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junedenim · 6 months ago

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what it takes to say goodnight

just him & his girls

warnings: dad!alex, fluff, smut, piv, fingering, mild breeding kink, & so on...

word count: 4.4k

He nearly trips over the cat when he walks in. He mutters curse words to himself before picking Pepper—the cat—up before it runs out the front door. Pepper has always been a calm kitty and she takes well in Alex's arms, though they are full and he struggles through the door before he can finally put everything, including Pepper, down on the floor. She tangles in his legs before running off back into the house.

Alex closes the front door roughly causing one of the magnets that holds a picture of the girls up to fall on the floor loud enough to alert the other residents of the house that he is home.

"Sounds like someone's home," he hears you announce followed by the sudden noise of pattering feet.

He rounds the corner, greeted by two blurs rushing him like linebackers. As always, Willow is quick to talk her mouth going a mile a minute, shouting, "Come look what I made today! Pick me up, daddy, pick me up! Come on!" He can't even keep track of what she is saying most of the time, her mouth going a mile a minute.

Contrasting her twin sister, Wren, his quiet little girl, tugs on his pant leg to get his attention. They've always been this way, even when you were pregnant with them. Willow would kick away and Wren would suck her thumb. Wren speaks when spoken to, preferring to perform motions to express her opinions. Unless it's vegetables, then she cries and yells, "Yuck!"

To combat both girls' interests, he bends down and picks them both up. They are just on the edge of being too heavy for Alex to pick both up at once. But maybe he'll wait until the next birthday to stop doing this. Wren curls into him while Willow hangs off his neck still yapping, "I want mac & cheese for dinner. Mummy said we can so you have to let us. Wen wants it too. Say it, Wen." Willow has always called Wren "Wen." It's adorable and Alex and you can't bear to ever correct it.

Alex turns to Wren, nudging her with a bounce to show her some attention and get her answer. "I want mac & cheese," she says robotically as if Willow trained her to say it.

"Really?" Alex questions. He looks toward you, sitting on the living room rug and watching this exchange. You share a silent laugh with him. You're calm, and he never understands how you managed to hold that through the whole day with the girls. He loves them like nothing else ever but, man, do they tire him out.

"Swear," Willow answers for Wren. "Mummy also said you'd play dolls with us."

You laugh out loud. "I never said that, Will."

Willow thinks otherwise. "Well, maybe you could anyway."

Alex laughs. "We'll see." He feels a strain in his back and decides it's time to put the girls down. Will goes off running back to her toys but Wren hangs on, unable to let go of the comfort. "C'mon Wren. At least let me take my shoes off."

"But you'll come back?" She's completely wide-eyed and worried. Whenever she's in need of reassurance, Alex fears it's his fault. That he went on tour when they were too young and ever since Alex is certain he has caused them abandonment issues.

He told you this once, late at night, after Wren had cried for him to not leave her alone in her room. He stayed with her until she fell asleep and would have fallen asleep beside her if you hadn't come to collect him. Under the covers, he told you this fear and regret, at first, you laughed, insisting Wren was just clingy. Alex chose to believe you if only to fall asleep that night.

Sometime after midnight, Wren came into yours and Alex's bedroom, tugging on Alex's hand making sure that he was still there, still breathing, still real. Her little whimpers woke you up. Alex hugged Wren to his chest and you ran a hand down the sensitive girl's back. She kept saying, "You were gone. You left." You tried your best to minimize Alex's worries but he felt this fear to be true and a hidden part of him thinks you blame him too.

Alex kisses Wren's plump baby cheek, placing her tiny feet on the wooden floor. "Always," he assured her. She toddles cautiously back to the toys to join her sister.

But then there's one more girl he has to take care of. "Are you going to make me mac & cheese?" You ask, approaching him, and slinging your arms around his neck. His hand finds its rightful place on the small of your back, the one where you always feel an ache when his hand isn't there.

He pulls you closer to him, pressing her body up against his, your faces so close, your noses just barely not touching. "I'll make you whatever you want." His lips pucker expectantly, waiting for yours to collide with them.

"Anything?" You raise an eyebrow.

He relaxes his lips and quirks a smile. "Yeah, I can make you the unicorn-shaped mac & cheese."

"Wow," you laugh, "you really are my prince charming."

He puckers his lips again. "Hurry up and kiss me, would you?" You give in because he's so cute talking about mac and cheese and there's a flutter in his eyes that you can tell means he had a long day so you won't put up much of a fight, especially when he kisses you just right.

You pull away and ask, "Long day?"

Alex shrugs. "I'm where I want to be now. How was it here?" He runs his hand up and down your right arm.

You sigh as you begin to feel the weight of the day"Good. No fights. Wren didn't nap."

Alex throws his head back. "Don't tell me that."

That fear ticks away inside him but you grab his hand and squeeze it. "It's not because of you. It allowed me to have Wren & me time considering she's a daddy's girl and Will's constant desire to be the center of attention, but don't tell her I told you that."

He chuckles. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Now come on with the mac & cheese!"

Later, when he's cooking dinner, Wren clings to his leg. Will is singing loudly in the living room and he can hear you clapping along with her.

"Mac & cheese?" Wren asks him.

"Almost done," Alex promises, picking her up by the straps of her overalls and depositing her onto the counter. "Would you do today? Did you have fun with mummy and Will?"

Wren simply nods with a smile, which is a good sign, no frowns in sight.

But she tugs away at his heart, making grabby hands for him. She's always been clingy, enjoying the feeling of being held, but he can't help but feel that she's spent the whole day missing him, not able to have any fun.

"Do you maybe want to come to work with me tomorrow, honey?" He knows he should ask you about this and Willow will have to come along or she'll throw a temper tantrum but sometimes he thinks Wren needs a little extra love. She doesn't shout for attention in the manner Willow does. Sometimes she needs to be noticed and needs to feel special.

Then, Wren starts doing that happy gurgle-laugh thing. She swings her legs, tiny socked feet hitting the utensil drawer. She nods quickly, completely excited. "I'll have to talk with mummy about it but you and me will do something special. That sound nice?"

"Yeah!" She squeals and claps her hands.

Her excitement rubs off on Alex, giving him something to smile about. He nuzzles his nose with hers. He can't get over how precious she is. "Yeah," he repeats, completely content. In moments like this, he doesn't feel like he's completely failed as a parent.

Willow comes walking in, patting her stomach, asking, "Is the mac & cheese ready? I'm 'ungry."

Putting the twins to bed can either be the easiest part of the day or the hardest. Wren nearly passes out in the bathtub, running on limited sleep. Willow refuses to stay in bed. When you leave the room, she pops out of bed and starts playing with her toys in the dark.

Alex goes in to kiss her goodnight after he lays Wren down and finds her bouncing on her bed. She stalls at the sight of Alex, clear that she has been caught out. "Bedtime, missy," he tells her.

She giggles but plops down on her butt. "I'm not tired," she states like there is simply no argument to be made.

Alex sighs and sits on the edge of her tiny bed. "But I'm tired."

"You can go to bed. That's okay, daddy." She touches his arm like she's reassuring him she'll be fine.

Alex huffs a laugh into his hand. He doesn't want Will to get excited that she's making her dad laugh. "I can't go to bed unless you go to bed. It's the rules."

She closes her eyes and flops down on the bed dramatically, pushing the air loudly out of her pillow. "Fine." She seems like she's making an attempt, but then she opens her eyes wide and demands, "Story first."

He knows you probably read her two stories already and he shouldn't give in but you're in the shower and he'll be waiting all alone in bed for you so why shouldn't he kill some time with one of his girls? "One."

She claps her little kiddie hands. "You can pick," she says like she's doing him a favour.

And she kind of is because if he has to read Goldilocks again, he might lose it. "Rumplestiltskin it is." He's always liked it and he knows Will likes the straw turning into gold part.

He picks up the book of the collected Brothers Grimm fairy tales. Part of him can never deny reading the girls (including you) a story. You all do the same thing: cuddle up beside him, lay your head on his arm, point at the pictures, and say a comment on every sentence if only to make reading time just a bit longer. Will curls his fingers around his forearm and falls asleep halfway through the story but he finishes it anyway. Partly because he knows if Will is pretending to be asleep and he doesn't finish the whole thing she'll insist he has to read her another one. (The other part because he loves the story).

You've just exited the bathroom with wet hair and a towel wrapped around you when Alex enters your bedroom. "Everyone went to sleep alright?" You're going through the drawers, looking for pajamas.

"Yeah. Will had me read her another story but she conked out quick."

You smirk. "Will had you read another story or you wanted to read another story?"

He rolls his eyes at you mocking him before admitting, "Both."

You laugh at him, your sweet boy. The house can feel overrun with girls sometimes, even the cat is a girl, but Alex never seems to mind. He likes all the girlish things the girls like. Tea parties and dress-up, although, he did get noticeably a little more excited when the girls started kicking around a football. But then Alex just said, "Girls are better at football anyway."

He's better at tea parties than football anyway. He doesn't even try to pretend to lose to the girls when they play 2 v. 1 with him. They are sneaky and tiny and like Pepper does, they wrap around and slide through his legs to kick into his goal. Meanwhile, he thrives at the tea parties, drinking whatever concoction the girls make, even if it tastes like plastic. You always pretend to sip but Alex is the real deal. Always has been.

"Did you miss me while I was gone?" He asks, leaning against the wall, trying to tempt you.

You smile, dropping the towel, leaving you naked in his view for five seconds before you toss a T-shirt over your head. "No, not really."

The T-shirt is red and he's like a bull as he charges toward you, picks you up, and lands both of you on the bed. You're giggling affectionately into the kiss and it's completely loved-up and lovely and you both love that but Alex and you clearly want more. You push him up, off of your lips. "Shut the door."

Sex with the kids can be challenging. Before you did it every time, every surface you could find. Now, you mostly do it at night, rarely in the morning because the girls are always up early. You can't do it every night. Sometimes you can tell the girls didn't fall asleep or you're tired or Alex passed out while you were in the shower.

Despite the scheduling-sounding nature of things, sex still seems spontaneous. Like a random gust of wind felt upon the skin. Alex always makes things exciting and after doing it more times than you can count, it never bores. The predictability of it is what makes it so charged, so romantic, so sexual, so loving. You can tell by the thrust of his hips whether he's close or not. He can tell by the furrow of your brow whether he's hitting that spot in you or not. It has always felt right.

He's fast in his steps, locking the door, and pretty much launching himself back onto the bed. He covers you, completely all over you, kissing you, feeling you up. He reaches under your shirt, pushing it up to expose your boobs, but not taking it off. He grabs them, a fistful at first, then just the nipple. He kisses down your neck, over the collection of your shirt's fabric, onto the skin of your boobs, and then the areola, licking over the wrinkles of it before meeting the erected nipple.

There are times when you do devote time to foreplay. Alex loves it. You love it. Both ways. You both have always been reciprocal naturally. You never need to ask the other for more. In fact, more often you ask for less. Like...

"This feels really nice," you tell him, "but I'm tired and I know you're tired so just fuck me, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees, breathing heavily already. He stands to take his clothes off. You don't bother shedding the top. He can fondle your boobs just fine with it still on and it provides an emergency cover if one of the girls walks in.

Alex lays back on you intently, kissing you harshly. You reach down to hold his cock, pumping him a few times before his hand takes over and slides into you. The idea of it is quick but the pace is rocking, not fast, not slow, just right. You furrow your brows and arch up into him. He reaches into the space underneath the arch and holds you, completely skin-to-skin. He lays kisses on your neck in no particular pattern like he isn't even trying to turn you on more, he just wants to do it.

You grip the back of his head's hair, clumps in your compressed grasp. "More," you urge, needing just a little more to tip over.

His mouth moves next to your ear, whispering, "Want me to fuck another baby into you?"

It makes you snort a laugh right in the middle of sex. You have to physically stop his hips from moving as you collect your breath. "What? Another set of twins?"

"Yeah. With my super sperm." He's jokingly bragged about that with you since you found out you were having twins. You corrected him and said it was your eggs that made the twins since they're fraternal. He said, "No, it was a really good load, I remember." It's always made you laugh.

"Twin boys now?" You ask.

He shrugs. "Or more girls? I don't mind."

Everything about him is calm, but there is sincerity in all of it. "Are we seriously talking about more kids while you're inside me?"

Alex makes small movements inside you. "Yeah, come on." He leans closer and closer to you. "We make cute kids. The girls are older. I know you want it."

You place your hands on his shoulders. "Right now I just want you so can we do that part before the 9-month part?"

He nods. "Cart before the horse."

You laugh and tug him down into your shoulder. You whisper into his ear as his hips begin to move harder and harder, "Fuck a baby into me."

Alex chuckles and kisses your jugular. He quickens, both of you feeling an ache for release conjuring inside you. He moves harder and pulls your hips to him. He's doing all the work, but he doesn't mind, he likes doing this for you, likes being good for you. That's all he wants to do.

"That feel good?" He has asked this almost every time you've had sex like, no matter what, even after doing this for years, he wants to make sure it's as good as the last time.

You hum in the affirmative, feeling too overwhelmed to talk clearly. Your grip around his neck tightens as you drag him closer down to you. He keeps thrusting into you hard, skin hitting skin sounding across the room.

"So fucking tight," he groans into your ear.

His pace is quick, erratic, and eager. His breath is heavy and filled with soft grunts. His hands are rough, squeezing on your hips. You know he's holding on for you but you want him to enjoy it too. It doesn't always have to be about you. "Let go," you tell him.

But he's hot for it, not rejecting your request like you thought he would. "You want it?" He asks.

You nod, fluttering eyes.

"Tell me," he says, pounding deep.

You scrap your nails down his back soothingly. "I want it. Deep in me." He hums, requesting more without saying it. "Fill me up with your cum. Please."

Maybe it's your words, maybe it's how close he was, or maybe it's both, but he cums instantly after, deep inside you, filling you up. He groans and pants into your neck. He rests inside you, holding everything in, while he catches his breath. You comb your fingers through his hair, calming him.

He raises his head so he's looking down on you. "You okay?"

You softly smile, exhaustion hovering over you. "Yeah."

"You don't cum," he comments.

You shrug. "I got what I wanted."

Alex grunts. "God, you're gonna make me cum again."

You push him up, making him hiss at the sensitivity. "Don't," you command.

He pulls out slowly and before you can even say anything, he's got his fingers inside you, keeping all that cum in, making a mess on his finger. It takes you off guard, making you moan instantly. He's quick with everything, knowing you want to go to bed, hoping to release the tension and ease you into relaxation.

His two fingers shove in and out of you rapidly. He curls them just in the right spot, making you moan, "Fuck." His thumb grazes over your clit, just like how he knows to do it. It's messy, the whole thing is a mess, but it feels like the hottest thing ever, and soon your hips are unable to stay still and you're coming.

It's your turn to catch your breath and he's licking your shared cum off his hands. He makes a face. "I don't think I've ever tasted my own cum."

You reach out and grab his hand, taking the still-dirty finger into your mouth, and licking it clean. "You've made me taste both before."

He kisses your lips before getting off the bed to grab tissues. "Don't act like it was against your will. I recall you liking it."

You sigh, sitting up and fixing your shirt. "We're gonna have to change the sheets."

Alex hands you a few tissues and says, "I'll do it. You clean yourself up." You'll always accept him doing all the work.

It’s three in the morning when a tiny hand shakes Alex awake, and he opens his eyes to find Wren there holding her stuffed teddy bear against her chest, cheeks wet from crying. “I wet the bed.”

“Oh,” Alex says, while his heart rate settles. He looks around to get his bearings and finds you out of it to his right, curled up on your side. He blinks the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes as Wren sniffles miserably, and he pushes up to wipe her jaw dry. “Hey, it’s okay, baby. It just happens sometimes, alright?”

“But I'm not ‘posed to,” she croaks. “I’m supposed to be a big girl now. I’m sorry.”

“No, hey,” Alex kisses her forehead. “It’ll be fine, come on.”

She holds onto his hand and he leads her into the bathroom, running the water to warm and filling the tub with strawberry-scented bubbles. Once she’s in, he lets her play with her rubber ducks for a while to calm down. She splashes them and chews on their tails and presses their drawn-on smiles to his cheek as a kiss. "Muah," she says, and he loves her so much it hurts.

He runs a hand over her damp hair. “I’m gonna go fix your bed, okay? Just keep playing.”

Wren nods, so he leaves her with the door wide open and the light cascading into the hall. Strips her bed of the old sheets and carries them over to the wash. When he comes back, she’s resting her chin against the edge of the tub, waiting for him.

His head tilts, looking down at her big eyes on her little face. “Hey, Peanut.”

“Hi,” she says, timid. “Do you still love me?”

Alex frowns and sits down in front of her on the cold tile. “Why wouldn’t I still love you?”

“M’no good,” she whispers. “M’not small anymore, and I miss you all the time, and—”

“Alright, hey,” Alex cuts in gently, pushing her hair behind her ears to hold her face, all flushed chubby cheeks. He hates himself. Feels like he has made her feel this way. Made her feel unloved and he'll beat himself up for it every day. Never forgive himself for making her doubt his love. "I know I’ve been gone a lot, and I’m really sorry, but I miss you the whole time I’m away. All I wanna do is be here with you, okay? I promise. I love you,” he says, kissing her freckled nose and watching it crinkle up, “so much. I hope you know that.”

She nods, bites her lower lip, and chews. “You love mummy?”

“Yes,” Alex says. “Tons.”

“Is tons a lot?” She asks, and he notices her eyes flit over his shoulder, which gives him a pretty good idea of why she’s asking.

“It is,” he confirms, glancing behind him and finding you in the doorway, hair thrown up, wearing that ratty old red tee. You grin and lean against the door jamb, eyes soft. “The better question is: does mummy love daddy?”

You laugh. “Tons squared,” she promises. “Come on, it’s bedtime, baby.”

“Can I sleep with you?” Wren asks, anxious.

Alex kisses her cheek. “Of course,” he says and leans around her to pull the drain. You come over to help her dry off and Alex goes to grab her fresh pajamas. You both help her dress because she’s all sleepy from the warmth of the bath, and she’d get lost in her shirt if you weren’t around. Alex picks her up and carries her to their bed, laying her down between them so they can both hold her.

"You okay, honey?" You ask Wren, running your fingers through her hair, calming her like you do for him.

She nods, her eyes slowly closing, sleep taking her away from you.

Alex kisses her cheek lightly, not wanting to disturb her sleep. "Love you."

You repeat his action, kissing her baby skin cheek. "Me too." But she's already fallen asleep, exhausted from her little life.

You look across at Alex, his eyes cautiously looking over Wren. "Hey," you whisper to him to grab his attention. His gaze meets yours, his eyes solemn, but affectionate. "Love you."

He smiles because that's just what he needs. That's all he'll ever need. "Me too."

A hand pushes on your back somewhere around 4 in the morning. You turn around at the expected sight: Willow holding her stuffed teddy bear, thumb in her mouth, scared little eyes.

"What's wrong, baby?" You ask her, reaching out and smoothing back her messy hair.

"I had a night'are." Her voice wobbles. Alex and Wren are still sound asleep. You reach down to pick her up, laying her on your chest and hugging her to you, wanting to keep her safe from all the evil things awakening her.

"Everything's okay," you reassure.

"What's wrong?" You turn to see Alex, alert and worried rubbing his eyes.

"Nightmare."

Willow turns her head to look at her dad. "Oh," she says, "there's Wen. I was scared she wasn't where she was."

Alex reaches his arm over a sleeping Wren and rubs Willow's back, hushing her rapid heartbeat. "She's been in here. She got scared too but she's okay. She's sleeping now."

Willow keeps her voice low, understanding to keep quiet. "I went lookin' for her but she wasn't in her room."

"Why did you go to her room, honey? Why didn’t you come in here?" You ask.

"'Cause I always go there when I'm scared. Wen goes 'Everyting's okay' and then I know it will be 'cause she said so." She's so sweet, she hides it sometimes, doesn't like to give it away, she's careful with who she gives it to and you're sure nobody loves someone like Willow and Wren love each other. For that, Alex doesn't have to worry. He knows Willow and Wren will always look out for each other.

You kiss Willow's cheek and slide her carefully next to Wren. The bed is just big enough to fit you all but you have to hold steady to not tip off the bed. The girls are comfortable though and that's all that matters.

"We should sleep in here all the time," Willow says.

You and Alex both laugh quietly at your little girl. "Maybe," Alex says.

"Pep should be here too."

So, Alex goes and gets Pepper.

a/n: i hope the names are fine. i just tried to pick two twin-sounding names. whatever that means.

#alex turner fic #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x reader #alex turner x oc #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner #alex turner smut #junedenim

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cosmicdenro · 4 months ago

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half-assed Stickmintober masterpost :D

i used and mixed 2 prompts by @dome_draws_9 (twitter) and @sketchydesign78 for this year :] didn't finish it as you see!! very busy..... but i still have like 2 wips of 2 days that i may or may not finish...

#stickmintober2024 #thsc #scriboozles #the henry stickmin collection #big tags comingf #right hand man reborn #reginald copperbottom #rhm #right hand man #Rupert price #dave panpa #hubert galeforce #sam turner #thsc oc #zainab #mein gott

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soundlessroom · 7 months ago

Note

what did gale do to propose?

It was less a "what he did" and more "when he did it" Let’s say both were under time pressure. But so was the person betrothing them.

Cannot believe this ask actually made me finally draw this joke I have in my mind since forever. As a Magistrate of course it would be Astarion who has to bethroth them.

They are best friends. ♥

(I assume this is about the one Comic? =>)

#♪♫~ WeaveChaos || Gale #♪♫~ oc: ceres #astarion #astarion ancunin #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #pirates of the caribbean #barbossa #will turner #elizabeth swann #comic #♪♫~ My Art #(I never get/got an ask like that; so I kinda went all out on that one; thank you so much for it!!! ;v;)

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goblinontour · 25 days ago

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Is This What You Wanted

be warned, it can get sticky

warnings: implied daddy issues, other issues, and also implications of abuse, i guess, established relationship but it’s not properly acknowledged because of the aforementioned issues, explicit stuff, eating and stroking, kinda sub alex, ya know…

word count: 10k

You don’t remember the first time. Or the second. Or the third…and so on. You don’t recall when it started, or why, or what you did to deserve it. All you know is that you were fine — until you weren’t. And even then, you were still…fine, just a little less. A little fractured in places you couldn’t see, in ways you didn’t fully understand.

Because all those times he hurt you would slip in through the cracks of your mind, pop up in your head when you least expected them. Not the first time, not the second, but all the other times, the ones that blurred together in a way that made you feel crazy. When you were twelve. But no, that couldn’t have been the first time, because there’s that one memory from when you were nine. And from when you were eight. And from when you were-

“Don’t.”

It comes out as a whisper, barely there, even as your body betrays you with a flinch inflicted upon you by his touch. A reflex. You don’t mean to do it, but you feel it — sharp and involuntary, like muscle memory acting on something that isn’t there.

His touch is barely a touch. A single finger against your shoulder, the weight of his whir of breath following a second later. He’s harmless. You know that. Both in his intention and in his being.

Alex is…he’s soft. In all the ways that matter. You’ve never seen him hurt anything other than the bugs you ask him to kill, when you spot them clinging high up to the ceiling lamp or hidden in the folds of the curtains. He’s scared of them too. You’ve seen it in the way his hands tremble before they make contact, the way he hesitates just a second too long before he does what you asked. But he hides it, at least when you’re around.

Didn’t he do the same, though?

No. No…

“Don’t…what?” His voice is quiet, careful.

The finger lifts from where it barely made contact. Retracts, like he’s just now realising he may have done something wrong, though he doesn’t know what. But he keeps it near. His whole hand lingers in a kind of touchless caress, hovering in the space between you, like an offer that only says: I don’t mean to harm, I want to comfort you. You can see it. You know that.

But you’ve scared him away.

His eyes tell you that much.

“No- it’s- it’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

It’s half-swallowed before it even reaches the air between you. Not much more than a mumble that he’s somehow meant to understand the meaning of. He seems to struggle with that more and more.

It’s his turn to flinch now, just barely.

He tries to understand, tries to figure it out — figure you out — and maybe sometimes he does. Sometimes he thinks he gets it, maybe. But it’s mostly a guessing game, and it keeps him on his toes at all times, on edge, and it makes him all too aware of how much he doesn’t understand. There’s this feeling that he’s lacking which hovers over him. And that makes him want to pull away, to not risk making things worse, do more harm than good, regardless of his own intentions. He just does not want to be another source of pain.

But he doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

You think it’s because he wants to understand more than he wants to retreat.

You should be grateful for that. And you are, in a way, but it doesn’t do anything to hide or mark or erase the fact that you flinched at his touch. That he saw it. That it settled somewhere deep inside of him, just as it did inside of you.

It’s not the first time either. And it never gets easier. Not for him, not for you. It’s all hanging in the air between you, in the tension of his stillness, in the way his hand hovers like it’s caught between what it wants to do and what it should do. Like he doesn’t know which will be worse — closing the distance or letting it stay.

You can’t blame him.

And you know it must pain him. It must hurt — though he’ll never say so. Not his ego, no, never his ego, but something deeper. His heart, or most likely his soul, whatever part of him holds the weight of things like this, absorbs moments like this and carries them until they weigh him down altogether. He’ll never say this either, but you know it lingers. The way all things linger between you. You don’t know how long it will stay with him. Maybe forever. Maybe just until the next time. Until it happens again, and again, and again.

You wish you could make it easier for him. You wish he didn’t have to be careful with you, that he didn’t have to hesitate. But wishing doesn’t change anything.

You’re aware of it. Too aware. Hyper-aware of yourself, in fact, of your movements, of how you exist — especially around him. You’ve trained yourself to be. And you try to keep it like that, for his sake, more than anything. For your own, too, but that’s…that’s besides the point.

You know when to breathe and when to move and when to hold still. You know how to be without actually being too much. You know not to flinch. You know to embrace instead.

But he…he startled you just now. Caught you off guard. You must not have heard him coming, or else you wouldn’t have let yourself slip like that. Wouldn’t have let that instinctual recoil betray you.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble it again, softer this time.

His fingers twitch where they hover. Close, but not touching. His hand still lingers in that space — uncertain, waiting. He’s always waiting for you.

And before he can answer, before he can find words for whatever it is he’s thinking or before he can think of what to do with his still-hovering hand, you take it. You take that waiting hand in yours and tug. His fingers are curled slightly, but you slip yours through the spaces they leave behind and tug again — not forcefully, but insistently, don’t want him to think you’re…forcing anything.

But he follows easily, loose and unresisting at first, until it registers in his mind — what you want. What you’re asking for. He’s giving you time to change your mind, time to stop him if this isn’t what you want. But you don’t stop him. You don’t even think about it.

You guide him instead.

Only then, when it clicks to him, does he let it move again.

You feel it happen. It’s quite obvious when it does too, when the moment comes. The moment when he allows it. His arm goes heavy and it folds around you, the full weight of his limb settling into your grip as you pull it around yourself. His palm lands against your ribs first, warm even through the fabric of your shirt. The tips of his fingers just barely skim your side, a fleeting brush of something delicate. Then his hand shifts, adjusting, finding a place to rest more fully.

That’s when the back of his palm quiets down beneath your own, cradled there where your fingers press as if to make sure he stays.

As if he would ever leave.

The rest of him follows, flowing naturally. His other arm curves up, bends at the elbow, his wrist tucking close. His hand finds its place too, landing somewhere near his opposite armpit as he manoeuvres himself over the curve of your shoulder so he can rest his chest against your back. The embrace is equally ill-fitted to the moment, to the hesitation still thick in the space between you. It’s awkward, not perfect, not effortless. It’s careful. Measured.

You exhale. You let yourself breathe.

And he doesn’t move away.

That’s…nice.

It shouldn’t feel like such a relief. It shouldn’t feel like something to be grateful for. But it does, and you are.

His warmth presses into you, his body close enough that you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s so still. Not rigid, not hesitant, just…waiting. For you, maybe. For the moment to pass.

“How are you, dear? Is everything okay?”

His voice is quiet, soft in a way that makes your chest ache. There’s no demand in it, only curiosity and care.

Oh. He’s not mad.

That realisation washes over you slowly, sluggishly, like warm water over cold hands or a weighted blanket grounding you, if only a little. It loosens something in your chest, but not completely. There’s still tension there, a tight knot that doesn’t quite unwind.

Your other hand cramps, fingers stiff, and you finally notice the way they’ve been locked in a too-tight hold around the knife handle this whole time. You feel it now, the dull ache. It’s not a conscious grasp. Not in a way that implies any real threat, at least not intentionally, just…holding. Gripping. Frozen mid-motion and locked in place as if his presence alone had paused you in time.

You glance down. The cutting board is a mess of deep purple, streaked with grape juice, dark and staining into the grain of the wood. Halved grapes sit in uneven little piles, some quartered, some still waiting to be cut down smaller and have their seeds removed. He’d accidentally bought the seeded ones the other day, and you hadn’t said anything at the time. It wasn’t his fault, but you still couldn’t stand them. You hated the way the seeds would interrupt the bite, the way they’d crunch as they burst between your teeth, sending vibrations up through your skull. He didn’t mind them — he just swallowed them whole.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t risk it. And you were tired of having to stop and spit them out after every bite. So now you were here, making arguably more of a mess in an attempt to avoid the small discomfort of dealing with them later.

How long have you been standing here, caught in the moment, in your own head?

The knife clinks softly as you set it down.

“You scared me.”

He exhales, barely a sigh. Not frustrated, not annoyed. Accepting.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

It’s such a simple response, and it’s so immediate and genuine that it makes you feel worse. You hate that. You hate that you made him feel like he needed to apologise, like he did something wrong. He didn’t. He never does.

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A small silence settles between you. His grip hasn’t loosened, but he’s not holding you any tighter either. He’s just…there. Steady and unmoving. He’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.

Your fingers twitch, sticky with the syrupy juice of the grapes. You hover your hand awkwardly over the counter, just the ball of your palm making contact for some balance, reluctant to spread the mess further and risk making everything in this kitchen sticky as well. There’s a towel hanging by the sink, but it’s too far out of reach, and even if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be able to lift your arm to get to it and grab it.

Because he’s still holding you.

Not forcefully, like a restraint, but…firmly. Securely. Like he’s making sure you don’t slip away entirely.

You don’t really want to move, anyway.

His presence is grounding, in its own way. He’s solid, and real, and something tangible to focus on. You breathe him in without meaning to, his scent familiar, comforting — soap, fabric softener, something faintly sweet, like the remnants of whatever tea he was drinking earlier.

He doesn’t push.

But he’s watching you, waiting. Not impatiently, not expectantly, simply aware.

He knows. He always does. He knows you’re avoiding the question, knows that your backhanded response isn’t an answer at all. But he won’t press. He won’t. Not right now. It’s obvious.

Everything’s not okay.

And that’s okay.

“Can I have some?” he asks, cautious in the way he speaks when he’s not sure if he’s allowed to break the moment.

You blink, not quite processing the question at first.

“What?”

“Some of-” His little finger wiggles its way out from beneath your palm, struggling against the weight of your hand, and when it finally escapes, it straightens, pointing toward the fruit still glistening on the cutting board. “-that.”

You notice, then, the way his pinky twitches, just barely. It’s subtle, but it’s there — a small, involuntary tremor. And for a second, you aren’t sure if it’s because of nerves or…but no, it’s probably just the nature of the pinky itself because the pinky finger is notoriously weak, small and stubborn but prone to struggling under pressure. It’s complaining about the demand from his brain to move. The rest of him stays still, but his hand, his fingers — there’s something there.

Your own fingers flex in your lap, sticky with juice, and it takes you a second too long to respond.

“Oh. Right.”

He doesn’t let go of you right away. There’s a hesitation in the way he lingers, fingers still curled loosely around your arm, like he isn’t ready to let the contact fade just yet. And maybe he isn’t. Maybe he would hold on longer if he thought he could get away with it.

But he can’t — not if he wants the fruit — so he loosens his hold.

You shift just enough to grab a whole grape from the pile, pinching it between your fingertips. Juice clings instantly to your skin, seeping from where the thin membrane had already split under the weight of the knife earlier. It’s sticky, already binding to the ridges of your fingerprints, and you don’t think much before lifting your hand toward him.

You don’t turn your head fully — only the sufficient amount to gauge where he is in your peripheral vision, just so you won’t accidentally jab him in the nose or, worse, in the eye. You aren’t looking directly at him, so the action still feels somewhat blind, but he makes it easy.

His lips part first, then his jaw follows, mouth opening slightly to accommodate your offering. His tongue darts out — not far, but far enough to brush against the grape before retreating, waiting.

You press it inside.

And then he closes his mouth.

His lips seal around the fruit — around your fingers, too.

There’s a split second where you’re frozen. Just for a second, you don’t react, don’t process. But that second stretches long because his mouth is warm, and his lips are soft, and your fingers are still in there, still caught in that brief space between inside and out. Then you feel the slight pressure of his teeth just hovering beneath the surface of his lips, not biting down, just there. Your breath catches. You keep thinking he’ll let you go, that it was just an accident, that he hadn’t meant to catch you in the process.

But then…he doesn’t.

He doesn’t even let you pull away.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, warm and firm, holding — keeping you there.

Keeping you close.

Your breath stutters.

You can’t do anything but watch.

You watch, as he takes two of your fingers deeper. His lips stretch around them slightly, and you can feel the heat of his mouth even more now, the soft dampness inside. His lips stretch a little more, and then — then he moves his tongue.

A slow drag against the backs of your knuckles.

It’s warm.

It’s wet.

It’s so sudden, so enveloping, and you can feel everything — the swell of his tongue as it brushes against your skin, the soft press of his inner lip where it molds around the shape of your fingers, the slight suction when he moves just enough to make it clear that he’s doing something, that he is choosing to do this. Slow and intentional, lapping up the sweetness, the stickiness, the lingering juice, the remnants of the mess that had stuck to you.

Something presses tight inside you, and your chest stutters, and before you can think, before you can stop it, a small sound slips out — one you barely register yourself.

It’s basically nothing. Just a quiet, involuntary thing that escapes from your throat, part surprise, part something else. Something you don’t have the words for. It’s not loud, but it’s there, and you know he hears it.

Your instinct is to pull back, to retreat, to reclaim that piece of yourself, but he holds you steady for just a moment longer, just long enough to make sure you feel it.

The press of his tongue.

The heat of his mouth.

The way his lips stay just slightly parted, reluctant to let you go.

His grip on your wrist doesn’t tighten, doesn’t get rough, but you can feel the weight of it, can feel the way his thumb moves in a slow, absentminded circle against the inside of your wrist, like he’s feeling for something there, like he’s mapping it out.

And maybe you would’ve let him stay there a little longer, take a little more.

But there’s still that pressure against his hold, that small but present resistance against his grip tells him you’re trying to pull away.

So…he lets you.

Just as smoothly as he caught you, he releases you.

Your fingers slip free from his mouth, dragging lightly against the plush curve of his bottom lip before retreating fully.

They’re wet now.

You can feel it. The lingering dampness, the faint stickiness mixed with something warmer, something slicker. You fight the instinct and try not to rub them together to feel just how wet they are, because you already know. You try not to acknowledge that he’s feeling it too — that he knows.

You try not to think about it.

But then he kisses them.

Just once at first. A light, lazy press of his lips.

One kiss, then another, and another, and then one more, mouth barely moving but still doing something, still lingering in a way that makes the feeling of it settle deep inside you, makes it root somewhere in your ribs.

Soft, slow, lingering.

You don’t move.

One more. Just before your fingers curl in on themselves slightly, a silent request for him to stop.

He listens.

But he doesn’t move far.

“Was it a sour one?” you ask, because his nose is scrunching slightly.

“No, I think I’ve got-” He cuts himself off, shifting to rub his face against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt catches against the curve of his cheek, dragging along the skin. His whole expression shifts with the motion — nose scrunched even more, brows furrowed, lips pursed.

It’s a funny little sight, almost boyish in its casualness.

The way his nose gets smushed makes something tug in your chest. It’s stupid. The way your stomach clenches slightly at the sight of it.

You want to do it instead.

The absurd, sudden urge to press your own nose against his, to mirror the pressure, to feel the warmth of it, until they flatten together, until neither of you can breathe properly.

But before you can even think about doing something like that, it’s too late.

He’s already done.

“I had fluff on my nose, I think.”

His voice is still muffled against the fabric, and when he pulls back, there’s a faint, barely visible damp patch on his shirt where he wiped his face. You have the fleeting thought that he probably needs to change.

It’s going to bother you until he does, at least.

“It was sweet.” he says, thoughtful. Then, a pause. “And wet. No, it was…juicy. That’s the better way to describe it, right?”

“Yeah.”

He hums, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

And then, so effortlessly, so casually-

“I’ve been thinking about you a whole heap today.”

It shouldn’t make your stomach drop, but it does.

Not in a bad way, anxious way — just in a way that makes your breath catch.

It lands heavier than it should.

You don’t know why.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, the ghost of his mouth still lingering on them, still there in the faint wetness of your skin, and you fight the urge to press them against something solid, something cool or to just wipe them down, anywhere. You swallow, shifting slightly, but he doesn’t let you move too far. His arm is still there, keeping you close, the weight of it comfortable. Protective, maybe.

“You have?” Your voice is small. Quiet. Cautious, almost.

He lets out a breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, but something in between. His fingers tighten around you briefly before relaxing again, smoothing over the skin of your arm like he’s trying to reassure you.

“Yeah.”

That’s all he gives you at first.

Just that.

But then he shifts, resting his chin against the top of your head, and you can feel the way his jaw moves, the way his voice vibrates slightly when he speaks.

“I think about you a lot, actually. You know that, don’t you?”

Your chest feels tight, but not in a bad way. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything.

But he keeps going before you can try to find the words.

“Not in a weird way.” he adds quickly, eyes flickering to yours, then away. “Just in a…normal way, I suppose. In a ‘you’re always kind of there in the back of my head’ way.”

You turn slightly, just enough to glance up at him. His expression is unreadable at first, but then — then he smiles. Small. Almost sheepish.

“Like today,” he continues, “I was walking home, and I saw this cat curled up on this little patch of grass by the sidewalk. It reminded me of the way you sleep sometimes. All tucked into yourself, like you’re trying to make yourself smaller even though you don’t have to.”

Your breath catches.

“And then I saw this kid throwing a fit at the store. His mum wouldn’t let him get the sweets he wanted, and he was just…he was fuming, right? Red in the face, whole body so…angry, ready to throw hands with his own mother, can you believe that? And…I don’t know, it made me think of the way you get when you’re annoyed but trying really hard not to show it. That little clench in your jaw, the way your nose scrunches up just slightly even though you think it doesn’t. This were all before the cat. I like that look on you, by the way, even though…it’s just- it’s cute, you know?”

You swallow.

“And then I were making tea earlier, and I thought about how you always steal mine even though you pretend you don’t like the kind I drink. And then I saw the grapes in the fridge, and I remembered that you’re coming ‘ere and how you can’t stand the seeds and how I forgot to buy that other kind ‘cause I got distracted and I just…”

He stops.

He’s only now realising how much he’s said.

Like he didn’t mean to say it all, it just spilled out without him meaning to let it, but now it’s too late to take it back.

The nervousness starts creeping in despite how calm his voice had been just moments before. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest against your skin when he finally murmurs-

“I don’t know. It’s- I don’t know. It’s stupid. I just-”

“It’s not stupid.”

The words come out before you can think twice about them. And they’re true. They feel true, at least. In a way that settles deep inside you, in a place you don’t visit often.

He looks at you. Really looks.

And for a moment, you think he might say something else.

But then his eyes flicker downward, just briefly, to your hand still resting against his chest, and without thinking, you reach up. Wipe at the spot on his shirt where he’d rubbed his face earlier.

“You’re gonna need to change.”

He blinks at you.

Then he laughs, soft and warm.

It’s a deflection. A quiet one. But he takes it for what it is.

“Yeah. I know. But I love you, you know that?”

Oh, Alex.

How can he just say stuff like that so easily?

Love is something you never really asked for. Not outright. Maybe in the small, subtle ways. Only surreptitiously. Through how you let yourself be held, how you sometimes leaned into him instead of away. In the pauses between your sentences where a confession might have fit, had you dared to speak it. In the moments where your silence wasn’t meant to be emptiness, but an invitation, an unspoken one, a hesitant hope that it might settle somewhere near you without demanding too much.

You never outright asked, you let it linger, in the little ways.

But never like this. Never so bluntly.

And now, here he is — giving it to you anyway. So easily. So thoughtlessly, as if the words aren’t heavy at all, as if they don’t carry weight. But they do. God, they do.

Because in moments like this, you find it hard to say it out loud. Not because you don’t feel it. Not because you don’t want to say it. It’s not the reciprocation part of it — no, never that. But the acknowledgment. The reality of his love feels bigger than your own. Like holding something too delicate, too important, afraid your grip will crush it even as you try to be gentle.

How could he? How could he love you? How could he say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world?

“Don’t you trust me?”

Your silence must have stretched too long already. It only feels like a few seconds, but seconds can be too long. You know that.

He needs you to-

“Look at me, babe. Look into my eyes.”

He shifts, his arms still wrapped around you, still holding you in that way that makes escape impossible — not that you were truly trying to escape. Just…resisting. Sort of. Holding yourself back in that way you always do. But now — now he turns you, adjusts you in his grip, moves you until-

His face is right there.

His lips slightly parted, like he might say something else. He’s mostly waiting to see if you’ll give him a reason to.

You have nowhere else to look but him.

Or you could look down, at the buttons on his shirt, instead.

Three of them, forming a neat little vertical line leading up to his collar. The one at the very top left undone, gaping slightly. You wonder if it’s because it’s too tight when all of them are fastened, pressing against his throat, leaving a mark against his skin. Or maybe he just forgot to slip it through the loop in his usual rush, because shirts like this are difficult to pull over your head unless you undo at least one — maybe even two. Or maybe it just came undone on its own, slipping free as he moved, as he stretched, as he dressed in the quiet of some morning that wasn’t meant to be significant but somehow still led to this.

And then-

Fuck.

His hand.

His fingers on your chin, tilting your face up, tilting you toward him, tilting you until there’s nowhere else to look but his eyes.

You can’t hide now.

“…And I do love you.” he says, voice softer now, but unwavering. “And you are awfully interesting. And I want to protect you from all pains and terrors.”

Has he been speaking this whole time? Have you missed something? Have you been so caught up in your own thoughts, in the rush of heat under your skin, in the weight of this moment that you just…blocked it out?

His thumb moves just slightly, the pad of it brushing over the curve of your jaw. It’s not much. Not enough to force anything, not enough to be demanding. Just enough to remind you that he’s still here. That he’s not letting go.

“Why?”

His brows furrow. Just slightly.

Not because he’s confused.

Because he doesn’t understand why you’re questioning something so obvious to him.

“Why what?”

“Why do you l-” You hesitate, tongue suddenly thick in your mouth. You swallow. Adjust. Start again. “Why do you say you…love me?”

His lips part, like he might laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you, the way he always does, the way that makes you feel like you’re something he’s trying to figure out, something he’s studying carefully, with a kind of tenderness you don’t know how to process.

“That’s an easy one.” he says. “I just can’t help it.”

And somehow that’s the answer that undoes you the most. You suppose there’s no match to be found for what he’s just said. No words weighty enough, no response clever or careful enough to balance the sheer simplicity of that.

So you don’t even try.

You lean in.

You press yourself against him, feeling the shift of his body as he adjusts — welcoming, always welcoming. You make yourself fit against him just right, like something clicking into place, like something that was meant to be there all along.

Your head finds his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft against your cheek, warmed by his skin beneath. He’s warm all over, like he always is, like he carries heat in his bones just to share it with you. His frame is small in your grip. It makes you feel like you could gather all of him into yourself, hold him there, keep him safe — keep him yours. Your arms slide around his waist, and it strikes you how easy it is to encompass him, how your hands press against his back and you can feel all of him beneath your palms. The subtle lines of muscle, the gentle curve of his spine, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath filling up his chest and then releasing, slow and deep.

He’s real.

You can feel every inch of him. The way his ribs expand, the quiet shift of his body as he leans just a little more into you. You could wrap yourself around him completely if you wanted, squeeze him tight and let him know without words that he belongs to you, that you belong to him.

He already knows. That’s why he doesn’t pull away though you always hold him like you’re afraid of something, some bits of him slipping through your fingers, or being taken away.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” His voice is quiet, meant only for you. “I didn’t-” A pause, a breath. His fingers press lightly against your side. “I’d never touch you like that…hurt you.”

“I know.”

You don’t see his face, but you feel the way he breathes, like he needed to hear that.

“Are you crying?”

You press your face closer into his shoulder, the warmth of him pressing back. His scent fills your lungs. The clean fabric of his shirt is damp now — maybe from you, maybe from him.

Oh, but it’s not clean.

The stain.

It’s there, subtle but there, darkened against the fabric, absorbed into the threads. You bet it would be sweet if you just let your tongue dart out, just for a second, just enough to taste.

But you don’t.

Not…not now.

“No.”

A lie. But a harmless one. One you need.

“Okay.” He doesn’t call you out on it. He just pulls you in tighter. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I know.”

You don’t hesitate.

Because it’s…it’s him!

And he’s different.

You know that. You do. You tell yourself that over and over again. Alex would never hurt you. Alex is good. Alex is safe. You repeat it like a mantra, like a prayer, because if you don’t, something else starts creeping in.

Alex would…he would never. Right? You don’t even think he has it in him. He’s too soft. Fragile in some ways, tender in others. He loves you, doesn’t he? You can feel it in the way he holds you now — carefully, protectively, like he’s afraid you might start to fight your way out of his grip if he so much as breathes the wrong way.

You don’t do that to someone you love.

No…that’s- that’s just wrong.

It’s wrong.

But then there’s that other part of you. The one that lurks in the shadows of your thoughts, whispering things you don’t want to hear. The one that reminds you that you never really know someone, not completely.

Because he was supposed to love you too, wasn’t he?

He said he did.

And still…

You remember the way his hands used to…

How his voice could turn from warm to ice-cold in an instant. How he never had to hit you for you to feel like you were being beaten down, over and over again.

You remember the way he made you feel like nothing.

You remember the way you let him.

So, yes — Alex is different.

But some things are so deeply ingrained in you that you don’t know how to believe it. You don’t know how to trust it.

Because you loved him too. Once.

And look where that got you.

“It’s okay, baby.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped up in the quiet. Wrapped up in him.

“It’s…it’s rotten work, that. What you’re trying to do.” you whisper.

Without pause, without a shred of doubt-

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.” His voice is certain. “We have to connect.”

Connect? Is that what he thinks this is?

You press your forehead against his collarbone, eyes squeezing shut.

Connection? You were in love.

“Do you want to kiss me?” you ask him. And it’s because you want him to, but you won’t be the one to do it. He has to.

He doesn’t move right away. That soft, steady gaze of his locks onto yours, like he’s trying to read something in your face — like he has to read something there before he makes a decision. His eyes flicker between yours, his brows drawn slightly, as if the answer isn’t already obvious, as if he doesn’t know exactly what you want from him.

But what is there to think about? It’s a yes or no question. Simple. Easy. It shouldn’t take this long for him to respond, and yet he hesitates.

Unless…unless it’s a no.

Your stomach twists at the thought. A slow, curling, ugly thing burrowing deep inside of you. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s fine. You’ll be fine. You always are. If he doesn’t want it, you won’t break. You won’t let it ruin you. You never do. You’re used to wanting things you can’t have, aren’t you?

But still — he’s looking at you, and his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t, like there’s something caught in his throat, something he can’t quite force out. And that hesitation — it’s not fine. You can feel it in your bones, in the space between your ribs, tightening, constricting, making it harder to breathe.

He exhales, warm air ghosting across your lips. His fingers twitch at your waist, flexing and releasing, like he’s fighting himself on something. And then he speaks. Too careful.

“I just want your happiness.” And God, you don’t know why it sounds like an apology. “I haven’t forgotten how you feel. Not yet.”

That little smile of his is meant to reassure you, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe it would, if you weren’t drowning him in everything else.

Because that’s not an answer.

Your throat aches. You want to smile back, you do. To tell him it’s okay, that you understand, that you can pretend this moment never happened. But right now, there’s something you want more than that, something just within reach. His lips are so close, you can almost feel them, almost taste them, you miss them — if he would just move.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, gripping onto it like if you let go, you might just fall apart. You wonder if he can feel how desperately you’re holding onto him.

He probably does. That’s why he hasn’t pulled away yet.

Your breath is shallow now, uneven, and you can feel your heartbeat against your ribs, loud and insistent, please, please, please. It’s a silent plea, your last effort at pulling him in.

“Please, kiss me.”

His lips crash against yours before you even have the chance to close your eyes, before you can brace for the impact, before you can process the way he’s devouring you, like he’s been starving all this time. And it’s — God — it’s harsh. It’s nothing like his hands that hold you so carefully, nothing like his voice, warm and low, curling around you. And it’s nothing like the way his lips felt against your fingers just minutes ago, his mouth a quiet plea rather than a demand.

No, this…this is rough. This is too much.

This is hunger. This is need.

He kisses you like he’s trying to erase something, like he’s trying to carve something new into you in its place. His teeth scrape against your lips, his breath hot, and there’s a desperation in the way he holds you now too, fingers digging into your waist like he needs to keep you right here.

And now you know.

It wasn’t a no.

He was holding back, trying to at least. But he can’t anymore. He’s not gentle, not even close — his lips press hard against yours, pushing, demanding. He doesn’t ease into it, doesn’t start soft before deepening it. No, he claims you all at once. Maybe you pushed him too far. Maybe you wanted to. Maybe this is exactly what you were hoping for — a chip in his restraint, a glimpse at something beneath all that tenderness.

Perhaps you’ve just made him crack.

His teeth catch against your lower lip, and you gasp, and before you know it his tongue is back in your mouth, stealing the breath from your lungs, filling you with the taste of him. And oh — he’s sweet. Not in a subtle way, not in the way he usually is, with quiet smiles and warm hands and careful words. It’s syrup coating your tongue, sticky and inescapable.

It spreads through you, through your veins, until you don’t know where you end and he begins.

And you let it happen.

Day by day, this has been happening. Slowly, gradually. The shift, the surrender. Shrinking, softening, yielding. Adapting to fit against him just right.

Because this is where you belong. This moment. This place.

Where his lips are on yours. Where his hands press into your skin, holding, owning, keeping.

Where his taste fills your mouth.

Where sweetness explodes on your tongue.

Thick and overwhelming, dripping down your throat, drowning you in something that feels dangerously close to forever.

“Touch me, touch me.” You beg when he gives you a chance to catch your breath. Your palms feel the back of his neck burning hot, his skin damp with sweat, his pulse hammering beneath your fingertips. His teeth scrape hard against the delicate skin of your throat, the place that can’t conceal the frantic beating of your heart anymore — it’s too strong, too loud, and there’s nothing left to cover it up except his mouth. He fits just right. His lips press there, sealing over the frantic rhythm, his throat swallowing down the sounds you make, drinking them in like they belong to him.

Then he pulls back. Sharp. Sudden.

“Sorry- I’m sorry.”

You watch the realisation settle over his face — the way his lips part, his brows pull together, his whole body tensing. He’s staring at your throat, at the place where his teeth have left something undeniable behind. Blood rises to the surface in the shape of his mouth, blooming red beneath your skin. His mark.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice wavers.

Alex’s face is red, flushed all the way down his neck, his whole body trembling. He only stops shaking when you hold onto him. It’s his way of engaging with the guilt, of giving himself permission to feel it. He has to convince himself that this isn’t what it is. That he isn’t what he is. Because you trust him. And that’s terrifying.

“It’s okay.” Your voice is quiet. You don’t let him go. You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands sliding up his arms, over his shoulders, fingers pressing into his skin. “It’s just a love bite.” You reassure him.

But even as you say it, your voice is breathless, weaker than before. Your neck still stings, a dull, pulsing throb that lingers beneath your skin where his teeth sank in, but it’s nothing compared to the heat flooding through you.

And Alex still looks wrecked. His lips are wet, parted, swollen, and his chest rises and falls unevenly, like he’s struggling to breathe right. You can feel the shudders running through him, the tight, barely-restrained energy coiling in his muscles, in his fingers that hover just above your skin, hesitant now, even as he looks like he’s seconds away from falling apart. He looks at you like he’s afraid to want this, you, when he already does. When he always has.

And you don’t want hesitation.

You don’t want restraint.

You want him.

So you pull him closer.

Hands sliding over his wrists, up his arms, tracing over the ridges of his bones, feeling how small he is in your grip, how fragile, how breakable. He’s always been that way — soft and delicate in ways he tries to pretend he isn’t. But you know. You know the way his body folds into yours like it was made to fit, the way his skin is always too warm, like he’s burning from the inside out.

He shudders, just barely, the motion rippling through him as your fingers find the nape of his neck, threading into his hair. And that’s when he finally gives in.

He buries his face in your neck again, pressing his lips over the mark, his teeth grazing over it, like he wants to claim it all over again. You can feel how hard he’s trying to hold back, to be good, to be gentle when he’s battling a hunger that’s barely been unleashed.

He breaks.

“I-” His lungs give out. “I can’t-”

But he can. You know he can.

“Shh…” you whisper, digging harder into his scalp, tugging gently at the roots until he groans against your skin. “It’s okay, I promise. It’s just a little love bite, Alex.”

He soothes the spot with kisses. The pressure eases even as he presses harder, lower. He doesn’t mean to go too fast, but he can’t wait anymore, it’s been long enough, hasn’t it? Something has to give.

His legs feel weak, and even if they wouldn’t, if he had the strength to keep standing, he still would have sunk to his knees. Because that’s where he belongs. That’s where he wants to be.

You don’t see it — you’ve got your eyes closed, your head tipped back — but you feel him shiver as the bone of his kneecap makes contact with the cold tile, emitting a dull sound in the quiet. There’s that weird sort of wave that travels through his body, up his spine and it bleeds into his shoulders, the kind that happens when pain and pleasure hit all at once or maybe it’s just the inevitability of this moment catching up to him, swallowing him whole.

He’s so close, close enough that every exhale ghosts over you, teasing, just a whisper of sensation before his lips follow. He presses his mouth to your stomach, slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower. His nose nudges against you, and you flinch — not away, but toward. The good kind. His hands are gripping your hips tight, thumbs pressing into the softest parts of you.

You should say something. You should.

Instead, you murmur, “I should have known from the start.”

He tilts his head, looking up, waiting.

“What?”

You swallow, your fingers finding his hair again, the strands slipping between your fingertips, soft and just a little damp from the heat between you. It tickles where it sneaks under your shirt, brushing against the bare skin of your belly. That should be distracting, but it isn’t. It’s just an excuse, an easy way to buy yourself a second before you finish your thought.

“That it’s…” You stop again, dragging your teeth over your lower lip. You take a breath, shakier than you’d like. “That it’s not a long way from the tips of your fingers to…”

A sound escapes him — a huff of laughter, bubbling up from his chest until it has nowhere else to go but out.

“To where?” His lips quirk, wicked and knowing. “Your cunt?”

The crudeness of it should make you at least a little bit repulsed and not make your pulse stutter, but you feel it like a spark in your bloodstream, something dark and molten curling in your stomach. It’s not that he’s wrong. The connotation had been there, lingering unspoken in the spaces between your words. Maybe you even meant it. But you can’t let that be known.

“I meant…to the love hidden deep in your heart.” you counter.

He hums against your skin, a small, indulgent sound. “Mhm.”

And then his fingers are at your waistband.

The breath in your lungs halts, stills, the moment has finally caught up to you too. His hands are steady as he tugs, slipping beneath the fabric. He’s already pulling them down, peeling you open, exposing the most fragile parts of you to the heat of his breath, to the press of his mouth, rubbing against you, and you should stop him, should tell him to move this somewhere else — maybe the bedroom, maybe even just the sofa a few feet away — anywhere that doesn’t involve your lower back pressing against the sticky mess left behind on the counter.

But it’s too late.

You’re already sticky.

And you don’t want him to stop.

“If I didn’t know you,” you murmur, “I’d think you’d throw me on the floor and fuck me. Right there.”

Alex makes a noise against you — half a laugh, half a groan. The thought alone seems to stir something inside him, dark and eager. And he would, another time, maybe. He probably has done that very thing you’re speaking of before, but the memory is hazy, buried beneath the present pressing down on you now.

Because right now, there is no before. There is no after.

Just this.

Just him.

Just his mouth against the damp fabric of your underwear, his lips parting, tongue pressing into you through the thin material because he can’t wait. The barrier is a cruel and unnecessary thing that he has no patience for. He mouths at you like he’s starving, like the taste of you is the only thing he’s ever needed, and the thought of not having it now — right now — is unbearable.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp, and he moans at the feeling, at the way you hold onto him. His hands grip your thighs, his thumbs smoothing along the sensitive skin there, pressing into the muscle.

He touches you like you are everything he’s ever asked God for.

Like he’s been praying for you his whole life, and now that he has you, now that you are here, soft and warm and pliant beneath his hands, he won’t let you go.

Underneath his hands, you become poetry.

You can feel it in the way he moves, the way his hands trace you, the way his mouth presses desperate kisses against you. It’s devotion — pure and all-consuming.

You could probably come from this alone, just the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue against you, the way he’s holding you.

If he asked, you would.

Right here. Right now.

But he’s got more where that comes from.

And just enough restraint — barely enough — to pull away for a moment, to hook his fingers into the flimsy fabric that’s still there and slide it down with the rest. He works quickly, he doesn’t want to be apart from you for any longer than absolutely necessary. Every second spent not tasting you feels wasted.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet, just like…” He stops to lick his lips, pausing as if to savour the lingering taste on his tongue, rolling it over in his mouth like fine wine. “All wet and…juicy.”

His hands guide you, lifting your legs just slightly so he can strip you bare. You let him, let him do whatever he wants, because it’s easier that way. He makes it easy.

He has you holding up your top, keeping it out of the way so it won’t obstruct the view too much. Not that there’s much to see beyond the mess of his dark hair between your thighs, beyond the way his shoulders flex as he settles back down into place.

You can barely see his eyes from here, but you feel them.

You feel his breath first though, ghosting over your sensitive skin before his mouth is back on you, tongue slipping between wet heat. And he knows — oh, he knows — that tongue and finger combo isn’t just for flipping the pages of a book.

He puts it to good use now, spreading you open with his fingers, teasing you with slow flicks of his tongue before pushing deeper. You gasp, the sound breaking out of you, and he hums in satisfaction.

It’s a game to him, a test to see how far he can push you. How quickly he can make you fall apart.

And hearing your breath pick up, hearing the way it stutters when he curls his fingers just right, when he drags his tongue over that spot that makes your stomach tense — that is how he knows he’s winning.

You run your fingers through his hair, tugging, gripping, holding onto him as he holds onto you. His fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread for him so he can taste you deeper, so he can own you, if only for a little whole.

You push his head down without even meaning to, a desperate reflex, an instinctual need to feel more of him. And he doesn’t resist. He welcomes it. He moans against you when you pull him in tighter, when you give him more of you.

And when you finally break, when your body tenses and your breath comes out in a fractured cry, when his name spills from your lips like a prayer, because there must be some godly hand in this, in one way or another — he takes it.

He drinks it all down like you are that something holy.

Until you push away. Even the good can be too much sometimes.

Trembling, sensitive, overstimulated, but you don’t want to stop. You just want to change direction. You grab at his collar, tugging him up, pressing his mouth to yours, needing to give him something else to taste before his throat will dry out.

And fuck, you taste it on his tongue — yourself. The remnants of his mouth on you, warm and slick and unmistakably you, mixing with the heat of his spit. It makes your head spin. It makes your whole body tingle. You moan into him, and he groans back, deep in his chest.

You’re all jittery now, restless, can’t keep still if you tried. And in your squirming, in your shifting, your knee accidentally bumps against his groin.

It wasn’t intentional. But the sound he makes…

A sharp inhale, a strangled moan punched right from his throat.

Oh, God.

You might burst again just from that. So you do it again — pressing against the tightness in his jeans, testing, teasing, feeling.

He whimpers.

And that alone, that helpless, wrecked little noise, has you shaking all over again.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss with a ragged breath, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to settle down but perhaps just wiping off the drool that started to pull between you. You must be wet too, your hands sticky, your mouth messy, neither of you having been particularly careful. Either from his spit or your own slick, or maybe both, the mess clings to your skin.

But you think you prefer his spit to stay right where it is.

You press against him again. Rub against him, just to hear what else he might give you.

“Fuck- stop-” His voice is strained, breathless, but you don’t miss the way his hips buck into your touch. “You’re gonna make me-”

Another push.

Another sharp inhale.

“Gonna make me fuckin’ explode in my pants like a little boy if you keep rubbing on me like that.”

“Please-”

He doesn’t let you finish. He silences you with his mouth, swallowing whatever words were threatening to spill out. But for once, you want to speak, even when it hurts to push him away.

“You’re hard.” you breathe against his lips, stating the obvious.

His response is just as obvious. He takes your hand and places it there, right over the strained denim, where the heat of him throbs through the fabric, heavy and thick and so very real. He holds you still, right there, keeping you pressed against him until your fingers finally twitch, wrapping around as much of him as you can.

“Yeah, baby…I’m hard.”

You don’t know why you’re saying all this, or why he isn’t just shoving you down onto your knees and feeding you his cock right now. That might have been the better use of his time.

But he wants it soft today.

You suppose there’s already enough…mess.

He’s working on the zipper now, hurried and impatient, his hips twitching with anticipation as you continue to palm him. He’s already aching, already so close to something and you haven’t even got his jeans off yet.

His mouth parts when he finally pushes your hand inside, guiding you past the open zipper, past the last thin barrier of fabric. And when your fingers wrap around him properly, when you start stroking-

“I woke up kinda…in the mood, this morning.” he murmurs. “Knew you were coming over today and I…I think I woke up hard from thinking about that. Just…you.”

Your hand tightens around him.

“But I didn’t want to, uh, take care of it. I just- fuck- I really needed you here, baby- right there-”

His words are starting to slur, tumbling out too fast, too desperate.

“Woke up so, so fucking hard.” he groans, his hips twitching into your grip. “Could barely think, just- fuck- I was so horny, baby. Just lay there for so long, trying to calm down, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Had my hand on my cock, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t even close, ‘cause I didn’t…I didn’t want that, I wanted…you.”

His breathing is ragged now, uneven and broken between his words.

“Kept thinking about how you’d touch me, how you’d feel, how fucking wet you’d be for me- fuck, that’s so-” His voice catches, hips stuttering forward. “I thought about calling you, but I didn’t wanna sound pathetic, sitting ‘ere with my dick in my hand at fuckin’ nine in the morning thinking about you, and you were probably sleeping too, but baby-” His head drops forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder. “I wanted you so bad.”

You twist your wrist just slightly, just enough to make his whole body jerk.

“Do I sound too needy?”

“Yes.”

The answer hits him like a slap. You almost think it wounds him. His lips part, his breath stutters, and his face burns hotter than before. But his cock isn’t getting any softer, it twitches in your grasp, jerks against your palm, leaking even more. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you to stop.

The shame is there, written all over his face, but it’s not enough to make him let go. No, if anything, it’s making him worse.

“You make me…” He shakes his head, eyes flickering down to watch your fingers wrapped around him, working him over. His voice is breaking apart, breathless and strained, and he’s babbling now, barely holding himself together. “You make me so- God, you make me feel so stupid when you’ve got your hand on my cock like this. I can’t- I can’t even think, I swear- I feel fuckin’ silly right now. It’s not- I'm not in a very good position, am I?”

You say nothing, just keep stroking him, drawing out another broken noise from the back of his throat.

“Tell me to stop.” he says suddenly, forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. “Tell me to stop, please, before I-”

You tilt your head up to look at him, and his eyes — his eyes…

“I wanna see you come, Al.”

His whole body tenses. His fingers dig into your waist, gripping so tight it’s almost painful. And if you weren’t looking so closely, you might’ve missed the way his eyes almost roll back, like just hearing you say it is enough to wreck him.

“Yeah?”

“Please.” you whisper, squeezing just a little tighter. “I wanna feel it. I wanna see-”

“You wanna see? You’re gonna make me-”

“Please, Alex. Wanna see you come for me.”

Alex squeezes his eyes shut again, his lips parting like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is another whimper. He’s fighting it — holding back like he’s embarrassed by how desperate he is. And maybe he should be. He’s a mess in your hands, breathless and needy, clutching at you.

“Al.” you murmur. His eyes snap open again, glossy and unfocused. You slow your strokes, drawing it out, and he whines.

“Shit- don’t- don’t do that.” he gasps, panting against your lips. “I need- come on, come on-” He keeps repeating it, pushing his hips up the best he can, chasing the pressure of your hand.

“You need what?”

“You.” His voice is breaking apart, just like the rest of him. “You. I need you so bad, I- fuck, I can't hold it.”

You squeeze, just once, it’s enough. He’s gone, moaning into your mouth as he spills over your fingers, shuddering and gasping and clinging to you like he’ll never let go.

You aren’t exactly sure when it happened. Or when it even started.

Was it when he first touched you like you were something fragile? Or was it when he held you like you were something precious? Maybe it was the way he looked at you like he already knew every part of you, even the ones you hadn’t dared to show because he wanted all of it anyway.

All you know for sure is that right here and now, you are falling hard, and you can only pray that he is feeling the same way. That he isn’t just taking — that he is giving too.

Your breath stutters as his hands trace their way up your sides, over your ribs. His forehead presses against yours, skin hot, damp.

He is just as lost as you are.

Now you only wished to disappear in his embrace. To let him pull you under and take you wherever he wanted to go.

a/n: I prefer sour grapes myself. You?

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x oc #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #goblinontour #limerence

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eye-of-yelough · 14 days ago

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okay. new ocs, the trio of cunts. info.

pedophilia mentions incoming

first guy: (Jordan Seamus) Turner. picture a teddy bear, that’s what he looks like. he has a daughter, Lola. he was 15 when he got her mama pregnant. Jacqueline Corbin. she was… older. you should know: this was a nonwhite teen boy in the 80s, he didn’t even process what happened as rape until months later, and once he did, he knew no one would care. they stayed together, left their small midwestern town with a couple of thousand from his parents’ savings account, and travelled bonny and clyde style, weighed down by a baby bump, and then an actual baby, and shitloads of drugs and mutual cheating, and terrible, terrible fights.

as soon as she crossed the line the last time, Turner finally executed his plan to ditch Jacqueline - in the middle of their next stick up job. and down she went to the clink for armed robbery. she got out early on good behaviour, she went back in before she could track them down. framed this time, Turner had been counting down the days, he was ready for her.

this is all backstory, btw. prologue stuff. the story begins when Lola is 15, and Turner is 30. 1999. he is, somewhat ironically, a bounty hunter now, although he spends more time in the business side of things than in the field. this 🤏 close to starting his own agency.

on one of his rare field excursions, he meets our third cunt. Vivien “Skin” Guerrero. 22, firstborn son of a hispanic cartel family and older brother of Monroe, both belonging to @stabknives :) Skin fucked off, not necessarily to get away from the crime, but to carve his own bloody fortune, arrogant cunt that he is. totally not a daddy issues thing. he’s doing just fine, thank you. ignore that he can never keep anyone around. or alive. it’s fine. home always felt too crowded and he was a bit of a black sheep anyway. lone wolf isn’t too far of a jump for him. he always liked animals. Turner and Skin end up chasing the same bail jumper. Skin isn’t a bounty hunter he just wants this guy dead real bad. although it’s acceptable in the bounty hunting business, sometimes unavoidable, Turner prides himself on never having eliminated a target. awkward.

how this becomes a fucked up sort-of love story, who knows. they don’t. in my head i’m picturing this like a film. maybe 2 or 3 films. bring back late 90s-early 2000s movie trilogies! genre wise it’s sort of a pulpy spaghetti western but, darker, i guess.

and with gratuitous violence and sex, of course.

#your daily dose of idiocy #oc skin #oc turner #oc jacqueline #trapped in amber

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nobitchs-world · 1 year ago

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What people think I mean when I say I like white boys:

What I actually mean:

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livingdreams97 · 19 days ago

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Jackie Taylor -- "Our Destiny" (Part 1)

Jackie Taylor x Male reader/oc

Summary: What happens when a plane crashes in the middle of the Canadian Wilderness full of teenagers? How something as traumatic as that can affect the people and and how they find comfort in each other.

Words: 6.190

Masterlist

(For the reader I thought of Wolfgang Novogratz, but everyone can imagine reader how they want.)

________1996________

Your POV

I drop the pieces of firewood I've collected into the pile on the ground and sit down on the stump to rest for a bit. I've spent the last three hours walking between the woods and the cabin collecting firewood non-stop, and I need a break.

From my vantage point, I can see what some of the girls are doing and I sit there for a moment watching them. Things are a bit tense lately, some of the girls are acting a bit weird and especially Lottie.

After what happened at the Seance a few weeks ago, I've noticed that Lottie has been a bit quieter, more withdrawn and distracted, as if she were in her own world.

This worries me a lot, because I don't know if her behavior could be due to the lack of medication or something else. It's the first time since she was diagnosed that she has gone so long without taking her medication and I don't know what the consequences of this could be.

Taissa: Hey.- she greets me standing next to me. -I've been thinking about something and I want to know if you'd like to join me.- she tells me and I focus my gaze on her.

Y/n: Hey.- I greeted back looking at her with curiosity. -Should I be afraid of what you thought?- I asked her with a certain humor.

Taissa: Considering you're scared of bees... - she mocks me with a big smile.

Y/n: I'm not afraid of bees, I'm allergic to them, ALLERGIC and I could die if they sting me. - I reproach her with an offended grimace.

Taissa: Whatever.- she dismisses me with her hand and a smile. - I've been thinking and I realise we should get out of here in search of help or something to eat. It's possible that the animals are migrating or that there's someone out there.- she tells me and I look at her a bit skeptically.

Y/n: I don't know Tai, if there was someone they would have appeared a long time ago from the noise the plane made against the ground.- I comment somewhat unsure.

Taissa: But what if there is someone or a small town far away enough so that they didn't hear the accident? - she tells me with some confidence. - What if there is a small town or a cabin like this one a few days walk away with people who can help us? - she hypothesizes with a small smile.

Y/n: And if there isn't one? - I ask trying to be realistic, since even with her approach the radius that the noise of the accident would had reached, is very extensive.

Taissa: And if there isn't, maybe we can find animals or something to bring back to camp.- she insists with a confident gesture.

Y/n: I don't know Tai.- I deny getting up from the stump. -I can't just get up and leave Lottie here.- I sigh looking towards where the mentioned one is.

Taissa: Lottie is old enough for you to keep an eye on her.- she assures me, crossing her arms.

Y/n: Are you going to tell me that you haven't noticed a differece in her? - I ask her, focusing my attention back on her.

Taissa: Different? More like a little disturbed.- she comments and I look at her badly, making her throw her hands in the air. -Sorry, it was a joke.- she apologizes immediately. -But still, it's not your responsibility.- she assures me placing a hand on my shoulder.

Y/n: She's my twin sister, of course she's my responsibility.- I remind her with a grimace. -I can't just leave her here for I don't know how many days.- I deny letting out a tired sigh.

Taissa: But you're not leaving her because you want to, but because we're going to go find help or food for everyone. This way you're going to help her a lot more than being behind her all day and worrying about everything she does or says. - she assures me with a slight smile and letting her squeeze my shoulder.

Y/n: I'm not sure.- I murmur trying to think of what is the most appropriate thing to do.

Taissa: Give it a tought and tell me.- she tells me in a calm voice.

We both stand in silence for a few seconds, before a commotion comes from the front of the cabin and out of the woods appear Travis and Nat with a dead deer.

Van: Meat, Fuck Yeah! -she exclaims excitedly as she passes by us quickly.

We all immediately approached them, happy that they were able to hunt and that we could eat something other than belt soup.

Van: Wow, that thing is knarly.- she says when both hunters pass by her and she sees the deer's antlers.

Akilah: It's like Freddy Krueger and Bambi had a baby.- she comments with some disgust when they leave the deer on the ground.

Javi: I'm not eating that.-he immediately denies looking at the dead animal.

Ben: Guys, relax.- asks the trainer approaching the deer. -Deer shed their antlers every season. This is normal.- he explains calmly. -Shauna, do the honors?- he asks her, his breathing a little labored from the effort.

Shauna quickly takes the knife out of her backpack, approaches the deer and begins to open its stomach to empty it.

As soon as she opens its stomach, we can all see the worms moving through the deer's organs and I have to look away to avoid throwing up.

Jackie: That's normal too, Coach? - she asks with a disgusted gesture.

Lottie: I'm not crazy.-I hear her mutter in front of me on her knees on the floor.

Laura Lee: No.-she denies in a whisper. -You have a gift.-she assures me and I open my eyes scared at her answer.

Taissa: We cannot keep fucking doing this, you guys.- she assures moving to the side. -What happens when winter gets here? We fucking starve to death or freeze?- she says, upset by the situation. -We can't count on getting rescued anymore. All of us know that is not going to happen, we have to save us.- she says confidently. -That's why I'm gonna go find help. I'm leaving in the morning, come with me if you want to get out of this fucking hellhole. - says as she walks safely into the cabin.

I just stay silent for a few moments, before sighing and walking towards the lake to be alone for a while.

I need to think about what I have to do and it will be impossible to do so near the abaña and the girls. So I walk calmly through the forest, thinking about the pros and cons of going with Taissa or staying with the rest.

Once at the lake, I sit on the shore on the stones and watch the slight movement of the water.

I don't know how long I spend staring at the water, until I hear footsteps behind me and when I look over my shoulder I see Jackie holding a bucket.

Jackie: Hey.- she greets me tiredly, walking towards the shore and filling the bucket with water.

Y/n: Hey.- I greet back watching as she puts the bucket aside and sits next to me. -Do you think Taissa's idea is crazy?- I ask her after a few seconds of silence.

Jackie: I don't know.- she answers with a sigh. -What I do know is that in a certain way she's right and that scares me.- she tells me in a low voice.

Y/n: Is the great captain Jackie Taylor afraid of something? - I asked with humor and receiving a slap on the arm from her.

Jackie: Idiot.- she insults me while laughing and I look at her with a proud smile for making her laugh.

Since the accident, I have noticed that Jackie is the one who is having the most difficulty adapting to the situation and that her mood is increasingly sad.

She is the one who has always been sure that they would come to rescue us and I have realized that with each passing day, that hope of being rescued is disappearing more and more from her eyes.

Y/n: Now seriously, you're afraid that they won't rescue us, right? - I ask her softly.

Jackie: It's been months and still no one has shown up.- she answers me with some apprehension in her voice.

Y/n: That doesn't mean they aren't looking for us.- I tell her to try to cheer her up a little.

Jackie: No, but it doesn't mean they'll find us either.- she whispers, placing her knees against her chest and her chin on them. -We both know that with each day that passes without them finding us, the probability that they'll stop looking for us and leave us for dead increases.- she explains to me with some fear and sadness in her voice.

I sigh with some sadness at her words, because in a way she is right and I don't want to think about it.

I approach the soccer captain, standing just a few inches away from her body and placing my hand on her lower back and moving it in circles to try to comfort her.

She leans into me and places her head on my shoulder relaxing her body against mine.

Y/n: They will find us, I promise.- I whisper against her head, resting my forehead on it. -But I need you to promise me something.- I ask her, swallowing hard.

Jackie: What? - she whispers, getting closer to my body and hugging me around my waist.

Y/n: Promise me that you will take care of Lottie when I'm not here.- I ask her with some fear that the madness I'm doing is permanent.

Jackie: What are you talking about? - she asks me, separating from me and looking at me with concern.

Y/n: I'm going to go with Tai.- I answer and she immediately shakes her head.

Jackie: You can't go, you can't, not you.- she tells me with some panic.

Y/n: I have to do it.- I assure her, looking her in the eyes. -I have to try, Lottie is not well and we can't continue like this much longer. The least I can do is try and seek help.- I explain to her with apprehension about the situation.

Jackie: But what if it doesn't work out? If some wild animal appears, or you guys get lost and can't get back, or any of the thousands of other things that could happen? - she asks me worriedly, waving her hands in an exaggerated manner.

Y/n: Nothing is going to happen.- I assure her, grabbing her hands and trying to calm her down. -The worst that could happen is that we don't find anything and we have to come back empty handed.- I explain to convince her.

Jackie: But what if...- she continues with the possibilities but I interrupt her before she can say anything else.

Y/n: Nothing is going to happen.- I tell her confidently and without taking my gaze off hers.

Jackie: Nothing is going to happen.- she repeats, nodding her head and looking me straight in the eyes.

We stay a few more moments looking into each other's eyes, before she puts her head back on my shoulder and hugs me tightly around the waist.

I put my arms around her shoulders, resting my head on hers and letting the sound of the lake be the only thing that can be heard.

Jackie's POV

It's been two and a half days since Akilah, Van, Taissa, Misty, Y/n and Mari went out in search of something.

As I promised Y/n, I've been keeping an eye on Lottie and talking to her at least a couple of times a day, to see how she's doing.

I try to ask her simple questions, so she doesn't feel like I'm interrogating her and get defensive.

But at most ,she will lose focus during the conversation and stare off into the distance for a few moments before continuing with the conversation like nothing. Which is not entirely worrying.

Plus, she and Laura Lee spend all day together, so it gives me some peace of mind that at least she's not out in the woods alone.

On the other hand, I have discovered that my best friend, the person in whom I had complete trust, has lied to me and betrayed me in the worst possible way.

Our entire friendship based on sincerity and trust has been a farce.

I knew something wasn't right the moment she told me her story with Randy and how she got pregnant.

If what she told me about losing her virginity at Mari's birthday party were to be true, she would have told me as soon as it happened. But she didn't and the biggest lie is that Jeff and I took drunk Randy home that night.

So it couldn't have been after we left and it couldn't have been before either, since Shauna was with me, Jeff and some of her friends all night.

But I didn't know that the reason for her lie and the person she actually slept with was my boyfriend.

My best friend has betrayed me in the worst way possible and has slept with my boyfriend. Also, in her diary are written all the times they did it and it wasn't just once, it was several times.

I don't know how she could do this to me, sleep with my own boyfriend and then get pregnant by him. How could she do this to me. How can she look at me in the eyes and lie in my face with no trace of guilt.

I don't even know how to look at her face without imagining them together, without feeling betrayed and imagining everything else she could have lied to me about.

I quickly get up from my chair when I see Misty, Mari and Akilah appearing through the forest, almost out of breath.

Jackie: Oh, my god. What happened?- I ask them, walking quickly and holding Misty before she fell to the ground.

Shauna: Where are Van, Tai and Y/n? -she asks, also getting up from her chair.

Misty: She...she told...she told us to leave them. We had to get help.-she tells us as best she can between breaths and Nat and Shauna grab her.

Lottie: Where is Y/n?-she asks Mari with a certain panic in her voice.

Laura Lee: Show us which way to go.- she asks her, grabbing her by the shoulders and staring at her.

Misty points to the path they came from and we all quickly set off.

We run quickly, following the instructions and directions given to us by Misty, who is at the head of everyone.

After running for a while, the darkness begins to hide everything around us and we decide that the best thing to do is to walk. So, lighting some lanterns, we walk quickly, looking everywhere.

Shauna: Van! - she shouts from in front of me.

Laura Lee: Taissa!- she shouts loudly from the front of the group.

Lottie: Y/n!- she shouts from behind me with obvious concern.

Laura Lee: Are you sure you came this way? -she asks the one leading us through the darkness.

Misty: I.. I don't know. I can't see anything.- she answers with uncertainty in her voice. -It's so dark.-she says looking around.

We stopped for a few seconds to catch our breath and looked around for something to guide us. It was then that we heard a noise and saw one of the flares rising between the trees.

Laura Lee: It's them.-she points with her finger and we quickly start running in that direction.

We run for a couple of minutes between the trees, immediately spotting the three of them on their knees on the ground and looking very bad.

Lottie: Y/n!- she exclaims, running towards her brother and kneeling next to him on the ground.

When we get closer we can see why the urgency, as Van has her face covered with rags and we can see the blood on her clothes. As can the pale color on Taissa and Y/n's faces.

We set off immediately, with most of the girls carrying Van, Misty and Laura Lee helping Tai, and Lotti and I carrying her brother.

As I help him up from the floor, I place a hand on his side and feel something cold and wet against my palm.

I raise my hand to my face, feeling my heart racing in my ears and my throat feeling dry as I swallow. I open my eyes, startled, when I make out the reddish color of blood in the light from the lanterns.

Jackie: Y/n.- I murmur scared seeing the boy's pale and sweaty face.

Misty: We have to get them there as soon as possible so we can stitch up their wounds.- she says hurriedly, encouraging us to walk as quickly as possible to the cabin.

So as quickly as possible, we managed to get to the cabin in record time and the girls got going.

Misty: Who goes first? - she asks as they clear the table, place candles around it, and Akilah searches for the materials.

Y/n: Van has to go first.- he answers in a low voice. -She is worse than me, I can hold on.- he assures the group with a small grimace.

Shauna: Van, are you ready? - she asks as they lay her down on the candlelit table.

The redhead lets out a grunt of pain, as Lottie and I place Y/n into one of the chairs.

Misty: We have to take off his clothes from the waist up. - She approaches us and reaches out her hands to do it.

Jackie: No.- I stop her immediately. -Lottie and I will do it.- I assure her, standing in front of her so she doesn't come any closer.

Misty: With the shirt you will have to press the wound to stop it from bleeding further.- she explains to me and I nod knowing what I have to do.

I turn towards the injured boy, approaching with uncertain steps and observing him in more detail thanks to the light from the cabin.

The black haired man, his green eyes are half-closed due to tiredness, has lost all the color in his face, you can see the sweat soaking his face and the locks of hair that are normally pushed back are stuck to his forehead.

On the other hand, the blue t-shirt and the grey sweatshirt are covered in dirt and blood, as are his jeans.

I quickly approach him, aware that he is not in a very good condition and that every minute is worth gold.

Lottie: You're going to be okay.- she whispers, stroking his hair. -Nothing's going to happen to you, It won't let anything happen to you.- she assures him with conviction and I look at her a little scared by the tone in which she is saying it.

Jackie: Lottie, help me take off his clothes.- I ask my teammate in a hurry.

Y/n: Damm Jackie, I knew you had the hots for me. - he scoffs with sense of humor, letting out a grunt when we move him to take off his sweatshirt.

Jackie: In your dreams.- I tell him with a slight smile, to try to ease the tension and play along.

When we managed to remove his shirt, you can see the wound on his side and it doesn't look good at all.

You can see the wolf's teeth and the cuts they left behind. There are at least five long cuts and about seven fairly large perforations on the side of his stomach and back.

You can see the blood gushing from the wounds and I have to hold back my gagging at the image.

Jackie: This is going to hurt.- I whispered softly, before placing his shirt over the wounds and pressing with both hands to stop the bleeding.

Y/n: Fuck.- he grunts in pain trying to get away from my hands.

Jackie: Lottie hold him.- I ask her, making her grab him by the shoulders and hold him still.

I press my hands against the wounds again and this time thanks to Lottie, Y/n doesn't get away from my hands no matter how hard he tries.

But Lottie's strength is affected when Akilah starts stitching Van up and she starts to let out pain-filled grunts.

The brunette immediately sits on the floor, placing her knees against her chest and covering her ears with the palms of her hands.

Y/n: Lot, don't listen.- he growls trying to get his sister's attention. -Lot, look at me.- he stretches his hands towards her with great effort. -Charlotte Matthews look at me right now.- he orders her and she surprisingly does it. -Come closer.- he asks her with a sigh.

Lottie walks over to her brother and he immediately pulls her close to his body. As I apply pressure to his wound, I can hear him whispering things to his sister to reassure her and distract her from what's happening on the other side of the room.

But after a few moments, I stop hearing the whispers from Y/n and I look at his closed eyes.

Jackie: Shit! - I exclaimed scared, stopping pressing on the wound and grabbing his cheeks. -Y/n, wake up. Keep your eyes open, wake up! - I exclaimed hitting him on the cheek trying to get him to react but nothing.

Lottie: Y/n.- she whispers, separating herself from her brother's thigh and looking at him scared. -It's not your turn.- she murmurs confused, placing her hand on her brother's bare chest.

Jackie: Girls hurry up, Y/n has lost consciousness! - I shout for them to hear me, without stopping hitting the boy's cheeks and trying to wake him up.

Natalie: Don't fuck with me.- she growls when she reaches us and takes his pulse. -Does anyone else know how to sew?- she asks the girls with some panic.

Misty: Me! - she exclaims quickly raising her hand.

I look at Nat, a little unsure and worried that Misty will stitch up Y/n's wound and I can see that she feels the same as me.

Natalie: We have no choice.- she murmurs, looking at me with apprehension. -Misty, grab a needle and thread quickly. We'll put him on the floor.- she says, grabbing him by one of his arms.

I do the same and with Lottie's help we get him on the ground as quickly as possible.

Misty: I have everything.- she tells us, throwing herself on her knees beside us. -I need more light.- she tells us while she begins to put the thread on the curved needle for fishing.

Nat: I'm going to get more candles.- she says getting up and I do the same with her.

We both grab some candles and run back to where Y/n, Lottie and Misty are. We place the candles on the ground near the wound, lighting them so Misty can see what she's stitching.

I swallow hard, feeling my hands shake from fear and worry that Y/n will die.

I move to the other side of Misty, kneeling at his hip and grabbing his hand. I bring the hand to my chest, praying that Misty will stitch him up quickly so that the bleeding stops and he can survive.

Your POV

I pull the chair over next to Jackie's and sit down a bit carefully, trying not to let the stitches pull too hard. But I can't help but let out a little grunt as I lean forward and take my share of the bear meat.

Jackie: Are you okay? - she asks me in a whisper, placing her hand on my thigh and leaving a light squeeze there.

Y/n: Yeah, I just moved too fast.- I play it down with a smile and she returns it.

She also leans forward and receives her plate with her ration from the redhead, while the others talk about whether we should wait for Nat and Travis or not.

Van: Lottie, last night you said we wouldn't be hungry much longer. How did you know? -she asks my sister and I feel my body tense immediately.

Everything that happened last night was absolutely crazy and I don't know what the hell went through their heads to make them act the way they did.

Because the mushroom excuse doesn't work for me, since we're all supposed to have eaten them and not all of us tried to sacrifice Travis. Especially not with the way my own sister, Shauna, and Mari jumped on me when I came down from the attic with Jackie, before Travis showed up completely out of it and they jumped on him immediately.

Lottie: I just did.-she answers, chewing what she has in her mouth.

Y/n: She didn't know anything, it was pure coincidence, okay? - I say seriously and avoiding looking at my sister at all costs.

Jackie: Yeah, it's called getting lucky.- she supports me, giving my thigh another squeeze. - The bear probably just smelled us and came looking for food, okay? Probably had something wrong with him. - she says in a logical way to take a bite of her meat.

Misty: It didn't look sick.-she denies sitting to my right.

Mari: Honestly, at this point I don't even think I care.- she says sitting at the table. -Can we just eat?- she asks, wanting to leave the subject aside.

Van: Wait.- she asks, drawing everyone's attention. -Should we maybe... say something? Like... like thanks or grace or.. whatever- she asks, somewhat unsure.

The dining room falls completely silent for a few moments, during which no one knows what to say or how to act in response to the question.

Taissa: Yeah.-she nods, leaving her glass on the table. -Just make it quick.-she asks her girlfriend and I can't help the frustrated grunt that escapes me.

Van: Lot?- she asks my sister and I can only roll my eyes and continue eating.

Lottie: Sure, let's join our hands.-she says leaving her ration aside and shaking hands with the trainer and Shauna.

From my peripheral vision, I see a hand approaching from my right, so I look up from my plate and see Misty holding out her hand to me.

I just stare at her for a few seconds, alternating my gaze between her eyes and her hand, before shaking my head and turning my head towards Jackie, seeing that she thinks the same as me.

Lottie: For this gift from the wilderness, we give our thanks.-she begins to say and my right knee begins to bounce from the tension.

Van: Thank you.- she says to my sister's words, urging her to continue.

Lottie: To the spirit of the bear, who sacrificed so that we could survive, we give our thanks.-she says and they all give thanks. -And to the ancient gods of the sky and the dirt, we give our thanks.-it continues and everyone thanks again.

Misty: You two didn't say it.-she whispers looking at the girl to my left and me. -Jackie and Y/n didn't say it.- she accuses us loudly so that everyone present knows.

Y/n: The fuck is your problem?-I asked the curly-haired blonde with a murderous look.

Jackie: No, I didn't thank the dirt for bringing us a brain-dead bear. What is even happening right now? -she asks, impressed by the group's attitude. -The fuck is wrong with you all?- she asks the girls, leaning forward.

Taissa: It's fine, you guys. They don't have to... -she comes to our defense but the team captain interrupts her.

Jackie: Oh, shut up Tai.- she scoffs at her. -Don't pretend like you weren't a part of it. What, we're... we're just not going to talk about it? - she asks everyone present. -We just howl at the moon now and have fucking orgies or support incest?- she says and I tense up even more at the last thing she said. -And somehow we are the ones who did something wrong? -She shrugs her shoulders, angry at the whole situation.

Ben: Whoa, wait, what?- he asks completely surprised by what he just heard.

Shauna: Jackie, calm down.-she asks her best friend, but I can see that this only makes her angrier.

Jackie: Don't tell me to calm down!-she exclaims angrily, getting up from her chair. - What were you gonna do to Travis last night, Sahuna? - she asks, approaching her and crossing her arms. -Answer me.-she asks after a few seconds of silence.

Shauna: I don't know. I don't remember. -she answers with some uncertainty, her gaze fixed on the ground.

Jackie: Bullshit.-she reproaches, not believing what she has just heard. -You had a knife to his throat. If we hadn't come, you would have killed him.- she accuses her with total honesty.

Shauna: Just shut up!-she exclaims angrily, getting up from her seat. -None of this would have happened if it wasn't for you. If you hadn't...-she accuses quickly, approaching her without finishing the sentence.

Jackie: Hadn't what? Huh?-she asks without reacting to his proximity. -Stolen him? Wow. The irony.- she scoffs again. -Shauna was fucking Jeff behind my back, you know that?- she asks and I open my eyes in surprise. -Yeah. That's who's really responsible for her little bundle of joy.-she tells everyone present and I stare at her, worried about her.

Shauna: It was you.-she accuses her with a certain hurt tone. -You read my journal.-she explains without taking her eyes off the one who was her best friend.

Jackie: How could you? - she accuses her with pain in her voice. -You were my best friend. You.. you.. you don't even like him.-she says in a hurt face.

Shauna : And how would you know? - she asks her angrily with a broken voice. -You're so obsessed with yourself, I'm surprised I'm aware other people even exist.-she reproaches this time with some malice.

Y/n: Girls, I think it's best to stop now.- I say, getting up and leaving the empty plate aside.

Shauna: You know you never even asked me if I wanted to go to Rutgers? You just assumed I would go wherever you wanted.-She reproaches her with more and more annoyance in her voice. -You tell me what to wear, what to do, who to hook up with. I don't even like soccer!-shouts the last part. -But you just get everything you want. All the time like it's nothing. And the rest of us, we are just extras in the movie of your fucking life.- she accuses her angrily and with some pain in her tone.

Jackie: Oh, my God. You are such a cliché.- she exclaims, hurt and upset by what she just said. -Oh, is the.. is the sad little sidekick mad?- she asks with a certain sarcasm. -Did I force you to live in my shadow, Shauna? It must be hard being this jealous all the time.-she says, earning a short laugh in response.

Y/n: Girls, seriously, stop.- I ask them taking a couple of steps towards them, but a hand on my sweatshirt stops me. -What are you doing?- I ask Van confused and she shakes her head.

Jackie: What? You're so fucking jealous of me, you can barely breathe.-she reproaches Shipman, hurt and angry with her.

Shauna: Are you quoting Beaches at me right now? - she asks with a gesture of confusion.

Jackie: What? No.-she denies, confused by the question.

Shauna: I'm not jealous of you, Jackie. I fell sorry for you. Because you're weak and I think that deep down, you know it. - she says taking a few steps towards her. -I'm sure everyone back home is so fucking sad to be losing their perfect little princess, but they will never know how tragic and boring and insecure you really are.- she continues without measuring her words. -Or how high school was the best your life was ever going to get.-she finishes saying in a somewhat aggressive way and I can see the damage those words are doing to Jax.

Jackie: Fuck you.-she says with a slightly broken voice. -That's it. You know what? That's it. Get.. get out.-she orders pointing to the cabin door.

Y/n: Jax, stop.-I ask her, trying to get closer, but the redhead keeps holding me by the clothes and preventing me from doing so.

Jackie: Go on, get out.-she repeats with a little more force.

Shauna: No.- she shakes her head, her eyes wide.

Jackie: I can't be around you, I... I can't even fucking look at you right now.- She says completely hurt.

Shauna: Well, that sounds like your problem. So maybe you should leave.-she ignores the order and stands in her place while maintaining eye contact.

Everyone remains completely silent for a few seconds, processing the words of the two friends and the situation that is happening at this moment.

Mari: Maybe you would be better off, since we're all so crazy.-she reproaches the captain, supporting Shauna.

Ben: Okay, everybody just stop. Nobody is going outside.-he orders us all seriously.

Lottie: Stay out of it, Coach.-she tells him with a murderous look.

Y/n: No, you stay out of it. You already did enough last night.-I say to my twin, giving her a dirty look, angry and fed up with her attitude.

Jackie: You know what? Fine.-she says walking towards the sleeping things and grabbing her blanket and pillow.

Taissa: Jackie, come on. Don't go outside.-she asks her friend, somewhat tired.

Jackie: Don't pretend like this isn't what you wanted the entire fucking time.- she responds with obvious anger.

Y/n: Don't be silly, Jax.- I ask her, releasing myself from Van's grip and walking towards her. -The temperatures are dropping and sleeping outside is dangerous.- I assure her, worried about her.

Jackie: I don't care, I'm not going to be where I'm not wanted and clearly this isn't it.- she denies looking me in the eyes. -I don't even know who you are anymore.-she says to the one who was her best friend.

Shauna: Or maybe you never did.-she assures her and that is all she needs to leave the cabin and slam the door.

The room is tensely silent for a few moments, until I hear a murmur and explode.

Y/n: What the hell is wrong with you two? - I ask completely angry. - We are all here together, for better and for worse, and no one has more right than anyone to be in the cabin. - I comment looking at the pregnant girl. - And let me tell you that as a friend, you leave a lot to desire. Not only have you betrayed your best friend, but you have dumped all your frustration on her and used her insecurities against her to hurt her. What kind of best friend does that? - I ask her completely impressed by her evilness.

Shauna: You don't know anything.- she claims, directing her anger towards me.

Y/n: And I don't need to know.- I deny between my teeth. -With what I just saw, it seems more than enough to know what kind of person you are and believe me, you are not the type I want by my side in a situation like the one we are in.- I finish looking at her with repulsion, before grabbing two blankets and a pillow to leave the cabin.

Lottie: You can't go out.- she forbids me, standing in front of the door so I can't open it.

Y/n: Charlotte, get out of the way right now.- I ordered her, annoyed by her attitude.

Lottie: No.- she denies strongly and crosses her arms.

Y/n: You move or I move you. But I'm not staying here with you two. - I assure her, looking at her with my eyes half closed.

Lottie: No.- she repeats in a slower manner, but with the same authoritative tone of voice.

Y/n: You asked for it.- I remind her grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to the side, trying not to use too much force to hurt her, but enough to move her.

Once I push her away from the door, I open it and walk outside, slamming the door behind me.

At the sound of the door, Jackie turns her head towards me at the noise and frowns when she sees me.

I just walk towards her, dropping the things in my arms to the ground and sitting on the wooden log carefully.

Jackie: What are you doing? - she asks me in a low and broken voice without taking her eyes off me.

Y/n: Keeping you company.- I answer shrugging my shoulders. -You're crazy if you think I'm going to leave you here alone and stay in there with them.- I explain looking at her as if she were crazy, causing a small laugh from her at my gesture.

Jackie: Thank you.- she whispers looking at her hands.

Y/n: You don't have to thank me for anything.- I assure her with an amused grimace.

I put one of my arms over her shoulders, pulling her close to my body. I place a kiss on her forehead, feeling her snuggle up against my chest and hug my waist tightly, but careful of my wounds.

She looks up at me, placing a hand on the back on my neck and pulling at It to join our lips in a soft kiss. When she pulls away, her eyes shine full off life ande a small smile appears in her face.

We just sit together outside watching the sun disappear and observing the flames of the fire move in the darkness of the forest night.

#jackie taylor x reader #ella purnell x reader #jackie taylor #ella purnell #yellowjackets #lottie matthews #yellowjackets fanfic #natalie scatorccio #shauna shipman #misty quigley #taissa turner #van palmer #akilah #jackieshauna #oc character #jackie taylor x you

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sp3ct3r3 · 15 days ago

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General reminder that despite me wanting to kill everyone and having a very short temper I am incapable of doing so and if I did try to, I would end up spending the next hour apologising nonstop

#comics #fan comic #fanart #shadow the hedgehog #sonic fanart #sonic fandom #sonic the hedgehog #digital art #ocs #oc #Lynn Turner

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antlerqueer · 1 month ago

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Yellowjackets (2021-). It Girl.

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junedenim · 3 months ago

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lover boy

he pays special attention

warnings: smut, angst, eating...you know, (slightly feet-loving), wet

word count: 4.3k

Weddings are lovely. This one in particular has good cake and nice decorations. The bridesmaid dresses aren’t hideous though you don’t have to wear one, which you’re thankful for. Green has never really suited you.

A suit does suit Alex. His tie has come loose from tugging on it one too many times. He’s over in the corner with his friends and every once in a while you’ll feel a pull to look over at him and you find his eyes on you. He always has a small smile on his lips that grows two sizes bigger when he looks over at you. It’s a nice feeling to have someone beam at the sight of you.

You swirl the glass of champagne and count how many you’ve had. This is your third, you think. You’re chatting with someone at your table that you don’t know the name of. She and her husband are nice but the conversation isn’t exactly invigorating, but it passes the time.

“I Gotta Feeling” plays from the shitty DJ speakers and you feel like you’re at your 21st birthday celebration two sips away from barfing in a bathroom stall. You’re kind of mad at Alex for leaving you alone at the table. He has a habit of that. You’ve previously excused it as him catching up with his friends, now it starts to feel like forgetfulness, uncaring toward you, and your loneliness at this wedding. His smile reassures you but he’s still across the room all the same.

Maybe it’s your fault too. You could go over there and join the conversation but then you’d feel like some clingy girlfriend. Maybe it’s your fault for caring too much. Going over there might be the polite thing to do instead of moping at the table. But it would’ve been polite for him to include you in the first place.

You go to the bathroom, not to vomit, just to pee. You leave your champagne and your purse at the table and wish you could leave your heels there too as they’re becoming a pain. You wash your hands and look in the mirror for too long. Exhaustion pours over you but you’re still going to be here for at least another hour.

As you walk out, his hand grabs your arm. You have his hand memorized. Every crease, every callus, every bone. Early on, probably in the first month of sleeping together, you’d trace his hand because you loved the way it felt on you and how one touch could make you feel so much. It would knock you off your feet, leave you out of breath, and have you begging for more. It was transformative and then it became normal. It was impossible not to feel that way, even when his hand was just holding yours.

“You disappeared on me,” Alex says with an attacking smirk and a bruising touch. He can be so intimidating, yet so calm.

You shrugged and wished you brought your purse so you could have something to do with your hands. “You left me first.”

He comes closer only a breeze could pass through the two of you. He doesn’t bend his head, he likes to have the hot air float between the two of you. He told you once how turned on he gets when you have to reach up to kiss him because he’s never been “the tall one” in the relationship. You’re not that much shorter than him, a fact you remind him of. He says he knows but his dick still gets hard all the same.

“Do you want me to babysit you?” He’s toying with drunk flirtation. It’s impossible not to feel something from it, despite how much it bugs you that he can just tilt his head and perk his lips like that and you’re a puddle.

“I want you to pay attention to me.” You think you sound like a whining child but you’re determined to stay strong in your firmness and fight off his taunting teases and that leering bravado.

His eyebrow raises and you’re not sure if he could come any closer without touching chest-to-chest with you. “Oh,” he sounds, a chuckle tipping at the end of his sound. He bends his head down, hiding his laughter from you like he’s breaking character. “I’ll pay close attention to you.”

His hand rubs down your arm. He slows at the crook, paying close attention to the inner elbow like it’s an aphrodisiac. You could tilt your head back and just enjoy him or you could pout some more. “I’m not doing that kind of thing here. In fact, I’m not doing it at all.”

It ticks you off that he laughs again. It’s starting to feel like he’s mocking you as if there’s a live studio audience and the laugh track is playing and everyone is making fun of you. “You becoming a nun?”

You cross your arms. “Maybe you should think about giving some of your vices up.”

Alex rolls his eyes and steps back, allowing you to come up from the water and gasp for air. “I’m working on it.” He means smoking. Not that you’ve been that hard on him about it, maybe more so lately, but he said he would try giving it up, but he still goes out for “walks” every day. You haven’t cared much in the past but the smoking has seemed to flare up into a bigger issue of him not committing to things you’d like him to do like paying closer attention to you and your needs—the non-sexual kind.

You hum and look over at the reception hall through the archway. People talking, drinking, dancin, some at the same time.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

You look back at him, now with his sad little boy look. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes looking down at the floor, an ever-present frown on his face. You roll your eyes at this act. “For what?”

Alex rubs his head, messing with his hair and pulling his face in various directions. “Want me to fuck you in the bathroom?” Deflection. Definitely deflection.

“Al!” You smack his arm and he’s laughing at you but you’re laughing at him too. Fuck him for knowing the right thing to say to get out of anything. You want to slap him silly and kiss him, have him fuck you into the bathroom mirror.

He shields his face. “Stop it. Stop it,” he begs with a chuckle. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You let your hand fall at your side. “You’re a loser.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, placing his hands back in his pockets, “I know.”

You don’t want to fuck him and you don’t think he wants to fuck you either. You’d like to swallow each other up. You like taking him in pieces—his hands, his hair, his face—rather than just him. But now you’d like to take him whole. You’d like to have him take you whole and not just your body but your soul.

You extend your hand. “Could you dance with me?”

He sighs at the thought. He hates this part. His two left feet and the idea of people staring at him dancing when he hasn’t had enough alcohol or enough lights in his face to block them out. “Slowly,” he says, taking your hand. He likes your hands too, likes the daintiness and how naturally soft they are, completely opposing the way he touches everything. “Protect me.”

He says it as a joke like he does most personal things. He wraps them up in mystery and hidden meanings because he’s too vulnerable to speak to anyone, especially in public, which freaks him out. He’d rather be naked in public than feel like a stranger knows him. That’s why he won’t do therapy. But he’s never been the knight for you. He told you that you don’t need him but he thinks he’d fold in on himself without you. You stand guard against the dragon because he can’t handle the thought of being emotionally exposed to outsiders.

You lied naked with one another far before you knew him. It was so much easier than telling the truth, but then one day you cracked him up and nothing could be held back after that. What therapist would understand him better than you? You get him more than he gets himself. Things only make sense to him in writing or when he tells it to you. Both respond to him in a way nothing else has been able to understand. There’s no point in finding someone—anything—else.

“Okay,” you agree.

He squeezes your hand and trails behind you. He knows everyone here and you don’t know a single soul. It freaks you both out in your own way but that understanding that the other one is just as uncomfortable somehow makes this place the most comfortable place ever.

His shoes tap yours a few times like his nerves knocking on your heart’s walls. He whispers into your ear, “I don’t like this.”

You laugh. “I know.”

He kisses your neck, softly, finding a haven in there. “I know you do.” That’s your relationship in four words. The world swells around you two, encasing you in stone, carved into time, and you never liked dancing but it’s the intimacy of his hold on you as your feet move back and forth in a swaying fashion but not like a waltz more like the cool breeze on a humid day. It’s like floating away with your feet on the wooden floors. His loafer clicks your heel and you’re glad you didn’t take them off. It’s a secret language you’ve learned in the effort to decode, to know him fully, to know yourself more because he knows you. It helps you make sense of all this mess, all of life, just with a misstep he’ll be embarrassed by and mutter a sorry for, you feel like you’ve discovered secrets of the universe in it.

Alex takes you over to his friends after. It’s almost as boring as sitting with what’s-her-face and her husband, except Al’s arm is around you and yours around him and he’ll squeeze your side every once in a while to let you know that he knows you’re still there.

At the hotel, you take your shoes off on the end of the bed while he throws his tie somewhere near your suitcases. It’s an art to be so seductive when making a mess. You’d scold him for it in the daylight but in this nighttime light, it has you shuddering. You scatter your heels at the foot of the bed to seem as sexually temptating as him.

He eyes you from the tips of your toes up to the last hair on your head. “You make me want to get on my knees.”

“And do what?” You question in fake obliviousness.

He tilts his head and his eyes move back down, stopping at the curve of everything, your boobs, your torso, the crook of your elbow, the bend in your knee, the way your foot points, your toes curling. They tick back up to meet your eyes and he looks at them in parts like it’s a medical diagram and he’s examing the iris, the cornea, the pupil, the lens, the retina, all the way back to the optic nerve.

“I don’t like when you play dumb.” He bites on his cheeks like he’s starving for nourishment. “It makes me feel like you’re talking down to me. Like the teacher just called on me or something.”

You curl your feet under you to hide part of yourself from him. “Did you want to fuck your teacher?”

He shrugs and turns his back to you. He steps on the heel of his shoes, taking them off and lining them up against the wall so neatly it’s more distressing than him tossing his tie. “Mrs. Sterling was hot. Then again, I was going through puberty.”

“What’s your excuse now?” You watch him hang his jacket up in the hotel’s closet.

Alex laughs through his teeth, air fighting its way out of his lips. “Maybe I’m still going through it. At least my penis is.”

You stand up and walk over to him. He’s running his fingers through his hair in the mirror like he isn’t about to go to bed. Almost like you aren’t going to fuck and mess it all up. You slide your head onto his shoulder and nudge your arms around him. He grabs your hands like he’s slipping them into his trouser pockets. You talk to each other through your breathing. He sighs and you take in the air he’s just let out.

“You smell nice,” you say. You give a peck to his neck before sliding out of his grasp, moving around to the front of him.

He grabs your waist now, just resting them there as if they are shelves. “Hmm. This is what happens when I don’t smoke for a day.”

You’re smiling but you don’t let him see it, ducking your head down and turning your back to him. “Unzip me,” you request. You can see him through the mirror. A smile gently emerges and his hands graze up to the top of your back. He rubs your shoulder blades with the faint touch of his knuckles. You lift your hair up out of the way. Alex smoothly lowers the zipper. His touch is non-sexual, only a caring way of easing your aches and pains but his face plays with temptation and an eagerness that he thinks is unseen.

You remove the straps and tug the dress down to the floor before hanging it up beside his suit jacket, mixing him with you. Your feet carry you away from him, leaving him stranded by the mirror. You pull your bra off and one of your old shirts on. You take off your underwear and wear one of his boxers.

He takes off his shirt and hangs it up. He hides himself in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. You lie down on the bed and wait for him. You don’t get under the covers. You don’t want to hide from him. You want to be exposed, physically all of you left for the taking.

Alex shuts off the sink water and taps his feet on the tiled floors. The bathroom light flickers off. He steps out, catching you on the bed with a smirk. He walks over to his suitcase. “I think this is the first wedding I didn’t get drunk at,” he says, shimmying out of his remaining clothes.

“Good. I want you to be upright.”

He unapologetically snorts at that. He’s naked, bending down, his ass staring at you. Part of you wants to go over there and just start eating him. You make a noise to yourself to do that at some other time but for now, you lie further back, sending a message to him.

His boxers are blue with white polka dots. His hair is messed up again despite the time he spent in the mirror. His chest is bare with a slight roundness to it that makes him feel cozy, instead of stiff. He stands at the foot of the bed and takes one of your feet in his hands. His thumb makes love to the arch, easing the painful build-up from the evening.

He kisses your ankle, the bulge that catches his eye. He licks his tongue over it as his mouth leaves your skin. You moan at the feeling of everything. The slight wetness on your joint and the relief of your muscles coming undone at the same time. “Do you want to have sex?” He asks.

It’s romantic for something that is so clinical sounding. His cheeks are red like an embarrassed schoolboy’s. “Do you?” You nervously return the question.

“Yeah,” he quickly answers. Then, he shrugs. “Maybe.”

You giggle. “Maybe?”

He drops your foot and picks up the other one. He repeats his act, leaving this one wetter than the left. “If you want to go all the way. I’m fine with just taking care of you.” That translates to “I’d like to eat you out now please.”

You lift your left foot and poke your toes into his cock. “What about you?”

Alex kisses your big toe. “What about me?” He chuckles as if it’s an absurd thing for a man to want to come all over the place: pussy, boobs, mouth, stomach, feet, the crook of the elbow.

You sit up on your elbows and nudge your foot against his dick some more. “I don’t want him to feel lonely.”

He places your right foot down with graceful care. He kneels on the carpeted floor. He kisses the arch of your left foot as if he’s saying goodbye to it. “I’m not lonely. I can hear it calling my name.”

Already knowing what he means, you ask him, “It?”

His hand slides up your legs and fiddles with the edge of his boxers hiding it from him. “Your cunt. Wet cunt, right?”

You swat his hand away. “Shut up.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh.” And with a chuckle, he says, “You’re soaking wet, aren’t you?”

You want it so badly yet you’re so embarrassed by it. This want inside you is so intense that no one should know about it, not even you. But he can feel it in the air alone just like you can feel how badly he wants it. Unapologetically wants it. This is where he lays himself bare, never hiding how desperate he is for you and the mess between your thighs. In fact, that’s probably all he ever thinks about. Your core and how to get back to it—to this, edging up into the pocket of you.

“I like how shy you get,” he teases. “You’re so bossy until I touch you then you’re just a mess I have to clean up.”

“Clean up?” You question.

He nods. “Yeah. I need a mop or something.”

It’s impossible not to laugh even if you feel so fucking sheepish over it. Like you want to cover your hands over yourself and hide everything, every desirable part (to him, that means pretty much all of you). “You hate me.”

Alex shakes his head and curls his fingers under the elastic band. “I’d like to fuck every inch of you.”

You turn your head, unable to look at him without turning completely red. “You’re so provocative.”

“Pft,” he sounds. “Barely. You’d die if you heard what goes through my mind.”

You shut your eyes as he begins to pull the boxers off of you. “Keep it to yourself. All of it.”

“No way.” You hear the boxers land and his hand pushes up your shirt. “I like it when you’re all red. It’s the only time I have one up on you.”

You feel that hot air between you two. You open your eyes to him completely over you. A second later his lips touch your lips. It’s always his opening, a greeting for the night to come. He lifts himself to look you in the eye. “Mouth or fingers?”

You push him down, away from you. “Stop it.”

He surrenders. Almost. “Okay. Okay.” He kisses your hip bone and from there on out you’re a goner. You lose the ability to articulate words, not even able to think.

Both his hands grab either side of your waist. He eases his head down to the mount of you, giving it a soft peck. It’s like a slow song, an instrumental one like those scores to all those movies he watches that you don’t understand. You get lost in it like a dance, your body internally swaying.

His mouth touches the lips then he dives into the rest. He licks and kisses the clit. He swirls his tongue down your cunt until he finds the opening, pushing inside. Your hands mess his hair up more because that’s about the only thing you can do. You find him infuriating how beautifully he does this. He’s a painter with his lovemaking. If one could document such a thing he’d be Da Vinci or maybe Kilmt, that would be more aligned.

You wish he’d give as much attention to you as he does to your vagina. Not that you mind this bit either with his nose rubbing against your clit and his tongue running through you like your ice cream on a hot, melting day.

He lifts his head, which shouldn’t be allowed. You whine and push against him to move his head back down. “Should take up permanent residency here,” he says before his fingers get involved in the mix. He re-attaches his mouth to your clit and reintroduces his fingers to the inside of you. They haven’t been separated for long, maybe three days at most. It’s hard to remember dates now. He’s moving just right.

“Fuck, please.” Maybe you’re answering his comment or just exclaiming with pleasure. It’s hard to keep track. He goes to the knuckle and sucks on you like it’s his life resource. Like he’s a baby and milk might come out of it. That’s a funny comment, you note to say that to him after you come if you can remember that.

“I’ll build a mansion down here,” he says against you, vibration running through. “With a pool to keep all this wetness in.” You’d roll your eyes at him if they weren’t rolling into the back of your head.

He moves deep but not quickly. His nose rubs against your pubic bone like his shoe knocking into your heel. He moves back but never away. It’s too much and too little all at once. You might have ripped a hair or two out but he doesn’t mind, he likes that type of thing. He might be bald at the end of this.

He curls his fingers inside you and you might get a noise complaint with how loudly you moan. You feel Alex smile into your pussy. He shushes into your clit, which only makes you moan more, placing your right on the edge. He can feel it in the way your thighs shake, your muscles unable to take this feeling. Your brain is unsure of what to do like he’s turning the light switch on and off rapidly.

“Come on my mouth,” Alex says as he removes his fingers. His mouth is full-on, slurping like your soup and plunging his tongue into you like you’re the bottom of a jar he’s cleaning out. His hands push your legs apart more so he can take it all with no barriers in the way. No hiding.

You move against him, unable to control yourself. He goes down onto you deeper and your ears are ringing from how hot they are. The dam breaks loose and you give him what he wants and what you need. It’s all his, just like that.

He doesn’t stop, licking it all up like you’re the center of the Tootsie Pop. You thrust up into him. Unable to take anymore you tug at his hair to pull him off. His mouth is covered in your wetness. He wipes it off on his arm. He looks tired but doesn’t feel it, unlike you feeling like you just climbed and descended Everest.

You push the shirt back to its proper position. You roll onto your stomach and rest your head completely on the pillow, absorbing the softness and how cool it feels against your hot cheeks. “Gimme the boxers back.”

“What if I want easy access?” You hear him moving but your eyes are closed.

“Too bad.” He bends your legs and helps put the boxers back over you, tucking your shared secret away under the cloth.

You hear the sheets rustle and the bed dip beside you. He tugs on the blanket under you. “Pick your feet up.” You follow orders before he covers you both with the blanket, even though it feels too hot right now on your sweating skin. “Don’t fall asleep yet. Open your eyes.”

You manage to flutter them open. Half-closed you say, “How’s this?”

The browns of his peek through along with his smile. “Good enough.”

“What time is check out?” Your eyes shut and his arm lands on your back, cooling you down just enough to not burst into flames.

He yawns. “Noon, I think.”

You hum relief at being able to sleep in. “Want to wake up early for a blow job?”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking it over. “Nah.” The buzz of silence rings the air. You sink further into the bed. Sleep closes in on you. “Want me to wake you up with head?”

You laugh and open your eyes to see his toothy smile. You bite your lip, scared to admit it, but you reveal it to him. “Maybe.” You turn your head away from him and close your eyes.

He kisses the back of your head. “Okay.” Not forcing anything. There’s no attempt to crack you open and tell you to expose yourself to him. There’s no insistence on allowing him to see every side of you. He likes that you keep these parts of yourself hidden. That you got embarrassed when his friends briefly talked about sex like it was in front of your parents or something. Like when you had to give a presentation on STDs in sex ed. That’s one of his favourite stories of you.

It’s private only for you to see fully and he’s fine with just seeing it in parts because those parts usually involve his tongue, cock, or fingers and you moaning. Or that redness that enters your cheeks where you get all flustered and bury your head into his neck. It’s the only time he gets to be the protector. You give yourself over to him. You trust him. That’s all a man could ever want. That and maybe a cigarette.

a/n: when i started this i hated it but now i think it's one of the best things i've written, at least the hotel room part. i think i've used the tootsie pop line before, not sure. also listened to "amore mio aiutami" on repeat so that might have helped.

#alex turner #alex turner fic #alex turner x oc #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x reader #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner smut #junedenim

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