It was then that both parties finally sensed the intruding presence in the air. Looking up, Jimmy locked eyes with you before you even realized that you'd been caught. He grinned unashamedly, like the cat that got the canary, making your stomach lurch from a mix of horror and lust. The woman jumped to her feet, her expression emblazoned with embarrassment as she hurriedly wiped her mouth with her sleeve. You didn’t recognise her, but your hands itched to throttle her for even touching him. She yelped as Jimmy slapped her ass right before scurrying past you with no eye contact whatsoever. Jimmy zipped his pants back up and approached you, a smirk lining his gorgeous features as he eyed you up and down. 

"Ay, new girl…didn’t your mama teach you not to stare?" His dark gaze was penetrating and seemed to strip you down to your bare bones. Feeling naked, you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, your face warming as he licked his lips and loomed over you, like a predator closing in on its prey. He looked so good in that red jacket; his cologne was sweet and wafted through your nostrils, causing your heart to pound and your pussy to flutter with desire.

"You liked that, didn’t you? Watchin’ her suck me off, huh?” he purred, cupping your chin with his fingers, smiling as the answer twinkled in your eyes. "I seen the way your fine ass been lookin’ at me since your first day here.” His thumb brushed over your mouth, teasing the seam that parted your lips. “You want me, baby? It's just us now, you can tell me. Don’t be shy.”

You couldn’t help yourself. His words were hypnotizing, seductive and laden with carnal promise that you ached for. Your response was to scoop his thumb into your mouth, staring into his dark, beautiful irises as you sucked it with intent, showing him that you were far more talented than that bitch could ever be. The soft groan that sounded from his throat stroked your ego, and you sucked it for a little longer, licking at the thick digit one last time before slipping it out of your mouth. The air between you crackled, hot and tense and fierce. Without taking his eyes off you, Jimmy dipped his hand into your pocket and took out your phone. He tapped in his phone number, sent a quick text message, and grinned as his own device beeped seconds later, confirming he now had your number too. 

“I just sent you my hotel info. Come over after the show. And bring your things. You stayin’ with me tonight,” he instructed, handing you your phone back. You regarded each other one final time, for now, both your bodies blazing with hunger and anticipation as he turned and walked away without another word.

--------------

A/N: Ok I'm going back to studying. I'll be back in full tumblr action next week!

Please leave comments! I love comments!

Credit to the owners of the gif and pic.

Tagging everyone else:  @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80 @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @alyyaanna @squishyguishy @jstarr86 @murrylove @thewarlordsworld @mzv11 @cozyaliensuperstar7 @nayys-world @hunnidmilly @cyberdejos2 @papireigns-05 @niknakbucks92 @captainwithoutmakingitlove @sovereigngoth @aisharmi @kennedi0818 @alichesmi @thesamoanqueen @herwickedlittlesins @harmshake @questionable-behaviour @tribalchiefreigns @2-muchsauce @thatbxtchsblog @raya-hunter01 @marchi36753 @lovelysuccess @christinabae @wooahmiri @thatonecarebear @tabletheofhead @rheaanddamianfan @vebner37 @hanley1577 @princessesareforsuckers @-naturally @joannasteez @bbygirlky18 @lilucey @theninthwonder @melaninsugababy @chocovibesonly @msbluehaz3 @scarlettnoir01 @heerah34 @empressdede @tbmotw @darkangelchronicles @visionarymode @marasdeathnote @aintnorainbows @meggylynnloves @shantinextdoor @harlemblipster @trc-punzel @afterdarkprincess @nbanenefrmdao @sassginaswanmills @purplehairgawdess @holisticcoach @girlwhogaf @royalkay23 @heyitsnajabrinee @stoner2k @reci1996 @catxo @iamimanim @lookmais @ts1mp0ne @shonny09 @lizzyd1ish @gomussy @m3llowww @skyesthebomb @final1miya

[demelzathemer]

My Heart Is a Haunted House

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘗𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 + 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘪, 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛

@dbdpromptober Day 8 (words: 1086)

Part 8 of dbd corpse bride AU

First Previous Next

Charles was grinning ear to ear, happily going along with Edwin’s lead. He didn’t mind looking a little silly because there was a bashful look in Edwin’s shifty eyes when the song ended and they were drowned in cheers and applause.

The Cat bowed deep on the stage, catching imaginary roses thrown his way. Despite the grim subject, Charles had to admit the performance had been pretty mint.

They retired back to the bar counter with Jenny, Charles refusing to let go of Edwin’s hand. The bare knuckles felt funny in his fingers, bone warming up against his skin. The ring hung loose on Edwin’s fourth finger and Charles nudged it to spin it around.

Jenny rolled her eyes but Charles could tell it was good-natured.

“Get out of here, you two,” she shooed them away from the counter. “Reckon we’ll be here all night.”

She shot a pointed glance towards the stage where the Cat was gearing up for another musical number.

Charles wouldn’t mind that; he was having fun in the lively atmosphere. But Edwin looked like he needed a breather and some alone time with him sounded even better in Charles’ head. She gave Jenny a grin and a thumbs-up over his shoulder when Edwin pulled him away.

The place was a closed maze consisting of endless winding streets and alleys made of cobblestone. The overcast ceiling hung low and felt claustrophobic, but Edwin made his way without hesitation. Sometimes, Charles saw the street shifting in front of them, like they were bending by Edwin’s will.

They passed through an open area that appeared to be a marketplace, several shops and buildings like libraries and council halls. The residents were few and far between and they were all walking corpses.

Finally, following a sloped meandering path, they climbed up a hill and onto a clearing with a view over the city. Edwin let out a sigh, his shoulders coming down. He walked on the edge and turned back to Charles, his hands tightly clasped in front of him.

“Much better. I believe… you might like to see the view,” he said, aiming for nonchalant but his nervousness bled through.

Behind him was nothing but a thin iron railing protecting him from falling. Scrubby vines had curled around it, blooming tiny blue roses. Gray sky arched overhead, framing Edwin into a beautiful picture.

“Oh, I like it,” Charles said, an easy smile spreading on his lips, when he closed the space between them.

He put his arms out to grab the railing, trapping Edwin between them. He was forced to back up until the iron touched the small of his back. They’d been this close when they waltzed, but without the steps or the music, the air suddenly felt charged.

Edwin cocked his head, squinting his eyes at Charles. Charles’ eyes roamed his face, committing every detail to memory. He’d never wanted to kiss somebody so badly.

He wondered what he’d done to end up dreaming about such a bizarre, vibrant place where he had the cutest boyfriend in the world who just happened to be undead.

Then the sight behind Edwin’s head caught Charles’ attention, and he had to admit, it was pretty brills. From up there, the city looked small like a child’s building bricks, the maze expanding into the horizon and beyond, endlessly. It was fantastical and impossible at the same time, waiting to be explored and to get lost in.

Charles leaned back to watch Edwin again.

“Who was that Cat fellow, then?” He asked, quirking his brow.

“He’s a Cat King, actually. A spirit with transformative powers, though his exact nature still eludes me,” Edwin said.

“Right, but, who is he to you?” Charles shrugged, like the answer wasn’t an itch under his skin he tried his best not to be bothered by.

“He’s an old friend. Though he does fancy me, but that didn’t work out,” Edwin answered honestly.

“What do you mean by ‘didn’t work out’? Edwin-” Charles gasped, but Edwin laughed.

“Charles, don’t be-” he started, but then his nose fell off.

His bright, wide eyes stared at Charles in shock, but in the place of his nose the dark caverns of his skull could be seen.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” Edwin hurried to bring a hand over his face; the skeleton one, which did little in hiding anything. “That happens sometimes, I’m…”

“No problem, mate,” Charles responded, easily. He bent down, keeping himself from showing any kind of surprise. Edwin would totally take it the wrong way, with how horribly embarrassed he already sounded.

Charles picked up his nose and handed it to Edwin. It was a small little thing, feeling slightly cool and waxy in his fingers. Edwin turned away to fix his face, hunching his shoulders. Charles wanted to put his hands on them and tell him it was all okay, just so he could see Edwin’s tightly wound being relaxed again.

He was interrupted by a scratchy noise on the stone and then something crashed against his ankle with furious cawing. He looked down and saw a white skeleton of a small bird, waving his stick wings and pecking at him.

“Stop that, Monty. He didn’t hurt me,” Edwin scolded and lowered his hand on the ground. The bird hopped on and perched on his shoulder when Edwin straightened his back.

“Charles, this is Monty. He’s also my friend,” Edwin introduced him and the parrot bobbed its head, proudly.

Was it a parrot? Charles was terrible at identifying birds, at least without any feathers. He reached his hand out as a peace offering.

“Hello, mate. A friend of Edwin is a friend of mine,” he smiled.

Charles found it hopelessly charming that every person here seemed to adore Edwin. He was like a disney princess, surrounded by talking animals.

Monty considered his hand with a tilt of his head. Then he stepped around, his beak in Edwin’s hair and showing his back at Charles.

“Would it kill you to be polite?” Edwin sniped. The whole exchange made Charles laugh.

“Don’t sweat it. You’ll see, everyone likes me eventually. Even your grumpy parrot friend,” he joked.

The parrot in question swung around, stomping up and down and throwing a flurry of loud caws at him.

“Monty wants you to know that he’s a crow,” Edwin explained flatly.

“Sorry, mate. Your grumpy crow friend, then. My point still stands,” he grinned.

From a distance, the dull sound of church bells rang out four times.

[lynnlovesthestars]

Your masterlist says your requests are open so if you’re cool with it could I request a Karlach x reader where Karlach discovers the reader is ticklish and they’re embarrassed about it because they secretly like it?

omg hiii, OF COURSE I'D LOVE TO!

~♡~

Edit: damn I'm an idiot, right after i posted it i realized my brain played a trick on me and convinced me that the prompt was slightly different Tomorrow I'll try and write it again so I'll fill the request properly, sorry bit it's 3:00 am lol! For now I'll still drop the one i wrote..

Pairing: Karlach x reader.

Genre: fluff.

Warnings: just a little of insecurities

Synopsys: that laugh you hate.

AN: Post act 3, i didn't like the painful ending so i decided this is how i'll headcannon it

You swore this was heaven: laying next to Karlach as the linen sheet wrapped loosely around your bodies while you spent your time getting lost in each other.

At the end of your adventure together, you all deserved a break, and winter approaching Baldur's Gate was perfect for it.

You and Karlach had spent the first few days free from the illithid to find a tiny place to share, just the two of you as you figured out what to do.

Being the hero of Baldur's Gate had its benefits, and a spectacular discount for a house was one of them.

It was nice staying in the outer city, not too far from where Jaheira lived, so you could keep up with the antics of the harpers.

It was early, too early to get out and to start helping with the reconstruction of the city, so you did sleep in.

That's how you ended up there, Karlach hovering over you, and raking her nails along your skin.

She had been so touch starved that she'd spend days just feeling you close to her.

One morning she spent her whole time pressing sweet kisses all over your face, and caressing your cheeks, just for the sake of feeling you.

The way she giggled every time she'd realize she was truly able to feel you, was able to thaw even the coldest heart, you couldn't help but blush at it.

Her voice in the morning was unexpectedly sweet, low, just a mutter under the sheets as she held you close.

When Karlach's fingers reached your hips, and her nails started drawing incomprehensible patterns, you could feel your breath itch in your throat. Your body shivering wildly even at the smallest movement. A choked laugh escaped your lips as she looked at you surprised, yet not stopping.

"P-please stop" You tried to stop the laughter, concentrate on making your angrier face but to no avail.

"Oh what is it?" She taunted you playfully, her eyes wide and twinkling.

"Mh, is my princess ticklish?" She lowered just enough to peck at your lips without leaving your skin alone.

You wriggled under her touch, trying to escape as your expression would switch quickly between trying to be serious begging her to stop, and your uncontrollable laughter.

Don't laugh, Tav. Don't laugh. You repeat yourself trying to not embarrass yourself.

You could feel your stomach starting to hurt as the fit of laughter was almost impossible to stop, then Karlach suddenly stopped.

Her eyes softened as you laid under her, she barely held you as you regained your breath and turned your head away. From one part you wanted to be mad at her for not stopping, you HATED being tickled, from the other you shied away from the burning gaze.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think she was about to rip you apart.

Instead he eyes burned with something deeper, an affection so deep, that neither of you ever experienced before.

You both wanted to say something, but it was like the words stopped in your throats. What was lingering on your lips, those words you always feared to say, quickly became a scoff as you wanted to stir the conversation away from something you were not entirely ready for.

You kept your head away from Karlach's your arms quickly met on your chest, tightly folded.

You could feel her flopping on your side on the bed, poking your cheek just enough so you'd turn to stare at her.

She was about to ask you what was going on, if she hurt you, but you'd rather talk about the tickling problem than your feelings.

"I hate being tickled." Your brows furrowed, your face a weird mix between annoyance and the laugh that was yet to die completely. Karlach's face shifted at the speed of light. The worried look she had a moment before, made room for a bright smile.

"O c'mon, it's not that bad" She nudged lovingly, wondering whether she wanted to open her arms to you, or snuggle closer and rest her head on the nook of your shoulder.

"Mh, yes it is" You mumbled as you looked at the ceiling, it's true that you hated being tickled, but how could you be mad at such a dashing smile? You thought as you stared at the way the wood planks would be lined.

"And why would that be?" she asked, getting closer and closer by the second, until she was about to lay on you.

You wondered for a moment whether it was a good idea telling her, or if it would have made the thing just more embarrassing for you. You already wanted to hide under a rock, the idea that she heard your uncontrolled laugh, the one where you'd always end up snorting, made it even worse. Maybe taking the spot of a genie in a lamp was not so bad after all. You hated that laugh so much you could feel your stomach fighting already.

"..it's embarrassing" You admitted, your voice barely audible.

"Oh, no. I don't want to hear this excuse" Karlach sat up, shaking her head vigorously.

"It's not an excuse" You kept your arms crossed, but finally turned her way, your expression unreadable for a moment.

"Sure" She rolled her eyes. "And what is embarrassing about it?" She raised an eyebrow as she eyed you from top to bottom, or the closest thing the blankets allowed.

"The snorting" That's it, you wanted so badly to be a spellcaster, just enough so you could disappear and run away, and yet your bloodline was everything but magic inclined.

"Oh shush. Your laugh is adorable" She poked your cheek, as she already was sneaking next to you again.

An mhfp was the only sound you made as you wanted to say you didn't agree, but you already knew how it would go.

She didn't accept the idea that you didn't love something about you, and she would always do her best to prove you wrong. So for that time you skipped telling her, though it didn't matter. It was like she read your thoughts all the time, you could have sworn no one knew you like she did.

"That's it, I'm proving you are wrong" She jumped up again straddling your hips as her hands were already itching to tickle you, even saying it just as you thought she would,.

"Oh no you are not going to dare" You shook your head, trying hard to wiggle away again, failing miserably, again.

"Ah ah, you are not going anywhere" One of her hands reached for your fingers, interlacing it with hers before pulling it up just enough she'd be able to kiss your palm. And the back. And your knuckles. Just enough so you could lower your guard before letting it go and sticking again with her tickling.

This time she didn't give you time to fight the laughter, she giggled as you squealed under her touch.

Her smile was bright, like the light of Lathander. It was something that no matter how upset, sad or desperate you could be, it was always able to stir something in you, deep in your stomach, something that you couldn’t resist.

It was that smile that always coaxed you to do the dumbest things, to sleep in, to fight until the blood of your enemies covered your armors, to try and love yourself.

Cause no matter how much you'd hate you, Karlach was always there to guide you the right way. Showing you how pretty, how kind, and how cutely you laughed, always making sure that the bubbling feeling in your stomach would not die down.

Little did you know what the name of that feeling is.

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part two)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter two: do you feel it, too?

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: you fight hard to keep old habits at bay. joel falls into his head first.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> semi-public dry humping, kissing, mentions/fantasies of p in v sex, possessive thoughts, no one is drunk but everyone blames the wine, joel miller loves his kid!

word count: 5.3k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: i'm in shambles over the response to the first chapter, this series is my baby and it means so much that you guys liked it. thank you a million times for reading!

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“The wait begins as soon as I wake up. There is never any “after”. Life stops from the moment he rings the doorbell and enters.”

Annie Ernaux - Getting Lost

───────

Joel hasn’t touched the plastic tube since he brought it home last week. 

It’s become something he has to hide from, a nagging thought that pulls at his pant-leg like a child, clawing for his attention—open me, open me. Over and over he hears it, while in the office or cooking dinner or folding the wash, a whisper that begs him to reach in and claim his prize. When he’s really tired, brain damp from the days he has to work, the voice pours into something smoother, and suddenly it's that pretty girl—the one who’d made the thing—asking for the same; to be peeled back and stretched wide for him, cunt and heart and all. 

He finds himself losing a lot of very real time in the fantasy, chunks of his life spooned out to make room. 

The compulsion isn’t unfamiliar; it’s one that Joel thinks has something to do with his protective nature—or maybe that he’s seen enough living through the filters of hurt and mistrust—that makes him cling to the things he finds precious.

It traces back as far as the girls in grade school, when they would bring him little home-made valentines and wave him kisses first stamped onto open palms. He grew enamored with them, picking them flowers and scribbling symbols of promise in their note-books—the very beginnings of his acts of service. His heart would swell with it, a cartoonish thing, growing and pumping until he could keel over to one side from the size. He chased it in those early years, back somewhere between the brothering and fathering, moving through many someones he could fawn over, easing his need to possess. 

He can feel the need rising now, for the first time in too long, his body hurtling itself towards the ledge of something scarier, and he welcomes it. His hands itch for it, for the kind of love with teeth, that bites and tears into the edges of a substance much meatier, providing a place for the points to pierce and hold. He won’t call it what it really is, prefering to stomp out the whisper that warns him of its arrival—obsession. He likes to use less severe terms: thoughtful, involved, fascinated.

Knowing better in his age, he tries at least to be realistic during waking hours, and around Ellie, reminding himself that he has a hard time stepping down when he builds his hope high enough. He moves instead to just dreaming about you—in little tidbits and at guest-star capacity—to tide himself over until the week rolls back around.

Now, on a new Monday, he lets his daughter head off to class before he allows himself the privilege of unwrapping his reward.

He fishes around in the back of the hallway closet where he hid the case, retreating to his room to finally have his time alone with the creature he’d made of the object, letting it free from its cage.

He pops off the cardboard top of the roll, pulling the drawing out with the very tips of his fingers to not smudge something on accident. The sound of it sliding out sets his skin alight—this gift is one he asked for, but it feels like it was given to him all the same. Sharing a piece of you with him so freely, he feels special. 

He’s gotten used to seeing himself around the house, Ellie’s ever-growing library of renditions of him are fixed to the fridge by mis-matched magnets and framed in little glass panels in her room. It leans on the side of betrayal to have someone else’s version of him up, but he just wants to see it—if it’s as intense as he remembers it. As different.

His knuckle follows the curl of the paper to flatten the image, tacking it up to the wall with painter’s tape to avoid damaging the surface, like his daughter taught him. Joel sits on the corner of his bed and feels a hot wave of emotion fill his chest. 

He looks hopeful. It’s a garment he’s never seen himself wear. He’s soft and shy and child-like, face penciled in with detail that reads like a well-worn novel, bending and twisting to the curve of his expression. It’s a finely crafted summary. It’s guide-lines. It’s instructions, the very important parts of him spelled out in bold, black charcoal, with the gray shades of his complexion filling in the gaps. 

Was he that easy to pick apart? 

He’d seen some of the other drawings, the way everyone else had chosen to capture solely his pose, perfectly articulating the crook of his elbow or the network of muscle under the skin of his calf. 

But you’d chosen to show him. 

Something about it looks so familiar, enough to bring forward a memory of the conversation that had him feeling the briefest pass of deja vu—of you glancing down at the ground, quieted maybe by his proximity or his compliments; bashful. 

He walks out into the living room where Ellie keeps her sketchbook, the one with all the references. He thumbs through it—she’s given him permission to see this one—and flips to the page he remembers watching her use last week. And when he sees it, he feels like he’s going to faint. 

It was you. 

That was your face his daughter had been so beautifully replicating. Upon examining the fragmented portrait, he sees a striking resemblance to the one you’d made of him. They’re the same. Not the likeness, of course, but the visage. You knew what he felt like—had felt it yourself.

He already knew you, before you’d even spoken a word to each other. He admits that Ellie was only capable of piecing together so much of you, and even with the extra bits he’d caught in your brief meeting, he feels like he’s missing out. He wants to see the whole picture. You, in totality. 

When he arrives at the school building, he’s overtaken with a wash of what he thinks might be stage-fright. It makes him feel sick, stomach rolling with an embarrassment that scorches like youth—fight low and flight high—and his body starts to feel sore with the effort it takes to keep himself from fidgeting. 

Ellie’s teacher meets him in the hallway and passes him his slip, and he hums his way down to the bathroom to undress, admittedly working up the courage to confront you. 

As he enters the classroom, his excitement bottoms out. You’re not there. He keeps sweeping the room with his eyes, hoping you somehow had been hidden amongst the other bodies. He tries to sell himself the idea that you’re just in the bathroom, or on a break or late, but the wooden bench you’d sat in last week is obviously untouched. 

He clambers onto the stool, trying to replicate his pose from the previous lesson, much more uncomfortable now that he has nothing to distract him. The two hours are painful, and he finds himself counting seconds to fill the minutes in increments of ten until he can leave. 

His back hurts when he stands. 

On his way out, the blonde woman hands him a little flier, two pieces of neon copy paper glued together to make a double-sided image, advertising the group show this coming Friday. Ellie has already reminded him more times than he can count, but he takes it from the woman with the best smile he can muster, slipping out the door in a stride he’s hoping doesn’t come across as wounded. 

───────

The on-campus gallery is what someone a lot kinder than Joel would call cozy—a tight, short chamber with no windows and a single entrance, like a trap. 

He’s too keyed-up to be kind. He feels like nitpicking.

The metal door at the head must have been an afterthought, kicking back into the frame loudly every time someone walks through, nothing implemented to catch it. A continuous beam of fluorescent lighting wraps around the room in an all-encompassing spotlight, cooking the smell of fresh paint off the wall. It reminds him of picture day, or apartment hunting or something else equally unpleasant. 

He was always going to come to this, because he can’t imagine a version of himself who wouldn’t support his daughter, but he’s not happy about it, and he’s starting to feel dizzy from the too-fast swirl of anxiety in his stomach. 

Ellie had removed herself from his side the moment they made it into the building in search of her friends, with just a squeeze of his forearm and an ‘I’ll introduce you later’ left in her wake. He’s clung tightly to the wall ever since, making his way around the room to look at all the drawings, again and again and again until he feels like he’s on a track. 

Discomfort is a factor, but most of his indignation has to do with not seeing you in class—pointed at himself for the absurdity of his expectations—the voice in his head taking a bitter turn. Were you avoiding him? Would you not attend this, either? Did he do something wrong? His mind rambles on as he fiddles with his imitation cocktail glass, the shiny slip of plastic sticking to his fingers. There’s still a generous portion of what has to be five-dollar wine pooled at the bottom, bitter and opaque enough to stain. The woman who poured it for him did so nearly to the top, maybe sympathetically, disregarding that there was money obviously trying to be saved—deeming his cause a worthy one. He doesn’t even want it, really, nauseous at the idea of actually finishing it, but not having something in his hand was winding him even tighter. So he nurses it—even as it goes warm between his grasp, more unappetizing now than it had been twenty minutes ago—sip after sip to try and appear engaged. 

Eventually Joel grows tired of waiting, for Ellie to come back or for you to come at all or for this night to just be over, and picks a drawing to pause in front of. It’s a portrait of someone he’ll never meet, another graceful stranger coming together in an amalgamation of grays. He can hear people walking behind him, talking quietly and occasionally stopping to look over his shoulder at it in passing. 

“Hm. Quite the fan of my work, are you?” He almost ignores the comment, thinking it's for someone else, as it usually is, until there’s a figure taking up too much of his periphery. 

He’s a little dazed when he looks over, the hot, sour wine settled now in the pit of his belly, buzzing with a flare of something not-missed. He’s prepared to see more than one person beside him, perhaps a couple that had been talking near him rather than to him, but when he swivels his neck, it’s you. You’re just as pretty as he remembers, the face that he looks for in his sleep, but this time you’re not as shy, staring at him straight on—maybe similarly loosened by the pale yellow liquid in your own cup. 

Heat gathers at the rim of his jaw—his neck is red by now, he’s sure of it. Already exposed and driven by the faint whisper in his mind, he opens his mouth to speak without thinking, “You weren’t there this week.” 

You make quick quotes with just your pointers half-heartedly, “‘Sick,'” and breathe a laugh, “Had a few academic duties to fulfill. Gotta keep the scholarship intact.” 

There’s a thick moment of silence, but he can’t look away, eyes weighty and cheeks stinging. It’s awkward but he finds comfort in it, embracing the adjustment like it's a step towards better connection. 

Someone brushes his arm as they walk by and Joel uses it to his advantage, “Do you want to step outside? It’s a little hot in here.” 

There’s a flash of something like surprise across your eyes, but you shrug, “Sure.”

He crowds behind you as you walk step-in-step out the unarmed emergency exit, just to feel the closeness of your body, much better than the distance he’d felt in your absence on Monday. 

The night is worse than cold but it feels good against the heat in Joel’s chest. He can smell your perfume wafting back as he follows your movements, and it makes him pant. He’s ill, has to be—that or the wine was stronger than he thought, because the weird tie he feels is one he can’t explain as being healthy or normal or not fucking scary. But when you turn on your heel to face him, taking a seat on a hip-high planter in a secluded outer corner of the building, it feels right. Natural. 

He shuffles so that he’s far enough for you to be safe from his touch, and he shoves a hand in his pocket for good measure, “Thank you again for the drawing. It’s really beautiful.”

“Yeah, of course. Thank you for saying that.”

He wants to say something more, like you’ve captured me in a way that makes me hopeful about myself, but settles instead for, “My daughter liked it a lot, too.” It’s a bold-faced lie, but he thinks that keeping your gift a secret would look less appealing. 

“Is she here?”

“Somewhere, yeah. Ran off the second we got in. I’m not a comfort anymore, I guess.”

“Is she yours? Comfort, I mean.” You pick at the crown of the cup, rolling it gently in your hands like its real glass, and you both watch the fuzzy pattern of light that catches on its uniform surface. Joel wonders if you have a comfort of your own—if you need one.

“Is it bad if I say yes? It feels cheesy but the kid is my rock. Dunno what I’m gonna do when she grows up.” He shoves at the concrete under the toe of his boot. It didn’t taste as bad coming out as he thought it might. He hasn’t said that out loud to anyone other than himself, but you look at him like you know exactly what he means. The delicate beginnings of a smile crest on your face, cheek pinched, void of all the uncomfortable sympathy he's gotten from Tommy and Maria at the few things he made the mistake of revealing. He can’t find it in himself to stop now with your gesture, feeling relief in having a place to voice his heartbreak, “Honestly I’m scared, but not just for me, y’know? I worry about what she’s gonna find in the world. I just want to keep her safe.” 

“She knows it, I’m sure. I know what it feels like to have no one to root for you—I would’ve killed for that. The only thing you can do for her is be there when she comes home,” You’re looking down again, and he doesn’t like whatever’s made you want to pull back from him—be shy, “Spend time with other people you care about and that care about her. Make that network for her to lean on.”

“All I got is my brother. His wife too, sometimes. My nephews. A few years ago it was just me and him. Ellie—that’s her name. She, uh, isn’t ‘mine’,” he makes the bunny-eared quotes with the hand holding his drink, “Not by blood, anyway. But she popped up out of nowhere and I don’t know how to go back to being on my own.” 

“It’d be good to have a network of your own, too—if you’re up to it. It’s hard to do, trust me, but I don’t think I could do a lot without my friends.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I don’t think that’s in the cards for me anymore. I can’t conjure up much of anything worth listening to these days. Forgot how.” 

“Don’t do that. You have a lot to say—you’re plenty. Just start with one person. There’s always time to make more.” He knows you’re talking to him, but it feels like you’re also talking to that little boy inside of him, small and unloved and still bleeding.

“Do you need any more? Friends.”

You look up from your lap, pushing a piece of your hair back from your face like you need to get a better look, searching for a way you could be misinterpreting him, “I might have room. You have a recommendation for me?”

He reaches out, grabbing the empty cup from your grasp, stacking it with his own and depositing them by your side. He doesn’t miss the way you watch him, how you widen the spread of your legs on instinct, enough to suggest his entrance. He wades out on one leg to bring himself in, testing the water.

Your lips are parted, and when he looks into the opening between them he imagines he’s seeing to the center of you, and everything else keys out. Cars pass by on the strip of street behind him, driven by ghosts, providing nothing but a low song for your bodies to dance to together, his chest swaying closer to yours with every breath. You move with him, and it feels rehearsed, like all of the steps you've taken to get to this moment were purposeful, done in perfectly orchestrated succession for the hundredth time. 

“Do you feel that, too?” He asks, wanting to know if he’s reading too much into it, feeling that sweet edge of thoughtful-involved-fascinated scrape his skin like a sharp knife, “Do you? Like you know me?” 

“Yes,” you breathe, and it’s all the permission he’s ever needed. 

He leans in, lips skating yours, the warm cave of your mouth begging to be explored. He tries so hard to take his time, soft brushes tethering you to each other with the weight of everything he’ hasn’t had the time to say. His whole body is pins and needles—a fierce heat that floats so high it feels like ice. You sigh into him, the start of a moan, and his composure snaps. Service, he reminds himself, act on it—it feels almost divine when he thinks about all the ways he could pledge his loyalty, ready to bend at your altar every day of his life if it meant you’d sing for him again.

Joel brings a hand to the side of your neck, thumb digging into the pulse point at the corner of your jaw to bring you forward, licking into your mouth in search of more noise. He groans when you relax into his hold, so pretty and willing, and works you until you’re just as fervent, daring to suck his bottom lip between your teeth—going for blood. 

The voice in his head is yours again—open me, eat me, unhinge your jaw and swallow. 

He slots his other hand around the bone of your hip, pulling you nearer to the ledge of the planter, pressing his cock into your inner thigh as it swells to life. You gather his shirt in your hand, a tight fist, shifting yourself against him so you can grind into it instead. No one else exists, no one else could ever exist in this moment, or any moment you attend, for the rest of forever. He wants to fuck you, to see how far the attachment could go, how far he could reach down before he finds a warm, bed-shaped slot for him to rest in. He wants to live inside the body of someone who sees him so clearly. He wants to know every thought in your head before it comes to fruition. 

The wine tastes better coming from off your tongue, and he’s gleaning the flavor from every corner of your mouth like he can achieve a second-hand high. His full weight is rocking into you with enough force now that he has to plant a heel in the ground to keep you both from tumbling. He risks a thumb in your waistband in the flurry, tugging at it in the hope of another invitation. 

Before you have a chance to decide, the loud press of the swing-door at the front of the building opens, and Joel staggers back, remembering where he is and why. 

You look winded to say the least, hair bent from the imprint of his hand, mouth in a perpetual ‘o’, and he’s scared to see the state of his own face, not to mention the visible strain of his cock in his pants. He kicks an ankle out to try to adjust, heaving through an open maw at the thought that you might be affected in that way as well, picturing the slick wet in between your legs—a beautiful sheen from just his mouth on the top half of your body. 

You shimmy off the edge, straightening your shirt and he immediately steps back in for more, draping the full breadth of his hand against your collarbone, curling the tips around the top of your shoulder.

“Joel. I— I need to go inside.”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” 

You lay a hand over his with a squeeze and he retracts it, “Yeah. I just wasn’t expecting… I don’t know if I can do this right now.”

He can feel his breath restricting, heart plummeting down so far it feels like it’s landed in the ball of his foot; the second time this week you’ve pulled away. He thinks back to the face you made at him in the gallery, back before he fucked this up. Maybe you never meant for this to happen at all.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice strained, “I just need a little time. Just some time, I’m sorry.”

“No, no I understand. Don’t be sorry. Will you take my number? Just in case?” He wants to make sure you’re okay after this, if you want that, and selfishly he wants to give you a way to have him, knowing this might be the last time he runs into you. He’s too afraid to leave it up to chance.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” You pass him your phone with shaky fingers. 

“Only if you want to, honey,” He’s disheartened by the whole thing, but he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so he’s careful to double-check, even if it’s a blow to his hope, “You don’t have to.”

“I know. I’m just—the wine, sorry. I think it was bad.” You huff out a strained laugh, “I want it. Your number, I mean. Promise.” You practically shove the thing at him and he takes it this time, entering the contact with as little squinting as possible to save himself from any further humiliation. 

───────

You all but run into the bathroom in the back of the building, needing a moment alone to consider what the fuck it is that’s going on right now—what’s been going on since he walked into your class two weeks ago and overstayed his welcome. 

You stumble in, bracing yourself against the porcelain basin, switching on the faucet to drown out some of the pounding in your head. You’d been lying when you said the wine was catching up to you—very much sober—but now, in this suffocating, gray room, you feel like it must have at least accelerated the churning in your gut. 

You let water gather in your hands, bending to dip your face in the too-cold pool between them. 

Every day has been mostly encouraging if not indifferent but this feels like the start of a bad dream you won’t be able to wake up from, dragging you right back to that dark box you’d been existing in. He came in from nowhere, kicking down your reserve, for what? For a fuck? To enjoy you in passing? Or worse, to stay? You’re unsure which would be harder to receive.

And it’s unfair—for him to show up right at the point of being fully on your own, as soon as you’ve chosen to avoid getting caught up in that part of your life. You’re past the point of surrendering your time—know better than to want to be bogged down by a crush or the preconceived idea of the perfect stranger. 

You don’t know him, and you don’t need to. 

But you want him so bad it hurts; so bad you had to fake a cold to skip class because you couldn't face the idea of seeing him for the last time. You debated skipping the grade for the exhibition too, but you used any excuse to convince yourself he might not show. You weren’t sure who his daughter was, or how enthusiastic she was about the program, so you figured it was a fair shot. You outwardly willed him not to come, at yourself in the mirror and in the shower and out loud the car, all while secretly praying he’d be in attendance, right up to the moment you saw him.

When you stand up, staring at your rigid body in the plastic mirror above the sink, you’re pained at the sight. You look tired, shoulders tense and eyes bleary. Stray beads of the cool water stick to your skin, refusing to dry in the lingering humidity, balling up together to drip into the open lip of your shirt. You can barely feel it falling over your chest before being soaked up by the material. You feel outside yourself.

Someone starts to knock at the door, a quick and invasive interruption to the moment of absolute panic you’d been enjoying. You managed to twist the lock shut on the door at least, so you click your heel against the tile in a wordless someone’s in here, but the knocking persists. 

“Occupied.” You try, wet hands slipping against the edge of the sink. This shit isn’t normal. None of that even comes close to normal. 

Still, the heavy thrum against the hollow metal continues, and you take a deep breath before practically ripping it out from the socket of its frame. When you have it open, Ian’s posed between the V of the slot, face bewildered. 

“Really, truly, I love you, but what the fuck was that?” 

───────

Four days from the start of spring break, you’re out at some stranger’s place off Maple, invited by both Ian and your roommate—making it a little harder to get out of—in a joint, well-intentioned attempt to make you leave the safety of your room. A party will be nice, they’d explained, nothing serious, and a week off’s supposed to be fun, right? 

The house is pretty, but whoever owns it has demanded everyone remain out on the cobblestone patio, uneven flooring making for a jagged line of bodies packed too tight to fit. 

A fire burns in the middle of the yard, billowing out puffs of smoke you know will linger in your clothes for at least two washes. You swipe at some soot that's gathered in the bowl of your jacket sleeve absentmindedly. There’s no music tonight, maybe because there’s real school tomorrow—the elementary school down the street not quite on the same schedule—and you start to think going out on weeknights is quickly becoming more your speed. There's just the soft blanket of everyone murmuring, trying to stay warm in the chill of the wind. 

Ian’s prepping some guy across the fire to meet you; you can tell by the look on his face, like he’s planning something elaborate. You smile at him, at least amused by his effort to help you forget the weekend. He’s right, it is spring break, and Joel is nothing but a consequence of your stress-induced impulsivity. 

Still, despite your efforts, you’re thinking about him again, even if to punish him. You can still feel the line of his cock against your thigh, pressed hot and heavy into your body like an offering. You rub your thighs together, cursing him for giving you enough material to fantasize about for weeks—your punishment in return.

Ian crosses the circle with your new prospect, and you tilt your cup in mock cheers. Behind him he mouths hot and nice, tell me what you think. You nod, and the guy steps forward to block the flame. He’s handsome, airbrushed face and sweet cologne and long, thin fingers, nothing like how someone else’s had felt at the junction of your hips. 

You swallow, hard.

You honestly don’t hear a word that comes out of his mouth from the second it opens, not even to catch his name. Instead, you think about how nice it’d be if you could pay attention, how much easier it would be to fuck someone you thought was nice and safe and not at the forefront of every free moment you’d been afforded in the last two-and-a-half weeks. About what a relief it would be for him to mount and rut into you without consequence—no emotional burden, just boring and lukewarm like the last bite of something you can’t find a place to throw away. It’s always been easier when you didn’t want more. Yet now you want every night, hold out a hand in your dreams and let him into the part of you that has already carved out a hole in his shape. 

This guy couldn’t pull your mind off of Joel even if he was fucking you. 

When he offers to grab you a drink, you agree and then head into the house, like you’re not supposed to, as soon as his back is turned. There’s a few locked doors, and then one at the end of a hallway that opens up into a bathroom. You slip in, not bothering to switch on the light in an attempt to hide out from being found.

Here you are searching for reason in a dirty mirror above another sink, with nothing but the weak glow of a plug-in air freshener to guide you, too soon after the last time. 

You’re angry, suddenly, at how far he’s burrowed himself into your head, with so little to go on. He’s doing nothing but showing you yourself, a tired tactic to get you to fall in love with him while you do all the work. He was just pretending, right? He couldn’t actually want to love you. You groan, when the fuck was love even part of this equation?

You dig your phone out of your purse. The lock screen is bright—bold lettering reminding you it’s nearly midnight—but you click into your contacts anyway, because it’s not like you’re going to call him or anything. His page is still open, the Texas area code populating under Joel - Ellie’s dad—typed out with caps and all like that’s his only meaningful identifier. You scroll to see where he’d punched in ‘just in case‘ in the notes section of his info-card, and that decimates the cliff of restraint you'd barely managed, sinking in on itself under you.  

Your hands are wet with unease, held hostage by the way he’d read your thoughts out loud. You did feel it too, that searing weight of knowing—of being acquainted with him despite only meeting once before. He had to have been honest in at least that confession. You ask yourself for permission—‘was he going through this as well? what exactly was he feeling? would he explain if you asked?’—until it turns into selling yourself justification—‘you could just fuck him, right? that’s all this has to be, right?’.

Yes, you decide. Just another test of will—you can do it. You can pass. 

Your finger hovers over the number, closing the screen and opening it again and again and again until you just bite the bullet and fucking press it, the screen going black as you shove it against the side of your ear, covered again in darkness. 

He picks up within two rings. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi. Joel,” You offer him your name like a secret, “It’s me. Did I wake you up?”

“No, sweetheart. Are you okay?” 

“Can I come see you?”