#kissing his blocky blue face

[nightsilver]

i will find a way to bring him into everything...

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

Summary: June brings the end of Harris's preschool career and the official beginning of your new life as a family of three--with a little help from your friends, of course.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral (f! receiving), p in v, mentions of phone sex, grief and loss

WC: 7.8k

Chapter 20/20

A/N: With the official end of Trapped Under Ice, I am now opening up requests in the TUI universe. Thank you all for taking this journey with me as I processed my own grief. As long as you keep requesting, I will continue writing for our little family 💚

Thank you to @rip-quizilla for making that scene stronger. Ily, bb.

Divider credit to @saradika

The diner is bustling with customers, happily chatting over stacks of pancakes and overstuffed omelets. Coffee carafes clink against chipped mugs as the waitstaff pours refill after refill. 

You weave through the rows of tables, careful not to bump into servers balancing trays of food or busboys carrying the used dishes and silverware. A small yellow gift bag is clutched in your hand, and you hold it to your chest to protect its fragile contents. 

Harris spots you before you can see him; his little arm shoots up from where he’s tucked into the booth next to Wayne. 

“Ms. Sweetheart!” he frantically waves, his grin wide enough to stretch off of his cheeks. “Over here!”

You laugh, watching as Eddie scoots from the middle of the seat to the end, making room for you to sit down. There are two steaming cups on his side of the table, centered on little saucers that are likely older than you are. 

“Morning, baby,” he greets you with a smile, leaning in to give you a small kiss—no tongue, of course—as you slide in next to him. “You sleep okay last night?”

You nod sheepishly, remembering the phone conversation the two of you had had, well after Harris fell asleep. Eddie’s sultry voice had guided you through touching yourself; the next-best thing to having his own fingers inside you. 

“Wish I could be there right now,” he’d murmured into the receiver, so low that you could barely hear him. The faint sound of his own fly being lowered punctuated his words. “Wanna make you feel so good, Sweetheart, but I know you’re being a good girl f’me tonight, aren’t you?”

You bring the coffee mug to your lips, hoping to blame the heat creeping up your face on the drink, and take a hearty sip. It’s a little sweet, but mostly bitter. Just how you like it. 

The crinkling tissue paper as you lean back in the booth draws your attention to your company and away from your indulgent memories. “Happy Father’s Day, Eddie,” you kiss him on the cheek, your lipstick tinting his stubble pink. “This is from me and Harris. Be careful with it.” There’s a deliberate vagueness in your warning, not wanting to spoil the surprise. 

Eddie cocks his brow, clearly not expecting any sort of present from you. Shocking, considering you’d taken Harris to the Paint-n-Play on Wednesday during your usual tutoring session time, and you’d figured he would have spilled the beans as soon as he and his dad had a moment alone. He rustles around the bag with dramatic flourish, trying to build anticipation but only succeeding in testing Harris’s patience.

“Open it, Daddy! Open it!” Harris bounces up and down in his seat, mouth sticky and teeth tinted purple with grape juice as he urges Eddie to stop dragging out the process. Wayne discreetly places his palm behind his grandson’s scalp, protecting his head in case he rocks too far back. “Me an’ Ms. Sweetheart did it together!”

“You did, huh?” Eddie chuckles, pulling out a ceramic mug. It’s painted sky blue, and Harris had insisted on making purple polka dots, splotchy as he’d haphazardly dunked the brush in paint and pressed it to the plaster. Written in bright orange blocky letters is DAD; you’d helped him sound out duhh-ahhh-duhh, his little tongue poking out in complete concentration. Your only visible contribution is the tiny green 1997 painted along the handle, marking the first year you’d celebrated Father’s Day together.

The multitude of complementary colors and mismatched designs should clash. The dots look more like disfigured spiders than circles. The 7 you’d carefully written with a fine-tipped brush is slightly smudged from where Harris had picked up the mug before it had fully dried, and there’s an extra curving line extending from the first D in DAD after he’d started writing the letter backwards.

To Eddie, it’s perfect.

“I love it.” Brown eyes find his son’s hopeful gaze that eagerly awaits his father’s reaction. “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten.” He places the mug on the table next to the coffee-filled one in front of him, tipping its contents into his gift. A few drops dribble down the side, but most of it ends up where it should. A success, in his opinion. He takes a hearty gulp, not caring that the hot liquid singes his taste buds. “Is this magic?” He holds the mug up to his face, studying it like it’s a precious stone. “Because, I swear, it makes this coffee taste better.”

The little boy beams, exchanging an elated glance with you. “Ms. Sweetheart, did you put magic in it?”

Eddie chimes in before you can respond. “I bet she did. She’s sneaky with it; always sprinkling it where you least expect.” His empty hand finds your thigh underneath the table, silently claiming it as his own. “I don’t know how she does it,” he muses wistfully, adding another sugar packet to the mug and swirling it with a spoon until it’s dissolved. Like it was always part of the coffee from the jump. 

“Speaking of presents,” Wayne chimes in, unearthing a tiny, newspaper-wrapped package from his jacket pocket and handing it to his nephew. “‘S, not much, but it’s a Father’s-Day-slash-housewarming gift for ya.” 

“I thought we agreed on no gifts,” Eddie shakes his head, suddenly self-conscious about arriving empty-handed. 

“Well, I lied.”

Wayne watches as Eddie tears into the paper. Whatever home run or double-header had made the front page of the sports section is irrelevant compared to the mystery item that is snugly tucked between baseball stats and the upcoming game schedule. 

A small gasp leaves his mouth as he unwraps a wallet-sized picture frame; the word family is etched into the wood right above the plastic-protected photo. 

It’s from Harris’s bowling party; the one Wayne had taken of you and Eddie on either side of the birthday boy. Happiness radiates off of the three of you with such intensity that it seems impossible for it to be captured in a still frame. He’d forgotten that Wayne had even snapped it.

“Wayne, I…” Eddie struggles to find the words he needs to properly convey his feelings. The tip of his nose burns with the anticipated influx of emotions. “I’m gonna put it right next to my alarm clock, so it’s the first thing I see every morning.” 

You lay your head on his shoulder, the edge of his lips finding your forehead in a half-kiss. He soaks in the comfort you bring, absorbing it through every pore as he exhales and feels himself relax.

The waitress comes over with a notepad and a smile. “You folks ready to order?” She clicks her pen, poised to jot down what the four of you want to eat.

“Chicken fingers, please!” Harris announces, perching up on his knees and leaning his elbows on the table. “With French fries!”

The waitress, whose name tag reads Bee, offers a sympathetic smile and a soft click of her tongue. “I’m sorry, buddy. We don’t start serving lunch until 11:30.”

The boy’s lower lip quivers at the news, having his heart set on eating his favorite food. You can see his perfectly curated routine begin to crumble, taking his excitement with it. “But…but I even said ‘please!’” he insists, voice cracking. 

You step in quickly, wanting to salvage the Father’s Day celebration before Hurricane Harris can brew up a storm. “Hey, Har, I know you’re disappointed about the chicken fingers, but I have a super special idea.”

“Wh-What?” Misty eyes indicate that tears still threaten to spill over his lashes. 

“When Grandma used to take me to the diner, we used to split silver dollars. They’re pancakes, just smaller.” You take a deep breath and smile, hoping and praying that your plan works. “Would you like to share some silver dollars with me? And we can come back and get chicken fingers another time.”

Harris considers your proposition, rubbing his hands together along his knuckles to soothe himself. Finally, he says, “Can we eat them with syrup?”

“That sounds delicious.” You lean over and ruffle his hair, careful not to let any loose strands land on the table. “You wanna tell the waitress?”

“Mmkay,” he nods, turning to Bee and smiling. “Me an’ Ms. Sweetheart are gonna have the, um, little pancakes.” He frowns, unable to remember the dish’s name. “The dollars?”

Bee laughs and nods, jotting it on her notepad. “An order of silver dollar pancakes, coming right up. And for you gentlemen?” She brings her attention to Eddie and Wayne. 

The older man clears his throat, ordering a Western omelet with home fries and rye toast. Eddie asks for the same but with white bread. “And a refill on the coffee,” he adds. 

Bee promises to be back shortly with the food, and the four of you resume your conversation. 

“We’ll get to take a new picture next week at someone’s graduation,” you say with a smile, looking in Harris’s direction. “Are you excited, Har Bear?”

Harris takes another messy sip of grape juice. “Uh-huh. I’m gonna go to kindergarten soon! But first is summer.” 

“Summer first, then kindergarten,” you agree, sipping your coffee before it gets cold. You’re no stranger to it, often setting down your to-go cup at work and forgetting about it until well after morning circle time, but you relish any chance you get to enjoy it while it’s still warm. “I was thinking: once you and Daddy are all moved in, we should make plans for this summer. Like the zoo, or the pool…”

“Yeah!” Harris claps his hands together and grins. “Or Disney World!”

Eddie’s ears perk up at his son’s suggestion. “Not this year, but maybe soon.” If he can continue moving up the ranks at the record store, coupled with the two of you splitting rent, it might even happen next year, but he doesn’t want to make a promise he can’t guarantee he’ll keep. “And we’ll drag Grampa Wayne with us.”

Wayne responds with a shake of his head. “You’re outta your mind if you think I’m goin’ on any of those roller coasters.”

“You’re gonna sit and ride It’s a Small World the whole day?” Eddie teases, leaning back in his seat. 

“Damn straight.”

The food comes out ten minutes later, steaming plates carefully placed on the table. You cut the silver dollar pancakes into bite-size pieces, pushing half to the side nearest Harris and the other half closest to you. A glass syrup carafe waits to be used, its handle sticky with residue. 

“Say when,” you tell Harris, drizzling it back and forth across the plate. He waits until the pancakes are drenched before stopping you.

You watch as he uses his fork to spear some pancake, pops it in his mouth, and chews thoughtfully. “It’s yummy!” he declares triumphantly, already scanning the plate for his next piece. “This is my favorite food ever!”

You, Eddie, and Wayne share smiles; none of you take his declaration too seriously, knowing he changes his favorite anythings on an hourly basis. Still, a win is a win, and avoiding a chicken finger-induced tantrum is no small feat. 

Eddie spreads a pat of butter over his toast, but his eyes never shift from you and Harris sharing breakfast. You’d asked him whether he prefers blueberries or chocolate chips in his pancakes, and the discussion quickly devolved into a competition to see who could come up with the grossest pancake addition. 

���How about…” Harris wiggles his nose, “broccoli pancakes?”

“Ew!” You stick out your tongue in disgust. “That was a good one, but I think I can top it. Would you eat…” you tap your chin in contemplation, “fish stick pancakes!”

Harris squeals, far from an inside voice, but no one wants to correct him. “That’s super yucky! Fish stick pancakes?!”

Eddie smiles, tucking into his own food. He wants to savor the joy, the warmth. The twinkle in Wayne’s eyes, the upturned corners of Harris’s lips, the trill of your laugh. He wishes he could capture the feeling, but a mental image will have to do. 

He inhales and allows himself to be wrapped in the unconditional love he had once convinced himself he didn’t want nor deserve. 

The Hawkins Preschool cafeteria has once again been transformed. The custodians folded the long tables, propping them against the wall, and set up rows of folding chairs, leaving a small aisle for the graduates’ families to find their seats. 

Other parents stare as Eddie walks in, perspiration prickling under his arms as he hears them whispering about the kid who ran away. It’s audible enough for Wayne to hear; he rests his hand on his nephew’s shoulder and gives it a small squeeze before they take their seats. 

Jeff and Dustin arrive a few moments later, noticing Eddie and Wayne in the small crowd and shuffling over. Eddie pulls them each in for a quick hug, and Wayne does the same.

“Glad we made it,” Dustin says with a sigh of relief. “My flight got delayed half an hour, but we made up the time in the air.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “It didn’t help that we had to stop at a payphone so you could call your precious Suzie-Poo,” he huffs, but there’s a glimmer of a smile on his lips, proud of the way his friend cares so deeply for his partner. “Anyway, we’re here now.” He takes a seat next to Wayne, shifting so he can speak to Eddie. “Is Harris excited to graduate?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie laughs, shaking his head at the recent memory of his son prancing around the apartment that morning in his cap and gown, small body drowning in the flowing green fabric. In that instant, Eddie could picture him as a young man, crossing a much larger stage to receive his diploma from Hawkins High. If Higgins is still the principal, Eddie might have to teach Harris the family tradition of flipping him off. 

Sue Sinclair makes her way up the small staircase to the podium, adjusting the microphone so she speaks into it easily. “Good morning, parents, siblings, and other special guests. Welcome to Hawkins Preschool’s Moving Up ceremony.” She beams, holding for applause. Eddie eases back into his seat; he’s known Principal Sinclair for years, since Lucas had joined Hellfire, and she’d recently stepped up to take over teaching Harris’s class for the remaining weeks of the school year. After the little boy had given his statement to the police, Marion and Paula’s teaching licenses had been immediately terminated, and negligence charges were currently pending.

“Before we get started, I’d just like to make an announcement.” Sue Sinclair looks over to where your class is standing, patiently waiting their turn to receive their sticker-laden diplomas. “I am pleased to announce that our very own Mr. Will Byers,” she extends her hand in Will’s direction, “will be our newest head teacher starting this fall.”

Though everyone in attendance is clapping, it’s obvious that Eddie, Wayne, Jeff, and Dustin cheer the loudest. Will blushes red, unused to being the center of attention, but the smile on his face shows how excited he is to take on this new role. You wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind and pull him in for a proud hug.

“Our students have worked incredibly hard this year, learning their letters, numbers, and how to be a good friend,” the principal continues. “And though we will miss them dearly, we are thrilled to send them off to kindergarten with these new skills. So, without further ado, let’s bring out our graduates!”

The ceremony begins, starting with your class. You stand at one end of the stage, sending each student off to where Will is waiting at the other end as Principal Sinclair reads out each of their names. They take their certificates and pose with baby teeth on full display while their parents snap photos from disposable Kodaks and bulky Nikons. All the seemingly endless days, the menial fights over sharing toys; every moment was worth it if it led to this.

You usher the kids to their seats in the front row after your final student’s name is called, spotting Eddie in the crowd as you sit down. He winks, the corner of his eye mischievously crinkling. You smile, taking full advantage of the other parents’ distractedness and give him a little wave; the exchange a private love letter.

Both of you bring your attention back to the stage when Sue Sinclair calls up the next class. Harris stands towards the center of the line, excitement buzzing through him at a rate that cannot be contained. He rocks from the balls of his feet to his heels, back and forth as he awaits his turn. His brown ringlets poke out from underneath his cap, grazing just above his eyebrows. 

Principal Sinclair pauses, looking directly at Eddie when she speaks. She understands the gravity of this accomplishment, her lipsticked smile reaching her eyes as she leans in towards the microphone.

“Harris Munson!”

Eddie jumps up, hollering as loud as his vocal cords will allow. Harris accepts his diploma and smiles wide, both at his accomplishment and at the sound of his dad cheering him on. His expression further brightens when he sees Wayne, Dustin, and Jeff beside him, and he waves while jumping up and down.

He’s supposed to walk from stage left to stage right, just as all the students before him have done; in typical Harris fashion, he takes the road less traveled. With a mighty leap, he catapults himself off of the stage and makes a beeline straight for you.

Two little arms wrap themselves around you, squeezing you as tight as they can. The brim of his cap is flush against your cheek. “I did it, Ms. Sweetheart!” His words carry a lightheartedness that only a child’s joy can bring. “Did you see?” He picks his head up from where it was nestled against you and giggles, dimpled chin brushing your bicep.

You tilt the mortarboard slightly upward and press a kiss to his forehead. “I saw, Har,” you tell him, using your thumb to wipe away your lipstick print, “and I am so, so proud of you.” Readjusting his cap, you usher him over to where the rest of his class is standing, a garden of happiness blooming within you. 

You look back at where Eddie is sitting, wishing you could sit next to him, fingers laced together while his thumb caresses the side of your hand and grasping your hand tighter when Harris’s name is called. For now, it’s enough to know that you’ll be by his side throughout all of Harris’s future endeavors and accomplishments. A team. 

Eddie’s palms press into his slack-covered thighs as he peers over at you and grins. Bright, adoring eyes meet yours, speaking every thought that his mouth can’t say right now. I love you. Thank you. We couldn’t have done this without you.

You accept the wordless praise with a smile, one that reaches beyond its usual confines. 

Dustin notices the small exchange, and he nudges Eddie’s ribs with his elbow. “She’s the one, huh?” He cocks his eyebrow knowingly. 

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie murmurs, no longer paying any attention to the remaining names being read aloud. “You ever think you’d see the day I settle down?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an ounce of insecurity behind them. 

To Eddie’s surprise, Dustin nods without hesitation. “Always knew you would.” Carol Perkins shushes him from the row ahead, but he just flips her off and rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t you remember that time in high school when we got sloshed—sorry, Wayne,” Jeff cuts in sheepishly, “and you went on a rant about how you secretly wanted the whole wife, kids, picket fence deal?”

“And I believe I threatened to kick your ass if you told anyone,” Eddie points out, embarrassment turning his face red, apparent even under the light stubble covering his cheeks. 

Wayne chuckles softly. “I already knew. About the dream and the booze.” He laughs a bit harder at Jeff and Eddie’s shocked expressions. “If you keep replacing vodka with water, eventually, it’s all just water.”

“Ya don’t say.” Dustin’s sarcasm bleeds through his whisper. 

Principal Sinclair reads the last student’s name with the same enthusiasm she’s given all of the other kids. “I now present to you, the Hawkins Preschool class of 1997!” She mimes tossing a cap in the air, the students’ cue to do the same. 

The fervor of the cheers and applause could shake the cafeteria. Whistles pierce the air and reverberate off of the walls, none louder than Wayne Munson’s. You stand up, smoothing the pleats of your dress to soak in the achievement of completing another academic year; for you, this one in a brand new school with more challenges than you’d cared to endure. 

You and Will take in the sight of nine cherubic faces looking up at you in admiration, though they’re beginning to shed their baby fat. This was certainly a journey, and you couldn’t have asked for a better teaching assistant to walk beside you through it all. 

“I’m gonna miss you next year,” you say, squeezing him in a tight hug. 

“I’ll be right down the hall!”

Begrudgingly, you let go of him, not losing the pout on your lips. “That’s way too far for me.” The two of you both know that you’re serious; it won’t be the same without having him in the classroom with you. “Can we try to match up our breaks and eat lunch together?”

“It’s a date,” Will laughs, then juts out his chin to motion behind you, “but it looks like I might have some competition.”

Before you can turn around, Eddie’s arms wrap around your waist. He tugs you in close so your back is flush against his chest, the buttons from his shirt pressing into your spine. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs in your ear, lips so close that they brush the lobe. “Are you ready to start your summer?”

You kiss his cheek, adjusting your stance so you can walk hand in hand to get Harris. He torpedoes himself into Eddie’s stomach, shrieking with laughter as he’s lifted into the air. 

“Har Bear, you’re a preschool graduate!” Eddie smacks a kiss to his son’s temple. “How should we celebrate, hmm? Ice cream? Chuck E. Cheese?”

“Ice cream!” Harris decides easily. “I’m gonna get cotton candy with rainbow sprinkles and—Uncle Dusty!” He squirms out of Eddie’s grasp and races over to Dustin. 

“What? I’m not an ice cream topping!” Dustin teases, crouching down to ruffle Harris’s curls, matted to his scalp from being hidden underneath the cap. 

Harris giggles. “You’re so silly!” He glances back and forth from him to you, and you realize he doesn’t know that you’d met in March at Will’s birthday party. “Uncle Dusty, this is Ms. Sweetheart. She’s my almost-mommy.”

“Ohh,” Dustin replies with a smirk, raising his eyebrows and nodding. “I think she needs to be your dad’s almost-wife first–”

“All right! Ice cream time!” Eddie hurries to cut him off, glaring at Dustin for bringing the idea to Harris’s attention again; he has constantly been hounding him about marriage ever since he found out about his newest living arrangements. The idea of marrying you, however, eases his tension and has a smile tugging on his lips; a slight switch in expression that his uncle spots easily.

Wayne’s gruff whisper is in Eddie’s ear. “Sounds like it’s time for an almost-proposal.”

“Shut up!”

“I think that’s the last of them!” Jeff calls out, lugging the final cardboard box from his car into your apartment. He wipes his hands on his jeans and closes the door behind him, careful not to wake up his sleeping daughter in Viv’s arms. He looks over at where you, Robin, and Jess have begun unpacking, laying Eddie’s clothes in one pile and Harris’s much smaller clothes in another.

Jeff places a kiss on the crown of Viv’s head, then plants an identical one on Ettie’s. “Where are the guys?” 

“Harris’s room,” you say; bittersweet taste tinging the new label. It feels better than Grandma’s old room, but part of it will always belong to her. You hear Harris giggle as Eddie and Dustin re-assemble his racecar bed, spreading warmth that gently softens the sadness until it resembles sentimentality. “I’ll come with you; I have to put this away, anyway.” You grab the pile of Harris’s clothes and tuck it under your arm.

Eddie and Dustin sit on the floor, rogue screws spread around them as they intently study their project.

“I think this piece,” Dustin muses, picking up one of the sides of the frame, “connects with this one like that…”

Eddie shakes his head. “Nah, it’s the other way around.” He takes the screwdriver and twists the metal into the slot triumphantly. Your breath catches in your throat as his bicep flexes with the motion, perfectly displayed where his t-shirt sleeve had been cut into a makeshift tank top. “There we go.” He looks up and realizes you’re there, perfectly still as you watch him. “Hey, Sweetheart. Y’good?” There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye; though it was inadvertent, he knows what he’s doing to you.

You only nod, the movement dragging you out of your momentary stupor. He chuckles as you place Harris’s shirts and pants in the dresser, fingers clumsily slipping over the knobs. It’s the same unicorn-covered dresser that had sent Harris into hysterics a few weeks ago, but you’d painted over it before he could see. It’s now a dark navy blue, no evidence of what once lay beneath.

Eddie’s amused by your reaction and subsequent embarrassment, running his tongue over his teeth and chuckling to himself, but his victory is short-lived.

“Hey, Casanova,” Dustin’s exasperated voice cuts in, pointing to the section Eddie just assembled, “you put the piece on upside down.”

Harris crinkles his nose. “What’s Casanova?”

Eddie buries his head in his hands as Dustin scrambles to explain. “It means your dad is trying to show off his handyman skills for your almost-mommy.” He winks in Eddie’s direction before leaning in and exaggeratedly whispering in Harris’s ear, “but he’s not doing a very good job.”

As soon as Harris distracts himself with setting up his toys, Eddie is saluting his friend with a quick flip of his middle finger.

You crouch down, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Don’t worry; I’m very impressed.” He blushes when you kiss his cheek. “Your uncle’s going to be here with dinner in a few minutes, if you burly men want to wash up.”

Eddie nods, turning to his friends and his son and speaking in a deep baritone. “You heard the woman! Let us refuel so we may regain our strength for hunting and other masculine activities.”

Harris’s brows pinch together in further confusion while you and Dustin share an eyeroll, but the three of you follow your fearless leader out of the room. Eddie lets the two of them pass and waits for you, sliding a coy hand in your back pocket and murmuring against your hair. “Man and woman make fire in bedroom later?” He continues using the deepened voice.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s…that’s not a no, though, right?”

The summer sun is still high in the sky when Wayne arrives at the apartment, three pizza boxes still warm in his palms. He’s barely able to put them on the table before Harris is racing towards him, ready to give a full report of the goings-on of his day. 

Jess sits at the table, baby Ettie laying in her arms while she gives Viv a break and feeds her from a bottle. You place a piece of pizza on the paper plate in front of her, and one in front of Robin, who adoringly watches her girlfriend dote on a baby. Wayne sits in the third seat, thanking you with his kind smile as you pass him a slice.

You join Eddie and Harris on the couch; Jeff plops down in the La-Z-Boy on the other side of the coffee table, motioning for Viv to sit atop his legs, while Dustin has seemingly been relegated to sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Uncle Dusty, come sit next to me!” Harris chirps, nearly knocking your plate out of your hand as he bounces onto your lap. His curls tickle your chin as he leans over to take a bite of his dinner, dragging the cheese halfway off of the crust before Eddie holds it in place. 

Dustin obliges, squishing in next to you with an apologetic laugh, but you don’t mind. Dialogue melds together, with people seamlessly leaping from one conversation to another. Robin poses the question of what everyone thinks Ettie’s first word will be, which prompts Wayne to tell the story about how Eddie tried so hard to get Harris to say dada, only for the boy to scream out “SHIT!” in the middle of Bradley’s Big Buy. 

Jeff looks across the room at his tiny daughter. “Please don’t let that be your first word,” he jokingly begs her, picking a greasy pepperoni piece from his slice and dropping it in his mouth. While he’s preoccupied, Viv steals a bite of the crust. 

“Are you all going to the July 4th carnival next week?” Eddie asks through a cheesy mouthful. 

Everyone except Dustin answers in the affirmative. “Flying back home tomorrow,” he says, a round of booing from the group forcing him to pause mid-statement, “but Suzie and I are—hey, not cool!” He swats at a crumpled napkin that Eddie lobs at his head. “Suzie and I are going to try and visit for my mom’s birthday in August,” he finishes with a pointed look. 

Harris tilts his head back so you can see straight into his flared nostrils. “Ms. Sweetheart, you’re coming to the carnival with us, right?”

“Of course! What rides are we gonna go on?” you ask, his little feet kicking at your calves as joy flows through his body. 

“The Ferris Wheel! Me an’ Daddy always go on that, an’ now you can come with us!”

He and Eddie always go on the Ferris Wheel. It’s a tradition that they share, and now they’re allowing you in. Now you’re part of it. 

You smile, kissing his forehead in a celebration of belonging and delight. “That sounds like a lot of fun,” you agree. “Do you think Daddy will play the games and win a prize for us?”

Eddie groans at your suggestion. “Those booths are all rigged. Every last one of ‘em.”

“I dunno,” Jess says teasingly, wiping Ettie’s chin with a cloth bib, “I won a stuffed animal from the whack-a-mole last year—”

“Oh, yeah! And I beat the Test Your Strength one,” Jeff adds slyly, getting a rise out of proving Eddie wrong. 

Eddie throws his voice to a falsetto, mocking his friend’s words. “I beat the Test Your Strength one,” he echoes nasally, chuckling when Jeff scoops up the napkin previously thrown at Dustin and hurls it towards Eddie. 

The rest of the evening continues like this, silly banter and recalled stories that end up being cut short or watered down for the impressionable ears listening in. It’s love in its many forms: between partners, between parents and their children, between friends. Each peal of laughter, each shared smile, each memory made adds to its foundation; brick by brick, layer by layer. 

The pink hues of sunset darken to indigo and eventually settle into a night sky, the moon shining brightly and unobscured by clouds. Eddie, Jeff, and Dustin finally manage to put the race car bed back together—and just in time. Harris’s yawns become more frequent until he can no longer fight sleep, dozing off with his cheek pressed against your chest. Soft snores leave his slightly agape mouth. 

“I feel the same way,” Wayne jokes, standing up from his chair and stretching his back with a grimace. “It’s been a long day.”

The group nods in agreement, quietly gathering their belongings and saying good-bye. 

“Thank you all for helping today,” you say, handing out hugs while keeping Harris sound asleep. He stirs but doesn’t fully wake up, even with all of the commotion. “We really appreciate it.”

Eddie seconds your sentiment. “It means a lot to us. We know we owe you a lot more than just dinner—”

“You guys are family,” Viv interrupts with a smile, gently rocking a sleeping Ettie in her arms. “This is what family does.”

A calloused hand rests on your shoulder from behind the couch; you lean your head on Eddie’s forearm and give it a small kiss. The delicate hairs brush against your lips, and you relax into his touch.

Your guests file out, already making plans to meet up at the carnival. Eddie closes the door behind them, insisting that he can beat Jeff at the Test Your Strength and demanding that his friend buy him a funnel cake when he does.

There’s a soft murmuring coming from Harris’s room, and Eddie walks as quietly as he can. He watches silently, shoulder pressed against the doorframe, as you place his son’s head onto the pillow. The crisp sheet is draped over his sleeping body, followed by the Buzz Lightyear comforter you’d bought at Kmart especially for him. Harris stirs for a moment to grab onto the blankets, tugging them to his chin and scrunching up his legs to assume a cozier position. He lets out a content sigh and slips back into his dream.

“Good night, kiddo,” you whisper, kissing his mop of curls. You look around the room, so different from when it belonged to Grandma. It seems larger, his race car bed taking up much less space than her queen-size bed did. A Lego set lies where her shoe rack once stood. The top of his dresser is covered in Hot Wheels, rather than the makeup and jewelry that Grandma had on hers. 

But it’s a good kind of different, one that comes with the natural ebb and flow of life. It brings inevitable change, and it’s your choice whether to embrace it or run away.

“You’re a natural at this bedtime thing, y’know.” Eddie’s voice, low and soft, places you back in the moment. He holds his arms out for you to nestle into them, holding you as close as he can. His thumb caresses your shoulder blade. “It normally takes a couple of stories, half a dozen pee breaks, and a horse tranquilizer to get him down.”

“I think being completely exhausted from moving helped,” you laugh into his chest. “And I’m right there with him. Man and woman might have to postpone their fire-making.”

Eddie’s chuckle vibrates against you. “Yeah, it wouldn’t be my best performance. Wanna make this one really good, since it’s a special occasion and everything.” He closes Harris’s door and leads you to the bedroom you two now share. “We gotta christen this bad boy.”

“We’ve had sex on this bed a million times.” You recall the ways his lips traced over your body, eager to memorize every inch of skin. 

“But that’s when it was only your bed,” he points out. “Now it’s ours.”

Ours. Our bed, our home, our family. Ours. 

You can barely change into pajamas before you’re falling asleep; Eddie manages to slip off his jeans and shirt, clad in plaid boxers and nothing else, before crashing down into the bed you now share. His arm slips around your waist, fingers reflexively dancing up your shirt, while he buries his head in the nape of your neck. 

When daylight breaks and the sun streams through the gaps in the blinds, Eddie has assumed a starfish position, blankets flung to the edge of the bed in what must have been a middle-of-the-night move. You’re still dozing, but he knows he has to wake you if he wants to sneak in some alone time before his son wakes up.

“Morning, gorgeous.” His breath tickles under your earlobe, pulling you close to him. You hum, not quite awake but no longer dreaming. “C’mon, wake up, pretty thing.” He licks his lips before kissing the exposed skin of your shoulder blades. 

Wiping sleep from your eyes, you turn over and face him. Your mouth lazily finds his, the cotton fabric of your pajama top fisted in his grasp. The outline of his morning wood is visible through his boxer shorts; it presses into your thigh as though greedily searching for your warmth. “You always wake up this hard?” you tease, fingertips already fiddling with the worn elastic waistband and dipping towards the treasure beneath. The scruff of his pubic hair grazes your knuckles. 

“Only when I dream of you,” he mumbles with a cheeky grin, climbing on top of you while shedding his only clothing article. The boxers fall to the floor unceremoniously. 

“Smooth.”

“I thought so.” Both hands cup your cheeks; you expect him to kiss you again, but he just gazes into your eyes. “Love waking up next to you.”

It draws a memory of the first morning you’d spent together; an inadvertent sleepover that culminated in one poorly-crafted lie and two broken hearts. He looks at you now, tired and yet still beautiful. How could I have let her slip by? How did I almost miss all of this?

You take the lead this time, arching your back so your torso melds into his, connected by desire. Eddie has your tank top off in a heartbeat, tongue swiping over your nipples the instant they’re visible. 

“Perfect,” Eddie groans, making his way down your abdomen. He places your legs on top of his shoulders, lips delicately fluttering over your clit so he can lick a broad stripe up your labia. “I know we should be having a quickie, but I can’t turn down breakfast in bed.” His face is buried in your pussy, inhaling your scent and committing it to memory. 

You giggle at his phrasing. If you question it, you know he’ll make a comment about you being good enough to eat. You give in instead, letting him ravish you just the way you both crave. 

One finger, then two, slip into your waiting cunt while his mouth focuses on your clit. You’re dripping with your arousal and his saliva; you bite your lower lip to stifle the noises begging to be heard. 

“Eddie, Eddie,” you croak, trying to keep your voice down. “I’m so close, s-so close…”

Eddie says nothing, continuing to worship the taste of you. You can feel his victorious smile as you cry out his name in orgasmic bliss, toes flexing just as he brings you down from the high. 

“Need you, fuckin’ Christ,” he breathes, tempering the stimulation pulsing through his cock with a few short tugs. 

You nod, already electrified at the prospect of being split open on him. He sinks into you with a muted moan, savoring the way you envelop him within your warmth. “All mine, Sweetheart; you’re all mine.”

“Mhm,” you manage. Your fingernails dig into his upper back with a force that will surely leave crescent indents in his skin. “I’m all yours. Always will be.”

His thumb runs along your jaw and he smiles. She’s all mine.

The ridges of his dick form a delectable friction along your walls. Each thrust is a mutual give and take, an exchanging of selves with every breath. 

“I love you.” Eddie’s impossibly beautiful like this, hands holding your hips steady while sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. He brings your fourth finger between his lips; you can feel his tongue claiming it as his own. “And I’m gonna put a ring on this pretty little finger of yours, okay? Just want it to be perfect for you.”

You weave your fingers into his sleep-mussed curls and kiss him. “Don’t need perfect. I’ll marry you without a ring.” Whatever elaborate fairytale wedding you’d been crafting in your head is suddenly wholly unnecessary; all that matters is that you and Eddie commit to one another. But you know him well enough to not question his devotion to you. If Eddie Munson wants to give you the proposal of a lifetime, then that’s what he’s going to do. 

There will be no unkept promises this morning, no shattered hearts to mend.

He can’t hold back any longer, spilling into you with punctuating grunts. You receive every last drop gratefully, a part of him within you, and you finish for the second time today. 

“I meant it.” He gently withdraws from inside you, both of you mourning the loss of the other’s body. “When I said I’m gonna marry you, I meant it.”

“I know.”

“Good.” Eddie grins, laying on his side and propping himself up on his elbow. Sweat glistens along the sparse hairs curling over his bare chest. “Are you hungry? I know I worked up an appetite.”

You kiss his nose, biting the end teasingly. He yelps in mock pain, so you kiss it again. “I am, but I have to be honest—between all the unpacking and sex, I don’t have the energy to make breakfast.” 

“Me neither,” he admits with a laugh. “Why don’t we shower, wake up Sleeping Beauty,” he nudges his head towards Harris’s room, “and go to the diner.” He stretches and stands, eyes drawn to the nightstand, where the framed photo from Wayne leans against a porcelain lamp. Happiness captured with the click of a Kodak.

You’re smiling, thinking about sharing silver dollar pancakes with Harris again just like you used to do with Grandma. Somewhere along the way, you grew from the child to the adult in that scenario, passing on a tradition you never even knew had been started. 

“That sounds amazing.” As you say it aloud, something in addition to hunger gnaws at your stomach. You’ve been putting it off, hiding from the truth, but you want to stop pretending. You want to feel everything that comes with accepting reality. Without sorrow, you would never recognize joy. Without grief, you won’t understand the depths of our love beyond the physical plain. 

“Could we make a quick pit stop first?”

Though it’s still morning, the late June humidity has your shirt clinging to you, sweat beading along the collar and around your bra clasp. You close the car door behind you; Eddie shuffles to open the back door for Harris. The little boy unbuckles his seatbelt and hops out of the booster seat, glancing between you and his dad. You take his left hand and Eddie takes his right as you walk over to the stone. 

“Hi, Grandma,” you whisper, crouching down to better see the engraving. Gently, your fingers dance over the etched words: Beloved wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. “I know I haven’t been by to visit you yet, but I’m here now.” You muster up a small smile. “And I brought Eddie and Harris with me. They…they loved you, too.”

You falter for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Eddie’s hand rubs your upper back, not caring about how perspiration-soaked it is. 

“Do you want some privacy?” he murmurs. “Harris and I can wait by the car. You take as long as you need.”

You nod, watching them walk hand in hand to give you your space to grieve. Filling your lungs with a deep breath, you speak what’s been in your heart. 

“I need to thank you,” you start, talking directly to where her name is engraved, “for a lot of things. But I guess, um, the most important is how you taught me to forgive without taking shit—can I swear in a cemetery?—from people.” Your laugh is heavy with the weight of remembrance. 

“I miss you. A lot,” you continue, tears now spilling freely from your eyes. “I miss doing puzzles together. I miss cooking together. I’m going to try and make your applesauce for Thanksgiving this year. I think Harris will really like it.” You swallow thickly. “If you’d met him before you got sick, you would’ve adored him. He’s got the biggest heart of any kid I’ve ever met.”

You’re finding it easier to talk; everything you need to say is coming naturally and without hesitation. 

“He’s…he’s living in your room. I guess, technically, it’s his room now. But a little part of me will always consider it your room, too. And I think that’s okay.” You nod, confirming to yourself that it’s all part of the process. “He keeps asking me and Eddie when we’re going to get married. To be honest, I’m kind of wondering the same thing.” You smile at the thought of marrying Eddie, maybe even legally adopting Harris, if that’s something they also want. “I’m not in a rush, though, but I really do believe that Eddie’s the one. He’s my person, and I’m his. So, yeah, I’m definitely hoping that he proposes sooner rather than later.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to visit. I always thought losing you wouldn’t be as hard as it was, because it felt like I had already lost you to dementia.” It feels silly to admit aloud, but it’s the truth. “I should’ve known that it wouldn’t be easy. But I promise, I’ll stop by more often, and I’ll have plenty of cute Harris stories to tell you.”

There’s just a bit more that you need to share before you can go. “I love you, Grandma. And…thank you for loving me, too.”

You stand up, pressing on your knees to ensure your balance. Taking one last look at the stone, you run your fingers over the jagged marble and turn back towards Eddie and Harris.

The little boy is perched on his father’s hip, squinting into the sunlight to make out your form. “You ready, Ms. Sweetheart?”

You blink through misty eyes, staring at the two people in front of you. Ten months ago, if someone had told you that your one-night stand at a dive bar would end up being the love of your life, you would have laughed in their face. But the universe does what it must to remain in balance, and it doesn’t humor any arguments.

Inhale, exhale, repeat. This is where you’re meant to be. This is who you’re meant to be: a partner, a friend, an almost-mommy.

“Yeah,” you say finally, the tears clearing from your vision and a genuine smile forming on your lips. “I’m ready.”

--

💚

[keikiri-kitten]

UNDRESS ME ★ LEON KENNEDY

leon x reader, re4 leon, fem!reader, d.o.s agent!reader, stressed reader, smut, cunnilingus

Leon will never tell you how much he enjoys undressing you. It’s something intimate and passionate where he can take his time with you. Things are easy for him now. The missions aren’t completely unbearable since he’s come home from Spain and he gets to come home to you at reasonable hours. You two even built a routine around it.

He loves finding you at the small coffee table in front of the window, letting the peach tone of the sunset cast against your body as you furiously type on that same rusty, job-given laptop. He can almost expect it when it gets home from work. He can also spot how enthralled you are in your own work that you don’t even notice his footsteps approaching you.

His feet are heavy as they shuffle toward you, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. A deaf person could hear the beat of his shoes, but not you. The man fears his heart palpitations every time he gets closer to you. Suddenly he can spot them; small little buds planted in your ears. It’s a faint sound of something chaotic that he can hear you listening to but if it’s keeping you focused, there’s no harm in it.

There’s a grin that pulls at this lips as he feels you jump from the tender graze of his hand on your cheek to make you look at him. You yank the small white buds from your ears and lock them up in their proper case before sighing out, “sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” It’s a fragile, defeated smile you give him that wrenches his heart.

“You never do.” Chuckling, icy eyes peer to your laptop and the man tilts his head in the same direction. “I think you should put that away. Any more time on that thing and it’s gonna blow the place up,” he taunted.

You always feel a bit unaccomplished when Leon suggests for you to put yourself first. There’s so much more you felt you could be doing, though leave it to Leon to help you pull away from work. As your hands reach out to save any open documents and shut the screen on the blocky, out of touch laptop, you could spot a rather wide, meaty hand reach out to you.

“Come on. We can leave the work for tomorrow. You did enough today. I sure as hell know I did.” With a laugh, he guided you off of the chair before he leans down to rest a gentle kiss to your temple.

What a poor thing you are. You didn’t even think to take off your shoes. They scuff along the floor as he pulls you gently to your shared bedroom. The man in front of you smirks, shaking his head. “I’m not cleaning up any marks your shoes leave on the floor.”

It was a comment that makes you smirk, “so you’re only good for taking the clothes off,” you affirm. The bedroom is as cozy as you both left it. The bed was undone but the slept in look relaxes you.

“I am only good for taking the clothes off.” He assures, pausing his steps to take pull your body in front of him to get you to stand at the foot of your bed. “Sit down,” he instructs with a genuine smile.

Your shoes are the first to go. He kneels in front of you, one knee propped up and the other shoved into the carpet to keep him steady. He puts each shoe down carefully and standing them up besides one another. You swear you could stare at him for hours. There’s this focused look in his eyes as he works on undressing you, gazing at your legs. His eyes flicker all over your lower half as he works, slightly jumping when you speak up. “Didn’t do enough service for the president today I see,” you tease. If he has enough energy to undress you, what has he been doing all day?

The pair of blue eyes that were locked to your skin soon met yours. Stressed, tired eyes narrowed in amusement as he placed a hand on the knee closest to his chest. “He actually made use of the other traumatized agents. There was nothing left to do.” Shrugging, his hair drapes over his face so effortlessly and the slight stubble on his jaw compliments the rugged look he carries. He’s beautiful. “What about you? You’re taking work home again. I thought we talked about taking it easy.” He knew your job wouldn’t necessarily be smooth sailing and that you would get used to it, but he also thought you were a bit too young to embark on a task so heavy. It was good you’re both working on the same side but it hurt him to know how difficult it was for you.

Leon’s eyes admire you from your face back down to your legs, running the tips of his fingers along your ankles and up your calves as he awaits an answer. He’s only a little satisfied since your skin is covered in thin stocking fabric. Gentle touches continue to reach for your upper thigh, sliding under your skirt to find the band. “It’s more than just going on missions via camera and microphone with federal agents. There’s intelligence things. I write reports, update on every single thing and some of those things can’t be finished in a typical forty hour work week. How good is overtime when you can barely adjust during a normal shift?”

You’re burnt out. The both of you could tell. Leon tries to think of words of wisdom but considering he didn’t even leave his job after the worst in Spain, he’ll sound like a hypocrite. You don’t take notice, though while giving him your drained response, your stockings and panties meet the floor. “Is this a job you wanna stick with?” It takes finding your panties and stockings on the floor to understand that Leon has a swift and sneaky hand. You can’t even respond to his question as you try to process his haste with getting you undressed, though you quickly spot the smirk on his lips.

It’s a strong pair of hands that wrap behind your knees to pull your bottom closer to the edge of the bed. The friction between the sheets and your skirt expose your lower half fully. “Don’t answer that…” Leave it to Leon to be the best and worst distraction. He was no empath, but he could say he understood how frustrating a job like yours must be. Placing a gentle tap on his shoulders, he silently instructs you to place your thighs on them.

As you attempt to do so, he snakes his hands from underneath your legs and around your upper thighs. His touch is tender and careful as you feel it tease up your skin. You can’t help but to gasp when your back hits the bed from a harsh, playful pull at your thighs pull your hips further off the edge. There’s a swift breath he takes before your legs are hoisted onto his shoulder. If this was his idea of a comforting mind break, maybe you can consider quitting therapy.

“I’m starting to believe you only want to undress me so you can put me on your face.” As your eyes gaze up at the ceiling, Leon wastes no time opening you up with the tip of his nose. His tongue licks a slow and gentle stripe within the folds of your heat. As his tongue laps upward, he latches onto your clit, working his tongue and kisses on it.

You can feel his soft lips against you, and his shoulders lifting your legs while he adjusts his posture. “How’d you guess,” he quizzes in a sneering tone. Leon understands his touch is all too gentle with you; playful and is intended to soothe you.

“Leon,” you whisper out, grabbing his attention. Even while catering to you he’s still being a little shit.

“Shh, I’m being a good boyfriend.”

He’s supposed to be undressing you, but you could take this as well.

[mickittotheman]

19 for the prompt game

FINALLY had time to write something for this. Hope you enjoy dear anon!

19. ...for luck

“What the fuck is all this shit?”

Ian looks up, meets Mickey’s incredulous expression with a blinding grin. “Mick! You’re home early.”

“No shit.” Mickey cocks his eyebrows higher and kicks his boots off, kicking them haphazardly towards the general direction of the closet. Normally Ian would be nagging him for it, but right now his husband is too preoccupied digging through the overstuffed trash bag of clothes on the bed to even notice. “Packing your bags on me already, Gallagher?”

Ian shoots Mickey a deadpan glare. “Please,” he scoffs, “I would at least pack my shit in a duffle bag, not some flimsy trash bag.”

Mickey lifts a hand to flip him off. Ian reaches out to snag it and drag Mickey closer, reeling him in for a slow, sappy kiss. 

Ian pulls back far too soon. “Debbie is clearing out the attic at the house because Franny wants to build a fort up there.”

“Good fucking luck with that. Pretty sure raccoons already beat her to it.”

A strange look passes over Ian’s face. He shudders before visibly shaking away whatever weird fucking memory he has involving raccoons. Mickey knows better than to ask. “Point is, she’s trying to get rid of some of the shit up there. Look! These are all the old clothes I grew out of,” he rifles through the bag again, occasionally pulling out random tees and flannels to present to Mickey. “Well, clothes Lip and I and Carl grew out of. Liam wasn’t too interested in any of these. You know how he is.”

“Least the kid has a sense of fucking style. Is this a fucking Captian America t-shirt?”

Ian glowers and snatches it out of Mickey’s hand. “Shut up. Comic books are cool,” he grumbles, and his ears just the slightest bit pink but the gleam in his eyes is pure happiness. 

Fucking dork. 

Mickey’s plans to mock him further are derailed when he catches sight of a familiar shade of blue. He reaches out. Picks it up. Shakes it out.

It’s funny, how fucking tiny it looks now, when back then Ian was practically fucking swimming in it.

“Oh, no way!”

Mickey’s breath catches, his cheeks heating up at being caught acting like a major fucking sap, but when his gaze darts up Ian is looking at a shirt that’s a truly offensive shade of green.

“I bet this can still fit,” Ian mutters, already tugging it on. “Yes!”

The seams on the thing look about ready to rip, the fabric straining around Ian’s muscles, around the little bitty belly pouch he’s been building up. 

In any other shirt, he would look hot as fuck. But in this…

“What the fuck is that?”

Ian beams at Mickey, then down at the shirt hugging his pecs, then up at Mickey again. “What? It’s funny!”

Mickey’s face conveys his disagreement far better than any words ever could. 

His gaze flits down to Ian’s chest again. To the garish green and the bold blocky letters spelling out ‘kiss me, i’m irish’. 

“The fuck does that even mean? Why would anyone wanna kiss an Irish person?”

“Ay, fuck you!” Ian laughs. “Besides, it’s supposed to be like, lucky or something. I think.”

Mickey raises a skeptical brow. “You? You’re about the unluckiest fucker I’ve ever met. You and the rest of your siblings.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk!” Ian goes to playfully shove at Mickey. Stops with his hands still on Mickey’s pecs, eyes finally catching sight of the blue flannel Mickey’s got clutched against his chest.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.” Mickey scowls, feeling his face flare tomato fucking red. He clenches his fingers around the fabrics even tighter. Ian squints at him suspiciously.

“Mickey,” he goads. “C’mon, babe. What is it?”

Mickey huffs.

Ian shifts his fingers down to twist his nipples through his shirt. It's a concerningly effective interrogation method.

“Fucking ow!” Mickey batts Ian’s hands away. Throws the stupid fucking flannel at him. “Jesus christ! I just fucking remember that one, or whatever.”

“This one?” Ian asks, inspecting the shirt closely, like there’s a mystery woven in the worn threads. “Why? I barely even remember it. I don’t think I wore it more often than any of my other shirts.”

Mickey looks at it again. Feels his lips tug up despite himself. Swipes at his nose. 

What the fuck ever. Not like Ian doesn't already know that Mickey’s a fucking sap.

“It’s uh. It’s the one you were wearing when you barged into my room with a fucking tire iron and a death wish.”

Ian blinks at him. Blinks at the shirt. “You remember that? Down to what I was wearing?”

“‘Course,” Mickey scoffs, like it's nothing. Like it isn’t everything.

Ian melts. Goes all goey and goopy and sticky sweet like maple syrup. “Mickey.” He drops the shirt onto the bed. Cups Mickey’s face in his big hands, pulls him in close, smushes his nose against Mickey’s hair and fucking sniffs. 

Mickey melts a bit too. Just a little. 

“Y’know, for being the unluckiest fucker you’ve ever met, I sure am feeling pretty fucking lucky right about now.”

Mickey flushes again. Rolls his eyes. Shoves him away. “Shut up.”

“What? You saying you don’t feel lucky?”

“Right now? Not even a little bit,” he grumbles, and Ian’s grin stretches infinitely wider. 

“Hmm. Maybe you oughta kiss me. Maybe some of my luck will rub off on ya.”

Mickey snorts. Giving into Ian’s tugging hands, melts into him again, melts into a long, lingering kiss. “Rather have something else rub off on me instead.”

Ian grabs Mickey’s hips. Yanks them impossibly closer. “Well, look at that,” he murmurs, smearing the words against Mickey’s lips and teeth and tongue. “It’s your lucky day.”

send me a number~

[pockethounds]

Tantrum

Sofia is normally a pretty well-behaved child but there are times when her feelings get too big and she will act out.

.

.

.

“Sofia, pumpkin, it's time to get ready for bed.” The girl's father walked over to the table she was playing on. He watched as the tiny girl stacked some blocks into the shape of a home for her stuffed rabbit.

“Five more minutes?” She looked up at her father with pleading eyes. “Bunny needs his castle.” She turned and picked up the soft blue rabbit plush and placed him on a blocky throne in the middle of the castle walls.

“You already had five more minutes sweetheart, you can keep playing in the morning.”

“But…” The girl began,  a pout forming on her face.

“No buts Sofia. You need a bath.” Dustin placed his hand palm up on the table for Sofia to climb on.”

“No.” The girl fell to the floor in an attempt to resist. 

“Sof…” The giant began.

“NO! No no no no no!” Sofia threw herself around on the floor kicking at Dustin’s hand. 

“Sofia. Please.” Dustin watched as his tiny daughter kicked and thrashed around clearly unable to process her emotions at the moment. She rolled and got too close to the table's edge for Dustin’s comfort. His hand shot out and curled under her to prevent her from falling. 

“Sofia…” He began to try calming the child but was interrupted by a sharp pain in his thumb. “Ow! Mother…” The man trailed off, “Sofia did you just bite me?” He moved the thrashing girl into his other hand and looked at his thumb. Red marks had formed alongside tiny tooth marks. He frowned and made eye contact with his daughter.

The little girl had worn herself out and began to cry. Tears ran down her cheeks as she lay in her father's hand.

“I’m sorry.” The child said between sobs. The giant looked down at his daughter and wiped her cheek with his finger.

“It’s alright Pumpkin.” He picked up her stuffed rabbit and placed it on her lap. She pulled it to her chest and rested her head on his palm. “Do you want to talk about what is upsetting you? Dustin sat on the floor and looked at his daughter.

“I wanted to play. I wanted to finish.”

“I know sweetheart but it’s time to get ready for bed, you have to get your sleep. Why don’t we save the blocks for tomorrow, play with a few bath toys for a little while, and then we can read a bedtime story? He stroked her hair and wiped her remaining tears away with a finger.

“Ok.” The girl looked at her father.

“Oh, but next time? Let's talk out those feelings instead of turning into a little shark. Sound good?” He poked her stomach and watched as she let out a giggle.

He stood up, cupping Sofia to his chest. He helped her get ready and they crawled into his bed. As the little girl lay on her father's chest he read her a story. He held the book in his palm as Sofia flipped the pages.

Slowly Sofia drifted to sleep until she stopped turning the pages altogether. Dustin gently lifted his daughter and placed her in her bed pulling the covers up to her chin. He placed her rabbit next to her and leaned down to kiss the top of her head softly.

“Goodnight pumpkin. I love you.” 

[hauntedjpegcollection]

black hole

wc: 3490 au: college au ch: benny, maran

I told you so, sits very comfortably on Benny’s tongue, just as Maran’s heel sits on his knee. He has to chew the inside of his cheek to not say anything—no matter how justified it would be—fingers feeling fat as they peel open a large, square bandage.

He has to flick his hand to the side to get the plastic backing free. It flutters away and falls like a feather, discarded beside the other wrapper in his already very messy room. Maran fidgets, because Maran is always fidgeting in some way or another. His hands wind into Benny’s hair to keep himself steady, as he stands in front of the bed on one foot. Benny sits, focused on the easy task at hand, even though those fingers do get distracting.

He smooths the bandaid around Maran’s angry red ankle, fingers pressing at the edges to make sure it sticks. He knows from experience how sweat can make a bandage curl up and begin to peel away.

“There,” he concludes, hand wrapping around Maran’s bare calf. He glances up with raised brows.

“Oh, just say it, Ben. Know you want to.” Maran’s teeth indent his plush lower lip, creating a spot of white Benny feels compelled to suddenly kiss. He resists that urge, in favor of giving in to another potentially more sinister one.

“Well,” Benny grins as his hand pulls Maran’s leg closer. The boy stumbles forward, his hands roaming from hair to Benny’s shoulders. He glowers, but it’s an adorable and brattish expression, nothing serious. Pale, inked hands wander over Maran’s muscular leg. His body hair is coarse and short, making him delightfully fuzzy. It wouldn’t be the first time Benny’s caved and simply enjoyed rubbing his face against him.

“I did tell you to be careful.”

“Come off it,” Maran huffs, expression still petulantly cute. Benny kisses the top of a freckled knee, eyes big and triumphant. “Alright, yeah, I’ll stick to my converses today.”

—

After they’re dressed, Benny spares a glance at the cause of Maran’s bloody, blistered heels. Brand new white Doc Martens sit beside the front door to the apartment. There’s a bit of blood on the inside of one of them that Benny will sit down and clean out when they get home.

They’d been a present. One of those ‘just because’ presents. Just because Maran deserved gifts. Just because Benny was a sentimentalsap and he knew something about seeing Maran kicking around in big blocky boots would be so fucking adorable. Just because he loved Maran. Even if he didn’t say it out loud, he thought he could say it like this.

“You have to wear t-two pairs of socks,” Benny says as they cross the wintery parking lot of the shitty apartment complex. He wraps arms around Maran’s waist and swings him around and over a spot of black ice, his boyfriend squirming and barking a laugh as he does. “And keep the bandaids on wh-when you wear them next.” They cross a desolate street, no traffic this early in the morning. Benny can practically feel the headache forming, the caffeine dependency making him twitchy.

“And y-you need to walk with your weight on your heels more,” Benny continues, palm slipping into Maran’s. “Like a penguin.” Their hands tangle more together and Maran swings them back and forth. The wind is cutting and cold, but it’s not that bad out, considering it’s supposed to be winter. Snow lingers, dirty and slushy in the gutters and the trees are barren and dead. The world is sapped of color, grays and cool blues. Maran’s cheeks are bright red underneath the chill. Benny peppers them in kisses before they enter the dinner.

“Hey, Ben,” the girl at the counter calls out, weaving between cooks behind her. She holds up a full pot of coffee, dances toward people to refill mugs. “Maran!” She calls out happily, giving a wave that he enthusiastically returns. “Sit yourselves!”

So they do. They find a regular spot, a nice table that can only fit them, next to the window. It’s not necessarily scenic, especially with dreary beginning winter weather outside, but Benny feels comfortable next to windows. He doesn’t like feeling boxed in—and Maran likes it because the pastry display is directly on the other side of them, so he can begin planning what overly sugared monstrosity he’ll end up getting.

Their feet bump together under the table, Benny’s old, broken in combat boots and Maran’s scuffed up white converses.

“They’re kind of busy,” Maran comments, elbow to the table, chin to his palm. The red in his cheeks has faded mostly. It lingers on the bridge of his nose, on the tips of his ears. He fiddles with a sugar packet idly. Benny sits slumped with his hands in his jacket pockets, a sneeze building behind his nose.

“Whoa. Hi, Benny.”

The sneeze rips out of him, louder than he means it to, making his entire body rock forward. He’d barely been able to catch it in the crook of his elbow. More than a few turn to stare at him, but once Benny wrenches his face free from his arm, all he can look up at is Kel’s golden face.

They’re doing something new with their hair. Or, was it new? Benny can’t even remember the last time he’d seen them. Surely it’s been over a year—and even then, it’d been a passing accident at a party, where Kel had offered to get him a beer from the cooler they stood beside and Benny had told them he was trying to cut back. Kel had laughed, but Benny couldn’t remember if it was a condescending one, or if they’d just been awkward. Kel was awkward; they were a bit strange and eclectic and why the fuck were they working at Henry Street Diner, where Benny came to eat breakfast with Maran nearly three times a week?

Kel tucks a strand of their maybe new, long black hair behind an ear.

“Long time no see,” they say.

“Uh,” Benny replies.

“This is weird,” Maran comments, looking sweet in his own confused smile. He also looks apprehensive and Benny is reminded that Maran has psychic feelers attached to his entire fucking body; he can just absorb waves of emotion and sort them into categories and know what someone feels. Benny loved Maran for it, because it made it easier when he was struggling to even put a word to what he was feeling, but in that exact moment, it made him sort of nauseas.

“Uh,” Benny repeats, hands flattening on the diner table.

“So weird,” Kel laughs, pulling a notepad from the apron cinched at their trim waist. “Not every day your ex boyfriend sits in your section.”

Maran’s sneaker lands in Benny’s lap. It makes him grunt a bit, reach down to readjust so the flat heel is against his thigh instead of sitting on his aching knee. All the pink has drained out of Maran’s face now, and he stares at Kel.

“Could ask to switch with someone else,” Maran finally says and his smile is anything but friendly. Maybe to a stranger, it would be—Maran is the sort of pretty where every expression he makes seems somehow inviting. His cheeks are round and his jawline is cuttingly handsome and his eyes are big and full lashed. But he tilts his head, chin still cupped in his jaw and there is something resembling cold snow in his stare. Benny is only a little surprised.

They could both do better about jealousy. Benny could probably stop slapping drinks out of peoples hands as they try and give them to Maran as a come on—Maran could probably stop shoving himself literally in front of Benny when people came to approach him for flirty conversation (not that Benny minded that, because it usually planted Maran’s ass directly in his lap and he very much liked that ass). But Maran didn’t usually act so snippy so quickly.

“I’m not trading a two top for a family of six,” Kel replies, with a thumb over their shoulder to the rowdy group behind him. Sure enough a child is throwing pancakes onto the floor with reckless abandon and neither of the parents seem to care. Benny’s eyes switch from the child to Kel, and he realizes they have a name tag then. Benny slowly pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Because he’s definitely talked about his first college relationship with Maran. Not with any details other than ‘well, they broke my fucking heart’, desperately moving on to another conversation instead. That was enough for Maran, who was, if nothing else, a very fierce defender of Benny’s heart.

“How h-have you been?” Benny finally asks, in a sort of pathetic attempt to make temporary peace. The tension doesn’t seem to have affected Kel at all, who uses their teeth to uncap their pen.

“Well, I have a second job now, so could be better. Could be worse!” Kel has the same spiky smile that had made Benny approach them; it was a dual sided snide and friendly, cocky and a little self conscious. Their brows knit together. “You’ve graduated by now, right? Is it Dr. Benson yet?”

Bennny’s stomach sinks and he’s surprised at the grief that fills him. At the cold feeling that wraps around his heart and squeezes and the angry wasps that swarm around inside his head at the realization that Kel thinks more time has passed than it has. Or truly can’t remember what year he’d been in when they’d started dating. He swallows and rubs a hand down his throat, but before he can answer, Maran does for him.

“Didn’t you guys date, like a year and a half ago?” He laughs. “You started your program around the same time. What, time flies when you’re broken up with?” The comments more overtly mean than Maran usually is. Benny’s hand sinks below the table and wraps around the man’s ankle, holding it. Maran really only has eyes for Kel, who blinks down at him. They look incredibly unsure, hazel stare flickering between the two men.

“This is my boyfriend, Maran,” Benny says.

“I like your jacket.” Kel points with his pen at Maran, who looks down at it and then smiles wider.

“It’s Ben’s, actually.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Benny clears his throat and points at Marissa, the girl behind the counter. She holds up a fresh pot of coffee, smiling and oblivious to the incredibly surreal and weird scenario that they’ve landed in.

“Coffee?”

“Jesus, true.” Kel slaps their notebook against the table and starts to turn. “You were the worst coffee addict I’ve ever dated.”

Maran looks positively stormy about it, his expression not to dissimilar to earlier, when Benny had been smoothing bandaids over his blistered heels. The heel of his converses is getting the top of Benny’s jean clad thigh wet, but he doesn’t mind. Having a bit of Maran to hold onto is nice. Strings of his blond hair fall around his face as he leans forward. Benny folds his arms on the diner table top.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Maran replies, pouting.

“Want to split an entire pie?” Benny asks, pointing to the bakery display, where warm, fresh apple pie sits. Specialty of the diner, hand made sort of shit that Benny didn’t necessarily care for, but knew Maran went wild about. His boyfriend’s face splits into more of a smile then, especially since he damn well knows Benny is going to eat two bites and then leave the rest for Maran.

Which is exactly what ends up happening.

—

Maran is lacing his converses, furiously, for the second time that day. He’s muttering under his breath. He stumbles a bit and shoulders the wall for balance so he can get the second one on. A classic X-Files poster is crinkled by Maran’s hand on the wall. I WANT TO BELIEVE. It’s survived all the way from Benny’s pathetic high school days. Maran’s tongue sits between his teeth, pink and cute and bitten for concentration.

“Maran,” Benny says, sitting on his bed, back to the wall. Pillows prop him up against it. They’d both been there together, cuddling for lack of a better word. Only now Maran was yanking at the jacket he’d all but finally stolen, shoving arms through it. His cheeks are red again, and not from the cold this time. His teeth click together on another muttered sentence. “Maran.”

“What an asshole!” He explodes, a hand waving toward nothing in particular. He stomps his shoe on harder. “Who says that to someone?”

“I dunno. Black holes are cool.” It’s an attempt at a joke, but it only seems to make Maran angrier. His lips thin and his brows knot together and his eyes narrow. He keeps clenching and unclenching his hands—and Benny can understand the frustration. The anger, really. If the roles were reversed, he’s not entirely sure if Maran could stop him either.

“I’m going to go back to that diner and—”

“Kick their ass?”

“Throw them in the street!” Maran yells again, hands thrown in the air. He’s like this, in all conversations. Hands used to emphasize every point. But Benny doesn’t like when he’s so angry he starts tossing them around, when his chest is heaving for air because he’s so furious. Maran doesn’t get angry a lot, not like this anyway. It makes Benny feel guilty, but it also makes him feel…good. Justified, a little, even if that wasn’t the right reaction. And that only makes him feel guiltier.

“Mar, I w-was a bad boyfriend.”

“You probably weren’t. And—and even if you were—that’s no reason to compare someone to a black hole.”

“One of the c-coolest natural phenomenons in existence?”

“You’re a person!” Maran snaps, now gesturing toward him with those frantic hands. Then all at once, his shoulders sag visibly. His face crumples into something pained. Benny glances down at his lap, so he doesn’t have to see it.

Truthfully, Benny hadn’t been a good boyfriend to Kel. Sure, he’d not been bad. He’d not cheated or worse. He’d let Kel move in when they’d only known each other a few weeks. He’d been just as jealously possessive as he was with Maran, and Kel had liked it just as Maran secretly did. They’d gone on dates, most of them fun. They’d slept together in a variety of different positions so nothing ever got boring. Kel had never felt boring—but Benny had always felt static anyway.

He’d never actually let Kel close, is what he’d realized, in dating Maran. He’d never told Kel why he hated Halloween. He’d never admitted, like he had with Maran, that he was self conscious of his hair or his teeth. Kel had never stayed up until morning hours, helping him with index cards and rubbing Benny’s sore shoulders after hours of sitting at a desk. Kel had never asked why Benny didn’t ever mention family. Maybe they’d been sort of shitty to each other in different ways, dating in a way that was superficial and fun but never anything more.

Maybe Kel hadn’t been wrong that Benny had some black hole inside him that was impossible to fill. But…maybe Maran was right that they were a bit of an asshole to say it.

Benny holds up his hands, to indicate silently to Maran that he wanted to hold and be held. It was probably the only thing that would actually stop his boyfriend from storming out, going to the diner and making a scene. And Maran does stop, immediately and cross toward the bed. He crawls up and onto it, knees on either side of Benny’s thighs. His hands cup underneath a pale, stubbly jaw, thumbs brushing. He presses kiss after kiss to Benny’s forehead, so many that his cheeks start to go warm under the affection.

“You’ve got sneakers on my bed,” he mumbles.

“I thought you liked when I wore the sneakers in bed?” Maran says suggestively to Benny’s temple. It surprises him enough to bark out a bashful laugh. He loves being surprised. Maran’s lips move from his temple to his cheekbone, to his nose and then his lips. The kiss is planted firmly, more loving than it is sexual. Benny’s arms wind around Maran’s torso, jerk them closer.

“You are not a black hole,” Maran says.

“Mar—”

“I mean it, Ben.” His dark, pretty eyes are fierce and furious. He shakes Benny’s face, their foreheads touching. “You. Are. Not. A black hole.” They’re silent a moment, their breathing mingled and close. He tries to suppress the rising emotion in his chest; it threatens to prickle behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to remember how much that statement had originally hurt—how it had shaped the way he made friends for a long time after that. How he’d nearly fucked up knowing Xavier and Lark because of it. And he still, sometimes, kept both those men at a distance, because it was easier. Benny swallows, audibly and breathes out and tilts his head back until it touches the wall.

He opens his mouth and Maran leans in close again.

“Don’t argue with me,” he warns. The feeling in Benny’s chest dislodges. He huffs out a wet laugh and then another one, that’s real and warm. He slides his hands across Maran’s lower back.

“God, you’re hot,” Benny groans. “C-Can you say that again, but with your m-mouth on my mouth?”

“Ben,” Maran laughs. His name, a laugh. Benny loves that. Maran rocks a little in his lap.

“Oh yeah, just like that,” Benny continues, smiling nastily. “You wanna sixty-nine?”

“Ben!” The laughing dissolves as he’s wrenched to the side to lay on the bed, and Maran’s laughing is cut off by their mouths coming messily together.

—

Afterward, they’re both spent and laying lazily tangled together. It’s cold in the room, but everywhere their bodies touch is warm, warm, warm. Benny lays on top of Maran, head to the boys chest, ear to his sternum. The steady thump of his heart was hypnotizing; he’d listened to it go from racing to steady. Maran’s fingers card gently through his hair, making a shiver run up and down Benny’s spine occasionally. It almost felt better than the sex, being touched in this gentle, sweet way.

He could have fallen asleep. He was dozing as it was. Benny need only let his eyes fully close and he’d probably pass out, a sweaty mess on top of the other man. He knew from experience that even if it became uncomfortable, Maran would still just lay there. He’d let Benny sleep for however long he needed.

“What’s that one moon you like?” Maran asks. His voice is slightly rough, hoarse from the oral sex. It makes a tingling sensation mingle with the shivering. Benny is effectively spent, but the well of arousal for Maran seems so fucking endless sometimes. He sighs contently, moving to sit up just enough so they can look at each other.

The lights have been switched off, but Maran had put up string lights along the walls. Benny was fond of them now, especially because they made Maran glow softly.

“Titan,” he answers sleepily. Maran’s fingers brush a strand of floppy, pale hair from his face. Benny stifles a yawn straight into Maran’s chest and then raises his head again. “Saturn’s largest.”

Not technically a dwarf planet, but still bigger than any others classified as such. Benny liked Titan, because it was also the first moon he’d ever memorized, and he liked Saturn. The rings. He saw them from the sky once, when he was younger, and his obsession had grown. He doesn’t think Maran is asking for a lecture, though, so he doesn’t continue. He just tucks his face to Maran’s side, nose brusquely close to the mans underarm, where the smell of him is enough to make Benny insane.

“Okay,” Maran says. His fingers draw a path from the nape of Benny’s neck, over his tattooed shoulders. “That’s you, then, alright? To me.”

Benny’s jawline twitches, his teeth grinding together. He tries to swallow down the huffing sound he makes, but it doesn’t work. Instead it comes out a bit strangled and he rolls until he’s on his side, facing away. Maran doesn’t seem to mind—this is a familiar and well loved position. He wraps arms around Benny’s waist, tugging him until his back is to Maran’s chest. A leg slides between his. Benny’s breath catches a few times.

“It’s a cool moon,” Benny says lamely, his throat a little constricted.

“You’re a very cool boyfriend,” Maran replies and it doesn’t sound lame coming from him. It makes Benny snort. It makes him feel so ridiculously loved. And he is.

[bettercostume]

ch 8 opener

i crave the dopamine hit that will make me finish this thing so here's the opening scene to the next chap of the wedding au.

CH 8: sea legs

Neymar wakes to his second alarm. He showers, shaves, lotions up in a cloud of steam. Snags his favorite hoodie and his phone, slumps at the kitchen table in the watery morning sunlight. The cook makes him soft boiled eggs and puts them in the same blue porcelain bowl every morning. He has his protein shake in a clouded mixer cup that he always forgets in the console of the car. He eats one and a half eggs, brushes his teeth in the downstairs bathroom, one headphone in and axe blasting, jiggling his leg, half-singing around his toothbrush. Spit and rinse and there's the cup in one hand, kiss on the cheek for Olga in her apron, the welcome of cool morning air, he's on his way.

The drive is quick, a bare three minutes on the highway and the rest on the flat, narrow roads around the piled-up corners of the city and their open-faced, blocky buildings in amber and taupe. The trees are skinny with fat, leafy heads; he stops carefully and turns his music down to make a left under a copse of them by a rack of boats. 

Pulling into the training center is a matter of gates and loose salutes to the guards, then a familiar double-pat of his pockets to make sure he got his keys before he jogs to the entrance, sunnies down. No photographer today for the socials, so he heads through the entrance and down the hall, past one of the many people whose jobs he can’t figure out, athletic-casual clothing and clipboards- Hey Matilde, he says, Hey Pauline, Hey Marko–and then it’s past the chirp ring ring of the offices, the long double doors that lead to racks and racks of boots and cones, the miscellaneous side halls populated with distant figures holding papers, cups,  music still going strong in his ears and feet impatient on the low-impact flooring, down through another set of doors and into the burst of morning noise that is the changing room. A cry from Dani, a clap on the back, Mathieu somber next to Ter Stegen but that’s just his face, Xavi walking with purpose towards Andres and Ivan, Rafinha with a kiss on the cheek and an overlapping buzz of competing rap from their headphones, Geri shouting over his bank of lockers to Marc and the intimate, furrowed-brow clutch of Munir and Sergi, bent over their phones, past them over the cracked tile there’s Luis, kitted out and staring into nothing, mate in hand, Jordi with his lips pursed tying one shoe, and then in the center of the far bench, gesturing for his turn to drink, sweatshirt half off and one tie pinched in his mouth, easy and open and alive and immediate, is Leo. 

[odysseywritings]

Star Material (50s Actor AU)

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Haven and Reina prepared themselves for the newest installment of their jovial comedy series starring two amateur detectives stumbling into the solutions. Known as the foolhardy Stan Reynolds and the neurotic Olivia Navarro, they would travel to exotic locales replicated with creative set designs, with their current one set in space.

"Oh, Stan!" Reina's character Olivia fretted as she was held at laser point by aliens with third eyes painted on their foreheads. "Please tell me you're close to solving the puzzle!"

"Don't worry," Haven's character smirked in front of a set of square buttons on a computer. "These guys haven't met anyone with my brains before!"

"I don't know if that's a boast or a medical diagnosis! But look for any patterns, hurry!"

Stan rubbed his hands in confidence and started examining the squares. He pressed on one expecting a clear ding. Instead he got silence. The prop was a dud.

"Cut!" the director yelled. "Get the crew on that, see what's the issue."

Reina complimented the 'captors' and moved to Haven as he rested his elbows on the computer, or rather the blocky prop that looked like one to the camera. She put an arm around his shoulder and chuckled.

"Haven, when you came to Hollywood, did you expect your career to be like this?"

He smiled and looked back at her with blue eyed warmth.

"Being frank? I imagined another western."

The two laughed and reminisced over their journeys to the world of movies. Reina wrapped her fingers around Haven's hair and leaned her face against him.

"I remember thinking how small my world was before the war," Haven said. "I don't like thinking about it, but all that travel... It made me want to see and do everything. Making the most of life, I suppose."

"Hmm. My life was similar. A young girl with dreams of leaving her miserable world for the silver screen. Lush music for glamorous women and swooped up by dashing heroes. But I knew deep down the public wouldn't see me as beautiful enough for those roles. It was either comedy or bit roles."

Haven turned and saw Reina downcast and he planted his face against her back and held her.

"Reina, dear, if you were a leading lady, the competition would be unemployed."

Reina smiled widely with bright red lipstick making her look radiant to Haven. Even in her plain clothes, he was smitten with her appearance, including her sleek black hair amidst the sea of bouffant blonds. She positioned herself to face Haven and held his chin as he held her waist.

"And you don't need a writer for that silver tongue."

"Perhaps," Haven lowered his voice and looked deeply at her. "But for this moment, I might need the leading lady to give me the cue."

She leaned her head down and grinned, "Action~"

The two shared a deep kiss away from distracted eyes, and it felt like they were in their own scene, two lovers who only needed a grand orchestra to add lush strings. They were in a daze of vulnerable emotions as reality came back into their senses.

Instead, the only sound was the director yelling for the cast. Haven wiped the lipstick marks from his face and Reina prepared her gawky walk for the role. Energized from the break and the kiss, they were more than ready to continue the cheesy but profit making movie.

"And... Action!"

[nicholerhe]

This is a bit longer than drabble length, but I saw this post and was inspired to emerge from my usual lurking state to take up the challenge lol

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

"I shared one of my deepest, darkest secrets with you and you're laughing," Ben says, trying (mainly failing) to keep a straight face. Beside him, Devi has her face buried in her pillow, her laughter muffled. She tries to say something too, but he can't seem to make out her words.

"Hate to break it to ya, David,” Ben starts, laying a comforting hand on her back, “but I can't - in fact - hear you through your pillow."

“I said…” She lifts her head up, her arms still tucked under her pillow. “I’m in awe at just how vividly you remember that one dream.”

“You don’t remember any of your dreams?” Ben raises an eyebrow at her.

“Not really,” she replies, upon a moment’s consideration. “How do you remember your dreams so clearly?”

"Hm, let’s see… you - the love of my life, soulmate, and hell, my perfect match - took my virginity. Mine. Me, the inexperienced fool, totally and completely in love with you, and didn't realise it. While you were off getting sexual experience with a certain bad boy, I was off getting sexual experience with the palm of my hand - so yes, I had dreams. Vivid dreams. And yes, most of those dreams pushed the limits of reality, but I really think--"

Before Ben can finish that thought, Devi kisses him, hand on his chin to pull him closer. His stubble feels scratchy against her face.

He whispers once they pull apart: "talking too much...?" They're inches away from one another, with her hand still cradling his chin.

"Your perfect match?" Devi asks, a breathless echo of his own words. Her thumb traces gentle circles into his skin.

"Well, yeah," he replies, his eyes tracing each and every detail on her face. He cups the hand under his jaw, lowering it down onto the bed. "I have proof, too." In one swift motion, he retrieves his phone from his back pocket with his other hand (the hand not holding Devi's), unlocks it (with the password 0-4-2-7 that she knows like the back of her hand), and starts scrolling through his photo album.

He flips through several of the recent photos – mostly either school-related or selfies with the two of them – before stopping at one picture and angling his phone towards her. It's a picture of a Valentine's card, specifically one of the cards Eric handed out junior year of high school. It’s a little blurry but she can just make out the edge of Ben's lamp in the background. Printed in big, blocky lettering in the center of the card is her name. First and last. Well, that’s... something.

"I thought you got Aneesa..." Devi looks up from the phone, meeting the loving eyes of her boyfriend. He shakes his head, slow yet firm. "I did not get Aneesa,” he echoes after her.

She’s quiet for a moment, taking in everything from the way he’s looking at her with those beautiful blue eyes to the way her stomach turns to knots even now, even after all this time they’ve been dating. And in that moment, she makes a snap decision.

"Hey, that's my phone..." He reacts mere seconds after Devi snatches the device from his fingers.

“Is it?” She passes the phone between her fingers on one hand. "Oops…"

Devi leans over the edge of the bed to set it gently – making sure not throw it -- on the wooden floorboards. Once she's back sitting upright on the bed, she notices Ben with an amused grin on his face, cocking his head to the side.

"What?” Devi exclaims, hands raised defensively in front of her. “I didn't want to break it!"

"How thoughtful of you, David,” Ben quips. Then, his face turns more serious: “What’re you doing?”

“What did I do next,” Devi starts, hoisting her leg across his body, “in the dream?”

With how close she is, how her hands are splayed across his chest, and just how lovely she looks sitting before him, Ben finds it exceedingly difficult to answer her question – or even realise she asked a question at all.

“Actually, scratch that.” Devi places a delicate finger to his lips. Then, tracing a line down from his chin to his chest, she wraps both arms around his neck. Holding him close, she brings her lips close to his ear to whisper: "let me take charge." She fidgets with the fabric of his shirt collar. "We both know you like it better this way." Her breath tickles his inner ear, sending shivers down his spine. "And I like it better this way, too."

I need a drabble where Ben tells Devi about his dream and they act it out.

[bullet-prooflove]

Postcards: Horacio Carrillo x Reader

Tagging: @616wilsons​ @mysun-n-stars​  @xmoonknightlyx    @nessamc  @crazy4chickennuggets

With Love from Madrid.

The first postcard wasn’t signed but you recognised the writing, his looped scrawl reaching out over eight thousand miles until it reached you in Columbia. The picture was vivid, an art deco version of a landmark that you had no reference for. Still, it was beautiful in its own way. Primary colours that reminded you of the Columbian flag. Horacio’s way of maintaining some link to his homeland. You stuck it to the fridge with one of the circular magnets you used to leave notes to yourself.

The second one came at the end of a bad day, one with bloodshed, violence, and death. You’d gotten slashed across the face during a raid, Connie had managed to patch you up, but it would scar, she had informed you. From cheekbone to jawline, you would carry the indentation of La Quica’s knife for the rest of your days. It was a small price to pay compared to the alterative. You wondered what Horacio would think of it as you sorted through your mail and discovered the postcard. Spanish words written in red blocky letters, all centring around the heart in the middle.

My life is here, but my heart is yours.

It had been six months since you had laid eyes on him, but those feelings hadn’t resided. You still thought of the nights you spent wrapped up in his sheets, his warm hands caressing your skin as made love to you by the night of the moon. Your fingers itched to pick up the phone, you longed to hear his voice, the smooth whisper of Spanish in your ear.

You read the third on the balcony whilst smoking a cigarette. A vintage image of Madrid in sepia, the colour leeching out of it. It was different from the others, darker, you could sense his pain over the slant of his handwriting. You wondered what had happened that day that had led him to this image.

It took me an hour to get to know you and just a day to fall in love, but it will take me a lifetime to forget you.

He missed you, the same way that you missed him. It had been a little under a year since his reassignment and the way you felt hadn’t changed. You still thought about him every morning. The way he smiled when he sipped from his coffee cup savouring the taste. The brush of his hand when he passed you a cigarette. The way he kissed you, like a man starving for oxygen, like every time would be the last.

“Cute postcards.” Pena said, one day when he stopped over at the apartment to pick you up. His fingers trailed over the laminated paper. “You got a friend out there? A boyfriend?”

“I don’t ask about your private life Javier.” You reminded him, snatching your gun up from the kitchen table and jamming it into the holster.

“Hey, I was just showing an interest.” He said holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You gonna shoot me for it?”

You picked up your badge and clipped it to your belt, alongside your weapon.

“I know exactly where your interest lies.” You reminded him, looking pointedly at the crouch of his jeans.

Javier rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips.

“You act like I’m some sort of dog.”

“If it barks like one.” You shot back, shrugging into your jacket.

“You hear the news about Carrillo?” he asked you, grasping the apartment door and holding it open for you to step through. You heart stopped in your chest, the air rushing out of your lungs as he pulled the apartment door closed behind you. “He’s going to be back in the country this afternoon, heading up Search Bloc. Looks like the gangs getting back together again.”

The final postcard was on your desk when you arrived at Head Quarters. It was of brilliant blue skies and plush hills, the trees in the background painted with hues of evergreen. It was beautiful, the two of you had been there once upon a time, a rare quiet in the storm. A private place where Horacio went to think. The moment your eyes had locked you’d known how he felt, the two of you had spent the afternoon making love on a picnic blanket amongst the grass.

8pm, he had written on the back.

You had the time and of course you knew the place.

Love Horacio Carrillo? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[glassheartjukebox]

love letters

feat. ushijima

word count: 1.3k

“listen listen to my heart

that i only wanted you to know” - love letter

a/n: no content warnings, just pure fluff ! also a reminder that reblogs really help ! thank you guys sm for reading :D

the letters started about three months ago. you hesitate to call them “love” letters. “love” letters would indicate some sort of romantic prose, frilly stationary, and sweet declarations of love. the letters you receive are decidedly more... blunt.

the notes ranged from dry compliments such as “the school uniform suits you.” to borderline offensive remarks such as “did you do something different with your face? you look less tired today.” nonetheless, they had become part of your everyday routine. a blue sticky note with messy, slightly smudged ink and a blunt message.

after a month of notes, you decided to show them to your friends. as strange as the letters were, you never discarded them. they held a special place in your heart, often making you smile from the sheer absurdity. your friends immediately hounded you for not telling them about your “secret admirer” earlier. “that’s it, we need to catch him in the act,” your best friend declared, slamming her milk carton down on the lunch table. you rolled your eyes. “i don’t see the point,” you sighed, “he’ll tell me who he is when he’s ready.” this triggered a barrage of complaints about how boring that plan was.

to be fair, you had two reasons for allowing your admirer to stay anonymous. first and foremost, the chance of him being a creep was high. you had no desire to get your hopes up, thinking that he may be your dream man. secondly, you enjoyed receiving the little notes everyday. they’d become a part of your routine, something to look forward to. so, the notes continued to come uninterrupted for three more months.

the end of the semester was approaching, and break was right on the horizon. it dawned on you that this meant the end of your daily notes, which made you a little bit sad. the one you received this morning read, “i have very important business to attend to. it might be a little bit before you hear from me again. please wait for me.” that was the most he had ever written on a single post-it note. you rolled your eyes, secretly yearning for a way to wish him well on his endeavors.

after receiving the last note, you spent two days mourning the loss. there was nothing to break up the monotony now. you found yourself thumbing through the old notes he had gifted you. the most conventionally complimentary one by far had been “i like the shape of your lips, they suit your face very well”. it was the bare minimum, but it still had you blushing.

when friday, the third day without notes, arrived you were provided with a reprieve from your routine by the school. everyone was escorted out of class to attend a pep rally for volleyball interhigh qualifiers tournament. after all, volleyball was a big deal at shiratorizawa. both the men’s and women’s team stood tall on the school auditorium stage. the captain of the women’s team gave her speech first, but you found yourself zoning out and examining the men around you. your secret admirer was likely one of the fidgeting boys near you, looking hungrily at the women’s team as if they were pieces of meat. gross.

a deep voice broke you out of your reverie. the boy’s team captain had begun his speech. ushijima “ushiwaka” wakatoshi. the entire school knew who he was. the volleyball ace that repeatedly led the team to nationals. he had even been ranked in the top three aces in japan. ushijima stood well over six foot, with broad shoulders and a permanently stoic face. truth be told, he intimidated everyone. you’d had a few interactions with him, most of which happened at the beginning of the semester. a teacher asked you to tutor him for one english test. you met for three tutoring sessions, and during each he was quiet, polite, and apologetic for taking up your time. you found him much less imposing after seeing him hunched down in a desk too small for him, focusing on past tense verb translation.

after the rally had concluded, you were forced to return to class. shiratorizawa would begin their games at the interhigh tournament roughly two hours after school let out. you decided that maybe you would attend one or two of their matches if you could convince your friends to tag along. you honestly needed to get your mind off of the notes and your secret admirer.

you and a few of your friends were walking out of the school gates, preparing to visit some shops to bide the time before the game began when it hit you. you left your history textbook sitting in your desk. your history textbook that was full of notes crucial to the test you had on monday. you froze in your tracks and your friends turned, a little confused. “i have to go back, forgot my textbook,” you squeaked before taking off back towards the school building. you were screwed if the teacher had already left for the day and locked up the classroom.

grabbing the door handle, you were relieved to find it unlocked. what you were not relieved to find was a large figure bent over your desk and rummaging through your things.

“what are you doing?” you asked quietly, still in shock. consequently, the large figured managed the bump your desk in surprise, knocking it over and spilling the contents everywhere. you rushed to help clean it up on impulse. you were only able to recognize the figure in the dark classroom once you were up close. “ushijima?” you said incredulously. this entire situation was giving you a headache. he just nodded at you. you continue to haphazardly shove the contents of your desk back in when your hand landed on a small, blue sticky note. ushijima’s hand flew out to catch it but it was too late.

“my dearest y/n, the apple of my eye, the holder of my heart, fire of my loins, the most wonderful person i have ever laid my eyes on. you looked positively beautiful today, scrumptious even. how could anyone resist your charms? i find myself falling madly, deeply in love with you everyday. sincerely, with much love, your secret admirer.” the blocky handwriting juxtaposed the flowery diction of the note. furthermore, someone had drawn little red hearts around the perimeter of the letter. this was… very different than usual.

ushijima was also very different than usual. he was quickly losing his usual composure. his face was bright red and sweat gleaned on his brow. you looked up at him awestruck and confused.

“i’m sorry for the inconvenience,” his voice cracked, “but tendou had me write this love letter after he found out i had been sending a girl notes. he drew the hearts as well. i did not realize he was joking until after i had slipped it in your desk. i came back to retrieve it before you could see it. i’m sorry again.”

you were at a loss for words. “it was you sending the notes the whole time?” you stated the obvious. ushijima simply nodded.

“but why?” you asked, still struggling to process all of this. “i found you very attractive when you tutored me. i wanted to express my affection without drawing extra attention to you or pressuring you to return my feelings. sorry again.” he stood, preparing the walk out the room. your body moved on its own as you stood as well, grabbing his wrist.

“i didn’t know it was you,” you whispered, “but i’m really glad it was.” you leaned up to kiss his cheek, causing him to flush an even deeper shade of red.

ushijima stared back at you, a rare smile adorning his features. “now go, you’re going to be late for your own tournament,” you teased, still quite bashful over the entire situation.

“before i do,” he paused and dug through his bag, “would you want to come to the match wearing this tonight?” he held out his spare volleyball jacket, adorned with his name and number.

needless to say, you accepted. in that moment, you knew you’d be attending volleyball games than you expected.

©glassheartjukebox all written content belongs to this user. do not repost, modify, or copy content

[istherewifiinhell]

bweep

tf fans if they could be fun about minibots. well....... i AM a tf fan aint i.... revived funny sketch idea i had on my phone from months ago..... CAN I BE DONE NOW. CAN THIS BE DONE.

ID: tf art of generized guys. a big megs looking one, blue, and a little mini bot, red, line art with blocks of colour for readability. Blue has shoulder spikes, a wide chest that tucks in his waist, blocky hip skirts, and chunky boots. Red is mid chest height on Blue, very slight, smaller chunky boots, trim waist, round shoulders and a helm with horns, a middle crest, and cap like brim.

The big guy startles, smiling and bemused, elbows out and hands hovering as Red gets up on tip toe, getting a foot hold on Blue's boot guard, and hand holds on Blue's hip skirt and chest (coping a feel). Red says "Don't move! I got it!"

Red, now climbing blue, lower foot in the boot guard, and hoisting the other to Blue's hip skirts. One hand grippin the top of Blue's chest, other now moving to a side grip. Blue stand's hand on hip, the other still hovering. Their heads are now very close, Blue says "Hello" and Red says "Hi".

Red is now on tip toes on Blue's hip skirt, other knee on Blue's chest block, weight resting one hand and pulling himself up by Blue's shoulder spike. He's leaning forward over Blue's head. Blue says "HMPH!" in offense at the crowding. Blue's brought his arms up, a hand curled away from touching Red, other palm up as if in a shrug.

Red now sits happy on top of Blue's chest block, hips at an angle, legs dangling. Blue has an arm around them, gently holding one foot, and the other on his knee. Red has an arm around the back of Blue's helm, the other on his chin, forcing him to look up at him. Red looks down smiling cheekily, Blue just looks besotted. END

file name: climb that thang.

these arent anyone. this isnt ocs or ship art persay...... the fact i drew a g1 ass megs looking is. cause i hauve coivd........ and the og sketch was me laughing about tee fee pee megs proportions. girl. ur body. is absurd. etc. if anyone it should probably be like g1 cliffrage tho.... thats the energy i want in this world. annoying little minibots who just get up on their buddies. (normal ways)(horny ways). Posing obvious inspired by me irl getting on counters to reach cabinates.

making this made me insane. looking at it makes me insane. AUGH. it took so long everything is so hard. guess i have to ki- KISS HIM ABOUT IT. (lays face down on the floor)

rebuttals against my own internal well actually guy: Red and blue. listen. they are pink and purple (or like... they should be. colours are are my enemy) peach and lilac. if u will. but blue and red is shorter innit. ALSO. they have tf gender. i dont care. he/him like john hasbro did to all them original imported toys. id put more effort into this (remember how self praise is supposed to work) WELL I ALREADY. put a lot in. BUT I MEAN. id do more. If i wasnt going insane and just wanted to post them. u get me. get them OUT there get ON my blog purge these demons that make be go arrgeeee ^_^ djhgbdjhfg

.

[val-made-a-mistake]

❝do you have nerve?❞

(not my gif)

summary: originally put on the game nerve by the decathlon team at midtown, peter had no idea a simple mobile game could turn so dangerous. but, then again, there’s you— the one reason he’s not going to the police.

warnings: the game nerve, which means extremely risky situations, no braincells being present whatsoever, creepiness, the deep web, etc etc etc…

word count: 900

a/n: i watched the teen thriller netflix movie “nerve” yesterday (i’m super late, i know) and all i could think about was peter parker somehow getting mixed up in it and all the craziness that would ensue bc of him being superpowered and all. it’s a dark thought, really, i don’t want him to get mixed up in that, he’s been through enough, but have a fic. it might turn into a miniseries if inspiration pulls through.

❝Welcome to Nerve, a game like truth or dare, minus the truth. Watchers pay to watch. Players play to win. Cash or glory, are you a watcher or a player? Are you a watcher or a player?❞

//////

Certain city lights have blurred from up here: to your eyes, the intersecting streets below are just a mass of red and blue, and you can barely see the cars calmly travelling to their respective destinations throughout New York. Your heart is hammering hard in your chest, making it hard to breathe, but you ignore it.

You pivot on your heel. “How much time left?”

Peter only has eyes for his phone and the blocky yellow letters written on the length of the screen. “Two minutes.”

“Let’s get a move on, then.”

You turn your wrist, exposing the webshooter mechanism, and Peter does the same. Trying to hide your hesitation, you rope an arm around his shoulder, and he squeezes your waist reassuringly. “Take this.”

He passes the phone so you could record— the chat box is as active as ever, cheering user SpiderMan2001 on, and your Watcher count is at 4.5k and climbing.

Suddenly, the yellow letters change.

HURRY UP.

“Chill out,” Peter says to the screen, letting out a short-lived, breathless laugh, “Okay - on the count of three?”

“On the count of three. One!”

“Two!”

“Three!”

You fall forward, diving off the roof together, and two thick streams of web fluid erupt from each of your wrists, saving you from certain death.

“Holy shit!” you scream, tightening your grip on Peter’s shoulder and the phone clamped in your hand. One minute left on the clock, one minute left to win two thousand dollars.

“Don’t stop swinging, 60th Street is this way!”

Sure enough, the crane’s coming into view: you let out a shapeless gasp and send a web towards it, jolting you forward.

“How much time left?” Peter bellows over the wind while struggling to keep you both firmly attached to the crane; you spit hair out of your mouth and check the phone. “Thirty seconds!”

“Okay, hang tight!”

Three seconds away from cardiac arrest with how precariously you’re swaying, you press your face into his shoulder and nod.

Suddenly, a particularly sticky web comes out of the shooter, firmly attaching you to the crane, and Peter lets out a shriek of relief. “Did we win?”

DARE COMPLETE.

“Hell yeah!” you holler, watching the chat box blow up, and Peter grins. “Aunt May’s gonna kill me if she finds out we’ve been up here.”

“Well, as long as she doesn’t ask why she suddenly has twenty five hundred more dollars in her bank account, we should be all good,” you say fairly. You don’t say it as you’re still recording, but Peter gets the unspoken message anyway: she really needs it.

“Hold on, I’m not taking all of that,” he says. “We’re cutting it in half.”

You do your best to do a one-armed shrug while hanging in midair. “Hey, it looks like we’re in fourth place!”

“Sweet.”

DING!

DARE FOR SPIDERMAN2001.

“Was that a new dare notification?” Peter exclaims in disbelief, trying to shift around to see the phone clamped in your hand.

You blink at the flashing yellow letters. “Yeah.”

“For how much?”

“Fifteen thousand.”

“Holy cow, accept it!”

You bite your lip. “I’m supposed to kiss you.”

Peter goes quiet, giving you time to reassess your situation. You’re currently hanging from a crane in the middle of a crowded New York City street, and high enough that if the hastily-made web fluid were to suddenly crack off, you’d be sent to your immediate, plummeting death. The only thing keeping you from said death is the long strip of web fluid wrapped around you and Peter, squashing your pelvises together, and Peter’s superpowered fist clutching the only sturdy web keeping you to the crane.

And you happen to be recording everything.

“Are you gonna accept it?” Peter croaks.

“Do you want me to?” you ask, side-eyeing the Watcher count. Four thousand jumps to nine thousand.

“I mean, it’ll put us in first place,” he mumbles. “Hold on - I need to-“

CREAK!

You swallow your shriek as he dangerously maneuvers a little, causing the crane to shiver. His face is directly in front of yours now, amidst all the noise and colour.

HURRY UP.

“I’m accepting,” you whisper in the strongest voice you can muster, hoping the phone won’t tumble out of your hands with how slick with sweat your palms are, and as the Watcher count nears thirteen thousand, you close your eyes.

A beat.

Peter’s hand feels bigger than the rest of him, and resting on your cheek, it doesn’t feel clammy. You make sure to keep the phone up.

And…

His mouth is hot when it closes over yours, and had your heart not already been beating out of control from how high up you are right now, you could tell it would’ve started as his hand moves lower to grip the nape of your neck.

He was just supposed to be some Midtown nerd, right? Where did he learn this?

You can feel your phone vibrating, meaning DARE COMPLETE, but something in you urges you to keep going, somehow. You push back on his lips as best you can without rattling the crane, emotion pulsing through you much more intensely than you ever could’ve expected.

Peter pulls away, sending you crashing out of the illusion, and your toes curl in your shoes. The Watcher count is nearly at seventeen thousand now.

“How - how are we supposed to get down?”

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

Anon requested: For the If I Go universe, i thought a really cute fall drabble would be Harley making everyone go trick or treating (or on a bar crawl or to a party) so she buys everyone costumes. Rick and Dubois walk into the room just looking absolutely ~miserable~ with their costumes, but they wear them anyways to make the girls happy. Just funny cute Halloween fluff!

If I Go Universe - Do The Monster Mash (Rick Flag x OC)

Summary: Dee loves Halloween, so when Cleo invites them all to her work's Halloween Party she convinces Rick to come along.

Pairing: Rick Flag x OC / Squad Family & OC (Delphia Holman)

Word Count: 1677

Warnings: language, suggestive language, alcohol mention

Timeline: October 2021 (so before wedding and baby)

if i go masterlist

Rick sat on the bed, store-bought costume in his lap and unopened. He hadn’t celebrated Halloween in a really long time. Every year for the past six or so years he had been out of the country for the holiday. On some suicide mission or another that Waller needed him to go on. No matter how much it broke her assistant’s heart. Because really what would even be the point of going to a Halloween party if Rick couldn’t go with her.

This year was different, though. He was out — really out. And he had nothing to do on Halloween night. So when Cleo came home from Killians Bar with an invitation for all of them to join her at the staff Halloween Bash, and Delphia had looked up at him with such excitement on her face, he agreed to go.

But did his costume have to be this?

“So, whaddaya think?” Delphia asked and he could already hear the smirk in her voice.

He looked up, towards their walk-in closet she had insisted on disappearing into to change into her costume, and it took everything in him for his mouth not to drop open. Jesus. Yellow jumpsuit that clung to every curve and shape, sleeves rolled to the elbows and zipper undone just enough to make him want to rip it down the rest of the way. All topped off with the white boots and belt.

Was a news anchor from a kid’s cartoon supposed to be this hot? Was the character always this hot? Or maybe that was just Delphia.

“I see April O’Neil’s left you speechless, Colonel.” Delphia strolled over to him with a smirk, pulling from behind her back a blocky 90’s microphone. “Are you sure you don’t have a comment?”

Rick sputtered there for a second. Mouth opening and closing as she held the microphone up to him with a smirk. Eyes definitely not trained on her face and most certainly focused on the amount of cleavage she was showing. Especially when she was bent forward towards him like that. Jesus Christ.

Then he finally said, “No comment.”

Delphia went into a fit of giggles, head thrown back with wrists crossed limply at her chest. “Oh, tonight is gonna be so fun! Why isn’t your costume on yet?”

She was looking down at him with all seriousness and no delighted giggles, microphone laden hand on her hip and eyebrows raised. Rick glanced down at the green and blue package and sighed.

“Do I have to wear it?” he asked.

“Yes! It’s a group costume! Without you the ensemble just will not be complete.” Out of one of the many cargo pockets on her costume, Delphia pulled out her phone. “Look, I’m gonna go downstairs — the party starts in thirty minutes. Just, please put it on? For me?”

Rick got to his feet with a sigh. How was he supposed to deny her? With those big, pleading blue eyes and pushed out bottom lip that he wanted to kiss. And so he did. Long and sweet and really wanting something more from her in that outfit but she denied him that with a gentle shove to his chest and a laugh.

“For you — anything.”

“See you downstairs, Leonardo.”

He groaned as she cackled out the door. But despite his inhibitions and encroaching feelings of embarrassment, he put on the costume. It was all stretchy spandex and was probably the closest he was ever going to come to having a suit like his old Suicide Squad compatriots. But this was nowhere as cool as theirs. Clearly. Because they weren’t dressing up as a god damn Ninja Turtle.

In the full-length mirror, he tied the mask over his eyes and heaved one of the heaviest sighs of his life. He just had to keep reminding himself that this was for Delphia. She was going to lose her shit when she actually saw him in this. But it definitely did not stop him from wanting to stomp down the stairs like a child in some form of defiance to this whole thing. He yanked open the door with a huff, determined to let everyone know that he was going but was going to hate it the entire time.

But then he saw DuBois standing right down the hall from him wearing the exact same costume, only with a bright red mask across his face.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Rick said with a dramatic roll of his eyes, “You too?”

DuBois moved towards the stairs. “Harley can be very….Persuasive. Especially when she’s swingin’ a bat ‘round.”

“Fair point.” They began their descent together. “Wanna complain at this thing the entire time with me?”

“Oh, abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

The squeal of pure and utter delight that echoed through the foyer when the two of them came down the stairs, however, made Rick rethink his whining strategy. Everyone else was already standing around ready to go. And it really was a group costume. Harley was clearly Casey Jones, with the crop top, hockey mask perched on top of her pigtails, and hockey stick slung across her shoulders. Cleo was Shredder, big purple cape and shining face mask and all. Sebastian was perched on her shoulder wearing the tiniest of red Gis. And then Abner and Nanaue stood off to the side. Abner with the same costume as Rick and DuBois but in purple, and at the very least Nanaue had put on a pair of green shorts and thrown a scrap of orange cloth over his eyes.

“You all look amazin’!” Harley said, then she gestured around to include herself, “We all look amazin’! I fuckin’ love Halloween! Now, let’s go!”

Killians was packed by the time they got there. Everyone dressed in a costume, or at least a fair attempt at one. Well, except Frank behind the bar. He only had a t-shirt on that read “costume” in big block letters.

There were jack-o-lanterns on every surface. Fake spider webs across every corner and table. Orange, green, and purple lights strung up along the walls. There was spooky dance music playing over the speakers, a huge bowl of punch off to the side in a caldron that overflowed with fog, eyeball shaped jelly candies, cookies shaped like witch’s fingers, caramel apples, and orange cheese dusted popcorn. And of course, the piece de resistance: all the Halloween themed drinks the bar came up with. Witch’s Brew, Vampire’s Kiss, Corpse Reviver, Zombie Brains.

After trying a few of the new drinks, Delphia grabbed Rick’s hand and dragged him away from the bar.

“Come on, half shell, dance with me!”

He really, really couldn’t say no to her, could he? He let her pull him along like he weight nothing, even though it would be so easy to plant his feet and stop their progress. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see DuBois sipping a bear and shaking his head at them. But when they made it to the dance floor and she looped her arms lazily around his neck, he really didn’t care anymore.

“Are you having a good time?” she asked as they moved to the beat, Rick’s hands planted on her hips.

“Yeah, I am,” he chuckled, pressing his forehead to hers with a smile, “This costume’s riding up my ass, though.’

“So’s mine,” Delphia laughed.

Rick spun her around, back pressed against his chest heavily as his hands moved up and down her waist with an expert skill. One of her hands reached back and wrapped around his neck, massaging gently.

“Look fuckin’ sexy, Dee,” he grumbled into her ear, just loud enough to hear over the music.

From this angle, he had the perfect view of her chest, barely contained by the zipper on that yellow jumpsuit. Could watch her breathe in time to the music as her hips swayed. It was growing increasingly difficult to keep himself from sliding a hand up and grabbing at them greedily.

“I would say it back.” She tilted her head to press a kiss to his neck. “But you’re dressed as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.”

He chuckled, low and deep, into her jaw. His tongue poked out to dance along her skin cheekily, but then her head snapped to the side. She went stiff in his arms. His hands stilled on her hips, brow furrowing as he stared at the back of her head.

“What is it?” he asked, looking over to where her head had turned.

It didn’t take Rick long to spot what she had noticed in the spooky gloom of the bar. Nanaue was standing by the snack table pouring the entire bowl of eyeball jellies into his mouth. And they could see, even from across the room, as the sugar took over his system. As his huge eyes dilated and his body began to bounce around.

“Oh, no,” Delphia whispered.

Nanaue’s big, guffawing laugh could be heard over the music just before he smashed his way through the front door. Creating a decently sized, giant shark shaped hole.

The only think Rick and Delphia could do was look at each other for a moment. Mouths open and eyes wide. Then they gathered up the rest of the team, paid Frank for the door, and started out into the street after him.

He was pretty easy to find. Stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the tiny trick or treaters and bewildered parents that watched him run past with fear in their eyes.

“Nanaue!” Rick yelled out as the group ran.

“Family!” the shark shouted over his shoulder back.

Delphia’s laugh rang through the night air. And what was once frustration on Rick’s part was turned into joy. She had a way of doing that to him, making him see the fun in things. This wasn’t just chasing after a huge liability and a dangerous criminal. This was Halloween night, he was dressed as a god damn Ninja Turtle, and he was running through the streets with his family.

Taglist (if you would like to be tagged in future installments, just let me know!): @bbygrgu @a-reader-and-a-writer @slayerx147 @xoxabs88xox @kasey-puff @witchygagirl @the-pink-petite-princess @blooo0ooop @woodlandmouth @csigeoblue @rexorangecouny @h-hxgirl @thisisthewayrose @blondiekook @darkestbeforethedawn16 @runic-belova @weallhaveadestiny @oopsiedoopsie23 @nerdgrrlramblings @ocfairygodmother @reysorigins

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

“You make me call your name

Now I gotta have one more taste

One shot of your whiskey kisses all on my lips

I keep coming right back.”

- Whiskey Kisses, Mic Lowry

A/N: hello :D this one shot was intended to just be a blurb of bartender!harry teaching the mc how do body shots (thank you to the lovely anons that suggested the prompt) but then it spiraled and now here we are with a full-on piece! I hadn’t written true, start-to-finish smut in a while and figured it was time for some filth 😌 hope you enjoy!

masterlist : ask : bartender!harry tag

word count: 10.5k

content: friends with benefits, flirty pest!harry, teasing, fingering, and oral baybeeee

preview: 

“So,” Harry clears his throat with a light cough, his other hand coming out from behind the hidden scenes with a large lime cradled at its center, “there’s two ways of doing body shots.”

He places down the lime, expertly halving it down the center and then quartering it in another swift cut, leaving the fruit in four even wedges. He wipes the knife off with a dish rag, twisting around to chuck it in the dirty dish tub behind him. He picks up one of the slices between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up proudly for emphasis. “There’s the disgusting college frat party version of body shots, and then there’s the proper adult version.”

Harry’s nose crinkles in distaste as an afterthought, his next sentence clarifying. “We’re doing the latter because personally, I think it’s gross to drink anything out of someone’s belly button.”

A small, feathery laugh escapes Y/N, her teeth then digging into her bottom lip to keep her jitters in check. “Whatever you say, you’re the professional.”

Harry gifts her a satisfied smirk at the minute stroke at his ego. “Good girl— that’s what I like to hear.”

The phrase was said with nonchalant humourous intentions, but it makes the pit of her stomach tighten nonetheless. She can’t keep it at bay, not when she’s heard those same two words come from him under very different contexts— not when he’s panted them into her mouth in such a desperate, needy way, eager tongue lulling across the inside of her top lip as his long fingers had marked bruises along her jaw, hips roughly meeting her sore inner thighs. 

It’s ingrained in her head and she can never disconnect it and she has a feeling Harry recognizes that, which gives him all the more reason to bring up such matters as often as possible just to fuck with her. 

And he truly is well aware of the effect it has. He damn well knows the way it disorients her when he offhandedly uses pet names and remarks that have made appearances during their sexual encounters; he knows the way it revs her and it amuses him more than anything to see her fidget and fumble to keep composure. He adores having that influence over her and he thrives on wielding it to his advantage. 

Y/N swallows down her nerves, feeling them lodge in her throat and refuse to go down. The way he slowly bats his lashes at her suggestively doesn’t help at all.

Harry reaches across the bar, hovering the lime wedge over her face. He taps it gently against the center of her lips, the acidic juice rubbing off and making her skin tingle. “Open up for me, yeah?”

Y/N’s lips part on command and Harry can’t stop the pompous hum that runs along the back of his throat. “Always so willing, aren’t you?”

or Harry teaches Y/N how to do body shots but lime juice isn’t the only thing that ends up dripping down his chin.

///

“I can’t believe you’ve never done body shots before.” 

“It’s just never come up!”

Harry snorts in mild, disbelieving amusement, the still atmosphere of the room staining with the sound of his multiple rings clacking softly against tempered glass. 

He takes a firm grip around the neck of a Casamigos tequila bottle, dismounting it from its signature spot on the center shelf of the liquor wall, turning back around to face Y/N. He sets the alcohol container down on the waxed wooden surface of his work station, absentmindedly rummaging through one of the clean equipment tubs stored beneath it. 

She can’t help the way her lips twitch fondly at the obvious cinch between his thick brows, his mouth slightly down-turned in a pensive pout as he fishes for something out of sight. 

Harry comes up fruitful, a black metal pour spout glitzing dully under the muted lights of the closed bar. He unscrews the cap from the tequila jug, carefully fitting the accessory into the neck and turning it tight for good measure. He taps his fingers triumphantly against the crystal clear glass, rings once again filling the empty space with chimes. 

Harry’s gaze locks with Y/N’s, brows shrugging in a playfully expectant manner, one corner of his soft lips flicking upwards with sly mischief.  “Get up on the counter.”

She rests her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow propped casually on the tabletop to support the weight. She snorts dismissively, shaking her head a tad. “I don’t think so.”

He points at Y/N scoldingly with the tip of the spout, both brows jerking upwards in a deadpan expression. “You’re absolutely fucked in the head if you thought you were gonna confess to a bartender that you’ve never done body shots and leave without doing some. Now hop off it and get up on the counter.”

Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, slumping her shoulders with begrudged annoyance. “No.”

Harry stares at her for a second, reading her body language carefully— the pads of her fingers tapping jestingly against her cheekbone, the tiny crooked grin curling her delicate lips, the way her eyes are half-lidded in amusement, and the taunting rebellious sheen glinting across the glossy surface of her irises. She’s not refusing due to comfortability reasons; she’s refusing in order to purposefully get on his nerves.

He’s not surprised— pushing his buttons is one of her favorite hobbies, usually because the flirtatious teasing and joking defiance spurs into another one of her favorite pastimes: Harry thrusting between her legs. 

It’s obvious now that she’s being a pest to get a rise out of him and he’s more than willing to give it to her. Too willing, if he knows what’s good for him, but he can’t ever seem to resist her— can’t resist how much he loves the way she tugs at his strings so effortlessly. 

Harry releases his grasp around the long neck of the liquor bottle, setting his palms flat against the smooth red oak of the pub table. He teeters forward on his hands, ducking down until his line of vision is level with Y/N’s, so close to her face their noses unintentionally brush. The distance separating them is nearly nonexistent, so slim that she’s enveloped in a sphere of his intoxicatingly delicious scent as it wafts up from his flexing neck, tingling her nostrils with notes of ocean salt, cedar wood, and vague whiffs of the fresh linen candle that is continuously alight in his flat. 

He shackles her into place with unwavering eye contact, the darkened emerald hue around his pupils gleaming challengingly as his fluffy, shiny curls frame his strong jaw so beautifully it’s likely considered sinful. The white tee he’s sporting strains against his broad chest, the blocky, baby blue Enjoy health! Eat Your Honey! text stretching across his pectoral muscles, the doodle of a smiling bumble bee tempting her with the message’s double-meaning. She hates that she can see his nipples printing through the sheer cotton fabric. 

The warm breath of Harry’s words scorches her barely trembling lips, his lashes dusting the tops of his high cheekbones with a sultry, domineering air. His accented voice is thick and dark as the syrup he mixes into his cocktails, low in sound but heavy in impact. 

“Get on your fucking back or I’ll stretch you out over the counter myself.”

Y/N decides it's in her best interest to oblige.

She currently lays flat across the sleek counter, her hands folded across her tummy, digits tapping nervously at her abdomen. 

Harry is off to the side, retrieving a few other ingredients that seem to be necessary for what they’re about to engage in. She sees him shuffling about through her peripheral vision, glancing up at her sparsely and she can just make out the way his lips are cracked into a shit-eating grin at how easily he’d managed to set her in place.

She turns her head to face him fully, cheek pressing along the cold surface below her and causing her spine to involuntarily shiver. Her toes curl in her checkered sneakers as she anxiously waits for him to speak up, watching as he pulls out a black paring knife from below the edge of his bartending station.

“So,” Harry clears his throat with a light cough, his other hand coming out from behind the hidden scenes with a large lime cradled at its center, “there’s two ways of doing body shots.”

He places down the lime, expertly halving it down the center and then quartering it in another swift cut, leaving the fruit in four even wedges. He wipes the knife off with a dish rag, twisting around to chuck it in the dirty dish tub behind him. He picks up one of the slices between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up proudly for emphasis. “There’s the disgusting college frat party version of body shots, and then there’s the proper adult version.”

Harry’s nose crinkles in distaste as an afterthought, his next sentence clarifying. “We’re doing the latter because personally, I think it’s gross to drink anything out of someone’s belly button.”

A small, feathery laugh escapes Y/N, her teeth then digging into her bottom lip to keep her jitters in check. “Whatever you say, you’re the professional.”

Harry gifts her a satisfied smirk at the minute stroke at his ego. “Good girl— that’s what I like to hear.”

The phrase was said with nonchalant humourous intentions, but it makes the pit of her stomach tighten nonetheless. She can’t keep it at bay, not when she’s heard those same two words come from him under very different contexts— not when he’s panted them into her mouth in such a desperate, needy way, eager tongue lulling across the inside of her top lip as his long fingers had marked bruises along her jaw, hips roughly meeting her sore inner thighs. 

It’s ingrained in her head and she can never disconnect it and she has a feeling Harry recognizes that, which gives him all the more reason to bring up such matters as often as possible just to fuck with her. 

And he truly is well aware of the effect it has. He damn well knows the way it disorients her when he offhandedly uses pet names and remarks that have made appearances during their sexual encounters; he knows the way it revs her and it amuses him more than anything to see her fidget and fumble to keep composure. He adores having that influence over her and he thrives on wielding it to his advantage. 

Y/N swallows down her nerves, feeling them lodge in her throat and refuse to go down. The way he slowly bats his lashes at her suggestively doesn’t help at all.

Harry reaches across the bar, hovering the lime wedge over her face. He taps it gently against the center of her lips, the acidic juice rubbing off and making her skin tingle. “Open up for me, yeah?”

Y/N’s lips part on command and Harry can’t stop the pompous hum that runs along the back of his throat. “Always so willing, aren’t you?” 

She glowers at him from the side, her grumble strained and therefore lacking any real mass. “Shut up.”

He coos with exaggerated fondness, attempting to stifle an arrogant smirk. “I’m just happy to be your first time, s’all.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

“And yet you always end up in my bed. Funny how that works, innit?”

The tendon along Y/N’s jaw visibly tenses and Harry snickers to himself as he fits the fruit slice between her teeth, the peel facing inwards so that the part he actually needs is accessible. He then slides a bit further down the counter until he’s standing right beside her resting hips. 

He goes to lift her olive green knitted sweater, pausing for a second right at the hem. His fingers twitch excitedly as he glances up at her for permission, craving the rush that comes with absorbing her body heat. “Can I?”

Y/N jerks her chin once in a nod, teeth biting down harder onto the lime wedge when she feels his cold digits brush along her sensitive belly. 

Harry pushes her jumper upwards, bunching it up just under her bust. He can see how anxious she is from the way her lower stomach jolts.

His hand grabs something off to the edge of her scope and when it comes into focus, she sees its a metal salt shaker. He suspends it a few centimeters over her body, tapping out a line of salt that starts just above her navel and ends halfway up her stomach. She does her best not to move; the last thing she wants to do is make a mess over Harry’s freshly swept floorboards.

He sets down the container, snatching a tiny transparent red glass from one of the decorative drying racks, flipping it rightside up onto the table and laxly pouring out a tequila shot. 

“This is the right way to do it. Pay attention ‘cause I’m only teaching you once.” His light-hearted tone eases some of the gnawing in her bones. 

Harry bends down, the warm air that puffs from his mouth hitting the bare skin above her belly button and Y/N suddenly anticipates the feeling of his hot lips running across her tummy. 

Her entire body begins to quake, overwhelmed by the flurry of sensations. The trembling is hard enough that Harry notices, eyes flicking up to meet her’s, brows furrowed in a teasing chastising fashion. “I can’t do this unless you stay still, Road Runner.” 

Y/N has a difficult time talking over the citrus slice in her mouth, her words muffled but understandable enough. “Sorry— don’t know why I’m shaking but...but I can't stop.” 

One of Harry’s hands squeezes her outer thigh reassuringly. “I’ve had my lips on you in way more intimate places than this. It shouldn’t be that hard.” 

Y/N sputters into a round of nervous giggles. “Fuck off.” 

Harry gives her a disciplinary look full of faux sternness, trying to defuse the tension with some comedic relief. “Stop shaking or I’ll have to hold you down.” 

“Guess you’re gonna have to hold me down, then.” She quips back, kinking her eyebrows with attitude. 

What Harry does next she really wasn’t expecting at all.

She’d figured he would pin her hips down against the counter to keep her still, but instead Harry coasts a palm up the center of her barely-clothed chest, fingers wrapping securely around her throat. 

She nearly inhales the lime wedge.

The pads of his digits squeeze her jugular with just enough strength to jar her system into reboot, her whole body going deadly still in his dominant grasp. He presses the back of her neck down against the cold wood, coaxing her back to straighten out properly so she doesn’t start quivering again. The whole situation is utterly erotic and Harry knows it. The feeling of her pretty throat straining against his palm is all too familiar— they’d been in the same position not even three nights ago, though it had been on the floor of his bedroom and they'd both been wearing way less clothes. 

Harry was confident this would get her in line easily. The shock factor of such a bold, brazen move all out of the blue was bound to distract her enough to rid anything else from her mind, including the anxiety. The image it sketched was just a plus: Y/N staring at him all doe-eyed over the tops of her dewy cheeks, lashes fluttering with that needy innocent aura that makes the underside of his balls ache. It’s the same look she gets when she’s spread out across his sheets, clawing at the sides of his torso and pulling him deeper inside, begging for him to go harder. 

She had instinctively choked out a teeny whimper the second she felt his hand enclosing around her throat and he’s ashamed to admit his knees had buckled. It had been such a sweet, melodic sound and the fact that he had drawn it out of her so easily was threatening to pop a stiffy into his flared corduroy pants. Not to mention how good the contrast of his lilac polished nails looks against her supple skin, which seems to be glowing in the dim, bourbon-tinted lighting.

Harry licks over his mouth slowly, bottom teeth tugging at his upper lip. When he speaks, it’s soft and deep, stirring the gravel in his chest. “Better?”

Y/N boggles her head in a jerky nod, eyes flickering down to where her stomach is permanently clenched due to the heavy atmosphere of the room. 

“Alright, then.” 

He leans down once again, glimpsing at her one last time before he makes contact with the plush mound of her stomach. 

Harry’s tongue feels warm and textured as it slides upwards over the salt trail, the wet sensation sending her nerves into a numbed frenzy, a certain prickling washing across her scalp and pinching at the shells of her ears. 

Y/N drinks up the picture before her like a tall glass of fine wine, her mind absorbing every detail with crisp awareness. 

Harry’s messy auburn ringlets fall across his face due to his angle, the silky locks kissing across his prominent jaw and structured cheekbones. His lashes drop over his eyes in a euphoric stupor, faint pulses of white hot energy traveling across Y/N’s flesh and fizzing every cell of his. The salt burns the damp skin of his mouth, grating against his tongue as he works his way up as slowly as possible, refusing to surrender the sweet taste of the delicate skin that undercuts the bitterness of the ingredient. 

Y/N’s hand acts of its own accord, fingers prying away from clutching onto the edge of the counter and trading it for Harry’s roots. Her grip cards into the hair along the nape of his neck, following the curve of his skull right behind his small ear. 

The area is one of many sensitive spots she’s become accustomed to toying with since they had developed their unlabeled relationship; the vaguely sensual manner of this entire exchange has her unintentionally falling back on muscle memory. 

Harry’s actions pause for an elongated second, the broad expanse of his back visibly contracting under the fabric hugging his torso. His tongue leaves her body— much to her pining disapproval— as a small needy hiss escapes his swollen lips, accompanied by a breathy weak sigh through his nose. “Fuck…”

It’s a sound she’d had the pleasure of hearing before, usually when he was getting close and would try to hold off for the sake of dragging everything out. It’s desperate, it tremors, and it packs a punch like nothing else; it means he’s getting into his head about how she’s making him feel and there’s nothing hotter than watching him space out from how much bliss he’s drawing from her— from this. From something as simple as touching his mouth to her skin. 

Her thighs tighten together, the area between them growing uncomfortably warm. She wills her hold to ease up and nearly blacks out when he cradles his head into her palm, silently pleading with her to not completely pull away.

Y/N croaks out an apology for her sudden harsh behavior, bottom lip wobbling as his eyes list upwards to meet her own and she notices his pupils are blown way out of proportion. “S-Sorry. Force of habit.”

His head gives a choppy shake within her frail grip, teeth worrying the inside of his cheek. His voice comes out as an airy, intense whisper, almost as if what he’s about to utter next is something so private not even their shadows should be allowed to hear it.

“Don’t be sorry, minx. Was praying you would. You know how much I love it when you’re rough with me.”

With that last comment leaving her embarrassingly breathless, Harry sticks his tongue back out and laps up at the last couple of granules of salt left on her stomach, planting a sloppy, delicate kiss along the crest of her belly button for good measure. 

The way she gasps lightly strokes at his ego, a coy simper bracing against her tense tummy. Y/N holds in her next exhale to avoid giving him the satisfaction of gloating, trying her best to diffuse the bristling at the ends of her fingers and across her slightly damp cheeks. 

Harry proceeds to sponge his warm, cushiony lips to the different pressure points he, too, has grown extremely familiar with, talking in between each stop on his trek.  

He travels up the extent of her belly and across the center of her chest over her jumper, his words heavy and sticky. “Y’know I can tell when you’re holding out on me, right?”

He pools wet, tender pecks into the groove of her throat and onto the curve of her strained neck, finally reaching her face and gently bumping his nose against her chin, a stipple of his mouth chasing the gesture. He murmurs his thoughts in a low tone, brushing the pads of his fingers across her jaw and trailing underneath in such a sweet, admiring manner. He wanders upwards and halts right where her bottom lip curves the deepest, gluing one more light, lingering kiss to her cupid’s bow as the grip around her throat tightens just a hair. “And you know I’m more than capable of coaxing it out of you.” 

The hand that is wound into his velvet curls falls limply down the side of his tanned neck, coasting across the strong build of his shoulder and down to rest flat against his slightly heaving chest, nestled between both of his pecs, the joints of her digits vibrating with his gradually swelling heartbeat. 

Harry’s nose grazes over hers as he takes the lime slice from between her teeth, juice spurting and streaming out the edges of her mouth as a result. She instinctively licks across her itching skin, just barely skimming Harry’s lips as he pulls away with the fruit wedge in his mouth. She can feel the way his pulse jumps against his ribs just before her hand slips away due to the distance; it leaves her wondering if he had felt her own thundering against the palm he’d had around her jugular.

Harry grasps the halve between his index finger and thumb, fervently draining it as quickly as possible to get the tough part out of the way, tossing it into an unseen bin. His nose scrunches up at the sour, pungent taste, the buttoned tip twitching as one of his canopy green eyes squeezes shut, head ruffling in a sharp shake as if to regain his bearings. She can feel her stinging lips jerk with the beginnings of a fond smile at the way his loosely structured ringlets bounce to his motions. 

Harry talks through a full mouth, hand fumbling for the sleekness of the shot glass. “Fucking hell, that’s the worst of it.” 

He finds it when his knuckles accidentally knock across the rim, digits wrapping around the small cup securely and jetting it up towards his face while blindly aiming for the general vicinity of his mouth, hoping to get rid of the bitterness coating the underside of his tongue. He pounds it back without a hitch, Adam’s Apple bobbing grandly as the liquor sears its way down the back of his throat, accompanied by its accessory ingredients. Harry slams the stout glass down onto the counter, mouth pursing and both eyes screwing shut as the curdling aftertaste fades into a dull throb that froths the pit of his stomach with a recognizable warmth. 

“You would think you’d be able to handle your alcohol better, being a bartender and all.”

Harry’s eyes fly open at the coy remark that tinges the chilled air of the bar, vision zeroing in on its source as she lays across the wooden table with her sweater smoothed back into place, her intertwined hands resting calmly along the dip of her navel, and her enticing lips curled into a mildly condescending smirk. 

His brows jump up daringly at Y/N’s dig as he sets down the crystalline cup, quietly clearing his throat to make sure his voice doesn’t crack. He lewdly circles the tip of his forefinger around the hem of the glass once, twice, and then a third time before finally speaking up. “Someone’s being a fucking brat tonight, hm?”

Y/N’s eyebrows mimic Harry’s, her expression slathered in fake cluelessness, though the corners of her mouth betray her with smug glee. “Who, me? I would never, I’m an absolute dream!”

He pushes the glass as far away as possible— he wants to avoid it falling victim to what their conversation is insinuating. “A filthy wet one, at that.” 

Y/N’s knuckles whiten as her grip intensifies, her lashes blinking sluggishly. “Is that so?”

Harry leans down, the hairs along his skin standing up as his forearms make contact with the cold surface of the table. He slinks his head to the side, continuing to dance around the subject they both know this talk is unmistakably leading towards. “Very much so.” 

“So was that your plan all along, then? To get your mouth on me just to be a pest about it afterwards?”

He bites into the pad of his thumb to muffle a chuckle, irises twinkling like sea glass, framed by his perfectly sculpted, jokingly furrowed brows. His words are unapologetically blunt, biceps rippling against the flimsy sleeves of his tee as he shifts his weight, pastel yellow Vans squeaking against the polished oak ground. “It truly wasn’t my intention, love. But then you let out that pretty little moan and yanked at my hair so hard I saw stars and, well...quite frankly, I can’t let you get away with that, now can I?”

Y/N swallows heavily, drinking up a deep inhale to replace the oxygen Harry has robbed from her— the way he’s knowingly twisting the rusty golden H ring around his middle finger is doing her in. 

Her voice lodges in her lungs, the result being a docile, needy tone and the aching between her legs is too much for her to even attempt to mask it. “What do you want from me, then?” 

Harry stops turning his ring, instead walking his first two digits over her hip, picking at the button on her jeans mockingly and scoffing in dark amusement when she squirms. “Beg me for it.” 

The word slips past her lips all wispy and eager with no remorse or shame whatsoever. “Please.”

Harry pops the metal clasp of her jeans open, smiling deviously around the thumb between his teeth. “Again.”

Y/N puts more emotion into it, trying to convey how much she wants him so he’ll quit this annoying charade. “Please, Harry.”

He folds the flaps of her pants outwards, slowly tugging down the zipper and purring in pleasant surprise when he sees she’s sporting the pair of maroon lace panties he adores so much. “Please what?”

“Please—” She chokes up as she watches him flirt ominously with the tiny bow on the waistband of her painties. “Please touch me.”

Harry hooks his finger into the dainty material of the undies and pulls it back from her abdomen; the potential of the band snapping down onto her skin has her eyes watering. The pastel purple lacquer on his nail glints teasingly while a demand drips from his lips, thick and leisurely as his sight flickers sideways for a barely existent moment, interested in what lays below her undergarment. “Touch you how?”

Y/N’s self-control is wearing critically thin and it’s taking every fiber of her being not to pounce on him this instant. Instead, both of her hands snap around his wrist, the beaded bracelet he’s sporting stamping into her palm. She clings to him like a vine, guiding his fingers below her panties, lungs stuttering as his icey, chunky rings catch on the hood of her clit. Her voice is dry and uneven as she arches her hips just a tad against his cupped fingers. “Like this— touch me like this.”

Harry stays completely still for a few suspenseful heartbeats, staring at her with the colors around his pupils kaleidoscoping with different hues of muted sage and bright rosemary, the amber specks shimmering with silent power. Then, his hand begins to move, the pads of his digits lulling lazily against her core, bolts of bliss shooting up her spine.  

Y/N breaks their cemented gazes, watching in a starved haze at the way his knuckles and jewelry tent the flimsy lace of her underwear as his large hand bobs between her parted thighs. She can feel how wet she is— can feel how it coats his skin and makes his touch glide over her with ease. She can see the way his forearm flexes with effort, bent on infusing pleasure into every crevice of her body until she’s left breathless and quaking. Veins carve their way under his smooth, inked skin, shifting and bulging beneath the intricate rose tattoo and creasing the portrait of the nude mermaid she so strangely fancies. 

Harry removes the thumb of his free hand from between his teeth, bite marks indented into the soft tissue from how hard he was working on keeping himself together. He caringly tucks a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, his chaste demeanor heavily contrasting the vulgar scene unfolding a foot away. 

This juxtaposition of tenderness and eroticism is so typical of him when it comes to sex and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t live off it. The polarity between his gentle, soothing personality and the absolute filth of his sex habits constantly keeps her on her toes, excited to see what comes next and restless to take whatever he has to offer. There was never a boring moment with Harry and she never felt like her desires went unattended; he always gives her exactly what she craves— both the sweet and the sour. 

It’s similar to the incredible drinks he’s so well-known for: an even ratio of top shelf ingredients kept at a perfect balance, mixed thoughtfully to provide a signature cocktail that keeps her coming back for more. 

The tang was evident in the way Harry would bend her over the back of his couch, tainting dark bruises onto her hips as he would work himself inside her, gasping broken curses into the shell of her hot ear and grunting at her to continue pushing back against him. It’s in how he would decorate handprints across her ass whenever she’d slow down even the slightest, giving a relentless yank at her roots and scratching down the center of her spine until her back would arch obediently. The honey was in how he would then contradict his dominance by planting a gentle kiss to the back of her tense shoulder and to the nape of her sweaty neck, following the gesture with a tight, bashful mumble of, “God, please don’t fucking stop. You feel too fucking good for this to stop.” 

The bite of the liquor was in how Harry was willing to drag her up the metal and glass staircase to his loft during the busy hours of a Saturday evening, shoving her flat across the expanse of his kitchen island and ripping his tee over his head. It’s in how he would stuff the shirt in her mouth to stifle the screams he was hell-bent on weaning out of her, all because he had a full pub just one floor below but he didn’t give a single fuck; he just had to feel her stretching, writhing, and pleading under him. The toothache of the syrup was present in how just before he’d stuff her to the brim, he’d dapple his lips to the tip of her heated nose in a quiet instance of reassurance, accompanied by a teeny boyish smile that would hold more warmth than all the rays of the sun.

The acidity of the lime was prominent in how Harry would tug her into his lap and slam her down against his thighs, hooded eyes electric with greedy satisfaction at watching her mewl and quiver with every deep stroke she’d take of his cock, the bottom of her tummy bulging from its girth and length. It’s in the manner in which he’d snake one arm taut around her love-bite tattooed waist, the hand of the other weighing its first two digits heavy on her tongue until she’d gag and whine. The agave nectar undercurrent in tequila was distinguishable in how after they had both dismounted their highs and she had collapsed into his chest, dripping down her thighs and onto the sheets, he would nurse her jaw with the palm of his hand, thumbing over her swollen bottom lip with dreamy affection clouding his dim green irises. He would kiss at the top of her matted hair, tracing her water-beaded hairline with the bridge of his nose and cooing out a compassionate, “Did so good for me, pet. You always do so good.”

Their relationship was sweet and it was sour and it was beyond anything she could’ve ever hoped for or expected. It was definitely beyond what Y/N had expected when she’d set foot in the bar all those weeks ago, tagging along with a friend simply to appease their insistent request, hiding herself in the booth farthest from the thick of the ruckus to make herself as invisible as possible. Bars weren’t necessarily her scene; she’d rather people-watch than throw herself into the middle of a throng of half-conscious, sweaty bodies. She hadn’t expected that the lanky, built, incredibly attractive bartender with an eclectic fashion sense would even notice her, let alone clamber up onto the bar and yell across the room, singling her out as the chosen candidate for the nightly round of complimentary shots. 

She hadn’t expected they’d hit it off so well either, mostly because she had harbored a few traces of resentment towards him for forcing her out of the safety provided by her sequestered nook, and also because he had the most stupidly infuriating gorgeous smile she had ever seen— it was authentic, inviting, and it gave her an odd sense of soothing familiarity, which was unsettling considering he was a complete and total stranger. She hadn’t expected he would stir up jitters in her stomach, but after getting a spoonful of his personality, it seemed to be inevitable. He was sarcastic and giddy, full of inappropriate jokes and endless bundles of heart-fluttering giggles; when he engaged with her, he made her the epicenter of his world, which was so rare to find in people these days considering there was always somewhere to be or something else to do other than entertain some random person that was nothing more than a customer. 

But no, he gave her his full and undivided attention, listening to every word that rambled out of her mouth as he propped himself onto the counter on his elbows, chin resting on his knuckles with a delicate, encouraging aura highlighting the edges of his rosy mouth. Harry kept up with the conversation without a catch and returned her energy and enthusiasm tenfold. He remembered small details of the stories she was sharing and actually laughed at all her jokes, despite the fact that half of them came out as a jumbled mess; the way his emerald eyes were sparkling under the starburst design lights hanging above-head was fucking with her ability to form coherent sentences. 

Talking with him felt like stepping out into the sun on a canvas-worthy spring afternoon, the warmth of the heat waves running its fingertips along her bare arms and absorbing into her skin, making her bones ache in the best way imaginable. Making him smile felt like the shy caress of a faint draft, the wind smelling of honeysuckle as it wove its way between the ruffles of her clothing and skidded over the apples of her cheeks. Hearing his laughter was the equivalent of sitting in a field of grass, the ground warm under her touch, the blades silky between the creases of her fingers. It was buoyant, loud, and admiringly bold— it lacked the insecurity that tended to hold others back from fully enjoying themselves, scared of looking weird or making an unpleasant noise that might garner them disapproving looks. Harry laughed with his entire gut, a hand resting on his stomach as if to keep himself from bursting open, the ends of his eyes wrinkling and his two blocky front teeth showing. The tip of his nose would even twitch some, which was probably the most peculiar aspect of it all, yet it easily became her favorite mannerism of his. 

She was taken by him from the get-go and it’s almost pathetic how fast he’d had her wrapped around his pinky.

Y/N hadn’t expected to feel like that around Harry and she had used the vodka shots as an excuse for her overdramatic thoughts, but there was a frayed wire in her mind that had continued to spark for the remainder of that night, wondering how it was possible to connect with someone so effortlessly and provoke such chemistry so soon.

However, what Y/N hadn’t expected in even the slightest was ending up perched on top of the sticky wooden counter after the bar had closed, her arms wrapped around Harry’s strong shoulders as his hips had rocked between her naked thighs. She’d caught his tiny gold hoop earring between her teeth while she poured cracked moans into the dip of his ear, his tongue stifling the burn of the bite marks he was scattering along the underside of her clenched jaw, the low rumble of his accented voice— dense from the liquor— urging the heels of her shoes harder into the backs of his thick thighs. 

“Been wanting to taste your lips all fucking night.” 

One night stands were few and rare for her before that blurry, alcohol-induced detour. They were risky, unpredictable, and a right plague to leave behind the following morning— an hour or so of fun just didn’t seem to be worth the probable cost. But with Harry, it was like she was sold on the idea before it had even been an offer. He’d had a mesmerizing pull about him that left her wanting to get to know him better in every context humanly available, whether it be physical or emotional. He had puppeted his pretty face and boyish charm without issue and she had been in over her head long before she’d even realized she was sinking. 

What made it that much more appealing was that he wasn’t even trying— he was just being himself. The flirty yet non-overbearing, cheeky yet respectful persona he displayed wasn’t a display at all, it was just who he was and that innocent legitimacy is what propelled her to button their lips together the second he had made a move. 

A hesitant bundle of pecks had turned into a deeper, hungrier round of kissing that had been speckled with half-suppressed whimpers. It had then morphed into Y/N clumsily crawling over the counter and toppling into his awaiting arms, her whole body buzzing as he had giggled into her mouth between heavy breaths and feverish whines. 

The sloppy make out session had led to her fumbling with the leather belt around his slender hips as he had peeled her jeans down to her knees, his forehead falling against hers while he chewed his lower lip raw with impatience. It hadn’t been too long before he had moved her panties to the side with a tug of his index finger, her palm groping him shyly through his trousers and earning a soft, throaty, “Proper tease, aren’t you?” and then Harry was dipping inside her with a hiss streaming past the cracks of his gritted teeth. The drinks in their systems had acted as kerosine, setting every nerve alight as their bodies molded to one another’s quirks and customs, finding much-needed comfort in learning what made the other tick. She can’t recall how long it had lasted— she had been too lost in his company to care about the hands of the aged bar clock on the wall. When he had finally spilled inside her, it felt like forever and too soon all at once. Y/N had fallen apart right in his arms as the flat of his tongue tended to her racing pulse, blurbs of incoherent praise scraping across the roof of her mouth. 

And now here they are, after what feels like decades later, on the very same tabletop that had christened their “no strings attached” relationship in the first place. And here Harry is, lovingly petting at her hair while his fingers work her towards utterly ruining her underwear, his intensely colored eyes reading every jolt of her features like the pages of an immersive novel. And here Y/N is, working her hips to match his rhythm, teeth cutting along the inside of her bottom lip as tight exhales falter past her nostrils. 

She tilts her chin up, the back of her skull skidding against the counter, every dent and notch in the wood catching on her scalp and helping anchor her back down to reality. Her head halts when the blots of bronze in Harry’s irises come into view. 

His defined features have softened into an expression of doting awe, sculpted brows relaxed with endeared curiosity as his usually prominent cheekbones take on a softer appearance, crimson lips slightly agape. He’s studying her closely, basking in how she responds to his actions and using her body language as a cue. He continues to nuzzle at the baby hairs along her damp forehead, eyes flitting across different points of her face, waiting for her to give him any sign as to what he should do next. 

Y/N wills one of her hands to untie from around Harry’s lazily flicking wrist, trembling fingers climbing up to tether around the pearl necklace laying daintily within the dip of his collarbones. The beads are ice cold to the touch as she knots them around her knuckles, her sight sewn to his lips. 

The infatuation she carries for them is sad, really. Y/N thinks he has the most beautiful pair she’s ever seen, the softest she’s ever tasted, and definitely the most skilled she’s ever felt. She could gawk at them forever if time allowed, following every ridge, curve, and peak, idolizing all the different shades of pink that are never quite the same. 

But lips weren’t created for the purpose of just being seen— not when there’s so many better uses. 

Y/N gives the necklace a signifying tug as a quiet, vulnerable mutter betrays her, her interest still plastered to his swollen mouth. “Kiss me.”

Harry swallows thickly, struggling to catch a breath under her hungry stare, ears flaring at how frantic her sentence had come out. The emotion seems to have worn off on his own voice. 

“Say it again.” 

The pearls pinch at the loose ringlets that tickle the back of his neck, straining against his skin as she beckons him forward more insistently. He poises himself a mere inch from her mouth, her shaky exhales fanning over his cupid’s bow and fuck, he loves the suspense of it all. Loves the dynamic they share of toying with each other until the tension is practically palpable.

The hollow of Y/N’s throat flexes as she grapples with her words. “Kiss me. Please.”

And when he does, coincidentally enough, sweet and sour is all her muddled brain registers. 

Harry always tastes sweet. His lips have an inherently sugary quality to them, almost as if he’s dipped them in honey; it’s as addicting as any other part of him. His tongue is sour. It carries the remnants of the lime and tequila he’d just doused down, the flavor trickling through her taste buds and causing an aching throb along the back of her jaw. 

Harry’s fingers shift down from her hairline, his thumb settling on her cheekbone as the other four splay across the side of her face. The kiss is gentle at first, yet teeming with need, and it gradually starts to swell into a more passionate tempo. He slots their mouths roughly, turning his head to delve deeper, noses bumping and eyelashes brushing. 

Y/N’s so far gone that when Harry suddenly buries his middle finger inside her, she literally screams into his mouth. 

“Fuck, Harry— oh my God!” Her hips thrash upwards into his palm as he sinks up to his amethyst lion head ring. 

His wet, moany whisper streams directly into her chest. “Christ, you’re fucking soaked.”

Harry pumps the digit into her groggily, savoring the sensation of her squeezing around it as his thumb continues to stroke at the sensitive nub higher up. The soft sounds that drip from her bitten lips, the lusty fog over her glimmering eyes, and the way she’s guiding his hand nearly make him soil his pants. 

In any other circumstance, he’d be too ashamed to admit it— to admit that some casual fingering has him squirming— but with Y/N, he won’t even attempt to defend himself. She has him whipped and it’s more than obvious; fighting it is useless. Whether that extends into emotional territory or not…That’s something he’s not prepared to untangle.

Instead, he just focuses on the moment— on what they have right now; on what she has him feeling presently, which is plenty. The confession airs itself without much effort.

“You look so good like that— gonna make me cum without even touching me.”

The remark makes a lightning rod zip down her spine. “Y-Yeah?”

Harry draws back from her mesmerizing mouth, worrying her bottom lip between his teeth and letting it snap back. “You have me making a fucking mess of myself, pet.”

Y/N yanks him closer than before, planting a peck to his chin and then suckling lightly at the crescent along his upper lip. Her voice struggles to keep steady. “Want another finger.”

“Another one?” He slowly pulls out from between her thighs, aligning his second middle finger accordingly, rings clacking together. His typical snark is ever-present in his scoff. “So demanding.”

He can feel Y/N grin smugly against him, her tone mimicking his from earlier. “Always so willing, aren’t you?”

Harry rams her request inside, cooing with faux sympathy when she cracks a yelp. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

He curls the two fingers upwards, hitting a familiar spongy spot that he knows will drive her mad. 

“Thought this was what you wanted, yeah? For me to fuck you like this?”

His prediction materializes in the way she claws at the collar of his t-shirt, grabbing at anything she can get as her body starts rocking, riding his fingers. Harry grips her face in a flare of dominance, nudging at her lips with his own. 

“Baby just wants me to make her feel good, right? Y’want me to make you cum so hard you can barely walk up the stairs to my flat?”

He’s plucking at a chord at the pit of her stomach, her thighs trembling in response and he furrows his brows into a cautionary expression that warns her not to clamp them shut. It takes every fiber of her being to keep her legs from clenching together. 

Harry persists with his teasing, picking up the speed of his thrusts, his thumb relentlessly playing with her clit. 

“That is where you’re gonna end up, isn’t it? Same as always— spread across my bed in one of my shirts with your panties hanging off my dresser and my fingerprints bruised across your hips.” 

“Harry, I—” Y/N can’t even finish the thought, the words dissolving on her tongue as he bites at the flesh along the slope of her jaw, his own syllables charring her nerves. 

“S’not like the underwear matters much, anyways. You won’t need it until around noon the next day, considering you usually spend the entire morning bouncing on my cock. I’m not complaining, though. It’s the highlight of my day, if I’m being honest. You just look so cute pulling at my boxers, half asleep with that needy little pout on your lips, not to mention how adorable it is to watch you crawl across the bed into my lap with your nipples peeking through the fabric of my tee.”

Her hand leaves his wrist and spreads over the back of his, fingers carding between the cracks. She shoves him further inside and his jaw goes slack in aroused shock. She’s so shameless about it all and it makes him twitch in his trousers. 

“God, you’re so fucking tight. And, shit, I can’t stop thinking about the way my shirt just bunches around your thighs while you’re fucking yourself on me, thrusts deep and lazy as you beg me to play with your cunt while you use me to get yourself off. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, love? Using me to make yourself cum? Meanwhile I just sit back with my arms behind my head until you get close. Then you’re scratching across my shoulders and panting into my neck, telling me how bad you want me to fill you up because you like how warm I make you feel.” 

Y/N’s balancing on the edge as Harry spins a miracle between her drenched thighs and she feels embarrassed for the puddle that’s likely spreading over the bar counter. 

“Such a dirty fucking girl. Especially when you grab my hand and place it right here.” He ducks his head and kisses at the center of her throat for emphasis, a conceited hum thrumming deep in his chest when she whimpers. “That’s when you decide to get into the proper filth. Stuff like, ‘You’re so fucking big, H. Already have me sore.’ and ‘Want you dripping down my thighs.’ But there’s so much more than that, though. What’s that one word you fancy so much? Need you to jog my memory.”

He’s switched to using his whole palm to rub at her clit, pounding deeper until his icy, chunky rings continuously thunk wetly. 

Y/N abides to Harry’s condescending question, gritting out the answer shyly. “Daddy.”

“Oh, that’s right. Daddy. How could I possibly forget when you always whine it into my mouth? ‘Harder, daddy, please.’ and ‘Want you to cum, daddy.’ and ‘I’m your good girl, daddy.’ And how about what you have me call you? Fuck, you just can’t seem to get enough of it. Your eyes always roll back when I tell you what a slut you can be. There’s that one phrase that you seemed to really enjoy the other day. When I said, ‘You’re such a darling little slut for me, aren’t you, baby?’ and you just melted.”

Y/N feels a familiar spark igniting at the pit of her abdomen, uncontrollably building. “Harry, I’m gonna—” 

All his actions immediately stop, fingers going limp between her legs. 

The sob she releases is anguished and irritated. “No, no, no— please don’t stop. M’close, H, please.”

Harry looks down at her over the crests of his brightly pigmented cheeks and she hadn’t noticed until now just how much this was impacting him, as well. She’d been so in her head she had failed so catch the way his whole body is trembling. 

He speaks so low and delicately it’s hardly audible, but the meaning of it punctures right through her ribs and into her gut. 

“Wanna feel you cum in my mouth.”

A few extended heartbeats tick by before his suggestion sinks into her brain and then she’s struggling to sit up onto her elbows, already in the process of swinging her legs off the edge of the pub table. 

Harry’s drops to his knees with a hollow thump to the elegant wooden floor, large clumsy hands fiddling with the waist of her jeans, riding them down her clammy thighs. Y/N maneuvers herself into a somewhat upright position, sitting back on her palms, fingers wrapping around the edge of the bar counter for support. He finishes easing her out of the high-waisted denim bottoms, discarding them on the ground beside his calf. 

Harry runs his warm touch up her goosebump-ridden legs, groping at her outer thighs and yanking her closer until she’s balancing on the cliff of the waxed surface. Y/N can’t stifle herself from swinging one arm out from behind her, blindly fisting at the curls along the crown of his head, shivering when he mewls weakly. He stipples his hot lips up her knee caps and along her inner thighs, spreading her open wider and wider as he trails upwards. His grip firms around her hips, holding her in place in preparation for the wriggling and twisting he knows she won’t be able to reign. Harry eyes her center with drunken desire, toying with the waistband of her racy lace undies, taking some time to just get a good look at how dark the fabric has become. 

Y/N takes this opportunity to ogle at him herself, gnawing the inside of her left cheek raw at how incredible he looks on his knees. His lavender flared pants compliment the polish on his nails, the pastel yellow of his Vans peeking through as he lounges back against his heels. Amidst all the commotion, his white shirt has become half untucked from beneath his belt and the desperate messiness his image paints is nearly enough to finish her off. Especially as her sight wanders upwards, catching on the small silver hoop shining on his right ear and then leveling with his view, his eyes owlish and puppy-like as he leans forward all the way and presses a lingering kiss right over the wet patch of her panties.

His voice is spaced out and distant. “Been thinking about eating you out all day.” 

Harry flutters pecks up to the elastic of her undergarment, taking it carefully between his teeth and tugging downwards. Y/N remains as still as possible as he coaxes the article off, one hand massaging at the back of her calf while the other stays secured to her hip. 

Once the last bit of material is out of the way and she’s finally bare, Harry straightens himself into perfect posture, hoisting both of her legs over his solid shoulders in one swift motion. Her heels knock against his taut back muscles, digging in with anticipation as he bites bruises into the junction where her inner thigh meets her crotch. 

Y/N tilts his head up a bit to get his attention, her tone bleeding. “Need your tongue. Please.”

He nods numbly in her grasp, wetting his lips slowly before answering in a hushed murmur. “Gonna give it to you, dove. Gonna make my girl feel so fucking good for me. Always do.”

And he truly does; Y/N never doubted that. From the first kitten lick he gives, she knows she isn’t going to last long.

His light strokes meld into deep, needy lapping, the flat of his tongue dragging against her clit in long trails, warm and silky. Every time he gets to the hood at the top, he gives a few quick flicks with the very tip, causing her to wring at his curls almost cruelly. He then proceeds to duck down until he’s at her entrance, flirting his tongue around the rim and dipping it inside as far as he can before the back of his throat begins to ache. 

He keeps this rhythm going firmly, every now and then allowing himself to wander some, suckling at the outer lips of her heat and gifting the area sticky kisses that make her shudder. 

Y/N’s head falls back between her shoulder blades, the weight straining the back of her neck but she’s too high off him to force her joints to comply. She can only muster enough energy to comb her fingers through his satin locks, scratching at his scalp in agreement as broken sounds of encouragement sting the back of her throat and drive his every move. 

“You taste like heaven, baby. So fucking sweet, can never get enough of it. Could spend hours on my knees for you.”

Harry prods the bud of her clit with the tip of his button nose, puckering his lips around it and sucking feverishly, grinning into her cunt when her legs clasp harder around his neck. He talks over a full mouth, the vibrations pinballing up the knobs of her spine. “Liked that, didn’t you?”

She adamantly shakes her head yes. 

He coats his palms along her outer thighs, squeezing teasingly and prying them open enough to get a better range. He then shakes his face, tongue expertly caressing every nook and cranny. 

Y/N’s nails crunch against the wood that runs along the underside of the counter. “Yes, yes, yes— shit, thank you.” 

Harry presses his lips together tightly, tugging at her folds for the heightened stimulation, preening at how the digits in his roots spasm. “More than happy to help, minx.” 

She manages to crane her neck forward, chin pressing into her heaving upper chest as she stares down at him with so much lust her eyes water. He returns her starved gaze, the lower half of his face utterly drenched, cheeks glistening with her excitement as the corners of his darkened mouth prick his dimples into place. Every ragged breath and every watery moan is inflating his ego beyond reasonable.

“I’m so fucking close, Har.”

He pushes his tongue deeper, head bobbing with newfound purpose as his lashes flutter up at her temptingly. He looks borderline ethereal with the amber lights reflecting off his glossy, cocksure irises, arms flexing with the strength it takes to keep her tethered down, the inking on his tan skin jumping to life. 

“Be a good girl and cum for me, hm? Want you dripping down my chin.”

This orgasm is definitely one of the best Harry has ever given her. 

It boils over from the bottom of her tummy, a relieving glow surging through every vein and warming her from the inside out. It splinters her bones with unimaginable pleasure, her whole body caving forward as he eggs the climax to its full potential. He continues licking into her tirelessly, brows raised in amused glee as he watches her come undone at the seams, crying out his name as the waves of satisfaction roll out from the bottom of her feet to the very tips of her ears. 

When Y/N finally regains her composure from the unrealistic surge, she nearly collapses right off the side of the bar table. 

Harry intercepts what otherwise would have been a very unpleasant finish to the experience, mounting onto his feet and wrapping a strong arm around the dip of her back, keeping her upright and safe. 

Her forehead plops against his, a dreamy giggle escaping past her marked-up lips as the last currents of gratification fade away. Harry’s own boyish chuckle tinges the electrified air around them, his free arm coming up to use his wrist as an impromptu cloth, wiping away the leftover wetness. It’s a simple gesture but it makes her belly throb. 

He then cradles her face with both of his obscenely warm hands, spongeing his lips to the tip of her unfeeling nose in an endeared, affectionate manner, all the lust in his mood replaced by loving concern. “You alright? Wasn’t too much?”

She wobbles her head half-heartedly, mind still submerged in the aftershock. Her throat is so battered she can barely get out her words. “It was perfect— you’re always perfect.”

To her unexpecting entertainment, Harry’s cheeks and neck dye a dull shade of raspberry red. He follows the outline of her plump bottom lip with his thumbs, attitude bashful and sheepish. “You flatter me too much. My head’s not gonna fit through the front door.”

Y/N snorts playfully, kissing softly at the pad of his left thumb. “As if your head isn’t big enough already.”

“Heyyyyy!” He pouts childishly, bumping his brows to hers as a minute show of revenge. “S’not the way to treat the bloke that just tongue-fucked you into nearly passing out.” 

His friend rolls her eyes at him grandly, pinching at his stomach jestingly. “Ever so humble.” 

“Keep myself grounded, don’t I?” Harry pulls away from their embrace, ducking down to retrieve something from the floor. He comes up with her crumpled panties hanging off his index finger, pressing his lips together to keep from bursting into a round of immature giggles. “I believe these are yours.”

Y/N snags them, giving him a pointed, deadpan glare as she tentatively slips them up her naked legs, shimmying them over her hips. 

A comical memory suddenly surfaces into the forefront of her thoughts. 

“Y’know what’s funny? If I recall correctly, you said we weren’t gonna have sex on the bar anymore. Something about it being ‘unsanitary and unprofessional.’” 

Harry freely splutters into the cheeky laugh he’d been trying to muffle, casually crossing his arms over his broad chest, tongue sweeping over the front of his top teeth coyly. One edge of his mouth flickers upwards into a shit-eating simper. “Well, this technically wasn’t sex.”

“Oh, really?” Y/N flattens her palms against the wooden counter, hopping off smoothly and sweeping her jeans up off the ground. She’s not sure what magic Harry used to get her pants off without removing her sneakers, but she knows she doesn’t possess it. She toes off her checkered trainers and begins easing her foot through one leg. “What was it, then? Meditating?”

Harry scowls humorously at her quip— it’s an inside joke that pertains to the code word he now uses for “masturbating.” It was courtesy of a drunken customer once asking him for advice on what to do when they couldn’t sleep and Harry had said meditating was a good way to unwind. Y/N had been visiting that night—as she did every weekend— and was sitting two seats down from the exchange when she had overheard the conversation, giving him a knowing smirk over the rim of her highball glass and shrugging her eyebrows slyly, her quiet mumble pouring a blush into his ears. “Yeah, sure. I’ve helped you meditate plenty through the phone.”

Harry leans his lower back against the edge of the pub counter, crossing his ankles and giving his wide shoulders a nonchalant shrug. “It was a little bit of touching and some innocent cunnilingus.” 

Y/N scoffs sarcastically, shoving her other foot into the opposite pant leg and yanking it up over her bum, buttoning the article with finality and smoothing her sweater down. “‘Innocent cunnilingus.’ The irony of it all.”

Harry kicks Y/N’s Vans towards her with the flat side of his own. “What’s ironic is you mocking me as if you weren’t begging for it a few minutes ago.”

She wiggles her toes into the shoes wordlessly. 

“S’what I thought.” Harry taunts. 

Now that she’s fully dressed, Y/N slowly drifts closer to him, finding amusement in how his stance straightens in sudden interest. His forearms tighten a smidgen over his pecs, fingers tucking underneath his pits so she doesn’t see them tapping anxiously. 

Y/N stops once her chest bumps against the shield he’s built before him, his neck visibly tensing. When she speaks, it’s suggestive and her undertone resembles velvet. “You know what’s the most ironic thing of all?”

Harry jumps when he feels Y/N’s hands wrinkling the fabric of his graphic t-shirt, a harsh tug untucking it fully from below his waistband. Her hands slip below the material, cold, pliant fingers tracing over the toned muscles of his stomach and massaging at the love handles along his torso. “That you went through all that trouble of showing me how to appropriately do body shots, but you don’t really know if I learned it.” 

He starts picking up on her hints, his biceps contracting at the feathery sensation of her fingertips spelling out random letters across the wings of his butterfly tattoo. He cocks his head down to get a better look at her, chin pressing into the alcove between his defined collarbones. Her lips are so close he has to force himself to keep from chasing them. 

Harry entertains the little game she’s dishing, voice low and heavy. “I guess that is pretty ironic.” 

Y/N reaches over his hip for something behind him, her hand coming back with one of the leftover lime wedges nestled at its center. She glances up at him from beneath her thick lashes, luring him in with that hypnotic aura she always works to her advantage. The lime slice ends up between her inviting lips, the rine facing outwards in the same manner Harry had placed his.

Y/N then balances herself forward onto the tips of her toes, the pads of her digits digging into his chest ever so slightly for reinforcement. She stretches her neck until her face is level with his and goes in as if to kiss him, transferring the lime into his mouth, juice squirting out and fizzing over his itching skin. 

“Get up on the counter.”

[veeples-archive]

intimacy of the shared morning

and we're here at the end folks.

i also have a little piece featuring @narrativefoiltrope's winter collins and my faustus valentine |D to finish off @ockissweek!

word count: ~550, no warnings.

***

Faustus marks the morning by the timestamps of Winter's routine.

Winter's alarm is his only solid starting point. It chimes, quiet and barely obtrusive at all, much as Winter herself, five-thirty on the dot.

She stirs, fast to wake but slow to remove herself from the comfort of his arm around her middle. He's happy to encourage her hesitation, happy to keep her warmth tucked close until a second alarm signals their loose, sleepy cuddle to an end. Five forty-five.

Then the sound of running water, the whisper of her tuneless humming. Her feather-light footsteps when she tiptoes around their room. Closet opening, fabric shuffling, the soft thunk of shoes dropping to the carpet. The hush of the curtain drawn away a fraction to let him doze in comfort in the slowly lightening room. Six or so.

The faint smell of brewing coffee and the burbling chirp of the coffee maker.

Cabinets opening and closing a carefully muted thunk.

(It took him weeks to notice she'd bought a series of adhesive felt pads and stuck them on the inside corners of the cabinet doors to quiet them. Faustus recalls that he teased her once about the nosiness of the cabinets and her moving around the kitchen, forgot about it by the next day, and hadn't noticed them since.

Always so painfully thoughtful. Faustus had gone to thank her immediately because Winter needed to know her and her efforts were appreciated.)

Maybe a quarter past six.

By the time he untangles himself from their blankets and sheets and shuffles his way downstairs, he finds her nursing a mug of milky tea as she admires the expanse of their front garden through the kitchen window, painted in the cool and sleepy blues of a morning yet warmed by the sun's orange glow.

Winter meets his eye, a sliver of orange light catching the flash of her teeth when she smiles.

When he fits in behind her, arms loose around her waist and chin nestled on her shoulder, Winter melts back into his chest with ease, this a natural part of her (theirs, he corrects himself) morning routine as washing her face or brewing the coffee she doesn’t even drink. Faustus slants his lips to her neck, inhales the clean scent of perfume ghosting her skin, and kisses her there.

His kiss is less hard pressure and more fleeting touch, but still Winter's skin blushes sweet and pleased. She sinks further into him, lets one hand fall from her mug to cover the hands he has clasped at her middle, and murmurs, "Good morning."

Faustus glances to their ill-used stove to find the time marked in red blocky numbers at six thirty-five.

Little less than half an hour before she leaves for work.

Never enough time for him to enjoy the quiet companionship of Winter at her most open before the rest of the day touches her, but half an hour is what he has. Quick to ensure he doesn’t waste a single moment, he gives her a gentle squeeze and returns his gaze to the window to share in their private reverie of the glittering dew refracting the first rays of light.

"Morning, honey bee."