#preteen!reader

[flowersforbucky]

where the lines overlap

logan howlett x reader (dofp!logan x mutant!reader)

word count: 8.7k

summary: no one gets under your skin quite as much as logan howlett - and he knows it, too. sex pollen trope.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, sex pollen so dub con, frenemies to lovers? they aren't enemies but logan and reader don't really get along, reader is a mutant with pyrokinesis, reader is afab, reader is described as being smaller than logan, no use of y/n, wet dream, fuck or die situation, oral, pet names (bub, princess), brief pain kink for logan, unprotected p in v, cream pie

author's note: takes place after the events of days of future past - so everyone's alive, charles is old af, and logan has a pretty streak of silver in his hair. not proofread super well so please ignore any errors.

There's certain things that you like to think about when you're pissed off. It’s a coping mechanism that you learned in therapy at the ripe age of eleven.

Go to your happy place or whatever.

For you, that's the mansion's courtyard after a fresh snowfall, and having the library all to yourself on a rainy day, and the comfort of your bedroom on one of the rare days that you aren’t teaching, or training, or on a mission.

At this point in your life, you’ve forgotten just about everything you were taught in that therapist's office. It's not like you had wanted to be there, but your parents had been worried and scared – and rightfully so. With the unexpected emergence of your pyrokinetic abilities came multiple accidental house fires born out of preteen angst.

So they did the only thing they knew to do at the time – stick you in therapy in hopes you would acquire some anger management techniques.

These days, you have a pretty good handle on your powers. With a lot of time and effort, you learned to control them – and not just control them, but yield them in a beneficial and productive way.

All of that progress comes dangerously close to going out the window anytime you're in close proximity to Logan Howlett.

Maybe all is an exaggeration – but no one else makes your fingertips burn hot with fire that threatens to break through the barrier of your skin quite like him. From his bossiness to his arrogance and attitude, you’ve clashed heads since the first day you met him.

Today is no different.

“Don’t use so much force.”

You curse as the tip of the blade impales the target a whopping three inches from the center. By far your worst throw yet, though this one isn’t entirely your fault.

You snap your head towards the unexpected but familiar voice, pulling your last dagger from the holster secured around your thigh before chucking it in his general direction. It flies past him, bouncing off the wall behind him.

You knew that it wouldn’t actually hit him. And if by some miracle it had, he’d heal in two seconds and then go right back to being a pain in your ass.

A good looking pain in your ass, admittedly. But a pain in your ass nonetheless.

He looks at you with an amused expression. “See? Too much force.”

“I didn’t know that having giant forks for hands made you an expert on throwing knives.”

He exhales a breathy laugh, staring at you for several seconds before turning to pick the dagger up from the ground. He then proceeds to collect the rest of the knives that you had previously thrown from the body of the practice target.

In heavy silence, he struts over to you with the daggers in hand. He turns to face a wooden target board, finding the balance point of the knife before sending it flying through the air.

Bullseye.

“A long time ago, when I first joined this team, Charles made me practice a non-power related method of self-defense, too.” He pauses, lining the second dagger up with the practice dummy. To no surprise, it’s another perfect throw.

“Wanna guess what I chose?”

You snatch the remaining knife out of his hand.

“How to annoy someone by sneaking up on them and giving them unsolicited advice while they are minding their own business?”

You position your feet once again, holding the knife up in preparation to take aim. Your eyes dart back and forth between the blade and the target ahead of you. You hesitate, feeling nervous under his gaze.

Logan moves from standing beside you, to standing behind you. Your breath catches in your throat as his large figure looms over you. If he were to took a step forward, his chest would brush against your back.

He uses the tip of his boot to nudge your heel forward half an inch, adjusting your stance. He takes your right hand in his, and you have to consciously remind yourself to breathe.

A wave of annoyance washes over you that he’s able to fluster you so easily. It makes you as pissed at yourself as it does him. He’s barely touching you – his hand dwarfing yours is the only point of physical contact, but you’d think that he were pinning you up against a wall with his body.

You tell yourself the sudden light-headedness and increased heartrate is because of the newfound closeness, and nothing more. You’re used to being around Logan – the two of you live together and work together. His general presence is nothing new. But the intimacy of your current predicament is.

And maybe the fact that notes of tobacco and bourbon are infiltrating your senses doesn’t help.

“As unsolicited as my advice may be,” he says lowly as he pulls your hand back slightly, “I give it because if there is ever a situation where someone's trying to hurt you, and you’re unable to light them on fire for some reason, I would really hope that you could at least impale them.”

He tightens his hold on your hand, and then snaps both of your wrists forward. Surprisingly, your brain registers to release your grip just in time. When the tip of the blade impales the center of the target perfectly, he drops your hand.

But he doesn’t move from behind you.

“Much better. Now come back upstairs. Charles needs to see all of us in his office.”

••••••

You and Logan are the last people to enter Charles’ office.

Storm, Scott, Jean, Marie, and Bobby have all found places to sit throughout the small room. Logan chooses to lean against the door that clicks shut behind him, while you exhale in relief at the sight of an empty chair on the opposite side of the room, next to Marie.

“Ah, how nice of you two to join us,” Charles greets. “I was starting to think that Logan got lost on his way to retrieve you.”

You force out a laugh, earning a side-eye from Marie as Charles launches back into whatever he had been in the middle of before you two interrupted.

“Everything okay?” Marie murmurs to you. “You looked a little sick when you walked in.”

“Oh, yeah,” you shrug her off without looking at her. You keep your eyes on Charles. “Yeah, I'm just tired. Been training all morning.”

What were you supposed to tell her? That you were thankful to be wearing a tactical suit so that Logan couldn’t see all of the goosebumps that bloomed across your skin when he was practically breathing down your neck less than five minutes ago? Or that the walk back up to Charles’ office was filled with a loaded silence in place of your usual bickering and banter?

Marie might be one of your closest friends, and you trust her, but Logan is something of a fatherly figure to her. There’s no way you’re letting her hear those words come from your mouth.

You try your hardest to focus on all of the information that Charles throws at you. You’re all to leave on a mission early tomorrow morning. When he explains where you’re going and why, chills run down your spine.

Alberta, Canada – more specifically, Alkali Lake. All of your friends seem to tense up at the mere mention of the place.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, fighting the urge to sneak a glance to try to gauge Logan's reaction. You’ve never been to Alkali Lake before, and you’re far from excited about going – you can only imagine how he feels, given his history with the abandoned military base.

After no word of any activity surrounding the base for years, Charles had been made aware that the recent disappearance of a group of young adult humans had been traced back to Alkali Lake – to a modern day subsidiary of the group Weapon X.

The same group responsible for Logan’s skeleton being made from adamantium.

This, of course, is where all of you come in.

After a detailed rundown of the goals for tomorrow – the main one being safe extraction of the humans – Charles dismisses all of you to rest for the remainder of the day.

When everyone stands up, you finally risk glancing at Logan, but he’s already opening the door to Charles’ office and strutting away.

••••••

Thick stubble scratches your innermost thighs as sharp teeth and soft lips alternate between kissing and biting the sensitive flesh between your legs.

His face is covered in your slick from the three orgasms he’s already pulled from you with his tongue. He lays nestled between your legs, pinning you to the mattress beneath you. Your thighs rest across his shoulders, his hands splayed across your belly.

You're putty in his hands.

“I've gotta say, the sounds you make when you cum are way cuter than the sounds I'm used to hearing from you,” Logan muses against your cunt. His voice sends a vibration over your already overstimulated core.

You can only guess that the sounds he’s referring to are annoyed sighs and you telling him to shut the fuck up, but right now, you don't care enough to ask for any clarification.

“Yeah?” You yelp when his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. “Maybe if you spent less time pissing me off you’d get to—”

You're cut off by him plunging the tip of his index finger inside you. You writhe against him, your walls constricting around the digit.

“Less time pissing you off, more time letting you fuck my fingers and face. Got it.”

The slamming of a door somewhere outside of your room causes you to bolt upright in your bed.

You open your eyes to darkness except for the red glow of the numbers on your digital alarm clock that read 12:26 in the morning. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and your skin is clammy with a thin layer of sweat. You throw your covers away from you in an attempt to cool yourself off.

“What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck—”

You whisper the three words to yourself over and over again until your breathing resumes a normal pattern.

You’re alone, of course. In the comfort of your private room, where you had fallen asleep several hours ago. The difference between now and then is an uncomfortable pool of wetness between your legs, soaking your underwear.

You can’t even recall the last time you had such a vivid sex dream. It felt utterly lifelike – you reach down between your legs, trailing your fingers over the skin of your inner thighs where you had felt his beard tickle and tease you.

How the fuck are you supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, when you’re having to work together to rescue humans from Alkali Lake? How are you supposed to come up with smart-ass remarks for his endless taunting and teasing when you’re going to be trying your hardest to not replay the images of his hazel eyes looking up at from between your thighs?

“Get a fucking grip,” you whisper hiss to yourself.

It’s Logan. The same Logan who acted like he was too good to say more than ten words to you the first half a year that you were with the team. The same Logan that tries to get you benched for the dumbest, smallest reasons he can think of. The same Logan that condescendingly calls you kid or princess every chance he gets because he knows it gets under your skin.

You need a glass of water. And some fresh air, and a cold shower—

You start by picking up the pair of sweatpants that you’d discarded before falling asleep a few hours ago. You step back into them, deciding to trek to the kitchen for some ice water. Your mouth feels as dry as cotton.

As you approach the end of the hallway that leads from the team member's bedrooms to the kitchen, you hear the soft shuffling of footsteps and see low lighting that spills from the refrigerator.

As soon as you step into the kitchen, you come to a halt. You recognize the large frame standing in front of the open fridge right away.

Of fucking course it would be him. And of fucking course he wouldn’t be wearing a shirt.

You clear your throat to announce your presence, not quite trusting your voice to speak. He looks at you over his shoulder, a bottle of beer pressed to his lips.

You walk over to the cabinet beside him, keeping your eyes off of him entirely as you get a glass.

“What's got you awake at this hour?” He closes the fridge, leaning back against the edge of the countertop. The only light in the room now comes from the small, dim bulb above the sink.

If he only fucking knew, you think. If he only knew that the real reason you are out of bed right now is because you’d just woken up from an extremely graphic, jarring dream of you riding his face.

You fill the cup up with cold water from the kitchen sink and take a large swig before once again turning to face him.

“Could ask you the same thing,” you answer with a vague gesture to his half-dressed form and beer bottle.

He takes in your appearance, too. His eyes trail from your exposed feet, to your baggy sweatpants, and up to your even baggier t-shirt before settling on your face. You feel particularly vulnerable under his gaze right now. You compare how you look to how he looks – with his stupid abs that look like God himself chiseled them from stone and his sweatpants that hang just a little too comfortably.

You sip on your water just to keep from biting your lip.

“Guess we were both thirsty,” he shrugs as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Guess so,” you hum, and because you don’t want to fall into an awkward silence and it’s the only thing you can think to add, you say, “Nervous about the mission?”

His expression darkens and posture tenses at your question. “I am,” he admits. “And if you knew as much as I do about that place, you’d be nervous, too.”

You huff. Your grip tightens around the glass in your hand at the mere insinuation that he knows your feelings. “Who says that I’m not?”

“If you’re going, you’re not nervous enough.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. You take a deep breath, knowing damn well the direction that this conversation is headed. You’d heard it all from him before – anything to keep you as far away from him as possible.

“Of course I’m going, Logan. Whether you think I’m good at it or not, it’s my job.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re good at your job. It’s about experience—”

You laugh, cutting him off. You can feel the telltale warmth of fire beginning to form beneath the tips of your fingers, your irritation threatening to bubble over.

“Experience?” you exclaim. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve been with this team for three years now? Just because I’m not two hundred years old like you doesn’t mean that I don’t have experience.”

“I’m very aware of how long you’ve been with this team, bub,” he says calmly, which makes you all the more heated.

“For three years you’ve spewed every bullshit reason you can think of to keep me on the sidelines,” you laugh. “I wish you’d fucking admit that you just don’t like me. It’d be a lot more respectable than acting like you’re worried about—”

Logan’s gaze drops to the glass in your hand, making you come to an abrupt pause. You follow his stare, realizing that you’ve managed to melt the glass where your fingertips grip the glass. Water begins to leak out from the holes, spilling onto your sweatpants and the floor below you.

There’s no visible flames emanating from your fingertips. Your anger hadn’t progressed to full on fire, just intense heat, but still. No one else makes you come as close to losing control as him.

No one. And he seems to know it, too. You can tell by the smug look on his face.

You dump what little liquid is left into the sink before chucking the distorted glass into the garbage.

You start to storm past him, to get away from him and go back to your room without another word, when he grabs you by the wrist. You look at him in bewilderment – this is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that he has held your hand in his.

“Didn’t know you were so hot and bothered over me,” he says with an amused smirk.

You rip your hand away from him, an exaggerated look of disgust on your face. Your recent dream pops into your head and you have to remind yourself that he’s not Jean or Charles – he can’t read your mind.

“You're lucky that you've got those handy healing powers,” you spit as you once again begin exiting the kitchen. “If I thought there was a chance of it actually shutting you up, I’d burn more than just Charles’ vintage glassware.”

You hear him say your name, but you’re already speed walking back to your room and playing your list of happy place thoughts on a loop in your head.

The soup that Storm makes when everyone at the school seems to get sick at the same time. One of your younger students picking you a flower. The smell of fresh laundry, the crisp pages of a new book.

Finally, your bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

You would have been better off just enduring the discomfort of a dry throat, you think. You don't know what's worse – not being able to sleep because you're rattled from a wet dream about him, or not being able to sleep because you've once again allowed him to get under your skin.

You crawl back under your covers, hoping that when you close your eyes, you don't see his face again.

••••••

Logan doesn’t make any more appearances in your dreams for the rest of the night, but that doesn’t stop him from being the first thing you think of when you open your eyes in the morning.

And as much as you hate to admit it to yourself, the only thing on your mind the entire flight from New York to Alberta.

From the tension that filled the air when he corrected your knife throwing technique yesterday morning to the warmth of his calloused hand when he grabbed you by the wrist in the kitchen last night, you're fighting a losing battle with no one but yourself.

As far as you can tell, he’s utterly unaffected. The fact that he chose to sit directly in front of you on the jet instead of any of the other empty seats says as much.

Not even ten minutes into the flight, you're staring at the tufts of his hair and his broad shoulders when you have to remind yourself that there's two telepaths occupying this jet with you. Though you trust both Charles and Jean to not read your mind without cause, the mere possibility of either one of them accidentally tuning into your thoughts and seeing a replay of your most recent dream or hearing you think about what it would be like to tug on those stupid fucking tufts of hair that resemble kitten ears is enough to mortify you.

You find yourself grateful that you brought a book and headphones with you to distract yourself for the duration of the trip.

An eerie feeling creeps into your bones as soon as you step onto the hanger of the jet. You can’t deny that the scenery surrounding the military base is beautiful – from the snowcapped mountains to the frost covered lake, it’s picturesque. But then your gaze settles on the large dam, and you remember what lies beneath.

“Can't say that I've missed this place,” Logan grunts, drawing your attention to him. His face is impassive other than his mouth being set in a hard, straight line as he stares out towards the water.

It's rare for Logan to elicit feelings outside of burning irritation (and maybe, possibly, sometimes arousal) from you – but right now, there’s a part of you that wishes the dynamic between the two of you were different.

As much as he infuriates you, you still care about him. You wish you could say that you didn’t, but the fact that you feel the urge to reach out and give his hand a reassuring squeeze makes that pretty hard to deny.

That urge dissipates as quickly as it comes over you. The bitter chill of the mountain wind and your teammates voices pull you back to reality. You awkwardly fiddle with one of the daggers strapped to your thigh instead.

“Jean and Scott, the two of you take the west side of the building,” Charles instructs when the group nears the discreet entrance. “Bobby and Rogue, clear the east wing. Storm and I will be keeping watch outside to make sure that no one tries to escape with the humans.”

“What about us?” you ask with a slight nod towards Logan. The fact that neither of you had been given instructions yet leaves it to be assumed that you’ll be paired up together.

You and Logan working as a pair was nothing out of the ordinary, and although that typically comes with a lot of annoyance, right now you can’t help but feel a little relieved by it.

Even if you are still irritated at him for his behavior and choice of words in the kitchen last night and even if you do think of him between your thighs every time you look at him for more than five seconds, he’s still more familiar with this place than anyone else here.

And no matter how much he makes you want to tear your hair out, there's never a time that you feel unsafe when he's near.

“You and Logan are to inspect the basement,” Charles answers. “I trust that you can refrain from melting any antique personal property until we are back at the mansion, my dear,” he adds with a knowing smirk.

“I was planning on paying you back for that,” you mumble.

“No,” Charles sighs. “You weren't. It was very expensive.”

Logan snorts, earning curious glances from everyone other than you and Charles. He does get a nasty side-eye from you – a silent promise to deliver on last night’s threat to find something to burn other than vintage glassware.

Your teammates split up into their respective groups upon entering the base, leaving you to follow Logan's lead towards the lower levels.

It’s unsettling just how silent it is. The only sounds are that of yours and Logan's boots against the ground. You'd be able to hear a pin drop from across the building.

And it's cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones ache. You instinctively flex your fingers, focusing on the warmth that radiates from the tips.

As the two of you make your way through the dark, seemingly endless basement, checking each room for signs of life, you can't help but think of Logan being here under much different circumstances.

You don't know the full extent of his time here – even he only remembers bits and pieces. But you know enough to know that this can’t be easy for him.

The fact that he's being uncharacteristically quiet only reaffirms that. He makes none of his typical taunts and jabs, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

You find yourself damn near wishing he’d make some snide comment about how you’re walking too loudly and how being partnered up with you feels like babysitting duty – if he did, maybe then you wouldn’t feel this annoying, persistent worry over his mental well-being.

“Logan,” you begin quietly as the two of you approach a large set of hospital style double doors at the end of a corridor. “I know being here can't be easy for you. I'm sorry that you have to be.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, not meeting your eyes as he slowly pushes one of the doors open, peaking into the room before stepping inside and holding the door open for you.

“Just part of the job, bub,” he sighs. “I know what I signed up for.”

You enter, walking past him into the dark room. You shine your flashlight around the cramped space. Right away, you can tell that it’s vacant, as all of the other rooms you’ve checked have been. But it’s different – whereas most of the rooms have been completely empty, this one contains multiple twin sized beds. No frames, no pillows, just plain white sheets on each one.

“I know you do. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and he shines his own flashlight around the room from right behind you.

“It’s okay, princess,” he snorts. “I’m a big boy. You don’t gotta pretend to be worried about me.”

Princess. Your fingertips tingle as soon as the pet name leaves his lips.

“I’m not pretend—”

The sudden, loud clicking of a deadbolt echoes through the room, silencing you. You and Logan stare at each other for a brief moment, startled and confused, before he turns around and pushes on the double doors to no avail.

He slams the full weight of his body against the metal, but it doesn't budge.

“What the fuck,” he growls in between repeated strikes against the doors.

“Logan and I are locked in a room in the basement,” you say as you click on the communication device in your left ear. “The door automatically locked after we came inside. We can’t get it open—”

You’re met with white noise.

“My fucking comm isn’t working.” Panic begins to set in as you yank the device out of your ear to inspect it. There’s a small green light indicating that it is on, but for whatever reason, it isn’t getting signal.

“Scott? Storm? Can anyone hear us?” Logan says as he messes with his own communication device. “Nothing,” he grunts after a moment of silence.

“Professor? Jean? If either of you are listening, now would be a great time to poke around in our brains and let us know.”

Nothing indeed.

“Okay,” Logan says as he backs away from the double doors. “Blast them.”

“Blast them?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “They’re industrial metal doors. They’re like two feet thick. These walls are made out of concrete.” You bang your first against the rock solid wall for emphasis. “What the fuck do you think fire is—”

“I don’t hear you suggesting anything!”

“How about not setting the room we are trapped in on fire? Only one of us has regenerative—”

A loud hissing noise sounds from above, causing you and Logan to both point your flashlights up towards the ceiling. You squint, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Large vents make up well over fifty percent of the ceiling, releasing what appears to be a fog like substance. It quickly transforms the air above you into one large, milky looking cloud.

“Charles! Storm! Scott – we need help. Quickly, we need help. I don’t know what’s going—”

You continue to shout into the communication device while Logan alternates between punching the door with his fists and throwing the full weight of his body against the metal, but all of your efforts are futile. The doors don’t budge, and you hear nothing but static from the comm.

You frantically glance around the room, looking for another escape route. There’s no other doors, and no windows. You’re completely enclosed by the four concrete walls and the impenetrable metal doors.

“Hold your breath!” Logan shouts as the fog descends upon the two of you, but it’s too late. The sickeningly sweet smelling mist encompasses you, making it impossible to see anything other than the thick silver vapor. It infiltrates your nostrils, causing you to gag. You cough, desperately trying to clear your airway of the substance.

It burns – your throat, your nostrils, your eyes and skin. Anywhere that it comes in contact with you feels like pins and needles.

You’re vaguely aware that Logan is somewhere to your left, asking if you’re okay in-between coughs and gags of his own. You can’t catch your breath well enough to answer him.

His hand clasps around the top of your arm. Your vision goes fuzzy and you collapse into him, light-headed from the profuse coughing.

“I think it’s dissipating,” Logan whispers in a strained voice, still supporting you so that you don’t fall to the floor. You risk cracking your eyes open the slightest bit, and realize that he’s right. There’s still a veil of mist surrounding you, but it’s no longer so opaque that you can’t see even two inches in front of your face.

You take deep breaths, making no effort to step away from him as you attempt to regain control of your breathing. Your lungs feel like they are on fire and your throat feels like you haven’t had any water in days.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out as a croak.

“Can you stand?” he asks you. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from his embrace.

As soon as he steps away from you to see if the doors are still locked, the momentary relief that you felt when the fog began to dissipate is replaced with renewed terror. The room, which was previously dark except for the light from your flashlights, suddenly glows a deep red color from the ceiling that now emits crimson fluorescence.

You open your mouth to call out for Charles or Jean again, when a throbbing sensation radiates throughout your gut. You clutch your hands over your abdomen, gasping at the sudden and awkward feeling.

Logan turns his attention away from the doors and back to you as soon as he notices how you’re hunched over. You stumble over to the bed that's closest to you, the world blurring around you in shades of red.

“Something is wrong,” you gasp out. You know you're stating the obvious – something has been wrong since the moment that the doors locked behind you.

He's next to you in two long strides, kneeling beside the bed and looking up at you in concern. The ache in your lower belly seems to worsen with his close proximity. Your skin feels feverish, making you want to peel your tactical suit off of your body.

“Tell me what you're feeling,” he demands. Other than obvious confusion and fear, he appears physically fine. You piece together that whatever that shit was, it’s effecting you much differently than it is him – undoubtedly due to his healing abilities.

You can't form a coherent sentence – all you can focus on is the way that the discomfort in your abdomen travels down to your groin, making you clench your thighs together. You have the inexplicable desire to reach out and pull him to you, as if having him as close as possible to you is the only solution for every uncomfortable thing happening to you.

“You gotta talk to me, bub. Tell me what’s going on,” he says when you don’t answer him. He puts a hand just above your knee and you have to hold back the whimper that threatens to break through your lips. He notices your pained expression and quickly withdraws his hand from your thigh.

“No!” you gasp, grabbing his hand in yours out of desperation to maintain some level of physical contact with him. “I – I don't know how to explain what’s happening. Just – I just need you to keep touching me. Please. Whatever that fog was, it’s making me feel like…”

You trail off, realizing that you must sound every bit as insane as you feel. You don’t know how to begin articulating what’s happening to you, because it makes no sense. When the silver mist first started to rain down from the ceiling, the last thing on your mind was Logan pinning you to one of these mattresses and railing you until you until you see stars. Now, you think that if he so much as stops holding your hand, you'll fucking die.

A look of clarity washes over Logan’s face – with a hint of something else that you can't quite pinpoint, too.

“I think I know what this is,” he murmurs. His stare is locked on one of the daggers strapped to your thigh. He squeezes your hand in his, though you don’t know if it’s to comfort you or himself.

“I’ve heard of this before. Didn’t know it actually exists. I came across it once when preparing a lesson on Alkali Lake—”

“What is it?” you implore.

His eyes finally flicker back up to yours. Images of last night’s dream flash through your mind again. Instead of his hand holding yours, you visualize his slender fingers pumping inside you. You stare at his lips, imaging the feeling of them sucking love bites into the meat of your inner thighs –

“It’s a chemical created for breeding experiments,” he answers after a pregnant pause. “They – Weapon X – wanted super mutants. Some of the subjects were… less than compliant. This made it so that they weren’t able to fight it.”

You let his words sink in. It’s not something you’ve ever heard of, but you don’t doubt that what he’s saying is true. How could you, with the way that your pussy is throbbing at the mere sound of his voice? Under normal circumstances, you might not read too far into that. But right now? On a mission, locked in a creepy basement, unable to get in contact with your teammates?

“Weren’t able to fight it,” you repeat slowly. “You're saying there’s only one way out of this.”

He doesn’t answer – just looks at you with sympathy. With pity.

“No,” you shake your head. You yank your hand from his grasp and move back across the mattress as the gravity of the situation hits you. To distance yourself from him feels like ripping air out of your own lungs, but the alternative is borderline unthinkable.

“I can’t – won’t ask that of you,” you declare. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that laughs at you, as if saying it’s cute that you think you have a choice. The pain and longing grow with each passing second, threatening to consume you from the inside out.

“You’re fine. It would be different if it was both of us. But you shouldn’t have to do this just because you're stuck here with me.”

“Have to? You make it sound like it would be a punishment for me,” he chuckles darkly. He finally rises from where he had been kneeling next to the bed. He stands beside the mattress, looming over you in the maroon lighting.

“Let’s not overcomplicate this, princess,” he murmurs. He grasps your face in his palm and tilts your head to look up at him. His touch is a balm – it feels like running a burn under a cold stream of water.

“I'm gonna take care of you, and then you can go right back to tolerating my existence.” He runs the calloused pad of his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter shut, reveling in the sensation of the singular digit against your flesh.

“Besides, it’s not like you haven’t dreamed about this. Or were you moaning about someone else who just happens to have the same name as me last night?”

Your eyes shoot open at the revelation that not only had you said his name in your sleep, but he’d fucking heard you. And has the nerve to tease you about it at a time like this.

He's smirking down at you. His smugness irritates you often, but right now it’s enough to cause the tips of your fingers to burn hot. You jerk his hand away from your face, causing him to hiss when your fingers wrap around his wrist.

He chortles, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation. The reaction fills you with annoyance – of course he would have a fucking pain kink.

As much as it pisses you off, it also spurs you on. Blame the influence of the chemicals that you’re currently under, but the fact that he can so easily tolerate and even enjoy something that would have anyone else running in the opposite direction does something to you.

You’re past the point of finding it in you to care about consequences. You’re no longer thinking about how you’ll be able to look him in the eye when this is over, or how you’ll pretend like everything is perfectly normal when the two of you are back on the jet with your teammates.

Maybe you can fight this drug, or maybe he’s right and there’s no point in trying. Either way, you’ve decided that you're going to have him before you leave this room.

You drop his hand, bringing yours to the zipper at the neckline of your tactical suit. You slowly tug it downwards, gauging his expression as he watches you expose your chest and stomach.

For once, he’s all out of smart remarks.

A part of you feels a sense of satisfaction and wants to continue taking your time with undressing yourself, just to keep him looking at you like this – but every fiber of your being is screaming at you for more.

You waste no more time with shoving the restrictive Kevlar material down your arms, leaving you in only your bra from the waist up. Logan unfreezes at the sight, crawling onto the bed on his knees. You maneuver yourself so that you’re laying flat against the mattress, pulling him down with you.

He rips the fabric of your bra away from your breast, immediately attaching his mouth to your nipple. He rolls it between his tongue and teeth, causing you to arch your back into his touch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, pinning yourself to the mattress with his body. You mewl at the feeling of your pebbled nipple in his warm mouth.

His other hand attempts to free the opposite breast, but the fabric is too tight and restrictive. He let’s out an annoyed growl, pulling back to unsheathe his claws and snip the material in between your tits, letting them spill free.

“Hey! I loved that bra—”

Your complaint dies in your throat when he slates his lips over yours.

There’s nothing slow or sensual about the way that he kisses you. He slips his tongue past your lips, moving his lips with fervency and urgency – like he needs this as badly as you do.

You buck your hips up into him, desperate for any amount of friction. He grinds down against you, his erection evident even through the thick material of both of your tactical suits.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss to unzip your suit the rest of the way down. He peels it down your thighs, only stopping to discard your boots. When you’re left in only your underwear, he looks at you with a satisfied smirk.

“So, what exactly was I doing in your dream to have you saying my name like that, huh?” he asks as he toys with the waistband of your panties.

You roll your eyes, your patience growing thinner as the ache in your belly grows stronger. He can tease you about that all he wants when you’re back in the safety of the mansion, when you’re no longer under the influence of potentially life threatening chemicals and capable of thinking of a proper comeback.

“Shut up and eat me out.”

His smirk only grows, but he doesn’t tease you any further. He tugs your panties down your legs, tossing them to the floor. He lowers himself onto his stomach, still fully dressed. Under less dire circumstances, you would’ve been eager to get him out of his clothes, too – but right now, your highest priority is feeling his mouth on you.

No wet dream could have prepared you for how euphoric it actually feels for his teeth to nip at the tender flesh of your inner thighs, or the way that his tongue draws lazy circles at your hole before his lips lock around your clit.

You writhe against him, chasing the release that you’ve been desperate for since the second the vapor first came in contact with your skin. He’s more than generous, expertly nursing at your swollen bud as he eases a slender finger inside your cunt.

One finger – that’s all it takes to feel your climax building, the coil in your lower belly tightening. You feel your walls pulse around the digit as your orgasm washes over you. You don’t even try to hold back your cries and praises of pleasure, letting him know how good he’s making you feel.

When he sits back, his lips and beard glisten with your slick in the red glow that encases you both. You push yourself into a sitting position and reach for the zipper of his suit, antsy to shed his clothing now that your physical discomfort had been quelled – at least for the time being.

He helps you, shrugging out of his vest and tugging his undershirt over his head. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but never shirtless for you. You want to dig your nails into the planes of his chest, and run your tongue along the protruding vein that disappears beyond the waistline of his pants –

You undo his belt buckle and pop open the button of his pants before hastily yanking both his pants and boxers down in one movement. His cock springs free, bobbing inches before your face. You start to adjust your position on the bed – to get on your knees and take him in your mouth – when a low chuckle causes you to pause and look up at him.

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts, earning a confused pout from you.

“You don’t want me to suck your dick?” You ask with raised brows.

“S’not about me right now, bub. I said I was gonna take care of you, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Now lay back down for me.”

You aren’t going to argue with that.

You return to your original position on the mattress, pulling him down with you. He hovers above you, using one arm to support himself on the bed. He takes his cock in his free hand, stroking his length a few times before nudging his head through your folds until he’s lubricated in your juices.

“Don’t you worry, though,” he murmurs against your lips. He teases his tip at your hole. “If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I'll let you.”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtfu—”

He sheaths himself inside you, turning the end of your retort into a gasp. He fills you entirely, stilling to allow both of you time to adjust to the sensation. The stretch is damn near blinding, making your eyes roll back into your skull. You glance down between your bodies, halfway expecting to see him jutting out of your stomach.

He fucks you similarly to how he kisses you – like this is saving him as much as it is you. It's rough, and fast, and messy – and you dread the moment that it’s over.

No one has ever filled you as completely and perfectly as him. You don’t think anyone else ever will, again.

Each drag of his cock along your walls has you clenching around him, each time his head rams against your cervix you can’t help but cry his name.

He snakes his hand in between you, reaching down to where his body collides with yours. His thumb massages over your sensitive clit.

You rake your nails down his back and he hisses in approval, snapping his hips into you at a brutal pace.

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess,” he grunts before kissing you again.

You don't have time to overthink the sentiment before your second orgasm is washing over you. Logan cums as soon as he feels your pussy pulsating around him, fucking you until he's spilled every last drop of his warm seed deep inside you. When you're both finished, he stills inside you and rests his sweat-slicked forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

“You think it worked?” he grunts.

As if on cue, you hear the deadbolt unlock from the other side of the room. A second later, Storm’s voice sounds from your communication device that had fallen to the floor at some point.

“I don't feel like there’s a ticking time bomb inside my vagina anymore. So, I’d say yeah, it worked.”

He huffs a laugh, and then pulls out of you with a sigh.

“Logan,” you say, stopping him before he can pull away from you entirely. He stares down at you, waiting for you to continue.

You aren’t even sure what to say. Truthfully, you just weren’t ready for the moment to end and for things to go back to normal between the two of you.

“Thank you,” you spit out after a moment of loaded silence. “For… helping me,” you finish lamely.

“Don’t thank me, bub,” he chuckles. “It’s far from the worst thing that's happened to me in this place.”

••••••

You sleep the entire flight back to New York.

And as soon as you've showered and your head hits the pillow after returning home to the mansion, you sleep for another ten hours. Every time you wake up and think that you're finally well-rested, your body says otherwise and you're asleep again within minutes.

You wish you could say it’s a dreamless sleep, but that would be a lie. You see Logan’s face every time you close your eyes.

But it's different than the last dream you had of him. It isn’t images of his head between your thighs or his fingers slipping in and out of you.

It’s just.. him. His presence. The lingering feeling of his lips on yours, the light flavor of tobacco and menthol.

And the echo of the words he spoke as he teased you with the head of his cock and made you cum around his length.

“Don’t you worry, though. If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I’ll let you.”

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess.”

When you wake, the ache between your thighs for him remains, despite the fact that the effects of the drugs had long since faded.

You know you shouldn’t read too far into words spoken while the two of you were locked in that room. But you can’t help but keep thinking that he wasn’t under the influence of chemical subjugation. Which leaves you questioning if he meant the things he said, or if he was just trying to lighten a scary, impossible situation for both of you.

You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

When you finally gather the courage the knock on his door, the sun has set and everyone has retired to their bedrooms for the evening.

You almost dash back into your own room during the few seconds that it takes him to open his door. He wears sweatpants, a plain black t-shirt, and a surprised expression.

“Hey, bub,” he greets you apprehensively. You don't normally make a habit of stopping by his room for late night chats. “Was starting to worry that you’d fallen into a coma.”

He opens his door wider, motioning with his head for you to come inside.

“Felt like it,” you give a small laugh. “Whatever was in that shit wore me out.” You take a seat on the edge of his bed, nervously wringing your hands together.

“You feeling better now?” he asks as he leans against his dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes trail over the large muscles of his chest and shoulders. The memory of his body caging you to the twin sized mattress in the basement of the bunker flashes through your mind.

You nod, hoping that it’s convincing.

“All things considered,” you shrug. “I just wanted to check in with you. Has Charles… said anything?”

What you're actually trying to ask is if Charles interrogated him about where the two of you were during the mission, why no one was able to contact either of you, and why you have been so exhausted that you've done nothing but sleep for the last day, but you trust that he knows what you mean.

“He hasn’t said anything, but..” he trails off, eyes darting around the room to avoid your gaze. “It’s Charles. Safe to assume he knows and is just being decent by not saying anything.”

“Right,” you murmur.

If he doesn’t already know, it's only a matter of time before you slip up and imagine the feeling of his lips on yours or the sounds of his moans in the middle of a mission debriefing.

“And the humans..? They’re all okay?”

“They are,” he assures you with a soft smile. “They’re all receiving medical attention, and most have been reunited with their loved ones.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “No thanks to us, I guess.”

“No,” he laughs. “I suppose not.”

He pushes himself off the dresser, walking the few feet to where you perch at the edge of the mattress. He sits down beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. He smells of Old Spice deodorant and spearmint toothpaste, and it makes you the room spin around you.

“But everyone’s okay. They’re safe. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. He’s close enough that you can practically feel the heat from his body. You risk looking at his face, your gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

“Yeah,” you finally agree. “You’re right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest. I just wanted to check in with—”

You start to stand up, when he cups your jaw in his hand and pulls your face to his. He’s hesitant in a way that he wasn’t yesterday – he gives you the opportunity to pull away before he sweeps his tongue across your bottom lip, as if asking for permission.

When you don’t give any kind of indication that you want him to stop, he pulls you flush against him and slips his tongue past your lips. You bring your hand to the back of his neck, twining your fingers through his hair.

He takes his time with you. Whereas yesterday’s kisses were filled with urgency and desperation, todays is tender and sensual. Now, you’re allowed the luxury of taking your time.

He lays down against the mattress, pulling you with him. You straddle his stomach, your lips never once breaking contact. His hands grip the globes of your ass, his fingers digging into the meat through your pajama pants.

You grind against the hard planes of his abdomen, earning a throaty growl from him.

He breaks away, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.

“I said something I didn’t entirely mean yesterday,” he whispers, out of breath.

“What?” you ask, sitting upright and looking down at him. “You aren’t going to let me suck your dick?”

“No,” he chuckles. “God, no. I meant that. If you still want to, that is—”

“What is it, then?” you interrupt with a playful nudge to his chest.

“I said you could go back to tolerating my existence. But I hope you wanna do a little bit more than just tolerate me.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning down to press your lips to his once more.

“I could see myself doing a little bit more than just tolerating you.”

oooops i accidentally wrote another fic where logan overhears something that he wasn't supposed to 😅🫠 did not originally plan for that to happen hahaha

check out some of my other logan fics -

by the end of the night

dog tags drabble

[st4rbwrry]

𝒲𝐻𝒴 𝒟𝒪𝒩’𝒯 𝒴𝒪𝒰 𝐿𝒪𝒱𝐸 𝑀𝐸?

ꔫ eren fails to realize you’re in love with him and has a hard time committing. until he doesn’t have a choice but to face his fears.

꒰ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 ꒱ ꔫ . . .14.4k. fem reader, lowercase intended, best friends to enemies to lovers + locked in a closet, angst, lots of kissing omgie, lotss of fingering, kreamer!, conflicted feelings, oral [ f + m ], praiseeee, spanking to a t, onyankopon cameo + small fight, toxicity, multiple orgasms, rennie gets jealous, miscommunication + arguments, car sex, use of the 'n' word, small daddy kink usage, self pleasure, biting kink, eren's kinda mean, dom / sub dynamic from both, college au, both are needy, relationship establishment, pet name usage [ baby, mamas ] , minors aren't welcomed! reblogs + comments are appreciated! <3

ꔫ ꒰ 𝑚𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑎’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ꒱ . . . got my heart broke so cheers to this one!

pretty boys with eyes like his never made you want to vomit. you adored every aspect of him, always something nice to look at. it's such a shame men who look like him, ungodly creatures, had the worst fucking personalities. or so make horrible decisions in life. fumble good women. why ruin your aura? standing mere centimeters away from him to protect it currently. though you feared he'd already tainted a portion of it. collateral damage was done. he ruins the psyche of your brain when it comes to men, or being in a relationship period. you don't want to be heartless. that lover girl in you wanted to bloom like a daisy, spread her wings like an angel, and showcase herself proudly like a peacock with the one person she's loved since she was a preteen. instead, you're dealt with being mean, standing your ground, and pretending he didn't have a lock on your heart beating with need. so, yes, looking at his face, the boy you were so dangerously in love with, made you want to vomit. 

him, stubborn as usual, stood broodingly in the corner of the closet with his strong arms folded over his chest adorned in a black crewneck tee, stainless steel chain around his neck as you study the adam's apple in his throat shift at the same time he swallows in the awkward silence. solid black jeans clad to his muscular thighs, heavy leather boots covering his feet. his scent is so masculine it fills the small space; moroccan mint with woody cedar musk. that heavenly umber hair of his long in his face, growing inch by inch as the months fly by, close to grazing his shoulders. 

you cannot believe your friends barricaded the door just so the two of you could talk out your 'issues'. which, in your view, only means an apology from eren for what he did. the night had gone fine. you, eren, and a couple of your friends all going out to catch a drift meet-up. connie had gotten his taxes back and blew it all on installing skull rims and wrapping his scion frs a pearl lavender. being there mostly to cheer him on as he showed off his precious baby. afterward, grabbing ramen from a spot in chinatown. everyone decided to kick it at your house since you had a spacious living room and all the games.

since you and eren haven't spoken in two months, you kept it cordial. well, that's a lie. briefly spoken. the interactions between you two are nothing short of hi's and hello's. ' how've you been? fine, you? yeah, i'm cool. oh, you got a new tattoo? yeah, the other day. that's nice. hey, congrats on the new home. thanks.' quite frankly, your friends have gotten sick of it. it was ruining the vibe of the group by the two of you being so distant. surrounded by each other in your dimly lit living room, high ceilings, and abstract art while soft rnb played soundly in the background. eren sunk comfortably into your velvet emerald green sofa alongside connie, ymir, and armin. sitting opposite of you while you rested on your loveseat with a glass of sangria in your hand. swirling it while smiling and laughing at any question picked from the stack of cards from a game titled 'we're not really strangers.'

you hated the internal connection you and eren held. no matter what was going on, listening to each of your friends spew nonsense and hysterical laughter, you couldn't keep your eyes off one another. you'd glance, admire his features while deep in thought about all the good things, then the bad. and when he'd catch you, more like feel your burning glare, you'd immediately revert your attention to something else. vice versa. both of you were saying a lot without saying anything. 

"꒰♡꒱, it's your turn!" the sound of your name being called kicks you out of your conscience, blinking to clear your view when you realize you'd lost it glaring into your wine glass. you clear your throat, your right leg that's thrown over your left jumping up and down. 

"oh, sorry!" you smile faintly, straightening your posture to lean forward and snatch one of the red cards from the deck. 

"you're getting tired, aren't you? you're always the first one to fall asleep," ymir pressed, chewing on her newly popped in gum as she manspreads, long arms sprawled behind connie and armin onto the headrest.

“it’s just the wine getting to me,” you suck your teeth, your statement being true. the alcohol in your system making you feel more things than one. flipping the card, you read what it says. 

"what are you attracted to that you know isn't good for you?" the inhale and exhale you create as you stare blankly at the card in your hand makes it all too known of the answer you wanted to say, but won't. unexpectedly, your sight scrolls to him, and it makes goosebumps arise on your skin from the look he doesn't give you.

“you're right, i am tired. think i’m going to head to bed.”

the crew watches as you remove the kuromi throw blanket off your lap and take a stand, eren’s eyes strong on your figure as you down the rest of your wine. ymir’s eyes shift between you and him, the urge to say something stronger than ever. though, connie beats her to it. 

“nah, sit back down. we need to talk.” 

you glare at him, eren doing the same, and everyone’s silent. connie leans forward, bringing his thumb and pointer finger to rub frustratingly at his temple. “let’s be adults and just address the elephant in the room.” 

“what are you talking about?” 

“you know exactly what i’m talking about. this silent, petty feud between you two has been going on for damn near two months and i'm sick of it.” 

“agreed,” armin nods, pushing his blonde hair away from his face, clenching his jaw in the process. “we’re too fucking grown for childish behavior. the two of you need to talk and situate your issues privately.” 

“they’re right. it’s fucking up the vibe of the group,” ymir pitches in. 

deep down, you hate to say they were right. but you still felt like you had nothing to say to him, let alone nothing to apologize for. if anything he owed you one. and you’ll stand on that because he’s fucking immature. 

“i pray y'all aren’t thinking i’m the reason for this. if we don’t remember, i’m not the person who fucked on another girl around the same time he supposedly wanted to date me.” 

that’s when eren picks his head up, throwing silent daggers your way. you’re trying to make him out to be a villain when that wasn't the case. “we had already established that we were just friends. i don’t know why you still have this insight that i, what . . cheated on you or sum?” 

the blood in your veins began to boil, scoffing angrily and prodding your inner check with the point of your tongue. “right, because i’m that delusional.” 

“stop,” connie squeezes his eyes shut, getting fed up even further. “this bickering shit is the definition of childish. please just go talk, i’m getting a migraine.” 

“as long as he’s willing to be honest, sure. but if he’s just going to waste my time, then i have nothing to say,” you shrug, uncaring.  

“in some way you still want him around, because if that wasn’t the case, he wouldn’t be here,” ymir counters, not fond of your sudden attitude. 

“i can speak for myself,” eren interrupts, tired of being the pass around subject. “i don’t have a problem talking. . . if she’s not g’na punch me.” 

“nigg—” 

“alright!” armin raises to his feet, tall body towering yours before he’s lifting you off your feet and tossing you over his shoulder quicker than everyone could blink. a gasp falls from you, wriggling your feet as you yell at him to put you down, groaning like a child. 

armin finds the nearest closet and sets you down in it, giving a look not to try it. it’s rare to see armin irritated, so he must’ve really been fed up when you see his eyes go dead as he glares at you while raising his palm telling you to stop. you pout, crossing your arms and huffing as you take a seat on a pile of shoe boxes. turning his head, he sees eren sighing and standing to his feet before willingly entering the closet. 

armin steps out, giving a fatherly obedient look between the two of you before closing the door. “be nice. handle your shit. we’re going to grab food.” 

“food?” you gasp. “wha—i want some!” 

“greedy,” eren remarks under his breath. you shoot him a deadly glare. 

“fuck you say?” 

“i’m not arguing with you over food.”

“wait, are we really getting food?” ymir whispers to connie who confusingly raises his hands. 

“no, we’re going to sit here until they figure their shit out,” armin whispers back, taking long strides back towards the couch where he plops down and sinks into. stuffing his hands into his gray hoodie pockets after lowering the hood over his head, closing his eyes. 

“they’re gonna fuck, watch,” ymir chuckles, getting up to search your pantry for more liquor, maybe even digging in your fridge for food, now that they mentioned it. “y'all want pasta?” 

“what kind?” connie looks up over his phone. 

“mhm,” ymir continues to scout, grimacing at your close to empty fridge. “she only has ingredients for pesto pasta. healthy bitch.” 

“pass,” connie and armin reject simultaneously.

“more for me!” 

now here the two of you stood, in utter silence. you’re avoiding his sharp gaze as much as you can, twiddling anxiously with your fingers. this is the last situation you want to be in right now. the warmth in your cheeks when you catch him staring is the bitch of all trades. that love you held deeply in your chest for years magnetically pulling you to submission. to care. your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing loudly in your ears. taking a deep breath, you try to calm yourself down. this was important. the two of you needed to get past this if there’s going to be any change to your relationship. this had to be fixed. 

“it seems like you want me to start,” reeling you in, his heavy feet hit the ground the closer he gets to you, nearly standing over you in all of his handsome glory. the air shifts and it feels hotter. you can practically hear the swallow in your throat. why did he feel the need to be so close? who knows. maybe it’s some sort of intimidation tactic. “where should i start?” 

“hm, i’d say — apologize for being misleading,” your response is nothing but blunt, your emotions getting the best of your original intent. 

eren’s mouth goes agape, chuckling with genuine confusion, brows furrowed in concern. “again, how was i misleading? we've never been anything but friends. i never led you on or made you feel like there was something more between us."

“eren, you literally told me that you wanted to try something new and be apart of me on a deeper level than you were. this was after we had sex, twice need i remind you. then, i find you fucking another girl the day you initiated us to hang out. then you had the nerve to argue with me, and call me fucking crazy.” 

“i didn’t call you crazy. i said you needed to go home and sleep off whatever shit you were on that night because you cussed that girl out and almost beat her face in for what? we are not together, ꒰♡꒱.” 

“i know that,” the muscles in your jaw spasm from the pressure you put into gritting your teeth. the pain of his denial cutting deep. “you say it as if it’d be such a nuisance. that ‘you’re my best friend’ shit went out the window years ago, and you and me both know it. it’s not my fault you have a hard time with commitment.” 

“i don’t have a hard time with commitment,” he scoffs, patience fraying. “i told you that i care for you, and you mean a lot to me. that i have love for you, not that i was in love with you. i value our friendship above anything.” 

the more he speaks, the more you come to the realization that this is becoming a waste of time, as you expected. there’s a burn in your throat that’s coaxing the tears to well in your eyes. you’re not going to cry, he doesn’t deserve to see you that way. and it felt pathetic to even do so. he’s throwing the truth directly in your face, but somehow . . you find it hard to believe him. there’s just that small hope that deep down inside he felt the same. 

“i don’t understand what you’re afraid of. are you not attracted to me? am i not enough for you? is there another girl on your mind?” and that’s when the desperation pours. that level of dissecting yourself to grasp the context of why he doesn’t want you. your leg bounces out of anxiety, scratching at your thigh with the point of your acrylic. trying your hardest to keep yourself from having a mental breakdown. 

eren’s eyes soften at your reaction, his mouth going dry at the clear effect this had on you. months, years worth of emotions built up for him. it makes a heavy pang in his heart, wondering how he could be so blind and stupid. his intentions were never meant to hurt you. 

“why would you think that?" eren asks, tilting his head slightly. "i never gave you any indication that you weren't good enough for me. why can’t i just not be ready?”

the words roll off his tongue easily, like they were rehearsed. “if you weren’t ready, eren, you could’ve just been upfront with me to avoid this shit from the jump. i would’ve went about my life if you laid it down on the table in bold fucking letters. but every time we were together, you made me feel like — we had a chance. the hugs, the kisses, the ‘i love you’s, the sex. you treated me like i was your girl. and i could say i’m running with the subject. but, i wouldn’t do that if i didn’t have something being fed to me. i’m not an idiot.” 

“i just —” he goes to knock his head back, blowing out a huff of air as he shoves his hands into his jean pockets. “i don’t want to hurt you, ꒰♡꒱. i don’t know if i can be the person you need right now. i can’t give you what you want. it’s complicated, and it’s not fair to you. i like you, a lot. i can’t explain my exact feelings, but i’ve always been attracted to you. i thought once that maybe it could work out between us, but the more time goes on, the more i realize how fucked up i am. you deserve better. and it kills me to say even that.” 

this was triggering for some reason, feeling claustrophobic from the close proximity of his body between the small space of your closet. it’s all making you sick. you felt like you were going to have a panic attack if you stayed in here with him any longer. standing up, you brush past him to rush towards the door, twisting the knob frantically only to find it locked. fuck. groaning, you bang on the door, anticipated to kick it down if no one let you out in the next five seconds. 

“꒰♡꒱, stop and take a breath,” eren’s well aware of how you get when you’re stressed out, actions turning frantic as you rest your forehead against the cold door. “baby, look at me.” 

"oh, nah. we a little late for that,” you respond after you turn to face him, shaking your head. “see, you say shit like that because you know how i feel about you. you’re real good at manipulating me. real good. you make me feel like i'm drowning by the weight of my emotions. i hate this, hate this. you make me too vulnerable. and you call me baby? h-how else am i supposed to think?” 

“i’m sorry,” his hands go to grab your arms. your body stiffens under his touch, a shiver running down your spine at the contact. you can't help but notice the sincerity in his eyes, the conviction in his tone. part of you wants to believe him, to accept that this is truly all there ever was between you. but the other part, the part that's been carrying a torch for him for years, refuses to let go so easily.

“please believe me when i say that. i never, ever meant to hurt you. and i truly do apologize for not being honest from the beginning. and i will continue to apologize because i genuinely feel bad.” 

his voice is softer now, less defensive, more genuine. it's clear that despite his initial reluctance, he does cherish your friendship, and he values your presence in his life. but, you’re still conflicted. 

"i — i don't know, eren. i don’t think i can accept that,” you whisper, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. the weight of his rejection settles heavily in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

eren hesitates briefly before wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest. the warmth of his body seeps into yours, providing a comforting counterpoint to the cold reality of the current situation. it stuns you, your body slowly relaxing into his hold, letting the familiar comfort wash over you. he’s laying your head endearingly on his chest, brushing his hand along the back of your head. suddenly, eren slowly pulls from you, his intense stare into your eyes blurring your thoughts, glitching when he tucks a curl behind your ear before inching his face toward yours and shockingly kissing you.

your eyes widen in surprise as his lips press against yours, the suddenness of the gesture leaving you momentarily stunned. but as the sensation registers, your body responds instinctively, melting into the kiss. your hands come up to rest on his chest, fingers digging lightly into his shirt as you return the kiss with equal fervor. the world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the intensity of the moment. it's as if the last two months of hurt and confusion have never happened, and you're transported back to a time when the possibility of something more between you seemed within reach.

eren breaks the kiss abruptly, pulling back with a flush on his cheeks. you look at him, searching his eyes for any sign of discomfort or regret. but instead, you see something else entirely — desire, longing, and a hint of uncertainty. he swallows hard, opening his mouth to say something, but no words come out. instead, he closes his eyes tightly, shaking his head slightly. "fuck, i’m sorry. i don’t know why i did that,” he mutters, turning away from you.

the air grows even heavier, and you can’t help but to pull him back into your grasp, his heavy hands sitting on your hips he grips roughly to pull you closer. his mouth is back on yours within seconds, widening his jaw to deepen the kiss, your lips smacking and your back suddenly pressing against the wall. as the kiss intensifies, you moan softly, feeling a wave of heat wash over you. your hands slide from his face to his shoulders, holding him tightly. 

your hips grind against his, seeking friction, craving the closeness that only he can provide. every inch of your being screams for more, for a deeper connection, for a fulfillment that only he can offer. eren groans into your mouth, his own hands roaming over your curves, tracing the contours of your body with a hunger that belies his previous reticence. he presses himself harder against you, his erection throbbing with need. his movements become more deliberate, more urgent, as if he's trying to bridge the gap between you two with every fiber of his being.

“your legs are shaking,” he whispers, now resting a hand on your inner thigh. 

you nod shyly, his big hand making you pulsate. you spread your legs wider. “touch me. please."

his tongue swirls around the side of your neck as his breath tickles your skin, making you shiver slightly as he continues the kisses down to your collarbone. then, his hand moves up your thigh more, now moving it’s way under your short black skirt to pull your thong to the side, eyes rolling back into your skull when his fingers make contact with your soaked clit. a simple touch from him easily arousing you. 

"talk to me. i need to hear your voice."

eren removes your shirt, needing so badly to feel your skin beneath his burning fingertips. whispering into your ear as he talks you through it, placing his fingers back onto your clit. “you're enjoying this, aren't you?" 

“you make me so wet,” you whimper, raising your right thigh to give him further access. 

“i bet i do,” your body prickles with fire the moment he takes your neck into his hold to choke you, his brows furrowed as the two of you listen to your sluice clit he rubs circles onto. licking his lips, he spreads your lips apart before sinking his fingers in knuckle deep, the illicit squelch making his dick shift. both of you make the same expression of pleasure, eren moaning from the strong grip your pussy has on his fingers, missing that. 

despite the overwhelming pleasure, you manage to stifle your cries, biting your lip to keep silent as eren’s fingers curl inside you, stroking that sweet spot that makes your vision blur and your legs tremble. he removes them momentarily, collecting your juices to rub your hardened clit again. you pull him in to moan into his neck, tugging onto his long hair, eren responding to your silent plea by plunging his long fingers into your dripping cunt.

“mmm, fuck,” your face curls up from the heat swimming in your lower tummy. feeling the way you moan into his neck sends shock waves through his body. the grasp on his hair only makes him apply more pressure to your spot, pushing you further and further.

“look at you taking that shit. you love my fingers?”

you nod drunkenly. "yea, love your fingers." 

"you love my fingers, baby?" he hums in your ear condescendingly. 

"i love them so much, baby," you whine, unable to control your breath. 

“fuck,” eren couldn’t take it anymore, crouching before you to hungrily latch his lips onto your clit. a high-pitched moan flows past your mouth unexpectedly, eren lifting your leg to set it on his shoulder, sucking you into his mouth, and swallowing every drip that leaks from you. 

“cover your mouth, pretty. you sound too good. ima bust.” eren’s mouth never leaves your pussy as he speaks, his words muffled by your wetness. 

each thrust of his fingers sends waves of pleasure crashing through you, while his tongue works on your clit, coaxing moans and whimpers from your lips. eren’s mouth works tirelessly on your pussy, his tongue lapping rapidly over your clit while his fingers pump in and out of your dripping hole. he alternates between long, slow strokes and quick, frantic thrusts, determined to wring every last moan from your lips. his free hand grabs your ass, squeezing the plump flesh as he pulls you even closer, ensuring that not an inch of your body is left untouched by his desire.

your back arches off the wall as the first shockwave of your climax rip through you, your thighs quivering and your pussy spasming around eren’s fingers. he doesn't let up, continuing to lick and suckle your clit through the aftershocks, drawing out every last drop of pleasure. as the sensations begin to subside only a little, you slump against the wall, panting heavily. eren reluctantly pulls away, his lips glistening with your juices. he looks up at you with a smirk, his own arousal still evident. 

"fuck, you real sweet," he murmurs, his voice husky with lust, standing back on his feet while keeping his fingers inside of you. craving more. "you're making this really difficult for me, ꒰♡꒱.” his breath grows sharper. "you're so loud when you moan for me. tryna make everybody hear you?" 

"your voice," you hiccup weakly, speaking the thought aloud, loving how he talks to you. 

"you like my voice?" he hums, planting a sloppy, haste kiss amongst your pouty lips you’d bitten red. he raises his brow, repeating himself since you’re so fucked out. “you like my voice, right?" 

"yes, daddy," you scream out. 

"daddy? that's new," the grin is all too evident. you're too deep in your pleasure to acknowledge the embarrassment. nodding along. not seeming to care that you're barely conscious. 

"erennn! m'gonna cum!" you warn, gripping onto his shifting wrist, arching your chest into his. 

“gimme that shit then, baby. cum on my fingers like you always do. so goddamn needy.” 

uncaring of the people outside of the closet, you whine his name loudly, gyrating your hips into his palm your pussy gushed on. as you struggle to maintain control, your orgasm builds rapidly, coiling tight in your belly before bursting forth in a torrent of ecstasy. gushing on his fingers. eren's eyes go wide, slapping his big hand over your mouth to somewhat muffle your sounds.  

"shhh, fuck mamas," he stares at you with desire, keeping his fingers moving. "pussy drippin’ all on me." 

you stare at him blissfully, that pretty little head of yours thinking of nothing but how good he just made you feel. how hard he made you cum. even with just his fingers, it felt like nothing you've felt before. dazed, and unable to speak, you reach to unravel the belt on his hips connected to his heaving stomach. you've got him so fucking horny he's not sure if he can stop you right now. no longer giving a fuck who hears. that's their problem. it’s their fault anyways. 

"i want it," you give him widened eyes, noticing he left his head for a moment. 

"i can't stop once i start, m'telling you that right now,” his breath hitches, following your guide of undoing his jeans. 

"i. want. it," you repeat slowly, making it clear. 

“mm, that was sexy,” he grins, pecking your lips once more. you giggle when he lifts you up, turning and pulling one of your jackets off a hanger to lay down so you won’t hurt your back, the gesture making you smile stupidly. 

"this closet is too fuckin' small, my back hurts," eren complains. 

his jeans are clad to his waist, small beauty marks littered around his stomach up to his chest area. v-line sharp and abdomen toned with fairly tanned skin. he exudes masculinity. his pubic hairs are dark, trimmed as usual, and his dick sits heavy on your mound, a pearl of precum forming at the tip just daring to be licked up. your mouth watered every time you observed him. his attractiveness something you’ll never forget. you gasped when he taps your clit with his dick, hearing the two of you connect makes the big man above you groan desperately. 

"put it in you," he spanks your inner thigh, holding them up and open for you, his entire body arched dominantly over your small frame. “don't hurt yourself." 

“ ‘kay,” you nod shyly, wrapping your palm around his dick, the skin hot and rushing with blood, sucking your pudgy stomach in and lifting your head up some more to see at a better angle. relaxing your hips, you breathe slowly, rubbing his tip up and down your entrance before carefully pulling him into yourself. 

“nng,” you whimper, face scrunched up from the pain of the stretch. he’s aware by now of how much time you need to take him fully considering his size. 

“breathe, babe. you think too much, that’s why it hurts,” he whispered, kissing your forehead to keep his composure. he’s only halfway in and he feels like he’s close to nutting. “let go, lemme work it in.” 

you listen, laying back down fully while eren takes the lead. he’s gently swaying his hips to maneuver his way in, both of you watching it go in and out with fascination. his dick is thick, and it feels like he’s splitting you open every single time. but once he’s inside, you love that feeling of being stuffed, being completely apart of him. his body is now in full contact with your legs, eren hissing, a rumble in his throat borderline feral as he fucks you hard once he’s sure you’re okay.  

because you’ve came twice, you already felt sensitive and easy to another orgasm. it didn’t mean to happen so fast, but the moment his pace picks up, his thighs clash heavily against your own as he pressed your tummy down and fucked you deep, and you cum again. squeaking and trembling beneath him, the wet patpat of his dick pounding into you making you both dizzy. eren spews expletives in repetitions silently, watching your eyes go white, pretty individuals wispy on your lash line. 

he sees how much effort you're putting in to keep your noises in. “fuck them, lemme hear you.”

now his face is in yours, his moans burning your stomach even worse. it feels like a sickness how much you get off from hearing him, or any sound of weakness he makes. 

"god . . eren!" you hiss in pleasure. 

the heat was overbearing. the small proximity of the closet mixed with your skin connecting salaciously made you equally sweaty. beads of it sticking to eren's forehead, dampening his brown hair, turning them into curly ringlets. in no time, eren pulls himself out to fist his dick, twisting his wrist as he tugs his orgasm out of himself, cumming on your warm stomach. 

“shit, baby. you feel good every fuckin’ time,” he’s leaning in to give you another kiss. he sits up on his knees, dragging your thong completely off to wipe up his mess. “i can give you better. i wasn't done." 

you laugh and place your hand on his face, pushing it away with laughter. "move, boy. i need to get out of this damn closet.” 

"fine," he rolls his eyes playfully, fixing his pants and standing to his feet. "ima head to the bathroom.”

"hey," you protest with a pout. "come get me, i'm sore. you fucked me into the floor.” 

“i put the jacket down,” eren goes to grab for your hand and you make a disgruntled cry. 

“pick me up, dummy." 

to your luck the door ends up being unlocked now, and that gives you a clear explanation that they were in fact ear hustling. when eren opens the door and you’re huddled behind him shyly, the only person asleep was armin. connie ended up powering on your playstation to play the last of us two while ymir watched in agony over the storyline. the game gets immediately paused when the two of you show your faces. eren’s is stoic as usual, while yours is filled with embarrassment as you hide behind his tall figure. 

“i knew y’all were fucking listening, perverts,” eren calls them out, a cocky smirk displayed on his features. 

“got a little loud so we needed a distraction,” ymir replied, laughing as she stared at you. “i see you had a good time.” 

“not too much,” you warn, rolling your eyes playfully. 

“we talked just like y’all wanted. so, thanks for that.” 

you pout. “aren't you glad we made up?" 

"oh, definitely, for sure," arrogance is laced in his voice, turning back to them. "y’all got to hear us become really good friends, huh?" 

there’s that word again. friends. it bothered you again. that uncomfortable feeling in your tummy daring to ruin your mood. so, you brush it off. 

"y'all not g’na fight no more? cause i'm sick of it.” 

"we found a new way to fight," you break in a joke. 

"so remember that shower we need to take?" eren reminds you. 

"shower?! aw hell, they locked in." 

"bring your ass," eren swats your behind, possessively placing his hand on your hips to tug you along. you stumble next to him with a giggle, tripping over your feet up the stairs as he laughs at you, the two of you rushing towards the bathroom. 

this is the first time the two of you ever shared a shower together, talking as normal as you watch each other bathe. eren admires your beauty, having a hard time keeping his hands to himself. a few moments of you swatting them away happening. you knew it was your house, so you could do whatever you wanted. but already having sex with him knowing your friends were mere inches away felt improper. as you lathered your body in soap, he traces your skin tenderly. you look up at him with starry eyes, emotions coming to full conclusion. you might actually love this man. he feels that spark, studying your face like a lovesick boy. 

"what?" you ask cluelessly. 

"nothing," he swallows, internally punching himself in the face. he's holding back again. unable to understand why. what's he protecting exactly? himself or you? he's unsure. 

eren slips his same attire back on while you toss on an oversized nightmare on elm street t-shirt after lathering your body in baby oil. you mentioned to eren that you were hungry, and he offered to drive you anywhere you wanted to feed you. rushing down the steps in a pair, you catch only connie up this time, ymir passed out sleep on your rug flat on her back. 

"finished showering?" connie asks, being slick as usual. 

"it was sooo fun," you exaggerate, raising your middle finger. "we're getting food. bye!" 

"bye!" eren copies with a chirp, mocking your excited wave. 

since your apartment resides near the campus, the area you lived had plenty of food joints, some that would stay open later than usual. you decided on denny’s since it was seven in the morning by this point and you didn’t want to eat too heavy knowing you were going straight to sleep once you get back. the line is long and the two of you stand fairly close together. you cling to his side, making the initiative to hold his hand. eren's unsure, again, why he's withholding how he wants to feel. he drops your hand, leaving you to feel awkward and out of place almost. you felt a pang in your chest from the action, taking a deep breath, ignoring it, and waiting to be seated. 

the service was pretty quick, ordering what you both wanted which was a stack of pancakes with bacon and home fries and receiving it within ten minutes. he does his best to try and enjoy his food, though his gaze keeps shifting over to you. your mood changed, he obviously noticed since you’ve barely spoken, hiding your face in your phone to avoid conversation. it's bothering him. he doesn't want to make a big deal out of this for the time being. so he decided to eat his food. 

"why'd you drop my hand like that?" 

he stops eating, looking at you as he sets his fork down. it takes a minute for him to figure out what you’re pressing about before he recalls. “sorry, i just didn't want people thinking the wrong thing." 

that takes you aback. what the fuck? “and what would be the wrong thing?" you raise your brow with irritation. 

"look, i just don't need people in my business." 

"why do you care what people think?" the anger is kicking in. maybe you were overreacting. granted, you two didn't establish your relationship fully. you also didn't think it was a big deal to hold his hand. it's like your confession earlier never happened. 

"i don't think it's a big deal. i would rather not have to deal with people asking uncomfortable questions. it'll lead to a lot of unnecessary drama." 

"you mean with them bitches you fucked," you retaliate. "because god forbid you have a girlfriend, right?" 

"who said you were my girlfriend?" eren asks rather coldly. and that makes you silent. he realizes then how rude that came out. that's not what he meant. "wait, i'm . .” 

"basically, to conclude, you don't want to date me. noted." 

"i never said that . . .” 

"so, what then, eren? am i not good enough for you to show off? you wanna keep me a secret? like some girl you just fuck, who, by the way, you admitted your feelings for. normal people date after shit like that gets said. i don't care what people think about me, that's your problem." 

“of course you don’t, there’s nothing to think about when you only spread your legs once a year. you aren’t fucking on people like i am,” he replies, a bit too quickly, a response that is barely thoroughly planned out. he tried to apologize, but the words ended up getting caught in his neck. “i —”

"end of conversation," you snarl. that was so low of him to say. 

“i just meant you don’t express yourself sexually like i do. not that it’s a problem, i just have a reputation. i told you i’m not in a place to be what you want right now.” 

"i’m doing my best not to punch you in your fuckin’ face right now, so i advise you to be careful what you say next. in fact, don’t say anything at all.” 

words aren’t spoken for the majority of your meal after that, unable to finish all of your food since all you wanted to do was go home and cry in your pillow. he keeps toying with your heart again and again. it’s wildly frustrating. he pays the tab and you’re on your way back home, the car ride is silent as well. before you go to exit, he stops you. 

"can i say one last thing before you leave?" 

you turn to him, dead silent. 

"i am sorry for everything i said. you're right, i shouldn't care so much about what other people think. i should've said that from the beginning, and i didn’t mean to call you out like that. that was disrespectful, i admit. i just want us to be like we used to be simply because i hate hurting you. you mean a lot to me. you’re my best friend.”

left stuck, you only say what he wants to hear. "i understand. i just need time to think." 

"i understand." he says back, shifting his eyes back towards the steering wheel. 

you don't seem as angry as before, mostly because you’ve mentally checked out, so he's not entirely sure what else to say. he just wanted to let you know he meant everything. but, it's far too late for that. he'd said enough a few moments ago. and it's exactly what you needed to hear to realize that he'd never be ready for you. he'd never be mature enough for a relationship. he'd never see you as his first choice. still keeping that childish mentality of fucking girls to get his nut and ruin their hearts. it's enough. 

eren goes inside to grab armin and ymir to take them back to the dorm since they drove here together. connie lets himself out, everyone says goodbye, and you close your door without giving eren so much as another look. 

𓇼 

three months fly by and you two never contacted one another. eren noticed you avoid him on campus whenever you spot him. weeks of eyeing his phone for your text or call. he got the message clear, but it hurt his feelings, possibly on the same level he hurt yours. he stalked your account any chance he got, never missing a story. it was the only access to keeping a piece of you with him. that only lasted a month before you soft-blocked him. making your story unavailable to his eyesight but never having the balls to unfollow . . . just in case. having that small feel of hope that he'd come around and show you that he's everything you want in a man. albeit fairly likely.

all eren can do is go about his life and hope that you’d make the decision to keep him in yours. connie noticed how down eren was today, dragging him to come watch the homecoming football game. he’s dressed depressingly in black sweats with a dark green hoodie, resting his back against the bleachers with his eyes shut, trying to block out the exaggerated screams people made for the team. it’s a big game considering it’s the last before winter break, and it’s home based. eren peaked his eye open to watch connie chow down a hotdog, obnoxiously chewing and catching his irritated glare. 

“is it good?” eren bluntly acknowledges. 

connie raises his middle finger unspoken, ignoring his moody friend and focusing on the cheerleaders twisting and flipping. “oh, there’s ꒰♡꒱.” 

eren shoots up in a flash, the hood over his head hiding most of his gorgeous face. “where?” 

eren follows connie’s guide pointing in the direction you stand. and there you were, looking pretty as ever. he swore his heart skipped a beat. gorgeous face with a light beat of makeup, illuminating a soft, dollete glam with pink blush, brown lip liner, gloss, and heavy highlight on your nose and inner corner of your eyes that glowed under the beaming lights from the football field. your hair is straightened, styled in a half up half down with the bun spiked, enhancing your facial features. incredibly cut dark-washed denim shorts hugging your thighs while a baby pink oversized jersey covers your top halve. 

eren studies you like a lover does poetry, heart awestruck by your beauty, your aura radiating halfway across the field. god, he misses you so damn much. that daydream lala land in his head comes to an immediate halt when he spots a guy laughing in your face as the two of you bump noses in a disgustingly cute eskimo kiss. the muscles in eren’s jaw shifts, his eyes lowering and darkening as his posture changes. straightening his back and spreading his legs wide before he’s moving his neck and chest forward like a venomous snake, observing your interaction intently. 

it’s honestly scary how quickly his anger consumes him, his entire body going up in flames as he stares at the two of you like a giant crow hiding in the trees. his body is solid, barely even breathing as he finds torture in you pouring gatorade into this man’s mouth, his helmet in one hand while the other brushes your hair away from your face, bright white teeth shining as he smiles at you. you use a towel to dab off any excess sweat from his brown skin. then, eren realizes something. he knows this guy. 

onyankopon. a quarterback, a valedictorian in high school, and a student in his physics class. eren grows jealous. it was clear to him that you had a thing for him, eren trying to avoid showing any hints of jealousy so connie wouldn't bring it up even if deep down inside, he felt it. eren watches you giggle in onyankopon's face. he's way too close to you. it bothers him beyond comprehension. you and onyankopon have been messing around for the exact time you broke contact with eren. fucking around every now and thence, attending classes, and enjoying your life since it didn’t end when the man you were madly in love with rejected you. you were attracted to him for sure. he made you laugh, cooked for you, taught you how to ride his motorcycle. . a bunch of lovey shit you never felt before. but, your feelings for eren ruined any chance for you to be fully devoted.

it’s hard for eren to even sit through the remainder of this game, barely paying attention to the players and eyeing you almost the entire time. cheering, jumping up and down whenever onyankopon made a move let alone breathed. you’re like a goddamn fan girl. your friends seem to encourage you, purposely pushing you into him at times when he ran back over for your opinion. it’s like he finally exhales when the games over, connie knocking him from his trance of scrutiny. 

“yo, let’s go. we gotta party to get to.” 

the sigh is loud from eren, exasperated so. “who the fuck said i was up for a party? we have finals in two days. you dragged me from studying for this shitty ass game.” 

connie raises his hands in defense. “woah, fucker. you gotta stick up your ass, pull it out.” 

“i’m going home.” 

as eren begins to rise, connie refuses to move out of his path. “this is about ꒰♡꒱, isn’t it?” 

his shoulders raise defensively. “tread lightly, con.” 

“save me the bullshit, eren. for once just act like you give a fuck about the girl and go talk to her. this has been a repetition. how are you ever going to solve issues if you’re constantly running from them?” 

“she doesn’t want to speak to me. she made that extremely clear.” 

“did she say that, or did you just make her feel it?” 

eren didn’t have time for confrontation, stretching his leg over the bench to cross over him, walking away. “whatever, man. i’ll see you.” 

connie clenched his jaw, scoffing. “see, that’s your damn problem now! you can’t admit when you fuck up. that girl loves you to death and you keep playing in her fucking face! now you’re mad ‘cause you see her with somebody else. that’s bullshit and you know it.” 

eren stops in his tracks, and pulls the hood off his head before slowly turning back in his direction. “okay, maybe you’re right. i’m a fuck up. she already made up her mind by ignoring me for three months. i’m not forcing anything.”

“how do you know she’s not waiting for you to step up and finally do the chasing?” connie arches his brow. eren rolls his lips. “you had that girl hoping and waiting for you to finally reciprocate your feelings, and you lead her on back to back. she chased after you while you thought with your dick for other women. i’m sure she’ll be at the party. go find her and talk to her. and if she’s not fuckin’ with it, then you’ll know to really leave it alone. simple as that.” 

and that’s how eren ended up at the party. it was packed, obviously. they’d won the big game and chose this celebration as an excuse to get fucked up. connie smoked with eren for a bit before he disappeared to talk to some girl he’d been trying to date. eren's drinking heavy liquor, conversing somewhat with some people he knew to clear his head a little. there’s a few women who try to shoot their shot towards him, but he politely declines. the ‘my girl is here’ line seems to work. speaking of, he can't help but be distracted by you. seeing you dance with your friends, act a fool, and flirt with onyankopon whilst sitting on his lap. it enrages him in a way he can't explain. 

not to mention you're wearing his varsity jacket, snuggled into it. this is the last thing eren wanted to find. he wasn't planning on his blood boiling as he stood at the doorway, knocking back the remainder of his hennessy and approaching you the minute he watched onyankopon stick his tongue in your mouth, the two of you lost in each other as you kissed. he doesn’t comprehend his own body movements when he brushes through a sea of people to come your way. 

"what the fuck are you doing, ꒰♡꒱?" eren interrupts, glaring at you furiously. he had a right to be mad, right? weren't you the one who ignored him? blocked him? avoided him? 

you're stunned to see him, let alone hear what came out of his mouth. "excuse me?" you retort, shellshocked by his behavior.

"some nerve you have to act like i don't fuckin’ exist for three months, then i catch you sitting on somebody's lap like it's nothing," he's being outright rude and blunt, unsure if he's aware of it. could've been the alcohol, or what he's been feeling for months piling up into one bubble. and he finally let it burst.

onyankopon grows irritated by this. not only did he interrupt the two of you, but he was talking out his mouth crazy. "i know you ain't talking to her like that." 

"i don't remember stuttering. i'm looking dead at her, aren't i?" eren's stern with his remark.

his statement is senile, your head immediately pounding with a migraine from his stupid ass attack. that's when you get mad. "what? last time we spoke, you told me you didn't want to be with me and only saw me as someone you wanted to fuck on the low. so what the fuck makes you think it's okay to yell in my face about some shit you ended?!" 

"oh, he's lost his fuckin mind," onyankopon chuckles sinisterly, not even giving him a chance to reply. shaking his head in a 'this nigga got me fucked up' kinda way. your heart speeds up in panic as onyankopon's hands hold onto either side of your waist before he gently lifts you to stand along with you. "eren, right?" 

eren can feel his cheeks burn, the anger intensifying now that he's face to face with onyankopon. your heart is ready to drop out of your chest at the thought of them fighting right now. please, no. "i'm sure you knew that, don't ask stupid questions." 

anyone can see the heat building up in onyankopon's eyes, the people in the area whispering to one another while watching. your anxiety is skyrocketing. two big men fighting over you would be hot inside of a novel, yes. but you hated the idea of violence. especially from men. it triggered your flight mode and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into a ball and cover your ears like a scared child. "guys, wait —"

"nah, baby. let him finish," his hand goes up insinuating a pause. "nigga got so much shit to say to you on some pussy shit. be a man and talk to me.”

before you get the chance to say anything, eren’s fist goes flying into onyankopon’s nose, his head aggressively knocking to the side, looking as if it spun off his neck for a moment. "how's that for some pussy shit?" 

gasps fill along the room, your hand going to your mouth as you watch onyankopon swing back, connecting his hit back. two of his teammates go to hold him back, knowing this isn’t some shit he needed to get into right now. you take the initiative to grab eren’s attention, knowing it’s dumb to jump between men in rage, but you felt like only you could stop him right now. his face is as red as a tomato, grabbing and tugging at his shirt with all of your strength he’s surprised you can even move him. almost stumbling over from your aggression. onyankopon’s friends drag him away from the situation before it got worse. in the process, he noticed you didn’t look his way not once, not even to check if he was alright. 

"eren, chill!" you finally snap. "let's go out back and talk. you're fucking embarrassing me." 

everyone watches as you drag him by his shirt like a bad ass child, shoving open the door that lead to the back area of the fraternity house, a few people there but you find a spot under a tree further down the hill. finally letting go, you take a few steps away from him, ready to blow from the anger streaming in your veins. thankfully, the smell from the lake and the wind blowing soothed you in some way. your arms are crossed over your chest, listening to the muffled noise of music booming inside the house and shutting your eyes. 

“eren, what are you doing here?” 

“connie dragged me here. believe me, i would’ve never come. especially after seeing you two boo’d up at the game. he your man now?” 

a sarcastic snort comes from you, twisting your body and looking his way. it’s been months since you’ve made contact with this man, and his aura still pulls you in. you truly despised it. “you need to apologize to him for starting an unnecessary fight. you don’t even know him to be acting like that.” 

adding salt to the already open wound, eren responds with a petty shrug and a scoff. “he had that shit coming.” 

“wow,” the smile lines around your mouth deepen and your lower lip pokes out as you frown, making an expression of disbelief. "you have a lot of nerve acting like you're my boyfriend when you settled for friendship only. do you not recall? or do i need to refresh your dry ass memory?” 

he's bitter about the situation still, that’s clear as day. he also assumed you were okay after the conversation you had in the car that night. but, he was wrong. he remains silent, fearing that his jumbled thoughts would fuck up what he really wanted to say. 

"if you couldn't see that i was hurt about what you told me that night, then you truly don't care. i kept my distance because you knew how i felt about you and you chose to be oblivious. i met ony and he made me forget about you. then you break back into my life whenever it's convenient for you. i'm not going to be available for you on your terms." 

"so you're using him to get over me?" 

"as i'm allowed to because you're not my man!" you narrow your brows. "aren’t you the same one that said i only spread my legs once a year? you’re mad ‘cause it’s not for you anymore, right?”

“you know i didn’t mean it like that.” 

“me and ony are just friends. whatever we got going on is none of your concern." 

"it's my concern if we gonna be together. therefore, he gotta go." 

"oh, now you wanna be with me," you scoff. "you're three months — no . . six months late. if you don't recall, you tried this shit before our friends forced us to make up. again, due to your ignorance of my emotions. i shouldn't have to wait for you to decide whether or not i'm worth being in your future. i am not a fantasy! i'm not here for you to fuck when you need to feel something! i deserve someone who's going to love me and give me the romance i crave! you don’t care enough about me no matter what you say.” 

tears are welling in your eyes now, and that breaks eren's heart beyond measure. "꒰♡꒱ . . ." 

"fuck, i didn't want you to see me cry," you sniffle, wiping your eyes aggressively. 

he let the alcohol completely steer him away from his initial goal, and that was to speak to you like connie had got on his ass about. not make you upset. he doesn’t understand why he keeps breaking his promise to stop hurting you. 

“i'm horrible when it comes to making any commitments. that, you were right about before,” he states, your eyes drawing back to his. "it wasn't fair of me to invalidate your feelings all those times. i knew you wanted to be with me, i just couldn't bring myself to be honest about what i wanted. more so, i didn't know what i wanted at the time. but being disconnected from you, my best friend . . it hurt my fucking soul."

the oversized varsity jacket clinging to your body brings you comfort, wrapping it tighter around yourself out of anxiousness. the scent of onyankopon’s cologne on the fabric brings you even more sadness. you feel bad for what happened, needing to find him to apologize when you get the chance. 

"i have so, so many regrets when it comes to you. so much time wasted, things that could've been avoided had i been mature and upfront. expecting you to be available to me because of our relationship was wrong of me. using you was wrong of me. leading you on, pushing you away, fucking with other girls when you were right here . . it was selfish of me, and i'm a dick for it all, i admit that. and i want nothing more than to apologize and make up for all i've done. you didn't fucking deserve that." 

suddenly, he's holding your face in his hands as you weep, both of you unsure of when you broke the distance between you two. "please, please don't cry baby. i'm so sorry." 

words could only mean so much. you weren't sold yet. if he wants you for real, he's going to have to make a better offer than just words. false promises were a learned matter with him. he needed to prove how much you mean to him. 

"i'll do everything in my power to make sure that i am the man you deserve," he whispers, his hold on your face beginning to tighten as you pull him closer by his shirt out of habit. "promise i'll treat you right. i'll never make you feel like you're someone to fix me when i'm going through shit or i'm horny. i'll never make you feel like you have to compete with other women again. i'll never take you for granted again." 

his face is now inches away from yours. his voice, his scent, the warmth he brings, it makes you feel so vulnerable. . . so safe. like that invisible string never broke. eren screaming with hope within, praying you reply. it feels so good to feel your body pressed against his, the scent of your conditioner wafting into his nostrils. he hugs you tightly, afraid that he'll lose you. he's been craving this for so long. 

"i missed this. i missed you," he murmurs between your neck, his grasp becoming a little tighter. you feel his chest slowly rising and falling as a soft sigh escapes his lungs. as the silence continues to grow between the two of you, it's becoming harder for you to find the words you want to say to him. 

"say what you want to say," it's like he read your mind, swallowing deeply before pulling your face back to eye level. he looks down at you. 

"i can’t accept your apology." 

eren slowly pulls away from you, a frown on his face and heartache yanking at his chest. it’s his karma, he knew that well. there was no reason to push you into something you no longer wished for. you’d made up your mind, and he just had to live with that. in the future, possibly learning from his mistake. he swallows, nodding as he backs away, accepting your answer indefinitely. 

“if that’s how you truly feel, then i will respect your boundaries. i’m truly sorry, again. i hate to leave things behind on a bad note, so i wanna tell you that i pray you find the love you deserve, and that i wish you nothing but the best.” 

a final touch of his lips lands on your cheek. eren’s giving you one last smile before turning to walk away. a broken weep cracks from you, lower lip trembling as you hug yourself tightly like he had only seconds ago. he’s halfway gone before you watch him pause, eyes unable to bring them from his figure. you felt like you’d lose the memory of him if you didn’t look. this felt like a horrible breakup neither one of you wanted to end. 

eren’s caught reaching into his jean pocket, pulling out his wallet before he approached you once more, the sadness on your face making this worse for him. “i almost forgot.” 

out of nowhere, eren grabs your hand, opening your palm and placing a cold object into it. you stare confusingly, leveling your palm towards your face to see a sterling silver necklace. it’s a simple piece of jewelry with a single initial. the letter ‘e’. 

"i’ve been meaning to give this to you for a while. i carried it with me every day,” he smiles warmly. 

a mix of surprise and shock washes over you, your brown eyes blown wide like a deer in headlights, or a girlfriend being proposed to. you stare at the necklace in your palm, feeling the featherweight of it, the cool metal against your skin. memories flood your mind — all those times you shared laughing together, graduating high school, sneaking out to see each other, sharing secrets, dreams, and hopes. this symbol represents all of that, and yet, it also reminds you of the pain, the betrayal, the shattered trust. your gaze flickers up to meet eren's, seeing the desperation in his eyes, the vulnerability, the raw emotion. part of you still loves him, still wants to believe in him, in your relationship. but the other part is screaming at you to protect yourself, to move on, to forget. 

"e as in eren," you gasp, lip still trembling. 

"well, yea," he laughs softly. it’s a tangible connection to you, even if things have changed. eren watches your reaction closely, hoping against hope that seeing the necklace might change your mind about him. he swallows hard, his throat tight with emotion. "i was planning on giving it to you when the time was right, even though i wasn’t exactly sure when that would be. i know it's not much, but . . i thought maybe you could keep it as a reminder of our friendship. of everything we shared."

he reaches out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your skin. "please, ꒰♡꒱,” he whispers, his voice cracking. "don’t throw it away. keep it close to your heart, and remember that i’ll always be here for you, no matter what happens between us."

you notice how close he is to you, and you feel a small amount of nervousness start to set in again. but, you don’t let it show in your expressions, focusing instead on trying to hold yourself together. this was a lot. you’ll always cherish the memories you have together, but, was this really goodbye? did you want him to completely disappear from your life? he’s someone who’s been apart of it for so long. you couldn’t imagine life without him. three months was hard enough, even the two before that. you didn’t want him to be a stranger. you didn’t want him to never speak to you again. you didn’t want to sever your relationship entirely — your connection. 

“i love you, ꒰♡꒱. i really mean that.” 

before he gets the chance to touch you one last time, you're leaning in first, lifting yourself by your tiptoes to press your lips into his. his nose smushed against yours, inhaling sharply as he grabbed your throat, kissing you deeper. as always, you melt into his touch like putty, your entire body bursting with fire when his fingertips brush against your hips under your jersey, pulling you into him harder than he intended. scared to let you go. eren grunts into your mouth when you moan into him, gliding his tongue across yours salaciously, his back arched to bend to your level. another hand huge on the side of your face while he kisses you passionately, turning his head slightly to the side while maintaining his clutch around your throat. 

eren gasps into the kiss, the sudden surge of warmth flooding his senses. his mind goes blank as he loses himself in the sensation of your lips against his, your taste filling his mouth. the hand on your hip tightens instinctively, drawing you closer until there's no space left between you. the unexpected kiss throws him off balance, but he doesn't care. all he knows is that he's lost in the moment, the tension between you both finally breaking. his free hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin as he deepens the kiss, his tongue dancing with yours.

“fuck, i love you,” he repeats again, now applying pressure to your ass he squeezes and lifts, his bulge hitting your stomach. it makes your gut flip when he bites your lip, your hands unknowingly trailing up his abdomen, the bumpy path of his abs giving you flashbacks. 

now, he’s kissing along your jawline, down your neck, his tongue tracing the curve of your collarbone. his hands are everywhere, roving over your body, caressing and gripping like he can’t get enough of the way you feel against him. his lips move up to your ear where his breath tickles you, your inner thighs locking tight. he murmurs softly into your ear, “i want you . . need you so badly. can i?” 

he sounds slightly breathless, his need for you obvious in his low tone. “can i touch you . . please?” 

“where’s your car?” 

there’s a pause as he registers your question, his mind slightly clouded from the feeling of you against him. “down the street, why?” 

“take me.” 

“you sure?” he asks. even though the desire for you is written all over his face, there’s a hint of hesitation and question in his tone. he needs to be sure this is something you truly want, even if your body speaks before you do. 

“yeah, i’m sure.” 

he takes your hand in his, intertwining his fingers with yours, and leads you down the hill to where his car is parked. you’re not sure what time it is, but the streets are nearly empty, only a few people roaming around drinking and smoking, the party is still very much still happening. tucking your hand into your pocket, you drop the necklace safely there, feeling protected and giddy as you trail behind him. his frame is so much bigger than yours, staring at the back of his head where he had his hair half tied up, wanting to bury your face into his back to smell him. you spot his black r34 gtr and within seconds you’re standing in front of it, almost as if you teleported. he must’ve been walking really fast. 

he releases your hand to dig for his keys, unlocking his car and opening the passenger side to adjust the seat fully up and make enough room for you both. you’re more at ease knowing his windows were tinted, illegally the blackest of black. with each inhale, he can feel the intensity of the situation starting to build up once again, raising his body only to have you push into him, his body leaning against his car as you squish your lips back into his, growing impatient. 

"wait. ." he paused in between kisses, the heat between your thighs becoming unbearable as he hissed into your mouth. "backseat, now." 

his eyes are trained on your ass as he watches you duck low and climb in the back, practically shoving you inside as he looks over his shoulder before following behind not a moment later. the space is snug, his broad body compared to your own not making the best room, but he’ll make it work. eren pushes you down onto the backseat, covering your body with his own as he resumes kissing you, hands sliding under your shirt to fondle your tits. the way the two of you kiss is feverish, open-mouthed with heavy pants of desperation. the way you equally missed each other spoke loudly through it. 

“take this shit off, it smells like him,” eren possessively begins to tug at the varsity jacket clinging to you. forgetting you still had it on. 

“sorry.” 

he tosses it to the front once it’s off, clutching your throat and tugging at your denim shorts with his unoccupied hand. you understand silently, unzipping them and lifting yourself in an awkward way to remove them along with your pale pink new balances. eren has one knee digging into the seat while he balances himself above you by holding the driver's seat headrest, the other foot flat on the floor as he watches you like you’re prey. 

“you’re so damn pretty, baby. miss you,” his hands go to smooth over your inner thighs up to your knees, your shirt rising to your midsection. 

"mhm, show me how much you missed me," you spread your thighs, pink lace thong swallowing your curves, giving him the obvious hint while balancing yourself on your elbows. 

eren’s mouth waters at the sight, your pussy already leaking for him, the material swallowing you up real good. he mutters ‘fuck’ under his breath, wetting his lips and pushing your knees to your chest, cuffing a finger into the band to pull to the side, groaning at the sight of your bare skin, glistening in your slick with your clit hiding between your lips. he knows he just needs to spread them to see her fully, his favorite part. the soft texture of his tongue carefully begins to graze against your skin, sucking and taking in the smell of your body. a surprised squeak escapes your throat as you feel his finger press against your tight entrance.

"no fingers," his dick jumps from the command, moaning as he spanks the outside of your thigh gently while running his tongue over his bottom lip. "just your tongue." 

“y’not gonna let me feel her?” eren coed teasingly, whimpering when he smacks you again while leaving a sloppy kiss onto the mound of your pussy. “stretch her out f’this dick?”

you crack a grin, back resting on the door while you scoot your ass further down to grind onto his face. “not yet.” 

the sudden sensation of your hands in his hair only fuels eren’s arousal further once you draw him closer, growing needy. his thick tongue slithers out his mouth, pooling with salvia as it laps at your clit with renewed vigor, the taste you leave on his tongue sweet and tangy — intoxicating, driving him wild with lust. it’s so damn good he can’t help but spank the outside of your thigh near your ass, the vibration going straight to your clit and it’s almost like he can feel it when it hits you. moaning into your pussy he gives sloppy kisses while your thighs shake. 

“mmm, yesss," you moan in approval, needing him to do it again. until you're bruised. 

his face heats up from the noises you make, a reddish tint on his cheekbones as he shifts his jaw to suck your clit into his mouth, slick dousing his chin as he pulls your puffy clit between his lips to tug and release. 

"keep going," you arch into him. eren smacks you again, a little harder, and a broken, high pitched hiccup erupts from you, followed by a dragged out moan of his name. 

with a final swipe of his tongue, he feels your body shudder and convulse around him. your cries fill the air as you cum hard, coating his face with your essence. he laps it up greedily, humming and savoring every drop. you didn’t expect to cum that quickly, face heating up from shyness as you cover your face and whine. eren chuckles into your pussy, spluttering as he detaches his lips and buries his face within the curve of your hip bone, unable to stop himself from laughing. it’s silly because this is the second time this has happened. the first being when he ate you out on the hood of his car after getting tipsy during game night. feeling like the alcohol influenced it, but he knows you didn’t drink tonight since he kept an eye on you. 

“shut uppp!”

“that literally took a minute!” he’s clutching his stomach now. 

“you know i’m sensitive,” you pout, popping him on the arm. “make me cum again. unless you can’t.” 

“mhm,” eren nods his head cockily, shocking you when he spanks your clit, scarily switching from playful to dominant. “don’t say that shit when you know it’s wrong.”

eren takes a seat on the opposite side, pulling you to sit on your knees, leaning over him as his eyes lock onto yours filled with a primal hunger. your palming at his thighs still covered in dark jeans, using it to balance your weight as eren stretches his left arm behind you to rub your clit with his fingers, collecting your arousal before sinking his pointer and middle into you. he quickened his pace, pumping his hand faster as he fingers your soppy cunt.

the combination of his hand movements and the sensation of your warm breath on his face sends him spiraling. "fuck, you feel so good," he groans, his voice strained with effort. “can’t wait to have this pussy on me.” 

“eren, touch yourself,” you whine, petting at the shape in his jeans, undoing his button and dragging down his zipper. 

eren keens almost submissively, lifting his hips so you can push his jeans down to his knees, eren releasing his hard dick that throbs excessively in his hold. it’s big and pretty, just like you remembered. a dick you’ll never forget for sure. the curve of it makes it touch his stomach, eren rushing his thumb over the tip, wincing from sensitivity and stroking it vertically away from him. 

"let me spit on it," you chew at your lips, rocking your ass back into his hand, every touch making you feral, inner thighs soaked. 

eren nods with lidded eyes, his breath hitching as he waits for your saliva to coat his slickened fingers. the thought of your spit adding another layer of lubrication to his dick makes him even hotter. gathering your salvia on your tongue, you purse your lips together before spitting onto his dick, a cute ‘puh’ emitting as the two of you watch it trail onto his ring covered fingers, eren groaning and twisting his wrist to spread it along his length. 

“just like that," he encourages, his voice barely above a whisper. "stroke your hand over it, baby. c’mon.” 

you moan, wrapping your hand over it, piled on top of his own. you suck your lips inwardly, face curled up same as his as the two of you beat his dick, the squelching from both your hands and his fingers in your pussy making you equally dizzy. he hisses while keeping his eyes on your face, just looking at you enough to bring him over the edge.

"more?” you ask, the trail of spit already falling from your mouth before he can respond, eren momentarily removing his hand, dick jumping from the reaction as you fist his dick before he does. his overlapping yours this time. 

eren’s response is a strangled cry as he feels the pressure building to a crescendo. your skilled hand working in tandem with his own is too much for him to resist. "yes, fuck yeah," he grits out, his body tensing as he prepares to explode. 

"tell me you love me,” you kiss him softly, your tongue exploring his mouth, tasting him. 

"f-fuckin' love you, mamas," obediently, eren guides your stroking hand over his near-spent cock, growing sensitive from the erotic intensity. each gentle, wet stroke sends aftershocks rippling through his core, leaving him shuddering and panting.

"one more time, baby.”

"love you, nngh, love you.”

"i love you too." 

laying your head on his thigh, he continues to fuck you with his fingers, the squelch of your pussy bouncing off the car windows, continuing their relentless assault. the lewd sounds of your arousal draw him closer to his climax. he can feel your body responding to his touch, your juices coating his digits as he plunges them deeper inside you. with a final, needy thrust of his hips, he unleashes a torrent of cum, coating your joined hands in his hot release.

"that’s it," he whispers huskily, his voice raw with satisfaction. you bring his dick to your face, sticking your tongue out and enclosing your lips around him as you jerk him into your mouth. sucking him off. "ooh, fuck, like that. keep touching me." 

“eren . .  baby, your fingers are s’long,” a shudder forms, squealing and rocking your ass back harder to meet the quickened pace of him fucking you open. he’s pushing you to the brink.

"think you can cream on ‘em?” he teases, his voice husky with desire. he’s using both hands now, the other hitting your ass hard in repetitions, refusing to stop, the action echoing in the small space. "can you? i wanna see you do it. gimme sum to lick up.” 

"f-fuck, y-yess. i can give it to you,” you arch your back. “oh my god.” 

encouraged by your eager response, eren doubles his efforts, his fingers curling inside you to hit that sweet spot that makes your muscles clench and a pornographic shout break loose, eren drawing out a ‘yeaaa, baby’, fucking you faster, unoccupied fingers sprawled along your plump ass. his voice fucking with you all over again. 

“mmm. just cum on ‘em. wanna feel it again,” eren’s grip on your hip tightens as he feels your body tense, grinding his palm against your puffy clit.

your sobs are rewarding, your ass burning from his impacts and you give him what he wants like he asked. creaming over his fingers as you cum for the second time, your tummy caving in as you drool on his leg and prolong a whine. body shaking violently with your legs.  

"goddamn. good girl. good girl. you’re so fucking tight," he groans, tasting you off his fingers before going under your stomach to thumb circles on your swollen clit in rhythm with more thrusts. the friction against your clit causes you to scream again, lifting your upper body to distract him by kissing his neck, his ultimate weakness.  

“ooh, you bad girl,” he snarls, his breath coming in ragged gasps. your tongue slicks across his throat before leaving hot kisses, climbing onto his lap by balancing your body on your toes, clutching his shoulders for support as you squat above him. 

eren knows your intention and follows suit, sliding his back down the seat and spreading his legs further apart. reaching behind himself, he leans slightly forward to pull off his hoodie from his backside, his hair getting fuzzy in the process until you smooth it back in place. eren’s hands slide underneath your hot thighs, hooks his arms under your knees, and spread your legs wider apart to accommodate the thickness of his dick as he finally pushes into you.  

“oooh, fuck,” the two of you moan in unison, jaws agape with heavy pants. 

the lewd sounds of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the car, a symphony of raw, animalistic passion. and just like that, he surrenders to the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. he loses himself in the moment, pace frenzied, focusing solely on how good it feels to be buried deep inside you after so long, trying to milk him for everything he's got. you arch into him, that warm feeling coursing through your heart that you haven’t felt since that night in the closet. that feel of worship. eren spanks you again, a little harder and a broken, high-pitched hiccup erupts from you, followed by a dragged out moan of his name. 

he steadily lifts you up and down onto his dick as you switch your hips to ride him. the view from below is turning him on — tits bouncing with each movement, your face contorted in pleasure. he raises his hips to meet your downward motion with equal force, driving himself to the depth with each bounce. skin slapping mingling with your moans, pushing you down with the fingers sprawled across your backside, pussy swallowing all of him. 

“you’re doing so well, baby," he praises, his voice a soothing murmur. "just breathe through it." as he inches farther, he captures your lips in a tender kiss, pouring all his love and devotion into the embrace.

"bite me, please,” you whimper desperately, knocking your head back to expose your neck. "need it."

eren’s eyes gleam with wicked intent, not hesitating to bite into you, knowing how much you have a kink for it. you shriek when his teeth sink into your soft flesh, the steady pressure of them is a mind fuck. the bite is firm yet gentle enough not to hurt you. the sharp pain quickly being replaced by an intoxicating rush of pleasure, sending jolts of arousal coursing through your veins. his tongue laves at the spot after letting go, soothing it with languid strokes while his other hand roams over your body, tracing patterns across your curves. 

"you are mine," he swats your ass, pounding faster. "you will always be mine. and you will never run from that." 

you shake your head drunkenly, pupils rolling white, lashes fluttering. "won't run, promise rennie!” 

"you belong to me,” he says once more, wanting you to repeat. eren’s words are punctuated by another slap of his hand, and by this point you’re sure you’re bruised, each strike a claim of ownership. your knees buckle beneath you, but he holds you up, his strong arms locked around you like a demon in heat. 

"i belong to you, baby.”

he increases the speed and intensity of his movements, driving you towards the precipice of ecstasy. you're dripping wet and moaning, your slick coating his cock as he pounds into you. wrapping your arms tightly around his neck while he slams you down. eren’s hands roam over your curves, spreading your cheeks apart as he pulls you down onto his dick with fervor. each thrust is deeper, harder, driven by a primal urge to claim you utterly.

“fuck, mng. g’na . . cum,” you blubber, biting your bottom lip as he pounds into you. 

“look at me, i wanna see your face when i make you cum,” he orders, his voice raw with desire. 

giving him your attention, you struggle to fully keep them open, every vigorous yank and thrust coaxing that bubbly feeling in your gut. he can feel your walls tightening around him, signaling your impending orgasm. "that’s it, baby," he coos, nibbling on your earlobe. "give it to me. gimme that shit. lemme feel it.”

he shifts his position slightly, angling his hips to hit that sweet spot within you that makes your toes curl and your walls clench even tighter around him. the new angle allows him to hit even harder, stroking along your inner walls with each upward thrust.

"take. it. all. baby," he growls between pauses, his breath hot against your ear. when you finally topple over the edge, he swallows your cries with a searing kiss, his own body trembling with unspent need. 

"꒰♡꒱ . . fuck," eren pants, his forehead pressed against yours as he loses himself in the rhythm of your joining, stilling his trembling hips and cumming inside of you, having no strength to pull out. he knows you’re on birth control so he didn’t have to worry.

"oh my fuckin' god," the delicious shiver coursing through your body felt like the ultimate high. brushing your fingers through the strands of his brown hair that had long fallen from it's hair tie. he leans into your soothing ministrations, savoring the intimate connection between you as he slowly comes back down to earth.

you sit like this for a while, eren going soft and lifting you off of him to properly sit you on his lap after dressing himself and you. your legs rest over his while he presses his forehead to yours, still trying to regain his energy.

“oh, i forgot,” you opened your eyes after intimate slow breathing, reaching to the front to search for onyankopon's jacket. you dig into the pocket to retrieve the necklace he’d given you. “put it on me?” 

“of course,” taking the necklace from your hand, he brushed your hair from your shoulders and carefully fastened it around your neck. "you look beautiful," he whispered, his voice tinged with genuine affection.

“thank you,” you smile sweetly, playing with the jewelry. “i love it.” 

“i always knew you would.” 

silence overtakes you for a moment, sitting on your thoughts unwarranted. too much happened today, and your brain was swarming with panic trying to figure out what right move to make. you were tired of overthinking. you just wanted to live in the moment. consequences will come later. what's meant to be will be.

“promise you’ll keep your word this time. no more fights, no more misunderstandings, or playing with my heart. i don’t think i can take another heartbreak. i’ll die.”

sincere contrition casts eren’s expression from your words, gnawing at him all over. eren pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. despite the weight of what's happened between you, despite the pain and hurt, there's an unspoken understanding that you're both willing to move past it.

"i swear on my life i’ll never hurt you like that again. i know i’ve got a lot to make up for, but you mean everything to me,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck gently. "i love you too much. i’m never taking that for granted.” 

tears well up in your eyes as you stare at eren, searching for any sign of deception. but all you see is sincerity, a depth of emotion that takes your breath away. you nod slowly, trying to hold back the flood of tears.

“okay,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “i forgive you.” 

© 𝒮𝒯𝟦𝑅𝐵𝒲𝑅𝑅𝒴! all rights reserved. please do not repost, steal, or modify my work simply because it is mine. stealing isn't cute. i'll ruin your life ♡

[ofbatsandballads]

kindness you can’t afford

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: injured character, multiple descriptions of blood + wounds

a/n: so this is the very first jason fic I’ve written since I was twelve, so forgive me while I find my jay’s voice now that I’m not a preteen. anyways I humbly offer thee my wares.

divider credit: cafekitsune

Gotham’s a shithole. You hadn’t known that when you first moved here. To be honest, you’d kind of thrown a dart at a map and gone where it landed. Alright, maybe it wasn’t literally a dart throw, more so finding the cheapest metropolitan city because New York was tempting but it would bankrupt you. Mostly you just wanted a place to not exist. And so Gotham’s relatively low rent rates and towering skylines were the pick with little to no research.

Gotham’s a shithole. You know that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. It’s surprising, honestly, how little of Gotham’s chaos makes it outside the city limits. One would think a psychotic killer clown that’s prone to gassing a whole city district or a half-plant poison lady or a guy going around dressed like a bat would make national news. And yet, no. You’d known superheroes existed, of course. Superman was the shining jewel in the crown of the country that is Metropolis. Everyone knows about the extraordinary Wonder Woman. It’s not like hyper skilled people working for the greater good aren’t a thing. But Gotham plays her cards close to her chest.

You've lived here almost two years now and you’ve managed to make it through relatively unscathed. An impressive feat especially since you live in the Bowery. The Bowery itself isn’t so bad, but its neighboring district Park Row, more often known as Crime Alley, is about the worst Gotham has to offer. You’ve heard your fair share of gunshots and sirens, and you’ll never forget the time that Scarecrow released fear toxin in the district and you had to shove every towel and blanket you owned against the cracks by the doors and windows to keep it out. However, you’ve avoided being mugged or assaulted or anything like that so far. And you’ve never encountered the vigilantes that run the night here.

But there’s always time for new and exciting experiences.

The loud thunk that sounds outside your living room window makes you jump and starts your heart pounding. You know you should just ignore it. Crawl off the couch and to the bedroom, lock the door. The lights in the apartment are already off, only the television light illuminating the room, so it would be easy to creep unseen. But you can’t. Something pulls you to the window. Maybe it’s the cat killing curiosity, or maybe it’s your own little voice of self destruction, or maybe it’s something else entirely. All you know is that you have to go look.

So you do. And there, out cold on the fire escape, is a man. A very large man. A very large man in a red helmet. A very large man in a red helmet with dual pistols holstered to his thighs. Red Hood. Red Hood is passed out face up on your fire escape. Huh.

You’d heard of him. It was hard not to. The Bat had the most notoriety by far, but it was Red Hood that truly scared the criminals of Gotham. Batman might break your bones, cripple you even, but you’d leave with your life. No such guarantee existed if you crossed Red Hood. Hurt a few innocent people and you might end up with a bullet or three in your skull. Then there was that thing about heads in a duffel bag and Red Hood running crime for a solid year in Gotham, but he’s better now, apparently. None of this is deterring you from unlocking the window, pushing it up, and stepping out into the cold winter air. Not when you see the blood seeping through his body armor start to drip off the fire escape grate.

He needs help and he can’t stay unconscious in the middle of the city. If whoever injured him didn’t find him, the cops would. He’s just as wanted as the actual rogues of Gotham. You think it’s bullshit, which is why you’re trying to find a way to get him inside the safety of your apartment. He’s huge up close. This is going to be very, very difficult. Your mind flashes suddenly to one of your favorite childhood movies and how the princess pulled the dashing rogue around with her hair. You glance down at the street before heading to your bedroom.

You come back out with sheets bundled up in your arms. You’re not even sure if this harebrained idea will work, but you weave the sheets through the gaps in the grates and around Red Hood’s waist nonetheless. You secure a knot and go back into your apartment with the length of the sheets. Your legs are stronger than your arms, so you brace them against the wall and pull. You can feel his body slowly dragging towards you and you pause to check your progress. He’s slumped against the window now. Good. You loop your arms under his, place your feet back against the wall, and pull hard. Your hard work is rewarded with his body breaching the threshold of your window and landing directly on top of you. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. He is heavy.

It’s a struggle but you manage to roll out from under him and immediately see the massive red stain contrasting against the white of your fluffy pajama pants. A small puddle of blood is emerging on your floor under his left thigh, and droplets of blood have splattered next to his torso. He’s not in great shape. It suddenly hits you what you’ve done. You dragged an injured vigilante, known for shooting first and asking questions later, into your apartment with no plan on what to do after the fact.

What the fuck did I do?

That’s all you can think as you look down at him. Then something snaps into place inside your rattled mind and you run to your bathroom to grab your first aid kit. You’d bought it and learned the basics after Wayne Enterprises ran televised infomercials about the importance of first aid a couple months back. You’re carefully balancing all the supplies in your arms as you head back out to the living room.

The empty living room. No vigilante in sight. Then your world spins. Everything clatters to the floor as you’re yanked backwards by your waist, pinned to something solid and unable to move.

“Who are you?” A growl sounds behind you, modulated to sound semi-mechanical.

Ah. There he is. You think you should be panicking, absolutely losing your shit even. But your brain is moving in slow motion.

“Someone trying to help you,” you breathe out.

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

The grip around your waist tightens. You want to laugh. As if you could’ve made a run for it in the first place. You tell him your name, and explain that you live alone. There’s no one else here but the two of you and you really do want to help.

“You were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn’t just leave you out there,” you explain cautiously.

The two of you stay like that for a minute longer. Then, a mechanical sigh sounds from behind you and the vice grip on your waist goes slack. You turn to him and see that he’s already halfway to your window.

“Hey! Wait! I can help!” you shout, scrambling after him.

“Don’t need it,” he snaps.

“You were bleeding out on my floor!” you exclaim.

You don’t know why you feel so strongly about this. Maybe because he seemed so…mortal. It’s easy to forget that these guys running around at night are people. They’re strong, tough, and capable, but they’re still human. The fact that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the window frame proves your point.

“Please. I promise I won’t take long. Please just let me help,” you beg.

He turns around and even through that unreadable helmet you can tell he’s sizing you up. You’re sure you must be a sight in your fuzzy white cat pajama pants, old Snoopy t-shirt, and fluffy white socks. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ridiculous tableau. Massive armed man in tactical gear opposite a woman in fluffy pajamas, both bloodstained. But either you seem harmless enough or he’s in exceptionally bad shape, because he just slumps against your wall and gives a barely noticeable nod of his head.

You go into autopilot the second you get his consent. A dining room chair is dragged to the center of your living room and Red Hood drops himself into it, the old wood creaking under the force. You go to assess the damage on his torso first. Light slashes litter his waist, none of them are deep enough for stitches. You grab the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the floor where you kneel before warning him that it might sting.

“I got slashed. Think that might’ve hurt a bit more,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

The torso slashes are light work. It takes all of five minutes to disinfect them and seal them shut with bandages. It’s his thigh that you’re a little more concerned about. There’s enough blood that it’s soaked his tactical pants around where you’re guessing the wound is. You can vaguely make out what appears to be cut fabric, so you’re assuming he was stabbed.

“How deep did the knife go?” you ask.

“Hm. ‘Bout two inches?” he offers.

“Why’d you take it out?” you ask incredulously. Anyone with half a brain knew not to take a knife out of a stab wound.

“No idea. Should’ve just gone runnin’ around the city with a knife wedged in my leg.”

The mask’s modulator does nothing to hide the teasing edge to his voice. Of everything you’d heard about Red Hood, you’d never heard he was such a smartass.

“You know how to do stitches?” he asks.

Great. So he saw the deer-in-headlights look you had while thinking about how to fix his stab wound.

“If you count mending clothing then, uh, sure,” you reply.

The white slits of the helmet stare hard at you before a warped chuckle comes from under it.

“Well, close enough.”

Oh, so he liked to gamble with his health then. Okay. Sure. Great. You could totally do this. Untrained, unlicensed, unsupervised you. You have to stop your hands from shaking as you thread the curved needle. You have to stop yourself from vomiting with anxiety as you push the needle through his skin. He hisses and you immediately feel bad. He’d handled the alcohol without flinching, but the stitches were a different story. You whisper sorry’s with every puncture of his skin you make. Soon enough, his leg is closed up and the whole thing is said and done.

“Okay, should be good to go,” you start, “Well, not good per se, but functional to go.”

A hum and a quick nod of his head are the only response you get before he’s back on his feet. He’s about to climb out your window for the second time tonight when you call out to him again. He turns around and you’d swear he almost seems exasperated.

“Take these with you. You’ll probably need them,” you say as you toss him a water bottle and a small carton of orange juice.

He snatches them easily from the air. But then he just stands there and stares at the drinks in his hands. You think you may have somehow offended him and go to apologize when he speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, mechanical voice catching on the word.

And then he’s gone. Out your window and off into the night. Once you shut and lock the window you feel exhaustion hit you like a freight train. All the adrenaline drains from you and it takes whatever energy you have left to collapse on to your bed and drift off to sleep.

You’ll never know it, but the Red Hood spends the last fifteen minutes of his patrol sipping his orange juice and dutifully watching your apartment window.

You’ll never know it, but Jason Todd lingers across the street to make sure you get home from the grocery store safely, and he scoffs as he sees you feed and pet a stray dog. It’s silly, he thinks.

Don’t you know that now you’ve shown it some kindness, it’ll just keep coming back?

[vultbae]

small world ❀

art donaldson x female reader

part two (soon)

↳ summary: Art and Patrick were once your peers at the Mark Rebellato Academy —not the nicest ones. Five years later, you've made a friend that can help you fuck with their minds a little.

↳ warnings: making out, dry humping, manipulation, a lot of pettiness, mentions of bullying, and weight!! the dumbification of art donaldson tbh

↳ notes: Istg I be having the most random ideas, but I hope you enjoy!! as always, english is not my first language lolz

word count: 3.1k

Tashi enters the living room with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes, moving gracefully in a beautiful blue mini-dress. With a soft pop, she eases the cork, instantly pouring the effervescent gold-ish liquid into the two glasses. 

"You shouldn't even worry about them," Tashi says with a wry smile. As she finishes serving you some rosé Veuve Clicquot, she hands you the glass. "What are you—like, the second or third in Europe? They are gonna be broke by their thirties," she concludes, staring at you with confident eyes.

You nod, taking a sip of champagne. "Don't see it as serious; it'll be fun."

Tashi raises her glass, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. "Im just saying, don't stress over men."

You clink your flute against Tashi’s. "Alright."

A year and a half ago, you had met Tashi Duncan, who you believed was a hard-hearted bitch but ended up being a close friend of yours. She is merciless, proficient, and goddamn; she has that vicious aura you worship so much. While living in Biot, you'd always look for the nearest CRT to watch Tashi flawlessly play, enchanted by how she unnerved her adversaries.

During summer break, your father dragged you out of the academy to visit California for a benefaction event. Amidst the glamour and chatter of the event, you caught sight of Tashi —most likely attending due to her relevance spiking around the area. Luckily, your connection rapidly deepened, fueled by reciprocal admiration and tennis dependence.

And the commitment to stay in touch despite the geographical distance worked. Tashi became pretty much your best friend, and you became hers. Aside from the workaholic aspect, the resemblances between you were too much to ignore. Sooner than later, you discovered much about Tashi's personal life, the players she liked and despised, and her daily anecdotes regarding tennis and her intimate life. And that's how you became acquainted with Fire and Ice's peculiar hyper-fixation on Tashi.

Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig.

You thought it was a unique offering from God. You didn't expect you'd get the opportunity to face the golden pair again. When Tashi told you she had met Zweig and Donalson, a powerful sentiment of gratitude washed over you. You nearly fell to your knees when she proceeded to explain they were a walking boner for her. If that wasn't high power granting you a second chance to delight yourself, it was an insane coincidence.

But telling Tashi the backstory was a different pain in the ass. Although she expressed some sort of disgust towards Zweig and Donaldson's brainless carnal-based attitude, you couldn't buy it.  And your skepticisms were demonstrated as valid when she —dreamy voice and all that shit— confessed through the phone she nearly had a threesome with them. A fucking threesome. You couldn't hold it back anymore, so you told her everything.

Tashi was aware of tennis's influence on your household, as you were raised by two renowned tennis coaches from the States. When you turned eight, your parents turned you in at the Mark Rebellato Academy —as if you were condemned to play tennis by default. The detrimental part of your journey was developing thyroid issues when you were twelve. Jesus, twelve years old — the commencement of the preteen period where kids either kiss your feet or bully you. One year after, along with the anticipated weight gain, you met Art and Patrick. And as if you weren't unfortunate enough already, the two —who at the time looked like fucking Beavis and Butthead— decided they didn't like your physical appearance. They hated it.

“Hey, Y/l/n!” Patrick’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking.

You froze, your heart sinking to the underground. You tried to focus on your serve, but your hands were immobile. 

Patrick sauntered over, his smirk widening as he looked you up and down. “What’s the matter, Y/n? Ball too heavy for you to lift?”

You heard Art’s laughter behind your back. He joined in a kind of trembling voice. “Or maybe she’s saving her strength for lunch. She doesn't hesitate when it comes to eating.”

The echo of them and the rest of the kids on the court laughing was a sound that felt like daggers piercing your heart.

After two years of ceaseless bullying and humiliation—which also distracted you from tennis—your parents sent you to The Mouratoglou Tennis Academy in Biot, a small town in France. You are not sure if it was the harassment itself, the low self-esteem, or possibly your undeniable attraction for Donaldson. It didn't matter. By the age of seventeen, you were undoubtedly one of the major promises of European tennis.

So, explaining the theatrical, soap opera-like backstory to Tashi for your detestation of Zweig and Donaldson took time. But when you did, it was worth it because Tashi didn't distrust your testimony, and if anyone was exhilarated to play some moves against them at the beginning, it was Duncan. 

That's the explanation behind Tashi pitching a tremendous party to celebrate her commitment to Stanford. This was absurd, to say the least, considering she had college offers piling up, and no one doubted she would commit to a prestigious school. But Tashi knew you'd visit from France, and this was just the perfect instance to hook you up with both condemned.

Because, of course, her biggest fangirls would attend. 

It didn't take long until the country house was full of people ranging from Tashi's cousins to bare acquaintances. And spotting Fire and Ice was easier than you thought. 

Tashi elbows you discreetly and signs with her head the direction they are standing. "There they are."

Your gaze falls over Art, who is laughing with —who you assume is—Patrick. His features are sharper and more defined. The lanky, slender physique you remembered from his premature teenage years had filled out into a more athletic build, with broader shoulders tapering to a trim waist covered in a light pink shirt. His blonde hair, which was no longer too light, was now strawberry blonde-ish, slightly tousled, and cascading over his ears.

Patrick, standing a few feet away, was equally transformed. His brunette hair, just a bit longer than you remember, frames a face that had hardened over the years—angular jaw, defined cheekbones, and piercing eyes that seem to miss nothing. The fucking smirk is still there, and you can see how he displays it every two seconds at whatever thing Art is telling him.

The interior of your stomach resembles a volcano about to erupt. You feel ambivalent, so many emotions overlapping each other. You see two cute, hell, gorgeous guys, and you wish you could approach them without considering crucifying them before. And you can't help but feel envious at how effortlessly Tashi managed to tame Art and Patrick while the only thing you got from them was hostility.

Your eyes can't seem to unbuckle from them. Tashi catches you slightly frowning at the panorama, and she isn't certain if you are infatuated or planning murder on the spot. "Come on."

You have no time to react before Tashi leads you through some partygoers to reach where Zweig and Donaldson are. Like dogs sniffling fresh meat, it's pathetic how their heads twist simultaneously when Tashi approaches them, conversation instantly pausing. It is as if Tashi's presence was magnetic for them.

"Well, hello, both of you," Tashi greets them excitedly, still holding your hand. "Didn't think you'd come."

Art's eyes widen, "Are you kidding?" he's about to keep speaking, but his gaze merges with yours for a split second, and he shuts off. Dead. Silent. 

"—Stanford's a big deal, Tashi." Patrick interrupts, compensating for the awkwardness of Art's sudden number. "I had to drag this lazy fuck out of his bed, but we made it."

Suddenly, Art's out of the trance, tearing his blue eyes off you to bombard Patrick with a killer look. "Hey—shut up, Patrick."

Tashi sweetly, softly giggles at their word exchange. God, she's good, you think. Tashi turns to gesture to you, "This is my friend, Claire, by the way. She is visiting from the Mouratoglou Academy—

To be fair, Claire is a believable name.

"Wait, the Patrick Mouratoglou Academy? In France?" Art runs over Tashis's sentence, incredulously shooting you a broad-eyed glare. You nod in agreement, still processing you are having a civil conversation with Art Donaldson.

You feel Tashi squeezing your hand at your quietness.

"Yeah, you know it?" you timidly ask, forcing a polite smile that, if you were Art, you wouldn't buy it. But, of course, he's as dumb as a pigeon.

"Heck... Of course, I do. I wish I could go there."

Tashi smirks, enjoying the spectacle. 

Patrick’s investment in the conversation piques. "Mouratoglou, huh? That's impressive. Maybe we could hit the court sometime."

And that's the first time Patrick makes eye contact with you. He's stabbing you with his stare. You abruptly wonder if he's as dumb as Art, probably not. 

You squeeze Tashi's hand.

Tashi leans closer to Patrick, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Hey, Pat... do you remember what you mentioned about erectile dysfunction? My aunt's a sexologist, I think—

Patrick loudly chuckles, apparently alarmed by the deficiency of filtering confidential information. "I need to smoke sum' stronger. Wanna come, Tash?"

Tashi purses her lips, casting a quick glance at you. "Sure."

Your point of view is like a sitcom scene, swiftly panning from Tashi's body leaving your radar to the boy in front of you, staring at you with soothing eyes and reddened cheeks. It's basically comical.

Art's eyes dart around the lively yard before landing back on you. He clears his throat. "So, uh, Claire? That's a cute name."

It takes tons of willpower not to drop the good girl act right there. You attempt to return the sentiment with a quirk on the corner of your lips. "I need to get a drink. Come with me?"

He shakes his head up and down, finding it easier than answering with words.

For the first time in a couple of months, the inside of Art's mind has more than a giant cardboard cutout of Tashi Duncan. He is in awe. 

You lead the way, weaving through clusters of drunk teenagers towards the house. You feel Art's gaze lingering on your back —or ass, you don't know—a magnetic pull that makes you hyper-aware of his presence.

You arrive in the kitchen and quickly grab a bottle of vodka, a can of soda, and a party cup. Art watches you closely with a look of hypnotic admiration as if you were concocting the most complicated cocktail in the world. You want to roll your eyes so badly.

"That dress looks amazing on you." Art blurts out, unable to contain his thoughts any longer. 

You look at him. Art is sitting on one of the high stools by the kitchen island, his elbow resting on the table's sleek surface, supporting his chin with his hand. There is a softness in his eyes completely foreign to you, an infrequent vulnerability that contrasts sharply with the characteristic asshole demeanor you remember.

To Art, you appear almost ethereal, like an ideal concept from a wet dream of his. His thoughts are a kaleidoscope of jumbled fragments of memory that make no sense. You look so familiar... but no. 

There's no way he would forget about you.

You glance up, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. "Thank you," you reply, handing him a drink.

Art sips on his red plastic cup, eyes hooked on yours. "So, uhm. I just realized I never introduced myself properly. Im Art—

"Yeah, Donaldson, I know." you cut him off, leaving him completely silent and confused. "I've seen you play. Not bad," you clarify, with an unconscious hint of pride in your voice.

Art's smile widens. "Wait, you've seen me play?" he exaggeratedly emphasizes me. 

You nod.

His eyes twinkle with excitement. There’s this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "That's, uh, great. Next time you are watching, I'll play better..."

His innate nerdiness and try-hard flirtiness provoke nausea in you. If you didn't know him, it would be a different story. But seeing a former, intense crush who shamelessly bullied you for so long, giving you heart-shaped eyes...

It's fucking bizarre. And it pisses you off.

Art begins conversing about something else. You don't know what—tennis-related, maybe. You are not wearing earphones with noise cancellation, but you can't hear him anymore. It's a blur as his words course through one ear and depart through the other. Immediately. Your brain has simply blocked the action of listening to him.

You step closer, so close you can see the fine lines in his eyes, the flecks of green amidst the blue, with a hint of brown sectoral heterochromia on his right eye. You can smell the faint woody scent of his cologne, something spicy that makes you salivate. His lips keep moving, forming words that dissolve into the dim background noise. The music, the laughter, the chatter—they all blend into a distant hum.

Art's voice vanishes into oblivion as you fix your gaze on his mouth, the curve of his lips, the way they part and close as he speaks. "Art," you say, stopping him in his tracks.

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, puzzlement, and a spark of hope. His adam's apple throbs as he notices you staring at his lips.

You lean in, your breath mingling with his, your heart pounding in your chest. Your hand reaches up, fingers brushing against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight stubble that prickles against your touch. Art's breath hitches, his eyes widening in surprise, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans in, too.

Your lips crash against his. Although you don't want to make it weird, you fail. It's not a gentle kiss or a precious, out-of-a-book lips meeting. It's fierce, instructing, a clash of sour sentiments and intent. You pour all your frustration, your pent-up anger, and your fucked-up desire to overpower him into that kiss. 

Art's shock melts away and quickly replaces it with an appetite that matches yours. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours. The kiss deepens, his lips parting to allow your tongue to explore, to taste the unmistakable flavor of cigarette and cheap vodka. You can feel the warmth of his breath and the way his hands tighten on your waist. It's almost as if he's frightened you'll pull away at some point.

And you can only fantasize about the moment you walk away.

—but not yet. You push harder, your fingers tugging slightly in his messy strawberry-blonde hair. He lowly moans into your mouth, a sound that dispatches a shiver down your spine. His hands roam your back, tracing the curve of your spine and dangerously lowering to your ass level. There's a distress in his touch you never thought would come from him.

The way he's dissolving under your venomous touch is already a win for you. You've managed to put him under you. And it's intoxicating, this control you have over him, this ability to make him forget everything else.

You pull back, your lips hovering just above his. Art's eyes are half-lidded, his lips swollen and ridiculously red from the intensity of the kiss. He looks at you in pure infatuation, "What- I... Did I do something wrong?"

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him again. "Come with me."

You peek at the party going outside—most people are outside. The living room is nearly empty, with a few alcoholized individuals entering the country house to refill their drinks. It's perfect.

You take Art's hand, your fingers lacing through his, and you lead him toward the sectional, six-seat couch in the center of the living room. You push Art down onto the couch, and he complies without resistance, his lust-drunken eyes never leaving yours; he nearly chokes on his spit at the sight of you slowly straddling him, your knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips.

"Jesus, Claire—"

You get the ick at the roleplay name Tashi baptized you with. 

"Shh," you whisper, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a soft, teasing kiss. "You never shut up, Donaldson."

And that's odd for him. He gives it a second thought because he isn't aware of how much he has talked, but definitely not that much. 

The overthinking vanishes as soon as you begin to kiss him again, slowly at first, savoring the way his lips deliciously move against yours. Art's hands rest tentatively on your hips, his fingers twitching as if afraid to hold on too tight. You guide his hands around your waist, urging him to hold you closer. His grip tightens, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the delicate fabric of your black mini-dress.

A sigh rolls out from your throat when you perceive something hard putting pressure against your core —which, because of the dress, is only shielded by thin lace panties. The coarse fabric of Art's light denim jeans rubs splendidly against your pussy. 

A primitive groan slips out of Art's lips the moment you grind your hips against his clothed dick. Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, and his eyes wander downwards. "Shit— you'll kill me," he pants into your mouth.

You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. They're dark with craving, his pupils dilated. "Then let me."

You are about to attack his lips again, but he hesitates. You tilt your head in confusion, murmuring a low what?

Art starts to speak, his voice shaky and breathless. "I... I was wondering if you wanted to go back to my hotel with me."

Before you can respond, Tashi suddenly appears in your vision behind Art's head. "Claire, there you are," she says, fucking loud with a knowing, manipulative smile on her lips. "Your dad called, he's outside."

You feel a surge of delicious triumph as you see the apparent dissatisfaction in Art's eyes. 

"Sorry, Art," you say, standing up and smoothing your dress. "Maybe another time."

There’s a raw sadness in his eyes, an almost childlike hurt that he can’t quite conceal. He isn't even drunk; he's fully conscious of the stunning girl he just met and now is evaporating as if she was going to turn into a wolf at midnight or something. 

As you are about to disappear from Art's vision, he shouts at you, "I'll see you later, right?"

But you don't answer.

Instead, you hurriedly walk with Tashi to reach the front yard. 

"I didn't lie about your dad being here, though," Tashi clarifies, pointing at the big Jeep parked in front of the country house.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, a smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, alright." You glance back at the house to ensure you are out of earshot. "I think fucking him would've been better. Do you think he's gonna remember about this tomorrow?"

"Oh, yeah. This is definitely gonna fuck his head up for a while." Tashi chuckles, "he's pretty obsessive."

You feel a swell of fulfillment at your best friend's words. "How obsessive?"

Tashi smiles. "A lot."

❀

[hysteria-things]

hey! love your stories

can you do a story where Matt/chris x Reader have to hide their relationship from EVERYONE (including the internet) but one of them slips up and exposes everything.

if you can make a story like this thank you!!!

EXPOSED

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: chris x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a tiny slip-up causes the fandom to go a little cray cray.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: FLUFF, swearing

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 505

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: thank you for 1.5k i love you guysss!

“why are you so heavy.” you groan as chris is hugging you, his legs wrapping around your waist.

“that’s harsh,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

you’ve known chris for a while, becoming good friends along the way. what people don’t know, including his brothers, is that you guys are dating.

you don’t want to get bashed online by preteens, and he’s just not ready to reveal it quite yet either.

your best friend laughs, snapping a pic of you guys for fun. the three of you are on a sunset walk on the street, soaking up the outdoors.

“don’t hate me.” she starts, and chris finally lets go. “you guys would make such a cute couple.”

cheeks becoming red, you feel chris’ stare on you. he smirks. “nah. that’ll never happen.”

a few days go by, and yes you’ve seen the tweets, but thankfully the fans don’t believe it. i mean, they already know you guys are close friends. nothing suspicious about that.

today’s different. you wake up from your afternoon nap with your phone blowing up. mention after mention.

QUEEN WE NEED ANSWERS @y/n_l/n

@y/n_l/n and chris??? hello???

no SHOT chris and y/n are dating😭

you pause at the last comment.

‘no shot chris and y/n are dating’

what?

confused as ever, you open up the most reliable source: twitter. twitter knows everything about everyone.

you scroll, seeing hundreds of tweets about you and chris. there’s also a video attached, what seems like a clip from the triplets’ new podcast.

you tap on the video.

nothing exciting happens for the first two seconds, just them yapping about whatever the fuck. then the camera cuts to chris. “yeah, my girlfriend y/n—” he starts, stopping when he notices.

that son of a gun.

matt’s face scrunches. “your girlfriend y/n?”

“i meant my good friend y/n. i was talking too fa—"

“i knew it!” nick exclaims, causing him and chris to get into a bickering match.

the video ends, and a message pops up.

chris &lt;3

i’m outside

you sigh, uncovering yourself from your blanket and heading to the front door. you open it, your boyfriend smiling fake at you. he can’t tell if he’s in trouble or not. “it was an accident.” he says, almost fearful.

your eyes widen, nodding your head along with his rambling. “i wasn’t thinking. my mouth was moving faster than my brain. it came so naturally because you, you know, are my girlfriend. my girlfriend; that i love so much. who i will never betray. who i can never live without. who i—”

“chris, stop,” you say softly. he for sure thinks he’s in trouble, but you honestly don’t care about the tweets and tiktoks. it was a silly slip-up, but in reality, you guys couldn’t hide your relationship forever. “it’s okay. it was bound to happen, honestly.”

“you’re not mad?”

“no.” you giggle, cupping his neck and pulling him into a kiss.

“i love being your good friend y/n.” you say jokingly, chris smiling on your lips.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @idkhowtosleep @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree

[simpee9000]

Not Just Friends - Prologue -

Based off this blurb + Fem Reader : Not edited : 3.2k Words : Full M.List

Childhood best friends turned into something more, at least with the label. Katsuki Bakugo, a fast-rising hero and fast-learning guy who is ever so slow in getting attached to and loving someone. Even three long years into a relationship, and your friends even forget you're even dating. Nothing happening, spare a few kisses.. like 3 kisses, during high school. Graduated and living together, and you guys have done absolutely nothing to further the relationship. Are you sure you're not just friends? (this is just a prologue, all chapters will have a different writing style) CW: Smut, brief domestic violence discussion, virginity loss, gore with pro hero stuff (lmk if i missed any) (applies to all chapters regardless if it's discussed or not)

Bakugo, or to you, Katsuki has been a huge figure in your life. Probably the biggest motivator as well. There since you were young and immature, running around in random neon clothes your mom let you wear after your 4-year-old self argued with her for half an hour.

You were the third addition to Katsuki and Izuku's friendship. Butting in on their rivalry often. Defending Izuku while shooting Katsuki a nasty glare. Helping Izuku with his bruises but also helping Katsuki with his, if he ever got any. You stuck to either boy's side, depending on who you saw first. Which, more often than not, was Katsuki. But you left his side whenever he picked on Izuku. Helping Izuku's muddy self get out of the river before considering Katsuki. 

That was in elementary school though, in junior high you stayed a balanced friend between the two. Stopping fights between the two boys, scolding the blonde boy every time. Yet you helped him clean up any time he picked a fight with anyone else. Wrapping up his bloody knuckles any time he needed, either from too much training or him being an asshole. You look back fondly on those times. Any time you so much as touched him, he sparked up, hands shooting out small explosions as he blushed. He felt bad obviously, but he was a preteen going through puberty and a pretty girl was touching him, what did you expect? He grimaced at every 'ow' that left your lips after he sparked up with your hand caring in his. He grew into his quirk and his control. So once the first year of high school hit, he was okay with small touches from you.

Thinking back on it, it was surprising he was okay with you, quirk-wise. He always gave Izuku hell for it, but never you. Maybe it's because you didn't have the drive to be a hero, wanting to stick to doing the sideline work of being a support tech. You weren't quirkless, but until the first year of junior high, you thought you were. Not having a flashy quirk or even a showing quirk at all. Only finding out because you've always aced every test and had an incredible academic ability. After a few too many recommendations of sped-up courses, did your parents take you to the doctor. Seeing that you did in fact have a quirk. Hyper-intelligence. You were basically a genius with an insanely good memory. It was an odd mutation of your parent's quirks. Your mom was able to remember everything she read and your dad was able to see the composition of anything he saw.

So along with Katsuki and Izuku, you strived to go to UA. Wanting to be in their support course, having strive to be a huge support tech in the future. Hopefully with your own company. You were well on that path as well.

You were there for that god-awful attack Katsuki dealt with in middle school. Seeing him covered in the sludge monster, gasping for air, haunted your dreams. You were walking with him after all. Watched the sludge climb up his body as you frantically tried to pry it off, your hands just slipping through the muck. Being pushed away once Katsuki started to cough violently. He didn't want you anywhere near what was happening. Looking wide-eyed at you before coughing for you to get help. So reluctantly, you did. Looking back at the blonde as he was submerged before you bolted for help, screaming for it down every walkway.

Only to come back to watch your other best friend running in to try and help. Screaming his name as well as you ran to get to them. Being pushed back by the wind All Might made when he came to help. Falling on your back as you watched, with tears in your eyes, Katsuki being freed from the sludge, gasping for any air he could. A hero lifted you up and held you from running to your friends, despite your frantic yelling for the boys. When they were cleared from the medics, you were allowed to see them. Instantly hugging Katsuki while yelling at Izuku over his shoulder, telling him he was stupid to run in without a quirk. Even though you were about to do the same. Katsuki rubbed off on you in that way. Yelling at others all while knowing you'd do the same.

By all means, you knew that wasn't going to be the last time you saw the boys in danger. Especially after Izuku got a quirk just in time for the UA testing. You weren't worried about the exam portion, the three of you studied together for that after all. Well, you studied with both of them, but they never studied with each other. Your test had an additional few tests but you passed them with ease. Just like how you knew Katsuki would pass his. You were worried for Izuku and his trial, which you were right to be, he broke both his arms with only one shot of his quirk. And after all that, it was still unlikely he'd get in. When you did get the letter of acceptance, you were with Katsuki, Izuku told you to go with Katsuki as he would probably not get in and he wants to be with his mom. Katsuki and you yelled and jumped around his room in excitement at the bold lettering of 'acceptance,' well you were jumping, he was being cocky and acting unaffected about it. Izuku called you only minutes after to let you know he got in as well. Katsuki rolled his eyes as he heard the news. Complaining once you hung up about how he didn't know how a nobody like him got in.

Getting into UA started everything for you. You got an insanely good internship after the sports festival. You followed Mei's lead, with Katsuki's and Izuku's advice, and showed off a suit similar to the American hero, 'Iron Man' just with your own flare and adjustments. Getting scouted for Endeavor's hero agency's personal tech crew. Following under the head of their tech.

With being in UA you got some insider information about what the hero course was doing. Making the hero outfit of both Katsuki and Izuku and doing any upgrades they needed. Eventually doing their friend's suits as well. Insider information wasn't enough, unfortunately. You were aware that the hero course went to the forest for training but you only knew Katsuki was taken when you met up with a beaten-up Izuku in a hospital bed. Having got a frantic call from Kirishima the second they got phone service. Him telling you to meet at this hospital because Izuku was in bad shape due to a villain attack.

You were involved in the rescue plan for Katsuki. Bring stealth equipment for a disguise. You weren't able to get anything else due to the time frame but you were there and it was successful. Holding your hand out alongside Kirishima for Katsuki to grab. You were also there for the fall of All Might, and consequently the fall of the boys beside you. Katsuki having his lip quiver as Izuku stood in shock.

Since you were there, and the villains saw your face and technique, you were invited to the dorms as well. They were supposed to be only for the hero course but they made changes. You dormed with the Class A girls.

You saw the boys leave that one night, deciding to stay in bed and let them hash it out. They should be grown enough at this point to not kill each other. Regretting that decision when you saw how beaten and bruised both the boys were the next day.

Their Provisional license exam was at the same time as yours. Yours being a test of how effective your gear is and if it's safe enough for the public heroes. Coming back to the dorms to see a happy Izuku and a distraught Katsuki. You spent that night in his dorm room, helping him prepare for the extra course he now had to take.

Being within the top best-performing techs within UA, you were recruited to help with the War. Making sure everyone had good and up-to-date equipment, giving extra support items, but also being within the team itself. They needed any help they could get and you had a suit good for fighting. Aizawa asked you himself. He knew his two best boys trained you enough to know how to defend yourself. So you were in the evacuation crew. Only parting from that when you saw the boys running in the direction of mass destruction.

You stood by Aizawa's side as you saw your best friends get pummeled within an inch of life. You stood there, holding Aizawa up as you watched Katsuki take three stabs in the chest for Izuku. Leaving the teacher's side instantly, running up to the limp and bloody body that was Katsuki. Hands searching his body to try and stop the blood. Bloody hands ripping his hero suit to push it into his wounds. Crying for him to stay awake. When his eyes were fluttering shut you placed your bloody hands on his face, trying to ground him as you shook his face. Bringing a hand up to slap him awake. His eyes shooting open to look at you. Iida eventually pulled you off him, helping Katsuki stand, and dragged him off the battlefield.

You had to bite your lip to hold in a yell when you saw Katsuki go back into the fight. The bloody handprints you left still on his face.

The hospital trip was a rough one as well. Waited the miserable hours for either of your best friends to wake. When one was being examined you went to the other. Constantly checking on both. Luckily, the moment Katsuki woke up, you were just coming back from grabbing a drink and some snacks.

Katsuki snapped his eyes open when he heard the door open, body jolting to sit up. You dropped your food, pushing Katsuki back into bed with a hug. He was mainly confused. He remembers the fight but he didn't expect you to be here. He wrapped his IV-ridden arm around you, hugging as tight as his ribs allowed. After all, he was extremely worried about you going into the battlefield. You didn't have nearly enough training. When he finally passed out from the pain his last worry was if you'd be alive when he woke up.

His brain was foggy, he was just getting his senses back, feeling you, smelling your hair that you must have washed the night before, and hearing the small sobs of relief you were letting out. "Stop crying, I'm fine," Katsuki rasped, voice still shattered from everything.

"You almost died," you pulled back, placing your hands on his face, getting the flashed memory of your bloody hands on him as he struggled to stay awake and alive.

He really took in your appearance then, forced to look at you with your hands squishing his face. You looked like a wreck, it was obvious to anyone that you hardly slept. Your clothes were wrinkled and your hair was a mess, as if you ran your hands through it too many times.

"Kats?" you called for his attention.

"Huh?"

"You can't do that to me," you scolded, knowing deep in your heart, something like this would happen again.

He knew that too, which is why he just pulled you in for another hug. "Why's my quirk weird?" he whispered, not feeling the usual sense of his quirk.

"What do you mean?" you asked. You tried to pull away but his grip was firm, keeping you pressed into his arms.

His face reddened. The reason he felt off was because he didn't feel the normal energy rushing through his hands that came out as sparks at your touch. "Just not sweaty, y'know, like normal."

You laughed lightly, voice still fragile from how much you've been crying, "They put you on quirk suppressants, they expected you to explode with anger or something when you woke up."

Ideas flashed before his eyes. He was on quirk suppressants and was unable to use his quirk, at least right now. He wasn't sparking up at your touch.

He left his arms loosen, you pulling back once again to check his face, make sure he really was there. Placing your hands on his cheek, squeezing your eyes shut at the memory before looking at him again. He thought over his next move, looking at your expression for a while. He reached his hand up to hold yours against his face. Looking up at you before his other hand reached up and pulled you in for a kiss.

That was the first kiss between you two. Put off as the heat of the moment and never discussed afterward. Both of you knew it wasn't, but you would die on the hill that it was. Right after you parted, a doctor came in to inform you that Izuku was starting to wake up, and he needed to run some tests on Katsuki.

After that, everything was insanely busy. Preparations for the war were already taking place. Izuku was asking for your help with his suit. The last suit he asked for before he wrote a goodbye letter and went MIA. That was hard for both you and Katsuki. You spent nights awake together going through the tracker you left on his gear, keeping track of his location and health.

Those nights together feel like a fleeting moment that you could never grasp again.

When the second year was supposed to start, you saw your childhood friend die in front of you. With nothing you could do as he laid limp on the cold ground. He was beaten and bloody just like everyone else. Just like you were. You went into the fight on a whim, just having finished a suit for yourself, and after about 20 minutes of fighting for your life, you were knocked down. Laying limp while you saw Katsuki get his lifeless body thrown to the side.

You woke up in the hospital before him, body still bruised but you were healed more than most. Katsuki's room was the first you went to, after asking every hospital worker if he was alive. His room was cold, not lively with his usual energy, but his heart was still pumping. Notes from his mom littered his table, just like yours but with more. You couldn't stand looking at him for more than twenty minutes. Choking on your tears as you decided to see Izuku.

Walking was too much for you, despite your healing, seeing Izuku's entirely broken body broke you even more. You passed out after a few moments of seeing the green-haired boy. Head flooding with the reality that both of your best friends almost died, and one did.

The nurse kept you in your room from then on, you passed out and hit your head. Gaining a major concussion with the fall. You were completely bedridden and required to be in a room with little to no light. So it was a shock when a bandaged Katsuki slammed open your door, multiple people behind him telling him to lay down and rest.

You had the horrible hospital food halfway in your mouth when he barged in. Dropping it as you stared at the boy.

"Are you okay?" he asked despite the protests behind him.

"Yes? Are you okay?" you asked back, more confused than anything.

Katsuki shoved the people off his shoulder and pushed his way into your hospital room, closing and locking the door behind him.

"What are you doing? You died! You need rest," you protested, finally having your brain start working.

He scoffed, walking to your side, with a a limp, "Can't sleep, 'think I can knowing you're in the hospital room down the hall?" He pushed you to the side of your bed, making a spot for him to lay next to you.

"When'd you wake up?" you asked softly, accepting he wouldn't have it any other way.

He stayed quiet for a moment, "Like thirty minutes ago."

"Bakugo!" you slapped his arm, super gently compared to normal, "Have you let them run their tests? How do I know you're okay?"

"Relax, and don't call me that," he huffed.

"You died!"

"I know," he sighed, looking away, "They ran a few tests and said I'm fine. Shouldn't be up but y'know how I am."

You let out a sigh of relief, "You should go to bed, Kats."

"Told ya, can't sleep," he looked at you

"Yeah but they need to-"

"I'm on quirk suppressants, can I kiss you?" he interrupted you, a blush coating his face.

"Huh?" you blinked, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Please?"

"I mean sure but-"

He didn't let you continue anymore, pressing his lips to yours after he got your consent. This kiss was more passionate than the first. Like the other just escape death, like how it was. His hand cradled your face, pushing you closer just to kiss you softer.

When you both pulled back, you let out small breaths. Foreheads resting on each other as you stared at each others' lips.

"Been wantin' to do that," he whispered.

"Me too," you smiled. Any conversation before being forgotten, for a moment at least.

You heard the door handle to your room jiggle. Keys being tested on the lock.

"You're okay though?" he pulled back, looking at you for any injuries.

"Just a concussion, you have it worse," you frowned, looking at all the cuts that were covered with a bandage.

"I've lived through worse," he said for comfort.

"You died from this," you furrowed your brows. "Let your doctors run their test, otherwise I won't talk to you."

"But-"

"Go," you stayed firm. Just in time for the doctor to unlock the room and rush him out.

About two months or so later, you two had the chance to sit one one-on-one together. No physical therapy appointments to attend or any work to do. Just time to talk. The war left a lot of cleaning up and school only started again a week ago. Everything was changed and fixed. Which left little free time other than sleep. You've seen each other between the kiss and now but it was always in groups.

You talked for a while that day. Deciding to actually become something more. To be more than childhood best friends. So you did, about halfway into the second year.

The second year was busy, with all the changes to the hero world and the world in general. You never got time alone to work on your relationship. Staying normal besides the title change to your relationship, never even kissing again. It was hard but you worked through it, too busy to even think about it. The third year was the same, just only sharing a kiss if he got injured or when you got a huge job offer. You also shared a kiss at graduation, when you agreed to live together after school.

Getting a two-bedroom apartment together, right next to where you both worked. At first, you thought that the second bedroom was going to be an office. But it ended up being his room. The two of you not sharing a bed despite almost 2 years of a relationship at this point. Yet you worked with it, if he needed more time then that's okay. He was everything to you. And you could tell you were everything for him as well. It just got a little weird when your friends forgot your relationship, asked if you were unhappy or abused, or even flirted with you.

-Next Part-

In them m.list of this fic comment if you want to be added into a tag list <3

I'll no longer add people to the taglist if they haven't commented there. It's too much to keep up with all the new part. Hope you understand <3

[reidmania]

EVERYWHERE EVERYTHING | spencer reid

good riddance x spender reid oneshot series masterlist

summary; you and spencer go to a drive in movies, but you’re so in love.

warnings; mentions of death in movie, made up horror movie, you and spencer sickeningly in love. fem reader, little dialogue more focused on the feeling.

an: this one was so sweet i feel sick to my stomach.

Two bodies riddled with scars from our preteens Intertwine in a car's dirty backseat. Stare at a drive-in screen We didn't know that the sun was collapsing 'Til the seas rose and the buildings came crashing. We cried, "Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh" Everywhere, everything. I wanna love you 'til we're food for the worms to eat 'Til our fingers decompose keep my hand in yours.

It was a silly idea really, to watch a horror movie with someone who is just as afraid of horror movies as you were yourself, but it was the only half interesting thing showing in the drive ins. At first you were going to see a sweet romance movie -- but Spencer got called in to work that night, and by the time you were both free, the movie wasn't showing anymore.

You remembered telling him and him apologising almost a hundred times, kissing your forehead as he muttered how bad he felt because he knew how much you wanted to see that film -- expect to you it wasn't about the film in any way. You didn't care about what movie was playing on the big screen, all you cared about was being held in Spencers arms your head resting on his cheek, your hands intertwined as the wind blew around the car you were laying together in the back of.

Like you were right now.

"Do you think we would survive a horror movie?" Spencer muttered out randomly after a character's death. In complete honest you had been paying little attention to the film, nor the sound coming through the car radio. Your mind seemingly distracted by Spencers thumb rubbing back and fourth over your skin. You focused on every little callous and dint in the skin, his hands had grown rough over the years but stayed all the same soft when touching you. You noticed that.

You tilt your head back to look up at him upside down, your head digging slightly into the soft fabric of his shirt. His gaze was still fixated on the screen before he looked down at you, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips as he used his hand that was originally resting over your lower stomach to brush gentle hairs out of your face.

You could feel the love in his eyes make home in your ribcage, your stomach and the back of your mind as his eyes stayed softly on yours. His eyebrow quirked up at the lack of response as your mind grew distracted by every fail indent on his face, every freckle and beauty mark you knew like the back of your hand but never failed to enchant you everytime you looked at him.

"No" You breathed out, a smile on your face, and all in your words. The contentness of your body relaxed in his grasp as his fingers curled around yours, squeezing your hand a little tighter lovingly. His focus on the movie was long gone when he found you so much more interesting.

"No?" He quizzed, a mixture of mock confusion and offence on his face -- yet they could never take over the love that engraved every one of the wrinkles by his eyes or in the lines of his smile as he looked at you, his hand dropping from you face to rest back on your waist as your back laid flush against his stomach as you were laying in between his legs, basically on top of him. He adored every touch you had to offer.

You nodded, "Why not?" He asked, fingertips grazing the skin of your waist as his hand slipped under your shirt -- his shirt. The touch from his cold hands against your warm skin set it all aflame non the less, they burnt their path with every soft brush of his fingers, the paths that filled with love till they were overflowing. His hands while cold provided a warmth of no other.

"You might. I move too slow" You resorted, a soft rise and drop of your shoulders against his skin as you head fell dizzy when your eyes dropped back from his lips to his eyes. You watched as his pupils dialted, growing larger along with the smile that adorned his cheeks. There was a gleem that made his eyes pass as glassy everytime he looked at you.

"I wouldn't leave you behind" His voice expressive of every emotion held in his heart, as his eyebrows furrowed downwards slightly. You admired the crinkles that formed between them. Your eyes stayed locked on his as you watched the colours dance around his iris, resembling sunlight branches with the moss of an old oak tree, they held warmth that made you feel like the sun was shining down over your skin even with the sky dark. -- you wondered if you would even need sunlight when his eyes held the same sunburst effect.

A laugh left your lips, "You might have to, or else we're both done for." You head tilted slightly, before you hummed out, sitting up to turn slightly, leaning back against his chest but this time your stomach body facing him.

He let out a soft chuckle, his hands met your hips as he sat up a bit, allowing you free access to his hips. You accepted wordlessly as you straddled his waist, his hands staying in place on your hips underneath your tshirt, while yours slung loosely around his shoulder, intertwining at the back of his neck.

"I couldn't" He said quietly as his eyes ran along your face from your eyes to your lips, as if he was trying to pick up on any new details, wrinkles or marks he might've missed any of the other times he studied the features of you face. You let the deep delve honesty in his voice fill your lungs before you breathed it back out.

"We would be like that couple" You said, your hands loosing from themselves as they instead made their way to his hair, one resting gently on the back of his neck as the other tangled itself in the soft hair on his scalp as your fingertips stratched lightly. He relished in the feeling as his head instincitively tilted backwards in your touch.

He didn't need to question what you meant as he remembered the couple who died earlier on in the movie. It was an older couple -- the man was dying and the women refused to leave her side, her hand stayed tight in his which only ended up in her getting shot. They died together holding hands -- it was a sweet romance for such horror.

Spencer smiled and hummed approvingly, his head coming towards yours to place a gentle kiss to the top of your hairline, his hands tightening their hold on your waist for a moment, before relaxing again. "Exactly." He hummed out.

Your smile widened, "I love you" It came out unprepared, not thought about but it meant all the same. It was the words that filled your chest to the point the love you felt for the man before you came overflowing through your bloodstream, running through your veins as if it belonged there.

His eyes lit, something new, as if he realised something, as if something became clear. You couldn't figure out what by the look in his eyes but you could see it processing through them. You could see the clocks turning in his head as his lips twitched upwards further.with a soft shake of his head, he spoke in response

"I love you. I am going to love you forever."

Your stomach twisted into knots at the sudden declaration, they tightened as his hands brushed over your sides. Your eyes danced on his as your reflection gleemed through his pupils that amplified and declined as his gaze grew heavy on yours.

He breathed out and you breathed in, your skin warm and his hands cold. Both pairs of eyes filled with overbearing measures of love, to the point it consumes every inch of your bodies, and every sense of your mind. Your hand fell from the back of his neck as his left your hip to intertwin his fingers with yours, your gaze shifted from his face to your hands.

The way your fingers slotted perfectly between his and the tips of his rested perfectly between your knuckles, the way every bit of love flowling through your veins fell at fault as they reached your intertwined hands. His cold and callous against your warm and soft, palm to palm.

You couldn't imagine anothers fitting so well with yours.

The dialogue of the movie that rang out through the car radio, the sound of other friends and families from other cars giggling at the movie or at the person next to them -- it all fell on deaf ears between you and him.

There was nothing more than the love between you that consumed the air that filled your lungs, the blood you bleed and the tears you cried. It was the love that lasted a life time.

[feefivefoe]

I guess I'm unintentionally working my way up the age ladder, so Jason next-

This is the first part that contains backstory stuff I gave my reader, so unfortunately this is where a lot of the "they can be anyone" immersion dies, sorry y'all.

Genuinely, he thought he might hate you at first. Even at the preteen age of 12, where children were usually trying to start striving to independence, you had been so...bland.

It's not that you didn't stand out. Quite the contrary. Anywhere Alfred could be found, you were just a step or two behind him. A leech. Only ever speaking in a hushed voice, making the old man strain himself to hear you, surely.

He doesn't think you've ever even looked him in the eye.

It isn't until that summer he starts connecting the dots. You still cling to long sleeved shirts, pants over shorts, even when it's clear you're struggling to not overheat.

Then he catches you in the kitchen in the middle of the night, t-shirt and pajama shorts.

Burn marks, healed yet gruesome, decorate your arms and legs. Based on how they're positioned, he'd argue they probably exist on the rest of your body, too.

And yet, despite his invasion of what you clearly(?) wanted kept hidden, you merely bow your head in shame and offer a meek apology.

That's when he stops seeing you as a problem, but as a victim of consequence.

Not a bratty child who doesn't care enough about the lower class to speak to your new 'sibling,' but a lonely child who had never even once considered he might want to speak to you.

"Mister Wayne and Mister Grayson are very busy." You had said once, matter of factly rather than bitter or sad. "I'm sure they'd spend time with me if they weren't. But they have two lives, so they have less time than anybody."

He doesn't have the heart to tell you that they make time for him. And the rest of Gotham.

As you do with Alfred, you begin to shadow him. Meandering behind him without a care as to what his plans are, happy to receive the barest of acknowledgments.

You hesitate when speaking about yourself, as though taking up his time with mentions of you is an issue. He's starting to understand why.

Jason isn't sure if it's pity or growing affection that keeps him around, at first. For a while, he sees you as more of a sad, wet dog than as his family.

But you begin to connect with peers at school, finding validation outside of those that feel forced to give it to you. You mature, grow up more than you should, and realize the reality of your home life.

And Jason is thrilled! ...and...a little sad? He's happy for you, sure. Having friends is probably what you needed. People who want you around, genuinely. Who choose to make time for you.

But he'd be lying if he said that the way you used to stare at him didn't make him feel like a hero. Like he was doing so much, changing your world, simply by existing.

You still speak, of course. You're friendly siblings that get along well. You give him various foods you've tried making, courtesy of Alfred inspiring a desire to learn to cook and bake on your own. You talk about books you've read together, and listen intently while he rambles about his favorites.

You even peek in after particularly rough patrol nights, just to make sure he's gotten through it okay.

But it isn't...quite the same. No, but it's...it's for the best.

And he is still a hero! As Robin, he's protecting the whole city alongside Batman!

So he's still a hero.

He's still your hero.

"Jay? I was wondering if I could ask you for some help. The show my club is doing is one of those old books you like-"

"They aren't that old."

"-and my character doesn't show up much in the movie-"

"You watched the MOVIE before reading the book!?"

"-so I wanted to ask if you'd help me with characterization!"

He remembers groaning at you and rolling his eyes. "I'm busy tonight. Go watch the dumb, BAD, movie again." He pauses. "Uh, but I can tomorrow. I'll make sure I don't have anything planned, promise."

He saw you pause, and sees the constant same promises pass through you.

"I...have other arrangements. I'll make it up to you next time."

"Ah...sorry, kiddo! Big kid stuff. But next time! You trust your big bro, yeah?"

But this is Jason. Jason doesn't lie to you.

Jason keeps his promises.

You smiled. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

...

Then he died.

[nadvs]

out of bounds (part one)

pairing zach maclaren and soccerplayer! female reader

rating mature 18+ for smut

summary zach has never been the type to rebel, but when he meets you at a soccer camp where you’re both working as counselors, which has a strict policy against dating between staff, he’s tempted to break the rules for the first time.

note i know most of my readers follow me for rafe fics so i hope y’all can bear with me indulging in a fluffy and angsty (and eventually spicy) summer romance with the sunshine character that is zach 🙂‍↕️ all my love to @juniebugg who inspired me to write about him ilysm 💘

» masterlist

Once you’re finally sitting down in the main lodge, a massive wooden cabin nestled in the center of the campground, you feel like you can take your first real breath since you arrived.

The morning was chaos. You made it to check-in just in time and met your cabin-mate Ami, who you learned is also new to the job.

Then, you quickly changed into your new bright orange staff t-shirt, which is so bright orange that it hurts to look at, and chatted with her as you rushed over for orientation.

Now, you’re settled on one of twelve wooden chairs facing the grand fireplace, set in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, which boast a cobalt blue lake under a cloudless sky.

Campers are set to arrive tomorrow morning and today is dedicated to preparation. You’ve already done countless training modules online before arriving, so today will be all about learning what’s left.

You hope you get a chance to explore the place before it starts teeming with preteens, because the photos on the camp website don’t do the grounds justice.

Your interviews were over video call and today is the first time you’re seeing the stunning campground in person. It’s stretched out on a wide expanse of greener-than-green pine trees, rustic buildings, and pristine soccer fields.

This job is your best case scenario for the summer. You can’t wait to spend seven weeks in one of the prettiest places you’ve ever seen and gain confidence in your athletic skills while coaching kids in your favorite sport.

As a center back on your college’s girls’ soccer team, you feel your best when you’re out on the pitch, but the pressure of the past school year was hard to navigate. You hope that teaching kids excited about soccer will remind you of why you like it so much.

As Zach sits in the front row, he notices the smell of this place never changes. It’s woodsy and brisk. It smells like comfort. But he’s pretty sure he’s biased. Camp Summit is sort of a haven to him and has been since he was a kid.

The chatter in the lodge has grown louder as more and more counselors settle into their seats, but once the camp directors walk up to the front, the noise wavers.

Tom and Ruby offer a kind welcome and then, like they do every year, quickly jump into training.

After two hours of going over the how-to’s on welcoming campers, facilitating activities, walkie-talkie etiquitte, and establishing rules, they announce that everyone can head to the dining hall for lunch.

“We won’t force you through any awkward icebreakers,” Tom says to the group, “so, we encourage you to get to know each other over lunch. We have a good mix of vets and newbies this year. We want you to be friends with your coworkers. But before you go…”

He looks over the room.

“We should mention,” the director continues, “that we have a strict policy against anything more. It can get unprofessional and inappropriate when counselors date each other.”

“Is that legal?” Ami whispers to you. “They can’t, like fire us for that, right?”

“You like someone already?” you amusedly ask your new friend.

“I might,” she says with a smile, her eyes on a dark-haired guy sitting ahead of you. You quietly laugh, glad you’re already so comfortable with the girl you’ll be bunking with.

“Aren’t you guys married to each other?” a girl behind you calls out.

The way that Tom and Ruby laugh tells you that they are, and that the counselor who shouted that must be a vet, already familiar enough with them to make comments like that.

“Yeah, but directors can do whatever they want,” Ruby jokes with a lighthearted shrug. You look down at their hands to see wedding rings. “In all seriousness, we hate having to enforce it, but please, no dating.”

Once counselors slowly rise out of their seats to go to lunch, your eyes land on a tall, messy-haired stranger standing at the front, who starts a conversation with the directors.

Maybe you shouldn’t tease your cabin-mate, because when you see his charming smile, you think you might have a crush of your own.

Tables are arranged in a neat grid in the dining hall, with a big buffet table prepared at the far wall.

You line up, noticing Ami a few people ahead, already striking conversation with the guy she pointed out to you.

You slowly inch forward with the line as counselors start to load their plates. You realize just how many people were in front of you when you get to the table and see one fork left.

You pick it up and turn to see only one person behind you. It’s the guy you noticed back at the lodge. His blue eyes sweep over your face. He’s even cuter up close.

“There’s only one left,” you say, holding out the fork with a small frown.

Zach stills when you look at him. You’re so pretty that it’s like he’s buffering. That’s the only way he can think to describe it.

You’re in the same orange shirt every other counselor is wearing and such a harsh color shouldn’t look this good on anyone, but it does on you. He reads your name-tag.

And then he realizes you said something. He completely missed it because he was too busy staring.

“What?” he asks.

Your eyes flit down to his name-tag hanging on his lanyard. Zach, in black marker, punctuated with a smiley face. His tag is worn and scratched up, a hard contrast to how new and shiny yours is.

“There’s only one fork left,” you clarify, a soft laugh in your tone. He looks dazed, a gentle crease between his brows, almost like he wasn’t expecting to see you even though you were standing directly ahead of him.

“Oh,” he says. He looks past you to the table, his lips screwing up. “It’s cool. You can have it.”

Zach gazes at you again, a smile on his face now that he’s feeling a bit more grounded.

“I’ll find one. I…” He crosses his arms, feigning pompousness. “I have connections around here.”

“Yeah?” you play along.

“Oh, yeah. I was a camper until I aged out,” Zach tells you. “And I’ve been working here since I was 16, so I have friends in high places.”

You laugh again. That explains why he seemed so comfortable with the directors back at the lodge. He’s clearly been here for quite a few summers.

“I can tell you’ve been here a while by the state of that name-tag,” you tease. He looks down to tilt up the worn out plastic rectangle hanging over his stomach, his bottom lip jutting out.

“Poke fun all you want, but you don’t know how impressive it is that I never lost this,” Zach replies. “Name-tags go missing all the time. I bet you’ll lose yours.”

“I thought staff were supposed to be friends,” you say. “You’re already betting against me?”

“You want some advice?” He leans just a little closer, his tone fake-serious. “It’s actually very cutthroat here.”

“So, the be friends with your coworkers stuff, that was all talk?” you say with a gasp, mirroring his playfulness.

“All talk,” he echoes with a smirk.

“Wow,” you half-whisper. “Thanks for the advice.”

You share another smile with him, already sure your crush on him isn’t going away. He’s friendly and kind of goofy and probably has all the girls after him. You wonder how seriously he takes the no dating rule.

Then, you turn back towards the table, surprised at how quickly your mind is running away from you.

After you load your plate with food, Ami calls you over to a table with a few other counselors. You get to know a decent amount of other staff, including Malcolm, the guy your cabin-mate is openly flirting with. He seems to be just as into her.

It’s a long afternoon of training and once you step out of the lodge, you feel like you can breathe again. It was a lot of information at once and the thought of wrangling nine campers on your own feels a bit overwhelming.

But at least for every activity for the first two weeks, newbies will be paired with vets. That gives you some relief.

The sounds of birds chirping and wind blowing through the trees fill your ears as you walk towards the staff cabins hidden behind the dining hall. Your shoes dig into the dirt and you breathe in the smell of pine and earth, feeling a sense of peace settle into the bones.

Despite the tinges of anxiety, you feel grounded here, like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

As you finish unpacking with Ami, a coworker comes by to tell you that the counselors are going to have a bonfire after sunset. You set up your room and both head towards the lake once the sky starts darkening.

Zach is arranging logs in the fire-pit, kneeling on the ground while Malcolm leans close by. No other counselors have joined yet, and he’s glad because it’s taking embarrassingly long to set up the fire.

“Just let me know when you need the lighter,” Malcolm says.

”I could use some help on lining the kindling up,” Zach tells him.

“I think you’re doing great on your own.”

Zach snorts a chuckle. His cabin-mate and best friend of two years always tries to get away with doing the least amount of work.

“Is this the party?” Ami calls.

Zach turns to see you walking towards the pit. It gives him a chance to drink you in completely, the sight of your figure making his cheeks burn.

“Just getting it started,” Malcolm says. “This place would fall apart without us.”

You and Ami chuckle, settling on one of the logs.

“Us? It looks like Zach’s the only one doing any work,” you say.

“Thank you!” he says with a sarcastic sigh, looking up to smile at you. Your gazes hold a bit longer than they need to.

“Want any help?” you ask.

“All good,” he says. “I’m used to carrying the team.”

“Cold,” Malcolm says. “Strikers and their egos.”

“You’re a striker?” you ask Zach. It tracks. Strikers tend to be on the taller side, and you practically had to crane your neck to meet his eyes when you spoke to him before lunch.

“Yeah, you?” Zach asks.

“Center back,” you reply.

“Most important position,” Malcolm adds.

“Jeez, I wonder what you are,” Ami says with a laugh. “What was that you said about egos?”

The fire starts to slowly blaze and Zach stands up, exhales tiredly and scratches his forehead. It causes his shirt to ride up and expose an inch of his stomach.

Even under the dark blue sky, the flames only offering dull, flickering light, you can’t help but notice the v lines carved into his skin.

You look away. You feel like you’re practically thirsting over him at this point. You’re convinced that the fact that fraternizing between staff is forbidden is what’s making you even more tempted to stare at him.

The four of you continue to make small-talk as more counselors start to join. You learn that Zach and Malcolm share a cabin and that they play together on their college’s team, a school only an hour away from yours.

You also notice Malcolm jokingly calls Zach a nepo baby at one point, but before you can ask why, the conversation stirs in a different direction.

Soon after, a few counselors rough-house dangerously close to the fire. It’s only for a moment, but Zach perks up.

“Be careful around there, alright?” Zach says.

“Relax, dad,” one of the vets says. “We will.”

This is the only place in the world where people tell Zach to relax. He feels a sense of responsibility here. He’s sort of an unofficial babysitter, keeping everyone in check.

You notice his dimples dip into his cheeks. He’s obviously used to being teased for being the dad of the group.

You find it a good time to privately ask him about his other nickname, the staff chatter and wood crackling loud enough so only he can hear you.

“Why’d Malcolm call you a nepo baby?” you ask.

“Oh,” Zach says with a chuckle. “Ruby and Tom are my aunt and uncle. I’m not really a nepo baby, though. I don’t get any special privileges. The opposite, actually.”

“Opposite?” you ask, amused.

“They feel way more comfortable getting mad at me than any of the other staff,” he admits lightheartedly.

“Who would get mad at you?” you joke.

“I know, right? I’m adorable.”

It’s way too easy to flirt with him. This is going to be hard.

As the night goes on, you notice Ami and Malcolm slowly drift closer towards each other, laughing and talking. Eventually, they rush away into the dark.

Admittedly, the thought of sneaking off in the night with a cute guy is kind of exciting. You look over to see Zach noticed them leave, too.

“I think our cabin-mates are about to hook up,” you say quietly.

“On the first night, too.” He shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed. “It happens every year.”

“Do they actually fire people for dating?”

“I’ve seen them get close,” Zach says. “But people hide it well for the most part. Honestly, I think most do it just because it’s against the rules.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” you say with a laugh. “It’s the whole forbidden part of it. Tell people they’re not allowed to do something, and guess what they want to do?”

“Something,” he says, earning another laugh from you.

You wonder if he ever has broken this particular rule, but it’d be too forward to ask.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” he offers, looking at the fire. You’re pretty sure he’s just giving you advice, but you take it as an opening, the curiosity killing you.

“So, you never have?” you ask.

“Nope.”

Over his many summers working here, Zach’s had crushes on other counselors, and he definitely has one on you, but a fling isn’t worth losing his job and letting down his family.

He owes a lot to his aunt and uncle. He wouldn’t disrespect their rules, no matter how pretty the new girl is.

When he looks over at you again, at the way the flames are casting shadows over your features, he corrects himself. Pretty is an understatement; beautiful is more fitting.

He almost suggests you don’t take the risk of dating either, but it’d be purely selfish. He doesn’t like the idea of seeing you in a summer romance with another guy.

And he feels insane for already feeling hypothetical jealousy, but he’s never clicked with a girl this quickly before. You’re sweet and interesting and you get his humor, and he feels like he couldn’t not like you if he tried.

“So, what brought you here?” he asks.

“Interview answer or real answer?”

“Real answer,” he says with a smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Playing at the college level is a lot more pressure than I expected,” you admit. “I want the experience and obviously the pay with this job, but mostly, I just want to be reminded of why I like soccer so much. Honestly, I lost my confidence in my skills this past year and I’d like to get it back.”

You’re surprised at how open you’re being, but something about him makes you want to be. He gives you a sense of safety. You can tell he’s kind-hearted.

“One of the best parts of working here is that you get enough downtime to practice,” he tells you. “I’d be happy to help you on your defense if you want.”

Your stomach numbs imagining it. It’s such a sweet gesture, especially because you’d just learned that he’s on a full-ride athletic scholarship. You know he’s good.

“Thank you,” you say. “I’ll take you up on that.”

“If you’re looking for a reminder of why you like soccer, you came to the right camp,” he replies, his smile bright and sincere.

“You really like it here, huh?” you ask, kind of in awe of him.

“I owe a lot to this place,” he says.

You make a note to yourself to ask him to elaborate on that later, as another counselor takes his attention with a question about tomorrow before you can reply.

You look back at the fire and you promise yourself that you’ll just be Zach’s coworker. At most, his friend.

You won’t risk getting even close to dating. You don’t want to lose your job. And you certainly don’t want Zach to lose his, especially because it seems important to him to follow the rules.

Besides, maybe he has a girlfriend already. You can’t imagine a guy like him being single. And maybe he’s not even into you like that. He could just be very friendly.

As the fire dwindles and counselors start to retire to their cabins, Zach leaves and returns with a bucket of water to extinguish the remaining flames.

You’re not sure why, but watching him be so hands-on with no expectations to be thanked for it makes you like him even more.

“Which cabin are you in?” he asks you, looking over his shoulder. You hope he didn’t catch you staring.

“Four,” you answer.

“We’re neighbors,” he says. “I’m in five. I can walk you back, newbie.”

There’s a chance he’s just being nice, but even though it’s against the rules, you hope it’s more.

You check your phone to see it’s just past ten o’clock. The moonlight is bright as you and Zach walk towards the staff cabins.

You’re chatting about how beautiful the campground is and he grins as he looks down at his feet. He loves this place and hearing someone else appreciate it feels nice.

When he looks up, he stops in his tracks. You follow his eye-line. There’s a shirt hanging on his cabin’s doorknob.

“Oh, man,” he whispers.

“Does the shirt on the knob mean what I think it means?” you ask.

“If you think it means walking in there would make me see something I can’t ever unsee, you’re right,” Zach answers.

You chuckle. You’re definitely going to ask Ami about the details of her hook-up with Malcolm later. And you feel an obligation to also remind her that the no-dating rule is serious.

“I’ll give them ten minutes, then I’m knocking,” he says. “You don’t have to wait with me.”

You know you should go to bed and get rested before the craziness of tomorrow. But being around Zach makes you not want to.

“I can keep you company,” you offer. “I’m pretty wired anyway.”

“Thanks,” he says with a sincere smile. It makes your heart flutter that he seems just as happy to spend more time with you.

“So, what’s there to do around here at ten o’clock?” you ask.

Zach rakes his hair back, gazing out at a soccer field in the distance as crickets loudly chirp around you.

“If you’re looking to burn energy, we can do some of that practice we were talking about,” he suggests. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“You sure you’re not too tired?” you ask.

“Nah. Let’s go,” he says. “But be warned, when I coach, I’m ruthless.”

You laugh, already well aware of how far from the truth that must be.

“Consider me warned,” you joke. “Lead the way.”

(part two)

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[marauder-misprint]

Meeting Padfoot

Series Masterlist

Sirius Black x Fem!Slytherin!reader

1.4k words

cw: fluff, swearing

When Dorcas opens the portrait, chaos is audible. Taking a small step through the doorway, you see what’s going on. There’s a large black dog that is running around, barking and baring its teeth at students. There’s a first year student sitting on top of a table, crying. The dog periodically stops to chew on something. Ripped papers are scattered across the floor and the leg of one of the couches has been gnawed on. 

“See!” Dorcas says, shoving you more into the room. “Now fix it!”

You give her a sour look. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Thought you were a dog person.”

“I am, but I’m not bloody animal control!”

With the portrait closed behind you and you physically in the common room, Dorcas hurries past the dog to the girls’ dormitory staircase where Marlene is waiting for her. They disappear up the stairs. You groan and watch the dog. A quick glance of the room tells you that there are no upperclassmen around. It’s just you and a handful of terrified preteens. 

“I’m going to murder them,” you mumble to yourself, referring to the Gryffindors in general and likely whoever owned this dog, or whoever was dumb enough to bring said dog into Hogwarts. 

You keep your demeanor calm as you walk toward the middle of the room. The dog, while still wreaking havoc, watches you. You could’ve sworn the dog smiled at you, or at least seemed happier. Maybe it saw you as someone to play with rather than someone trying to capture it and end its fun. You decide it sees you as a playmate since it never lets you get close to it by cheerfully bounding out of your reach whenever you tried to get close enough to maybe pet it. 

With a groan, you sit against the back of a couch. The dog takes its time as it walks by you, curious as to why its playmate isn’t playing anymore. It walks closer than it had before, sniffing your foot. You lunge forward and grab it by the scruff of its neck. You caught it off guard. It has a kind of defeated look in its eyes but it doesn’t fit you. Without letting it go, you move it closer to you so you can pet it gently. The dog calms down enough to lay down. Despite this, you maintain a hand on it at all times. You caught the damned thing once, you weren’t going to do it again.

“So, um, Gryffindors, how is there a dog in your common room?” you ask loudly, scanning the room again. 

Maybe one of the first through third years had an answer for you. It was hopeful and you knew it. So you aren’t surprised when you're met with silence.

“Ah, you caught him!” James declares, appearing at the bottom of the boys’ stairs. “‘Bout time.”

You give him a glare. “Do you know how he got in?”

James shrugs as he walks toward you and crouches to pet the dog. 

“It’s not like he can give the portrait the password… Someone had to let him in.”

“Maybe Sirius?” James suggests. 

“Where is he?”

He shrugs again. 

“So not in your dorm then…” You roll your eyes and look down at the dog. 

The dog lets out a whine and you scratch him behind his ears. 

“He certainly likes you,” James muses as the dog rolls into you.

“Why do you think Sirius let him in?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Has he mentioned a dog to you before? I thought they weren’t allowed at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, they aren’t.”

You narrow your eyes at James.

“You know more than you’re telling me. Whose dog is this?”

“Sirius’...”

You groan. “Snuck his dog into school and let it run around the common room? Fuckin’ idiot…”

The dog whines again and you coo at him.

“So what’s his name, then?”

“Padfoot.”

You hum and then look at James curiously. 

“Is this why you guys wanted me to chat up Black? You knew he had a dog?”

“Uh, sorta?”

You laugh, rubbing the dog’s belly.

“Well, if he had mentioned he had a dog, maybe we’d get along better.”

“Never mentioned his dog? That’s odd,” James says with fake musings. “He loves Padfoot!”

“And Padfoot loves me,” you coo, smiling down at the dog who you swear is smiling back at you again.

You giggle as Padfoot lurches to lick your face. 

“Hey! Down boy!” James scolds, but you’re just laughing as you allow the dog to cover you in slobber. 

“You can’t scold him, Potter! Not that he’d listen to you anyways,” you say through your laughs. 

“Why wouldn’t he listen to me? I’m best mates with his… owner.”

You roll your eyes. “If he listened to you, Dorcas wouldn’t’ve been sent to get me. You could’ve caught him and hid ‘im in your dorm or something.” You pause, looking around the common room yet again. “But really, where is Black? Why the fuck isn’t he here with his dog?”

“Dunno, like I said before. But, ah, I can take Padfoot up… unless you want to hang out with him?”

You look from James to the dog and back to James. You can’t help but smile widely.

“I’ll stick around for a bit. I’ll send someone to get you if Black takes too long to come back from wherever he is. … Personally, I’d like to give him a piece of my mind for leaving his little puppy all alone!” 

Your voice turned to baby talk at the end of your sentence. How could you not baby a dog when they were so precious? Even when they were destroying school property and likely scarring some kids for life. What could you say? You were a dog person. 

“Wait up for Sirius then. If you get tired of waiting, just bring Padfoot upstairs, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

James gives you a smile and leaves you alone with Padfoot. The dog is more than content to spend more time with you; he rolls over and noses your hand whenever you stop petting him. After what feels like hours, you frown down at Padfoot. 

“Where the hell is your owner, baby boy?” you ask the dog. 

Padfoot looks up at you, still with that happy look on his dog face. He whines briefly as you move away from him to stand up. 

“Sorry, boy. I can’t stay here all night,” you tell him, immediately crouching back down to ruffle the fur on his face. “Not that you understand this, but I’m a Slytherin and this is Gryffindor Tower. I’d take you back to the dungeons with me… but alas, you’re not mine.”

You swear Padfoot tilted his head when you suggested taking him with you. You sigh to yourself and look to the stairs where James had gone up a while ago.

“Come on, Padfoot.”

The dog follows you, albeit semi-reluctantly. He climbs the stairs faster than you do and waits outside the door to the sixth year dorms. You chuckle softly.

“Fido knows home,” you mumble to yourself as you knock firmly on the door. 

There’s some thudding inside the room before Remus opens the door. His face softens when he sees you with Padfoot.

“Thanks for wrangling him,” Remus says, holding open the door so Padfoot could enter. “James told me.”

“Pass something along to Black for me?”

He nods with a cautious look in his eye.

“Tell him to take care of his fucking dog.”

You could hear James and Peter laughing from behind Remus. He gives you a crooked smile.

“Yeah, I can do that. Anything else you want me to tell him?”

You shrug. “Eh. Unless you feel like adding a slap to that message.”

There’s a louder thud that sounds suspiciously like a body falling off of a bed that is followed by increased laughing. 

You give Remus a nod and leave Gryffindor Tower as fast as you can. 

Sirius looks satisfied when Remus closes the door and turns around.

“Oh, she is definitely a Padfoot person,” he says, sitting on the foot of his bed with his legs stretched out in front of him.

“For sure,” James agrees. He’s on the floor. “But I think you went backwards on the Sirius front.”

“Which is your fault!” Sirius exclaims.

“How is that his fault?” Remus asks.

“He told her that Padfoot is my dog!”

“What else was I supposed to tell her?”

“I don’t know. Play dumb longer?”

“You were there! She caught on pretty quickly!”

“Hey!” Peter yells over them. “I think we still call Operation Padfoot a success. Proved that she is, in fact, a dog person.”

“And a Padfoot person,” Sirius adds pointedly.

tags: @2dloveshp, @yearninglustfully, @made-for-oliverwood, @ilovejamespottersomuch, @hisparentsgallerryy, @itsseaberri, @corawithfanfiction, @devilslittlehelper, @jllyunn, @barnes70stark,

tags: @crowleythesexydemon, @flow33didontsmoke, @navs-bhat, @louweenier, @l0g0phobe,

@ellouisa17, @theendofthematerialgworl, @marina468

[leonkennedybreedingkink]

SPACE BETWEEN

uncle!leon kennedy x fem!reader

warnings: uncle-niece incest, 18+. content below the cut, vomit (non-sexual capacity), age gap (early-mid 30s to late teens-early 20s). fingering, oral (f! receiving, piv, creampie… Leon’s kind of a simp and lame tbh. ddlg undertones, just a little. heaps of praise :3

i got inspired by uncle from nicole dollanganger tbh.

“I want to marry my Uncle Leon!” you said when you were seven, smiling up at him with two front teeth missing, chubby baby arms wrapped around his thigh.

Half-uncle, really, but that’s semantics. It’s like someone saying the sky is blue and another person saying it’s turquoise. They’re both right, one’s just really fucking annoying about it.

He also thought you’d say you wanted to marry your dad, because that’s pretty common with kids. Most girl’s dads or brothers are their first loves, so he was pleasantly surprised at the honor of being your chosen husband.

Unfortunately, you’re also seven, and that’s very illegal.

Your dad chuckles and doesn’t bother to try and peel you off. He tried that once and you went back to sticking to him like sweat, so he didn’t bother after that.

“Do you have a wife, Uncle Leon?” You ask him, smiling up at him so sweetly. You got those dimples from your mom, and he’ll never admit it, but they melt his heart just a little.

“No, sweetheart.” He reaches down and ruffles your hair. “I’m all yours for the taking.”

You beam up at him, even as he messes up your hair. “Good! ‘Cause you’re all mine!”

Your dad snorts, promptly looking innocent when Leon glares at him halfheartedly.

“That’s right.” Leon lugs you up into his arms, kissing your temple and giving you the faintest smile. “I’m all yours.”

He sees you a little less and less as the years wear on. He’s busy and you’re busy and grow from a sweet kid to a petulant preteen to an awkward teenager.

He’s still the first one you call, though, when you’re sixteen and drunk at a house party you shouldn’t be at. You’re swaying a little as he pulls up to the curb.

Leon leans over and opens the door for you—you toddle over and slam his door shut with a soft apology. “I didn’t wanna be there anymore.” You say, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad, sweetheart.” He reaches over and rubs your shoulder. “I’m glad that you called me instead of your dad.”

“Thanks.” You’re a little tacky with sweat and smell like a brewery and some sickly sweet floral perfume when you lean over to put your head on his shoulder. Baby’s first grown-up perfume instead of the body spray they sell at bath and body works. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m still glad it was me.” Leon reiterates, kissing the top of your head. “C’mon, sweet girl, let’s get you home. Seatbelt on.”

You pull away reluctantly, buckling in your seatbelt with clumsy hands. “I know, I know. I got the riot act from my doctor when I got the physical done for the permit. Seatbelts yes, swerving no.” You grumble, pushing a sparkly hand through your hair.

He snorts, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “Is that everything?”

“She said she’d pull my license if she caught me.” You reply, propping a temple on your fist. “‘Cause she’s a doctor and a mandatory performer—reporter. Mandatory reporter.”

Leon can’t help a quiet chuckle, even when you swat at him. “You got there in the end.”

The quiet roll of the car rocks you right to sleep, and he sneaks glances at you as he moves around pot holes and takes speed bumps slowly to avoid jostling you awake and fucking up his suspension. Cute, your nose still twitches like a bunny’s when you sleep. He thinks you got that from your mom too.

He gently wakes you up when he’s stopped in front of your house, reaching over and unbuckling your seatbelt before petting your head. “Gotta wake up, sweetheart, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

You groan behind a closed mouth, face scrunching up. “No…”

He almost laughs. “Come on, I’ll help you up and out.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and jogs over to your side when he’s out of the car, opening the door and bodily carrying you out of the car.

The movement’s a little much and you gag, sweat breaking out on your skin.

Leon aims you away from himself just in time, rubbing your back as you puke loudly in your yard. He reaches over and holds your hair back with a grimace. “You’re alright. You’re okay. Just get it out.” He murmurs, rubbing your back once you stop retching.

When you straighten up, he wipes your mouth and his hand on his jeans. “You’ll feel a bit better in the morning.” Leon tells you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and leading you to the front door. You fumble a little for your house keys, but get inside after he kisses your temple and wishes you a goodnight. “‘Night, Leon.”

“Night.” He repeats, gently shutting the door behind you. He goes back to his car and drives home, that sickly perfume smell lingering on the seats like you personally cropdusted them.

Vanilla, white florals, he thinks he smells coffee before it lapses into a sort of acrid smell. Otherwise, perfectly inoffensive on you, perfectly inoffensive to anyone with a working nose, to be honest.

He wishes you’d wear something a little more offensive, strong, something definitively you. Florals tend to be powdery and come off as something an old lady would wear, and that’s not very sexy at all, is it?

Cherry, he thinks would fit you perfectly well. Strawberries. Maybe they make apple perfumes.

When Christmas rolls around, he does exactly that, after skulking around Ulta and eventually asking for perfume recommendations from an associate.

Leon comes back with something strawberry, something jasmine and red berries. He splurged a little bit on a gingerbread perfume, but he doesn’t mind, might as well have something festive to give you.

When it comes time to get the gang together, he tosses it all in a pretty, sparkly bag with blue tissue paper and a tag with your name on it because he’s shit at wrapping gifts.

You cling to him a little tighter with the greeting hug he gives you. Maybe you’re still grateful he didn’t snitch about the party.

Either way, Leon returns the tight hug and gives you a pointed smile as he asks, “How’ve you been?”

You, to your credit, barely flinch, though he can see in your eyes you know exactly what he’s talking about. “Been good, glad to be out of school for the next two weeks. Merry Christmas.”

He clicks his tongue, then disengages and steers you over to the living room and sits right next to you after depositing his gift for you under the Christmas tree. “Merry Christmas. Yeah, I bet. No more waking up at six in the morning for the bus at six-forty. Been staying out of trouble?” He gives you a sly look, head cocking just to the side.

Your eyes narrow at him playfully as you smile back despite yourself. “Yeah. I’ve been too busy with work to really get up to something bad.”

“Ah, that’s the way to keep it.” He slings an arm over the back of the couch, getting up after a moment to get himself a bit of eggnog, your mom’s recipe. “How much do you get?” He asks when he’s sitting down again, arm back over the couch.

And so it goes from there. You get the most of the spread of presents, being the kid and all.

Your mom and dad each got one another something and him some comfy clothes, he sorely needs them.

Whilst he was shopping for you, he ducked into some department store and got your parents some simple stuff. Soap, pajama sets and the like.

You look extremely surprised—and pleased? Leon’s heart might not take it if you hate the gifts—when you pull the perfumes out of the bag. “Whoa. How much did you spend?” You ask him immediately.

Leon scoffs, taking a sip of eggnog to hide a nervous shift. “It wasn’t much, they’re all samples.” The strawberries and cream one was like thirty-five bucks, so was the jasmine and red fruits one; he spent about fifty on the gingerbread one because he couldn’t find a smaller size than just an ounce. “Besides, I make the big bucks.”

Your mom sneaks a glance at Leon, then stealthily looks up the prices of the perfumes she can see, eyes going comically wide before she gives him a disapproving look. “Leon!”

“Yes?” He asks innocently, plastering on the most charming smile he has. Before she can start, Leon shakes his head, giving her a ‘don’t worry’ wave of his hand. “Come on, I make a hundred and twenty in a day.” More, actually, but still.

Your mom looks like she’s going to argue before your dad lays a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head with an amused look. “I’m putting a budget cap on the presents next time.” She decides after a moment.

Leon smirks, shooting you a wink. “Duly noted.” Then, he nods at you, manspreading because you’re on the floor. “What do you think?”

You pull off the caps of the perfumes and sniff them without spraying them, making faces with each sniff test. “Whoa.”

“Good?” God, he’s hoping you like them.

You nod, smelling the gingerbread one again. “Yeah. These are so cool.” Slowly, a smile spreads across your face. “Thanks, I love them.”

Relief loosens his chest a little. Leon gives you a smile. “I was hoping so.”

He stays over for dinner and maybe a little afterward, just catching up with the rest of you guys.

All too soon, it comes time to say goodbye, they hope he comes again soon to terrorize everyone with his extravagant presents.

He spends the most time hugging you goodbye.

You graduate in the spring and he makes sure to actually dress up for this occasion. Someone only ever graduates five times in their life—kindergarten, fifth grade, eighth grade, high school, college.

Leon’s wearing a suit that had a little dust on it when he dug it out of the back of his closet, the collar and tie is a little tight around his neck and he keeps fidgeting until nudged by your dad because you’re walking across that stage.

God, it’s so weird to see you all grown up.

He was one of the few to hold you after you were born before you started fussing for your mom. He babysat you a few times so your parents could go have a date night. He was over at your fucking house almost every other day because your dad wanted to hang with his half-brother.

He’s getting really old. He’s starting to reminisce the way their dad did about high school friends and the like. For fuck’s sake, he’s thirty-five, not sixty-five.

You get a picture from the photographer, grinning from ear to ear. It’s well deserved, you fucking hated high school, he remembers the complaints. Then you go sit back in your spot and wait to flip your tassel.

Finally, all the fucking pomp and circumstance is over with. Here endeth the high school.

He and your parents find you a bit afterward, all of them drag you into giant hugs before they go to the car and treat you to dinner before you get all your graduation cash with a side of birthday treats.

He got you another perfume, a sultry cherry scent.

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ in the manger in the fucking Inn. Mary and Joseph above him. Leon might as well just go caving if he’s going to hell, getting trapped underground would be so much easier.

Leon has to put on sunglasses when he sees you in that American flag bikini the summer after you graduate, flapping his blanket out on the sand and posting his flip flops on opposite corners.

It’s a little on the nose for the holiday, but he’s more than willing to stand for the flag. He’s much more partial to kneeling, but standing works too.

He strips off his shirt and begins slathering himself in sunscreen because he’s gonna turn into a lobster in less than fifteen minutes, he’s calling it.

Your dad bets ten. Your mom bets five.

Lucky you, you got the tanning without burning genes, also from your mom. You go right in without worrying about sunscreen.

He sits there after taking off his sunglasses and spending an extraordinary amount of time trying to reach his back. Like he wants to be peeling the next time he has to go fight some BOWs.

At some point, you resurface from the water after he resigns himself to a burned back, picking up your towel and laying it around your shoulders to cushion your wet hair. “Need some help? You’re cooking.” You point vaguely at his semi-red back.

Leon stares for a second before wordlessly handing you his sunscreen and shifting so his back is to you. This is a sure fire way to avoid tempting himself.

He hears you snort when the bottle makes a funny noise, then the weird sound of your wet hands rubbing together as you warm up the sunscreen before applying it in broad sweeps around his back.

“You and dad burn so easily.” You mutter, still rubbing in the sunscreen. Your long nails graze his skin on occasion and he fights the urge to stiffen up.

“You’re lucky,” Leon says after swallowing quietly, “you got the tanning from your mom. Certainly didn’t get it from your dad.” His hands bunch up his trunks.

You snort again, rubbing away the last of the white streaks across his back before leaning back on your hands. “Or you.”

Well, he only shares about twenty-five percent of your DNA, that’s why. He learned that after an alcohol-fueled dive—and no less than five orgasms—in the incognito tab. In some places, if both parties are over the age of consent, incest is totally legal. Some can even get married.

He shifts so he’s laying down on his blanket, a soft and amused snort catching your attention. “True.” He crosses his arms behind his head, soaking up the sun now that he’s in danger of not burning to a crisp and missing the way your eyes linger just a little too long.

Turning twenty-one is a big occasion. You can get scratch offs, buy your own drinks, smoke if you damn well want to.

You, lucky girl, get two parties. One with family, one with your friends who can also drink.

Leon comes for the former that takes place the day afterward. Your parents and him didn’t wanna cramp your hot, early twenties style.

You guys go out to your choice of restaurant, then come back and have some celebratory drinks as you open your presents. Some cash, shirts, a new backpack, and some perfume, courtesy of Leon.

He went digging for the really niche ones and came back with one that smells like cat fur, cake, a bit of florals because female perfumes can never fucking escape florals. It was named for the ballet step, pas de chat. Step of the cat. He thought he’d try something out of the box.

You seem to like it, the way your face breaks into a smile. “Thanks. This is nice.” You spritz a little on your wrist and smell it, lighting up just a little bit.

Leon smiles back too, a tad softer than his usual sly smile he wears. He’s been told he has a bit of a smug face. “Yeah, you’re welcome.” He nods, raising his glass to you briefly.

He’s invited to stay over as long as he likes, or even stay in the guest bedroom if he wanted to, he’s informed by your parents as they go upstairs to bed.

Which is why he’s ruminating as he stares a hole through his glass, pondering the beer and the bubbles in it.

Leaving him defenseless to you slipping into his lap.

It takes him a second, but he gets there, eyes wide as he looks up at you.

Your perfume floats over once you sling an arm around the back of his neck, something sweet and warm that makes him want to tuck his face into your neck, your eyes remarkably clear despite the three margaritas you had. “What are you doing?” He asks after a second of just staring at you.

You give him a sly look, head cocking to the side. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Getting into trouble.” Leon’s empty hand lands on your lower back as he leans forward, setting his glass of beer on the side table, his once occupied hand landing on your thigh where your shorts rode up.

That feline smile remains on your face. “I’m rather good at that.”

He snorts, slowly rubbing your thigh. “I noticed. You’re welcome for not snitching to your parents that one time.”

You snort too, bringing him closer with the arm around his neck. “Yeah, I owe you my life.”

Leon nudges your nose with his, starting to smile slightly too. “You joke, but your mother would’ve killed you.”

“I think she knew.” You admit, shifting a little closer on his lap.

Leon’s hand slowly travels up your inner thigh, your legs parting for him just a little. He pauses, eyes flicking back up to you. “Are you sure?”

You nod, swallowing nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

That’s that, then. He unbuttons your jean shorts one-handed, tugging down the zip gently, his grin widening when he sees the bit of lace visible on your waistband. “Planned this, did you?”

His eyes flick up to yours as he gently slides his hand between your underwear and shorts, gently cupping you through it, gratified when he sees you inhale sharply.

“Hoped, actually.” You admit near shamelessly, thighs spreading a little more.

“Well,” Leon can’t help feeling a little smug, slowly grinding the heel of his palm against your clit, “I hope you can be quiet.”

He dips his head down, nosing at your neck, down your collarbone and to your chest as his hand keeps slowly moving. He won’t be satisfied until there’s a wet spot.

The scent of your perfume grows a little stronger and his eyes flutter shut, his not busy hand pushing up your shirt at the back so he can rest his palm on your back.

He increases the pressure and you twitch a little, stiffening just a little. “Take this off.” Leon mumbles without lifting his head.

You tug off your shirt and he groans lowly, hiding his face back in your tits as he sucks and licks at the skin. He shifts his hand, gently dragging his fingers up before gently tapping your clit, then tucking his hand into your underwear, grinning fiendishly when there’s a puddle slicking you all the way up.

“Messy girl…” he can’t help taunting, biting down over your heart.

You whine just a little and he can literally feel all his blood rush south. It’s a surprise he didn’t faint, to be honest.

Gently, he pushes a finger in, cooing with a soft click of his tongue when you whimper. “Shh, shh, it’s ok.” He murmurs, pushing in all the way and waiting a little for you to get used to it as he messes with your clit so you stop clenching, chest heaving just a little. “You’re doing so good, sweet girl.”

Slowly, he begins pumping, making sure to graze your clit with his palm, getting himself all sticky. Maybe he’ll shake your dad’s hand with this one.

When you’re fucking yourself back, hips moving of their own accord, pretty mouth open, he adds another, curling them just until he feels that spongy spot and hitting it with precision. “There we go… that’s my girl.” Leon grins up at you, kissing your jaw as he fingers you open.

His hand is cramping just a little, but he’ll push through it for his girl.

“You’re doing so well.” He murmurs as he lays you on the couch, dragging down your bottoms as one hand slows down just a little. You whine and he clicks his tongue, pouting at you just a little before he kisses it off.

Once you’re naked, save for the bra—Leon likes the way tits look when they’re pushed out of the bra by a vigorous fucking—Leon whistles quietly, planting a kiss above your bellybutton piercing as he lays down between your open thighs. “So pretty, baby. So, so pretty.”

You have to slam a palm over your mouth when his own seals across your clit as his fingers keep moving inside you, speeding up just a little. He laughs, more vibration than sound, at least the way you feel it.

Watching you come for the first time will be seared into his mind forever. It started with the little things. Your chest was heaving, your thighs were starting to try and close around his head, your pussy starting to spasm.

Then, it happens. Your upper half snaps up, your eyes scrunching shut as you muffle what could’ve been a very incriminating noise if your hand wasn’t covering your mouth.

You sag back against the couch, chest heaving as Leon pumps his fingers and sucks you through it, leaning away and gently pulling his fingers from you when you start twitching.

“My poor baby.” He breathes, sucking his fingers clean before leaning up, hands bracketing the side of your head. “Good?”

You nod after a second. “Good.”

He gives you a soft smile, pushing some hair behind your ear. “That’s my girl.”

“I’m your girl?” You open your eyes, a little dopey smile across your face.

“‘Course, you’re my girl.” He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Always have been.”

Leon lives in fear of your parents finding out for at least a couple months. That’s what wakes him up in the night, not just memories from Raccoon City, Spain, Tall Oaks, et cetera.

God, he’d be hung by his toenails and skinned alive. Like when Willow killed Warren on Buffy, but a lot more drawn out because your dad would be in on it too.

You guys are at a vacation house the night you two first have sex.

It starts the same way him fingering you on the couch did. You slide into his lap long after everyone’s gone to sleep, he gets his fingers wet when you guys are in his room.

His room is a little further from your parents room than yours, hence the choice.

He lays you down and gets you off another time to hopefully make this painless, tangling a hand with yours. Only when you push at his head does he stop, grinning like a fat cat.

Leon doesn’t smile when he pushes in, watching you carefully for when he needs to stop and let you breathe.

Slowly, he’s seated balls deep inside you, hands on either side of your head. “Good, baby? Are you okay?” He pushes some of your hair back, relieved when you turn your head and kiss his palm.

“Good.” You reach a hand down and feel around, smiling slightly when he winces.

“Jesus, give me a moment. I’m not as young as I used to be.” Leon mutters, shifting a little so he can spread your legs a little more, hands dimpling the fat of your thigh.

You gasp quietly at the shift and nod, one hand over your tit, the same one he marked when he fingered you on the couch. “Leon…” you breathe, moving your legs to wrap around his waist.

“I know, baby, I know.” He whispers, gently shifting before drawing back and thrusting in.

Your eyes scrunch shut as you let out a soft yelp. Quickly, Leon settles his palm over your mouth, shifting so his weight is on his opposite elbow. “Hush, sweetheart. Don’t want your parents busting in, huh?”

You shake your head, face settling into a blissful expression as he starts moving, little sounds punched from you from each firm roll of his hips.

“That’s my girl.” He smiles down at you, leaning down and licking up the sweat from your neck all the way up to your earlobe, kissing it and hiding his face in your neck. “My pretty baby girl.”

Leon lifts his head up, his face hovering by the side of yours as he grins. “I got you. I got my girl.”

Ah, the praise gets to you, just a little bit. He can tell because you get a little tighter and he has to fight so this doesn’t end too early.

He’s a gentleman, he refuses to come before you.

“Can you be quiet, baby? Wanna play the quiet game?” He chuckles when you nod, removing his hand so he can play with your clit and get you just that extra bit closer.

This close, he gets to watch you pause before your upper half snaps up again, your arms wrapping around Leon as you gasp into his shoulder.

It’s your orgasm that undoes him, his hips stuttering before he fills you up, collapsing on top of you as he gasps, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead as his body to yours.

To mom and dad:

I’m really sorry if I worry you both. Leon and I know you wouldn’t approve, which, for obvious reasons, makes sense.

Trust me when I say we love each other. I’ll still be studying, it’s not like he wants me to drop out.

I love you guys so much. Please don’t be mad.

[leclsrc]

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k  

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish. 

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink. 

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance. 

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue. 

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs. 

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath. 

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening. 

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close.  The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously. 

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea. 

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs. 

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?” 

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most. 

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder. 

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood. 

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt. 

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face. 

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you. 

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?” 

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick. 

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

[macfrog]

twin flame sex on fire chapter eleven

thank you all for being so patient and kind, and loving this story no matter how terribly long i take with it. anyway, here's wonderwall. (shout out to @bageldaddy who saved this on numerous occasions lmao)

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: doing it with a broken heart is harder than it looks.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, reader's a Real Tough Kid she can (not) Handle Her Shit, kale!!!!!!, alcohol consumption, cursing, soft!joel, fluff and angst. angst angst angst angst

word count: 7.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

Five days lasts a year.

So it feels, anyway, when you spot Martha from the corner of your eye – pulling her coat on and hooking her purse over her shoulder. She tucks her peroxide blonde layers behind her ears, gives one last check of her makeup in a compact mirror, and looks up.

“You coming?”

It’s five thirty on Friday. You haven’t said more than two words to Joel since you walked out on him, Monday morning.

She knows by now – Martha. Or at least, she has a pretty good idea.

You haven’t told her, as if you’d even be able to begin explaining it all. But she pieced it together by herself, didn’t she? You’re hardly subtle. She figured you out less than five minutes after you stormed out of his office, fists balled and face tight with rage.

She says your name, and the sound is muffled. Distorted by the sour backwash of that feeling: the hot temper which dissipated so quickly into an ache behind your ribs all day.

You finally look up. “Huh?”

She fixes the collar on her trench coat. Flattens her thin, merlot lips and says, “Let’s go, kid. It’s been a long week.”

And that, you think, might just be the understatement of the fucking year.

She slips her arm through yours in the elevator, and you don’t protest. It’s not like she’d let you go even if you tried to shake her off – but there’s a comfort to it. Something sweet; soft and motherly. Martha’s not often this affectionate.

You want to slot your cheek on her shoulder. Ask her how long her worst heartbreak lasted. Ask if that’s even what this is, if you can give a two-month hurricane of sex and secrets enough power to split you open this badly.

Ask her how long until the gnawing in your chest eases. How long until you’re finally able to look at him again, without wanting to cuss him out – or run into his arms.

But you stare ahead, swaying with the dropping elevator, wrap your arms tight around yourself and swallow shallow breaths of her rosy perfume.

Your reflection splits in two, pulled apart by the rumble of the doors. Something akin to a growl from between Martha’s teeth.

The skeleton of the lobby sears behind your eyes, every surface bleeding gold. Silver arrows of rain pelt against the windows, slicing through the blazing sunlight. Dark figures shake umbrellas open at the doors; others yank their collars over their heads as they run to cars.

A gaggle of square suits separates to let you pass, black material shining and soaked through. Nodding to both of you, your names dripping from their lips as they load into the elevator.

Under the canopy outside, Martha hoists her purse over her head.

“Monday then?” she yells over the drumming rain. And without waiting for an answer – because she isn’t so much asking as she is telling – she totters off through the drizzle towards Alan’s Volvo.

One last glance over her shoulder, a wink as her six-inch heels swing into the car. Like a Bond girl, off to wrangle her preteen into eating his vegetables.

You call a cab, leaning against the building to watch the clouds roll overhead.

Two words. That’s all you’ve managed to force over your tongue.

Sure and okay. Both uttered between teeth, as though your body might be trying to hold them back. Mundane and fucking meaningless; pushing by everything else you want so desperately for Joel to hear. How could you? Why would you? I think I hate you, you know that?

I hate you and I miss you so much that it makes me hate you all over again for it.

He’s doing as you asked, at least. He’s following your rules. No looking, no touching, no talking.

To a point.

He is still talking – saying a little more to you than you are to him. You’re allowing it, given that he is still your boss and they’re only ever boss things to say. Schedule this meeting, look out that old file. Pick up his drycleaning when it’s mid-afternoon and he spots your boredom from across the office.

But he never comes near.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t brush by, stealing a giggle when his elbow nudges your waist. He doesn’t order you lunch, then wait until you’re sat opposite him in his office to eat together.

He doesn’t kiss you as soon as the elevator doors close. He doesn’t perch on the edge of your desk to steal snacks and gossip with you and Martha. He doesn’t play with your hand, he doesn’t hold you by the hips, he doesn’t whisper dirty jokes and sweet nothings in your ear.

He keeps his distance. He acts like your boss again.

And – Jesus. You’ve never wanted to hate him so much in your life.

“Waitin’ for a cab?”

“Shit –” You twirl, rain flicking from the tail of your coat.

Joel takes your arm steady. His grip is so familiar, so safe you feel yourself melting into it already. “Easy, easy,” he says, his voice much the same. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.”

“You didn’t, you…Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess you did. What did you say?”

He smiles. It’s weak, humored, but completely unsure. “I just asked if you’re waiting for a cab.

And goddamn it, just the sight of him this close thaws you from the inside out. It’s like warmth against the wound, softening you like the creases by the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” you start, “I just called one. Figure there’s traffic.” You gesture to the bodies scurrying down towards yellow cabs.

Joel tosses his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the sleek Rolls by the curb. The rain bounces off its roof. “Rand can take you, if you like. Save you waitin’.”

“Oh, no. No, I’m good, thanks.”

“I’ll take your cab,” he clarifies. “I’ll take the cab; Rand can take you home.”

“Really, Joel,” you reply, hugging your purse. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

He nods, looking down. There was – there is – nothing he wants more than to look out for you. There’s probably nothing that stings more right now, than the fact you won’t let him.

He makes to leave, then hesitates. Hands in his pockets, he turns back and says, “You ever need anything, just let me know. Alright?”

Your lips flatten. “Mhm.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“Alright,” he says. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday.”

He strides off towards the Rolls. So much cooler than the suits scrambling around him; dipping his head as he slides into the backseat, fixing his tie before he pulls the door closed.

The car doesn’t move until yours arrives. Until he’s seen you run over, settle in the backseat. Rand pulls out behind as your driver sets off; turns in the opposite direction at the first set of traffic lights.

You watch as it shrinks into a speck from the back window, wondering if Joel’s watching you, too.

The driver tuts and shakes his head. He flicks his fingers to the windshield, some comment about this goddamn rain and ain’t let up for five goddamn days.

You fish your phone from your pocket, turning the weight of it over in your hands like turning the dilemma in your mind. Thinking up something like, Hey, I was gonna order food in tonight. Wanna come over?

Something like, Or not, if you don’t feel like it.

Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m –

The screen lights.

Your heart jumps to your throat.

The driver rambles on, “…said it’d dry by Wednesday – well, you can’t trust a damn one of ‘em…”

Your eyes are glued to the name onscreen.

Joel headers the first notification. And the second. A text, then an email.

Your thumbs hover over the messages for a few seconds, vision blurring around his name. Frantic circles while you decide whether or not you actually want to read them. But it gets the better of you – morbid curiosity – and you tap on the text.

As quickly as it leapt, your heart plummets.

Forwarded Jean-Marc’s email, in case you need it. Have a good weekend.

Three, four, five times. You read over it five fucking times before it sinks in. Switch to your emails, where Joel Miller sits proudly at the top of the list.

“Why are you…?” you mumble, blinking at the screen. Salt stings across your waterline. “You – you fucking…”

It boils through your veins, pools in the pit of your stomach. That ache winds again, twisting around your ribcage.

Anger.

Anger, and…something much worse.

You bite hard on your lip, refusing to let the tears spill over. Your heart hammers against your chest. Your fist balls, like tightening around the leash of a misbehaving dog, pulling it back into place.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Steam slowly swallows your silhouette whole. In the mirror, you shake the shell of the office from your shoulders, watching as she disappears entirely behind the heated glass. Relieved just to see her go.

You sob under the scorching stream until your skin prunes and your head throbs. You order in food and burrow deep in your couch to pick at it.

Drowning in the same hoodie he once pulled over himself – his landscape of a body, strong as rock and soft as the earth. The material unwashed, still smelling of mint and men’s cologne.

You thumb through the chick flicks on offer: all perfect grins and power couples; the commercial dream that is a two-tone poster with a quirky, conversational title. And then, worse: the breakup movies.

Women flat-out in bed, picking from a tray of chocolates. Two-day pajamas and three-day bedhead. Slumber parties to burn love letters and gauge out their exes’ eyes in photographs, swear themselves off men and then down heavy cocktails until they puke.

Then – the epiphany. Right before some pop rock track from the noughties sends the heroine off into the sunset. The I’m better off without him, or Maybe he wasn’t so bad moment.

Love truly exists, after all. Roll end credits.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mumble, chewing wetly on popcorn. “You’re all bullshit, anyways.”

Maybe you’re just fucking miserable. You liked the bullshit, two weeks ago.

Blake Carter – he was chocolates in bed and feminist handshakes. He was one night at your mom’s, one night at your best friend’s, then back in your old place before the week was out.

This is different. It’s like a sickness.

Rotting from the inside out. Deep in your chest, a fierce fever spreading from the split, the empty cage of ribs. An anxiety which gathers and festers in the barren corners, like teetering along a wire with no idea how high the drop really is – only that you’re not going to make the landing.

How were you ever going to make the landing, letting go of his hand like that?

You manage three mouthfuls of a greasy hamburger, then shove the bags across the coffee table. Too sick and too unsettled to eat without feeling it roll around your stomach in a furious tide.

You ever need anything, just let me know.

Asking for help is not something you do. Not since you were sixteen, and even before then. There is nothing – nothing, you swore – a man could offer you that you couldn’t go find yourself.

But then – then, you found someone who wasn’t looking for you to ask. Didn’t want or expect you to need him for anything, only wanted you to know that he was around if you ever did. Being near you was all he ever really gave a shit about.

You found someone who was on your tail every time you looked back. All your running, all the times you swore you wouldn’t let him catch you. And there you were – turning to make sure he was still trying.

He was. He was always trying. He’s the closest anyone ever came to proving you wrong.

And now…he’s letting you go.

If you had the energy to laugh, you’d laugh. You’d march back into the bathroom and wait for your reflection to clear again, just to point your finger right in her face.

The same woman who walked away from Blake Carter and his heirloom diamond ring; from Sundays forcing down quiche Lorraine at his parents’ house, and pretending to enjoy bouncing his nephew on your knee.

The same woman who left that diamond ring on his bedside table, packed a bag full of clothes, and fled the apartment before he could plead anymore.

The same woman who had seen the entire thing as a bird breaking free from her cage, in the end.

You understand it now.

You spend long enough in that cage, long enough planted on your feet – you forget how to use your wings.

The weekend is slow and sleepless.

Your sheets wind up a twisted mess each night. Kicked to the foot of the bed, cocooned back around your shoulders, then whipped from your body again when you feel too hot, too smothered.

He’s all over your apartment. Dozing in the reflection of the TV screen, bass voice reverberating off each wall, kisses in the clinking of mugs.

Each night, you stare blankly at the ceiling. Sleep becomes a tide you float on the surface of, pooling across your stomach and only ever wetting to your ears. Face skyward, bone dry. Desperately waiting for a wave that never intends on turning.

Come Monday, you’re running on something like four hours sleep and as many coffees.

Martha recognizes it instantly, the way she fawns. She hasn’t let up all day. Not since you walked in this morning, looking like shit and avoiding Joel’s office at all costs. She’s spent more time staring, delivering snacks, making sickly-sweet conversation that hurts your teeth – than she has actually working.

And it was touching. Until ten o’clock.

Joel has two assistants for good fucking reason, it turns out.

“I do not understand a goddamn word I’m reading…” Martha flips the Cosmo she stole from you last week. “The hell is a retrograde?”

Your head tilts. “Do you even know which sign you are?”

Her thin, penciled brows quirk. “Taurus, but I don’t like the way this bull’s lookin’ at me.”

She wiggles her mouse before the monitor switches off, then prods a shard of cucumber with her fork. The rain scatters across the window at her back, dragging golden shadows down her blazer.

“Did you eat today?” she asks.

“Mhm,” you lie, “This morning. Before you came in.”

She chews suspiciously. “Liar.” She offers you the salad bowl. “Eat.”

“Martha,” you push it away, “I’m not –”

“I don’t care whether you’re hungry.”

She thrusts the tub towards you, cherry tomatoes trembling.

“Martha.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not gonna eat your salad, will you stop –?”

“One bite. Just one.”

“I don’t even like –”

She’s holding out a forkful. “Eat the damn –”

“Get a drink with me.”

She halts, greens dangling in front of your face. Her expression twists, loosens, and then twists into bewilderment again. “Pardon me?”

You sigh, deflating into the leather. “Stop tryna force feed me salad, and get a drink with me.”

“On a Monday?” She scoffs. “What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t…I don’t have one,” you groan, pushing to your feet. “At least, not a good one. I just need something a little stronger than kale.”

An all too familiar click over your shoulder plucks her attention. Her eyes flash across the room.

She tracks Joel from his office over to the water cooler, a forced smile when he must glance up. Her eyes snap back to yours at the trickle of water into his mug.

Please? you mouth, and she grumbles.

“Joel?”

His voice is strained; he’s bending at the cooler. “Yep?”

Martha links her arm through yours and forces you to turn. “You mind if we take a long lunch? We were thinking of trying that wine bar up by the golf course.”

Joel lingers on the other side of the office, sipping from his mug. He’s almost unrecognizable: no bear left in him. Declawed, toothless. Dark crescents like the shadows of a bruise beneath his eyes, the ghosts of smile lines on his cheeks.

“Wine bar?” he asks. “Didn’t even know there was one up that way.”

“It’s new,” Martha says, popping the lid back on her salad bowl. “Alan told me about it. Says it costs an arm and a leg, but apparently, it’s worth it.”

He wanders over – hesitant, like approaching the desk of a wild animal. You can feel the heat of his stare on you when he replies, “’s nice up that way. Take the afternoon. You need a ride?”

“All good,” Martha chirps. She squeezes your arm. “I’ll go call a cab.”

She drapes your coat over your shoulders, then twirls off in the direction of the elevator. A girlish little strut, quietly pleased with herself.

She’s deliberately leaving you stranded. Both of you.

Joel steps back when you move. His breath catches in his throat. He slips a hand in one pocket, and says, “Be nice to have a relaxing afternoon.”

“Yep,” you choke, elbow brushing against his. “Nice to have some girl time, I guess.”

“Oh,” he sniffs, “I was talking about me. Empty office, two of you off my ass. Peace and quiet.”

You smile, feeling the weight of him rock gently against your side. “Hilarious,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He stares straight ahead, sunlight catching rare amber in his eyes. Smiling to himself, calm and content, he says, “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and turns back for his office.

Your chest twinges as he closes the door behind him. A tight fist around your vocal cords.

“See you tomorrow, Joel.”

Oasis is a trendy little bar out west, which looks anything but its namesake. All exposed brick and smirk of silver pipework, industrially rustic and injected with the silky scent of wine and wealth.

Exactly the type of place you’d go to get over your millionaire ex.

Martha slinks in like she’s made of the place. Coat loose over her arm, hips swaying and heels clicking. She hops onto a stool at the bar, drums her glossy nails on the varnished wood.

You settle awkwardly into the stool beside her, prodding at what turns out to be a very real cactus. You jump at the sharp prick.

A waiter behind the bar clocks you, and laughs to himself.

“Nice, huh?” Martha asks, scanning the place. The low-hanging lights, the spill of foliage from the rafters. She seems to fit into it a whole lot better than you do.

“Sure,” you mumble around your fingertip, “Are you buying?”

She rolls her eyes. “You asked me out, remember?”

“I was thinking some two-for-one cocktails dive, not the fucking Ritz, Martha.”

“Call it a pick-me-up,” she says, accepting a menu from the waiter. “We’re treating ourselves.”

You pinch your fingertip, watching a scarlet bead bloom from the wound. A satisfying sort of pain, a tender break your hands won’t stay away from. You squeeze until it balloons into a trembling bubble of blood, then swipe the cut clean. Squeeze, then swipe.

Martha orders some vino she says she’s always wanted to try. Two glasses, because when the waiter looks to you to take your order, you’re still staring at your bloody finger.

He slides the drinks over and smiles politely, eyes daring to meet yours only twice. He’s handsome: chiseled jawline and the smudge of a dimple on one cheek. Chin speckled with stubble, shorter and blonder than you’d like.

Your fingertip throbs, and you look down to find it closed in your fist. You take a gulp of wine.

Martha smacks her lips and hums. “Not half bad,” she says, and then slots her glass next to yours. “Alright,” she clasps her hands, “What is it? What’s been goin’ on?”

You spin the base of your glass, staring at the swirl of honeysuckle. “I just needed some air and…wine.”

She buys it about as much as you do.

“Only one thing in the world that makes me need air and wine,” she says. “A man.”

A laugh flutters from your chest, as if by accident. As natural as the sun splitting the clouds. No thinking about it, no forcing it.

Either the expensive alcohol works fast – or Martha does.

She lifts her nose, like sniffing out the truth. “Come on, no bullshit. Why’d you ask me to get a drink?”

It rolls from one shoulder to the other in a tired shrug. You’ve no fucking idea why you asked her to get a drink.

The office was becoming claustrophobic, bursting with the grief of it all. Joel was nowhere to be seen and yet everywhere you looked. Here’s the wall he’d kissed you against, there’s the spot you’d first shaken hands.

Here’s all of it, really: the shame and the anger and the heartbreak all knotted together. Holding yourself back from doodling hearts on his sticky note messages, busying yourself with shredding instead of nosing around his office.

No bullshit, you were about to scream. Martha’s just the first person you laid eyes on.

Her and her fucking kale.

“Because,” you summarize, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

Her eyes are wide, serious. She’s hooked already. “With Joel?” she asks, sipping.

“With any of it,” you reply. And then, hearing her properly: “What do you know about me and Joel?”

She swallows quickly. “He hasn’t told me a word, I swear,” she says, “but I wasn’t born yesterday. Paris was always a solo trip, darling.”

You massage your forehead, grumbling into your palms. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper. There’s a heavy ache blooming behind your eyes.

Martha smiles. “I thought it was sweet. He’s never been serious enough about anyone to take ‘em over there with him. But,” her eyes ladder down your figure, “I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Okay,” she squints, reading you, “And are we relieved? Are we hurt? Angry?”

“We are four and a half coffees Monday morning, and a wine bar Monday afternoon.”

“Got it,” she says, face stony. “That little shit. You need me to yell at ‘im?”

You lift your wine, shake your head. “I did enough yelling at him last week,” you admit. “It wasn’t just him, anyways. He fucked up, but it was the both of us.”

Martha nods, and you both take a long drink.

She taps her nails against the swell of her glass. “I thought you two were really great together,” she says – polite, pensive.

The least Martha you’ve ever heard her.

“You did?”

She nods. “You just always had this camaraderie. It was palpable. From the moment he met you, he was different. Better for it. I don’t know when you were…whatever you were, but –” she takes a deep breath, looking off past you, “– I know I liked it when you were.”

It’s not something you ever considered, even in the thick of it. What it might look like from outside, this little love affair: promises whispered into coffee mugs and glances stolen from behind paperwork.

It was never a secret – at least, not one either of you were trying to keep. It was just…yours. You and Joel. Two names etched at the bottom of a birthday card, no room for anyone else’s.

And if anyone did find out – Martha, Rand, Jean-fucking-Marc – they felt more like collateral. Just the landscape, the backdrop for your fated meteoric crash down to Earth.

God, it felt good to fall.

Martha sighs, dabbing a knuckle at the corner of her lips. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, gently. “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you hoped.”

Your eyes drift across the room. The waiter pours a deep red wine for a silver-haired couple over by the window. The man’s thumb surfs back and forth across his wife’s knuckles, dipping to circle the ring on her third finger.

The split in your skin opens again, your nail pressing clumsily into your finger. A tiny wave of pain rocks through the tip.

“Yeah, well,” you sniff, “Shit happens, right?”

“Sure does,” she says, and holds her glass out.

You cheers, the clink piercing the bumbling jazz in the air. The wine thrashes against the side of the glass, and you gulp back a sour mouthful.

“He sent me an offer for a job in Paris,” you confess into your drink. “That’s what our fight was about – the fact he didn’t want me to go. Then on Friday, he sent it anyway.”

“Paris?” Martha straightens in her chair. It’s easy to tell her, easy to pretend it’s some third-floor gossip when she reacts the same way. “That’s big,” she says. “Are you gonna go for it?”

“No,” you admit. “It’s with that guy Jean-Marc.”

Her upper lip curls, a bend of burgundy. “You can do better.”

“I guess,” you frown, “if I were looking.”

“You’re not looking?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It twists in your throat. A million answers which fizzle into nothing at all on your tongue. Because because because –

“Who would read all of Joel’s boring emails?” It comes with a smirk, which drops as quickly as you realize Martha’s expression isn’t shifting.

“I would. And he’d find a replacement for you eventually. Not half as good, but…”

“Ha,” you stare at her, “Funny.”

“I’m not kidding. “I’m not,” she adds, when you roll your eyes. “It’s about damn time you realized you’re head and shoulders above all this.

“Maybe,” she continues, with an almost bloodthirsty interest, “Joel didn’t let on about Paris because he thinks you’re better than that, too. You don’t think he sees your potential? Hell, I do. You’re too good to be making coffee and taking minutes.”

Tell me something I don’t know, you think.

Joel’s never been quiet about how he feels about you – professionally or otherwise. He said as much in his office last week: I didn’t want to lose you. Those exact words kept you up all weekend, for crying out loud.

Sure, Joel sees something in you. Assistant, colleague, friend, not-friend. It’s not enough to stop the need you have – pinhole pupils hunting, blood jumping in your veins. Like it’d kill you to catch your breath, to shake your hackles and loosen your muscles.

Watch, watch. I can answer your questions before you’ve even come up with them. Watch, watch. I can show up early and leave late, barely pause for breath in between.

Watch, watch. I can break your heart and make it look just like mine.

You squirm under Martha’s glare.

“I don’t…I don’t even know what else I’d do,” you garble, playing with your hands. “I like this job. I’m good at this job. It’s…it’s –”

“– comfortable,” you say together.

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Martha nods, “You’ve outgrown it. You’re nothing but a monster in red bottoms now, baby – too scared to find something that fits you better in case it turns to shit. So what if it does? Is it the end of the world?”

“Feels like it right now,” you reply. She’s cloudy, blurred behind the ocean of tears teetering along your waterline. “And this is barely even a breakup, never mind failing at a career.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You think you’d be the first? The last? People fail at things all the damn time. Better to do it now, young as you are – little elastic band of resilience and nerve.”

“Poetic,” you scoff.

She tilts her glass and her head follows.

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning in. “Do not spend one more second paralyzed by fear. I know you’re scared. You’re supposed to be. One day, you’re going to miss the time you gave enough of a shit to feel this fear.

“It’s like electricity in your veins. Everything’s so intense, everything hurts ten times worse and feels ten times more exhilarating. You think something might bring about the end of the goddamn world, and then the sun comes up the next morning just to prove you wrong.

“And Lord almighty, you are going to get it wrong. You’ll say the wrong thing, trust the wrong feeling. You’ll make the same mistakes over and over again. But Jesus, I’d rather you blew it all to hell and at least learned somethin’, than never did it at all.

“You know what my mom would say? World’s been waitin’ on you, kid. Grab a paddle.”

Another laugh spurts from your lips, tears spilling into your mouth, a crackly, wet sniffle. “What the hell does that even mean?” you giggle.

She smiles and wipes your cheek. “Means dive in. Get your hands dirty. Fall in love, get hurt, grow the hell up. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want. That electricity won’t be there forever – so use it.”

“Use it…” you echo, taking the mascara-stained tissue from her.

“Promise me,” she implores, wrapping her hands around yours, “Promise me that you will.”

It’s not just Martha asking, you know this. She’s the one staring at you like a madwoman, sure – but her plea is echoed by a littler, quieter voice.

She’s nervous, scared. A crumpled math paper in her backpack. Her whole world tipped upside down one Wednesday afternoon, soul cursed forever – or so she thought.

When you reply, it’s not Martha you see. It’s the sixteen-year-old version of yourself.

So you look her dead in the eye, and say –

“I promise.”

The world is hazy by the time you leave the bar. Vignetted, a saffron sunset seeping across the sky. Mingling with the city skyline and losing herself over the horizon.

You totter up the steps to your building and wave Martha and Alan off, twirling inside. The weight of wine heavy in your veins, pulling you from one side to the other, and still – you feel lighter, somehow.

You spent all afternoon giggling, once the heartache thawed and the alcohol kicked in. It felt nice; bubbly and nostalgic, the peachy tint of girlhood.

Swapping stories about your old, ridiculous love lives – Martha’s overall-donned boyfriend in high school, or the guy you went on two dates with last year before realizing he was the same dude one of your girlfriends had ghosted three months prior.

For a few hours on a Monday afternoon, you were fifteen again – and the worst thing that could happen was a pimple sprouting on your chin the night before picture day. All you’d ever know was the shiny film on magazine pages, reading two-week old horoscopes to see if they came true.

You slump against the side of the elevator, head spinning as it carries you home. It’s something like seven. You’re too buzzed to fall asleep, but too tipsy to do much more than roll around your apartment.

And by the time you’re back in your sweats, sunken into the couch, one very final nightcap in hand – you’re too tired to even move.

Promise me, she’d said, wildfire behind her eyes. Martha’s notorious for her talents in convincing anyone of anything, wriggling her own way out of any circumstance.

This felt different.

She’s just your colleague. At best, a passerby. Technically – going by her track record with almost everyone else in the company – she doesn’t have to take any more interest in you than the parking attendants in the basement lot do.

But she took your hand and led you out of that office without thinking, the second she understood. She bought you drink after drink, and slapped your hand away when you tried to pay. She listened to you, dried your tears, and then kicked your ass into gear.

By all standards, she was the best first date you’ve ever had.

And promise me, she’d said.

It starts as a joke. Humoring her, humoring yourself. A dare whispered to you by the tinkling of ice in your glass. Innocent curiosity, mixed with a dash of Martha’s good influence.

The perfect cocktail of chaos.

Your first online search brings up so many results that it dizzies you. Marketing executive and project coordinator, business support manager and production lead. They blur into a gray fog, a taunting swirl on your laptop screen.

“Jesus,” you mutter, mouthful of wine. “What the fuck do I…?”

Business and art. That’s what you know. One you’ve been in long enough that you reckon you could do it with your eyes closed – and the other…your little pipedream.

‘s not stupid, Joel had said, that night by the river. Not a pipedream, either.

And – fuck it, maybe you ought to listen for once. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want, and all that.

You dig your knuckles into your eyes, letting the spatter of stars clear your vision, and start again.

A second search threads together a list which feels a little cleaner. A little more you. Sophisticated websites with sleek designs, smooth wording which makes it feel like you’re being sold something.

And so what, if you are? Maybe you’re looking to buy.

You click through image after image of bright offices and beaming staff, sipping sharply through your straw. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, unsure whether the lightheaded feeling is from the rosé, or the promise of a successful career and competitive salary. Memorizing brand manifestos, learning company values like prayers passing through your hands.

It’s manic. Crazed. Like you’re stood on the brink of an abyss, thick fog kissing your ankles.

You laugh to yourself. This must be the fucking electricity.

Promise me. And what can it hurt, anyway, turning in an application form? Who says it’ll even go anywhere? They might take one look at your resume and laugh you all the way into the trashcan.

Or – they might see what Joel sees. What Martha sees. For the love of God, what you see.

Your resume looks much the same as it did four years ago – still molded into the shape of the kind of girl you thought Joel Miller, CEO might like to meet. And he did, very much so. It’s just – he met all shapes of her. Even the ones she tried to hide.

He found them all out, eventually.

Your thumb pauses, hovering over the mousepad. A slow guilt slithering over your shoulders, coiling deep in your gut. You think of Paris; those streets you walked down with Joel on your arm. Talking, laughing, spilling secrets and keeping them, too.

Your shadows are probably still on those avenues. Your reflections still bobbing in the Seine. Kisses hidden behind steam-coated mirrors, bodies joining in a darkened hotel room.

It twinges some, deep in your chest. A little numbed, what with all the alcohol and – well, Martha. But it’s still there. The same wound you’ve had for twelve years now.

It’s there. It will probably always be there.

So – fuck it.

You’re grabbing a goddamn paddle.

It’s been a quiet, fruitless week. No calls, no emails, no messages written in the stars.

Which is probably a good thing, given you were more than a few glasses of wine deep – and still on some kind of high from Martha’s speech. God only knows what kind of shit you were filling those applications with.

Nothing quite like liquid courage and a broken heart, right?

The light from the Xerox flickers, swiping memories from that afternoon back and forth. Martha’s hand locked around yours, the perfumed wine she kept buying. The waiter with the dimples, Joel’s Have a good night I’ll see you tomorrow, the pine air freshener in Alan’s car.

Things have mellowed, settled in your stomach. The world is back to beige – as plain as it always was before that night of tequila and AC/DC. You’ve made peace with it, this idea of letting go. Letting him go.

Martha – soapbox queen, microphone in one hand and glass of Sauvignon Blanc in the other – has checked in every day since. Expectant eyes from across the room, treasure chest emails full of job ads she’s collected.

Anything? she texted this morning, with six praying emojis. One more since yesterday, two since the day before that.

But no – nothing, for almost eight days now.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe you can swallow back the knot of misplaced disappointment, slip back into your heels and forget any of it ever happened. That fire Martha struck so effortlessly, snuffed by a cruel, cold wind.

His knuckles on the door scatter your thoughts.

“Hey,” Joel says, leant against the frame. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” you reply. “What’s up?”

He looks…frustratingly good. Like he’s pieced himself back together. Sharp and smart, brand new. And yet – warm, homey, in all the places only you know to look.

Your fingers flinch by your side, as though they’re seeking him out. You want to run them through his hair, through his beard. Want to straighten his tie, smooth the shirt over his chest. Breathe him in and feel him melt under your touch.

Feel him change, feel him soften – just for you.

Only for you.

He floats over, hands in his pockets, and perches on the desk by the copier. “Exciting stuff,” he muses, tapping the machine twice.

“Hm,” you nod, “You’re an exciting man.”

“How was the wine bar?”

“It was good,” you reply. “Little above my price range, but – it got us drunk, so.”

“Did the job.”

“Did the job,” you agree.

“Good,” Joel says, crossing his ankles. “I’m glad to see you a little more your old self.”

Your lips flatten into a smile. “Well, Martha has a way with words.”

He snorts. “Don’t I know it.”

He lingers, then. An awkward air about him. He scratches his nose, stuffs his hands back in his pockets. Sucks in a deep breath, swallows what seems to be a soliloquy of sentiment, or secrets, or something else.

Whatever it is, his nerves rub off on you.

You cross your arms, twist your toe into the carpet. Stare at the paper churning out of the machine, stare at your nails, stare at anything that isn’t the man sitting right in front of you.

But then – he murmurs, as though the words splinter from his tongue, “I had an interesting email this morning.”

The copier shudders at his side.

Your eyebrows lift. “Oh, yeah?”

Joel clears his throat. “Yeah. Pertaining to you.”

And you realize.

You look up at him, the tight knit of his brows. His fixed jaw, the way it flexes as he chews on the words.

“Pertaining to me,” you echo – a nudge.

The light from the machine catches a wet glint in his eye. He blinks it away.

“Request for a reference,” he says.

And – shit.

“Shit,” you hiss.

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” louder.

His expression sharpens into a perplexed smirk. “Surprised?”

“Yes,” you start, “I mean – no. No, I just – Shit, I didn’t think they’d…I thought they’d talk to me first. Why didn’t they talk to me first?”

He shrugs. “I know of the company, met the CEO once at a gala. From what I know, she runs a pretty tight ship. Probably just wanted to gauge you before reaching out. It’s okay,” his voice is kind, hushed, “Doesn’t mean you won’t still hear.”

“Oh, Jesus, Joel,” you pull on your cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“Woah, woah,” he pats the air, moves so close you worry he might hear the thud of your heart, “No apologies, alright? That ain’t why I brought it up.”

“I just didn’t mean for you to find out that way. I wanted to be the one to – to tell you.”

He stands, hands finding your elbows. Gentle, a little timid. Barely brushing the sleeves of your shirt, and yet your whole body ignites.

“Darlin’,” his voice is serious, “I don’t care. I don’t give a shit, I promise. I mean…” he shakes his head, “…I give a shit. I give a lotta shits. I’m not – I don’t mean that, I meant –”

“I know what you meant,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “you always do.”

You pick a speck of fluff from his tie. He watches your hand, then takes it in both of his. Two big paws wrapped around one of yours, swallowing it whole.

It’s a familiar feeling, staring at the shape of your fingers tangled in his. Two in the morning at your first sleepover, praying Mom will pick up the phone. The first night alone in a new apartment, the babble of reality television for company right until sunrise.

You’re homesick.

Homesick for a man who’s standing right in front of you.

“I just wanted you to know,” Joel says, “that I sent it off just now. Just in case somethin’ goes wrong with the email, it doesn’t go through, I sent it to the wrong goddamn place – I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that it’s done.”

He holds your hand to his chest, his heartbeat against your knuckles. When you don’t reply, throttled by the threat of tears, he gives your wrist a little shake.

“Okay? You in there?”

“I’m here,” you breathe, and your hand slips from his grasp. “Thank you. I’m still sorry. You musta felt a little blindsided.”

His head bobs, considering. “Was a surprise, but a good one. Junior art director, huh? That sounds pretty damn exciting.”

“Yeah,” you reply, relaxing as he settles back on the desk. “Really exciting. Flex those creative muscles again.”

He grins. “You plan on working your way up?”

“Yup. Earn my stripes.”

“Alright, little tiger,” he says, and your heart leaps. “Proud of you.”

A silly smirk on your lips, you give him a tiny curtsy. “Here’s hoping your reference seals the deal.”

Joel laughs. “I don’t know about that, darlin’. It’s pretty shitty.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah. Talked all about how sarcastic you are, how you forgot the charger for your toothbrush – and then stole mine. Told ‘em about the Bart Simpson socks, force-feeding me Patrick Swayze. The lot.”

“The Bart socks,” you snicker, “They really stuck with you, huh?”

“Sure did.”

You slide onto the desk beside him. “What did you really write?” you ask, leaning in.

Joel glances to you. It should be obvious, with the way he’s looking at you, exactly what he wrote.

“Tell me,” you say, elbowing him.

“I told them…” he sighs, “…I told them not even to think about it, just hire you. They’d be outta their goddamn minds not to. Told them I wouldn’t be anywhere without you – or your Bart socks.

“Told them you’re the best thing that ever happened to this place. The best thing that ever happened to me. And you think – you think you never know what you have until you lose it, whatever that saying is, but I did. I knew from the second I met you. And they will, too. So – I told ‘em.”

The photocopier cuts, huffs, and falls silent. The room is plunged into a suffocating silence. You’re not sure you’re even breathing.

Joel’s arms are crossed protectively over his chest. You want so badly, more than anything, to burrow under them. To wriggle your way into his grasp – because you know he’d let you – cling to his chest, let his heartbeat regulate yours.

Let his entire body become yours; forget which parts are you, and which are him. Crawl into his skin, envelop yourself in him.

You want to cry into him. Hand him back all those mangled shapes of yourself you tried so hard to hoard – realizing now, that he knew what he was doing all along.

He was never trying to break them. He was never trying to hurt them. He only ever wanted to love them.

He only ever wanted to love you.

“Anyway,” Joel says, dusting his thighs, “Why don’t you finish that up, head on home for the day?”

“Uh –” you swipe the tears from your cheeks, “– no, it’s okay. I got a to-do list as long as my arm, and I still owe you, like, three hours from last week.”

Joel watches as you leap back over to the copier, swing the documents under one arm.

“I’m sure the to-do list will keep,” he assures, taking the ream from your clutches. “Go home, clear your head. Wait for that invite to interview to come through.”

“Joel –”

“Look at me,” he towers over you, “Anything urgent is Martha’s job now. She’ll love the drama of it. You want me to email that company back ‘n have them add Doesn’t follow orders to your reference?”

You breathe a laugh. “No.”

“No,” he repeats, brushing by.

All the times you’ve missed him before – landing back home after Paris, sat with some lovestruck financier in a golf club, fighting like kids in his office – and none of them compare to right now. Stood in the copy room, mere inches and yet entire worlds between you.

And Joel seems to know, like he knows everything you’re thinking. He glances over his shoulder, flame in his eyes, and he smiles. All sweet and charming, the real kind that softens him, lightens him.

Everything that makes him yours.

“Go on, git,” he says, heading for the door. “‘fore I change my mind.”

“Hey, wait. Joel?”

He turns back.

Your voice trembles. “How are you so calm about all this?”

His jaw flicks uncomfortably. He considers it for a moment, then says, “If you love something, you let it go.”

You repeat his own words back to him, whispered to you while you lay intertwined on his childhood bed. When they leave your mouth, they sound more like a plea. Fight back.

“But then you’d be losing something,” you say.

Joel shrugs. Earnestly. “Can’t lose somethin’ I never had.”

He doesn’t get it. He must get it. He’s twenty years older, twenty years wiser. He must know, by now. Christ, he had you to a tee two weeks ago.

How doesn’t he get it?

Your chest heaves. Your head shakes.

“You had it. You had me the second we walked into that dive bar.”

[idkfitememate]

A Boar! In This Economy? Pt. 2

⋘ Previous Part » ♡︎ « Next Part ⋙

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : Gn!Boar Reader x Bennet & Razor (Genshin World)

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 2k

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : crack, fluff

So… you may have head but Razor.

BUT IT WAS IN SELF DEFENSE YOU SWEAR!

He just, POPPED UP outta NOWHERE! How else were you supposed to react?! By not attacking on sight???

So now here we are. With a knocked out Razor on the grassy floor as you and your family of churls and slimes stand over him.

Huh.

You had no fucking clue what you were supposed to do now. Do you… drag him out of the forest? Find a wolf from his pack??

Maybe not the last one cause wolves eat boars…

Anyway.

Dragging him out means that you’d have contact with other characters and you were NOT prepared for that. I mean, at this point you had built such a strong connection with the mobs around you that you kinda forgot about the characters?

You also had to focus on the fact that you were a boar now. Not a human. For survival.

You are now something that poofs into meat after it dies.

So as you stared, you failed to notice a rustling of bushes behind you, but when another human form rose from them…

You ended up kicking Bennett in the head via hind legs.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍰🍧🍫୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

So, apparently churls enjoyed the average human sacrifice every once and a while. Which is fair cause sometimes you gotta let off a little steam, you know?

But not like this.

The two were tied to a rather long stick over a fire as churls of every type danced around while singing.

You simply sat your fine boar ass in the grass looking a little less than pleased at the situation.

As they continued to roast the preteens over an open fire like chestnuts, you finally realized that “Holy shit they are actually cooking them I need to stop that-“.

And stop that you did!

By spitting up the equivalent of a lake onto their fire.

…Cool.

As water logged churls stood by in shock, you began to nibble at the startlingly strong vines wrapped around the duo.

And by gods those were strong vines.

But your jaws were stronger.

And now you have two children at your feet, drenched and still somehow passed out Jesus it’s been a few hours how hard did you hit them?-

And now you had no clue what to do. Right back at the same dilemma that made you hesitate to save them. Wtf do you do with them now???

Your hesitation was apparently apparent as you felt a had rake through your fur. Looking back you noticed a hilichurl petting you softly, gently directing you towards an opening in the forest.

Allowing it to guide you, you found that a couple adventurers from the guild calling out for Bennet.

Fuck.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍧🍮🍩୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

Now they were tied to a tree deeper in the forest. Only difference is that they were now awake.

And thrashing about.

And maybe a bit sacred.

You sat on your haunches in front of them as they thrashed against their bindings. Something you noticed was that they weren’t using their visions.

…Weird.

Anyway as you continued to stare at them and them at you are they pulled against the vines, you noted that Bennett had stopped and was now just staring at you.

He was opening his mouth.

Holy shit was he gonna speak to you?

“Hey there little guy..?”

HOLY SHIT BENNETT SPOKE TO YOU-

“W-would you be a good little boar and get help?.. or something?.. please?”

Your only response was a snort, then you turned to Razor. You wanted to see if he’d have anything to say.

(Not that that was gonna change anything you’d still help them-)

“Uhh… Good boar? Friendly boar? Boar smell weird… boar help Bennet and Razor??”

Yep you loved them.

Giving a small squeal, you finally made up your mind. This was enough human interaction for a while, so you’d find a wolf, bring it back and then let it guide them to the Wolvendom in order to drop them off with Razor’s pack.

While you stood triumphantly with small sparkles surrounding you, the two boys sweat dropped at the sight of a somehow smug boar?

Boars can’t move their faces like that, can they?

Bennett hesitated… can they?

Coughing and shaking his head, Bennett finally noticed you were walking away and the hardcore growling Razor was doing.

“Hey! W-where are ya going little guy?” He called out.

You just turned, snorted, then continued on your way.

“W-wait!”

“Stupid weird smelling boar…”

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍫🧁🍭୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

Trotting across hills and avoiding the odd traveler as best you could, you finally found yourself at the Wolvendom. Shaking off your nerves, you head inside.

You slowly made your way through the grass, acutely aware of all the wolves surrounding you. Letting out little huffs you found yourself in a clearing.

A clearing….

Wait….

OH SHIT-

“Hello little one.”

ANDRIUS YOU FORGOT ABOUT ANDRIUS-

“What is a small boar like you doing here where it is not safe?”

His voice had a teasing tone to it, which confused you. This was the literal Wolf of the North, the man who embodied wolves. An actual GOD of the pack. Why wasn’t he hunting you down on sight???

Your confusion was plastered on your face, causing the wolf to chuckle.

“As a creature connected to Teyvat, did you not expect me to realize when The Creator stands before me? My head bows to you, O Mighty One.”

And now a kneeling Andirus was in front of you, as well as seemingly every wolf in the forest.

… So they weren’t going to eat you. Nice to know.

As you tried to communicate with the large blue and white wolf what you needed, only small squeals and oinks made it out. God this was pissing you off. With the churls, they just seemed to know! While it would be nice to talk with someone, you hadn’t needed to for a long while. This was bullshit! Now you’re getting pissed off!-

“Breath my Lord. Have you forgotten?”

Forgotten what? Huh?-

“It seems you have, the boar is not your only form. Any beast that has its soul connected to the heart of Teyvat. Every creature, every animal, they are you children. You have taken the forms of all as you encompass all. Try taking the form of a wolf and speak to me.”

He was acting like a god damn tutorial. Which… was actually fairly needed in this time of… well, need.

So you could do other animals huh? Let’s just see about this. Focusing all your willpower into it, your skin began to shift and turn, fur growing longer… slowly you transformed…

Into a fucked up half boar half wolf abomination.

AND JESUS DID IT HURT-

Loud whines and whimpers mixed with loud squeals and barks left you maw as you hopped around, before forcing yourself back into your now more favored form, a boar.

Yeah never again. You’d rather struggle.

Sighing and placing ‘shapeshifting’ on the back burner for now, you simply walked forward and grabbed some of the larger wolves fur in your mouth in order to drag him. Staring down he let out a small chuckle (He can chuckle???) and began to walk forward, allowing you to trot in front of him.

“Of course my Lord, lead the way.”

Thank the gods he had nothing to say about that mishap. (Maybe he was scared of you smiting him… hehe…)

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍡🍪🍬୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

Keeping a brisk pace, your small form had finally found itself in front of the two boys once more. It seemed as though they had tired themselves out from struggling, but we’re still awake. And Bennett’s eyes lit up upon see you. As they should.

“Hey there little guy! Did you get h-h- OH MY BABRBATOS!-“

Andrius, in all his glory, walked behind you as you sat there with a somehow even smugger expression than before. A large abundance of wolves had taken their place behind him, looking like a sea of grays and blacks.

“H-h-h-h-h-“ You’ve broken Bennett, now to check on Razor.

…The poor wolf boy also looked shocked.

You slid your tusks under the vines and pulled, snapping them off and allowing the boys to fall to the grassy floor. And then two hilichurls gave them their visions.

Oh. So that’s why they weren’t using them-

You watched as Razor nudged at Andrius and a few other wolves before turning to you.

He was walking towards you…

His hand outreached towards you…

And he rested it gently on your head.

You nuzzled in to his hand as small happy tears began to run down your cheeks. You basically rammed your head into his palm, sucking up all his attention. He seemed shocked, then happily began to rub both his hands into you, a small smile on his face.

Bennett watched with in astonishment, before grinning and laughing, rubbing your back with his hands. And h o l y s h i t did it feel good.

Hell, even Andrius began to nuzzle you.

At some point the petting stopped - which made you sad you will admit - but as you watched them walk off you felt pretty good about yourself because like, you just helped some characters! Even if you were the reason they were in trouble in the first place…

But that’s not the important part!

The important part is now you had some friends! And they were pretty neat.

But now you had to figure out how the fuck to deal with your newfound ‘shapeshifting’ powers… May God have mercy on all vision holders.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🎂🍭🍰୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

Omake~~ A Boar and two Boys walk into a bar~~

“Is this the onE NO IT IS NOT RUN RAZOR-“

Ever since that day, Razor and Bennett have been trying to find that weird boar that both kidnapped then released them.

The reason they had been out that day was because it was Razor’s turn to hunt for his pack. Sure, wolves hunt in groups but Razor ironically enjoyed hunting alone, but Bennett was always welcome.

Razor had seen the boar, saying that it had “smelled weird”, whatever that meant, and began to follow it. Of course, Bennett lost him for a moment but when he found him, he was met with the back hooves of a boar.

And the rest was history.

When they went around trying to tell the tale of the boar that had summoned Andrius, the people of Mondstate thought it was just that.

A tall tale.

The only person who seemed mildly interested was the bard Venti, but that was quickly shut down when he started trying to figure out rhymes and how to make a song out of it.

So they decided to find it on their own.

“Bennett need to stop running up to boars. Razor will smell weird boar.” Razor had grabbed onto Bennetts shirt while saying that.

“But the faster we find it, the faster we can show it off!” Bennett argued.

The two began to bicker in the field they had been searching in, it was near where the forest they had found the boar in, and the field was currently occupied by boars so common sense dictated that it should be out and about, grazing away.

Of course, you don’t follow their stupid mortal logic.

“Do… do you hear that, Razor?”

“Yeah. Sounds like pig in sky.”

“Well pigs can’t fly so-“

“DUCK!-“

Razor forced Bennett’s head down, pushing them both to the ground as four wild winds whipped around them. A large dragon and a hawk flew by as an equally large lion and wolf speed past.

“The four winds…” Bennett whispered.

Razor sniffed the air.

“AND WEIRD SMELLING BOAR!”

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍮🍧🍰୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

WHOOOOO WHOOOO IM RIDING A DRAGOOOONNNNNNNNNNN-

Today was a good day for you.

໒꒰ྀི˶˙���˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Thank you to all who’ve enjoyed Boar!Creator so far! My inbox is always open for requests and what to do with Boar!Creator! Have a good day/night!<3 ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა˖⁺‧₊˚

(P.S. if you want to be tagged, don’t be scared to ask! I’m still getting used to Tumblr, so please let me know if I do it wrong! The same goes if you want to be removed!~ ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა)

(P.S.S. would anyone be interested in hearing about my Genshin OC’s/My personal Genshin AU ໒꒰ྀི ∩ ⸝⸝ ∩ ꒱ྀིა?)

໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১ Tag list: @genshin-impacts-me , @resident-cryptid

I apologize to anyone else who wanted to be tagged, Tumblr is beating my ass rn and not letting me tag anyone else! Sorry again!-

[pomefioredove]

okay after reading all the goth hc, I gotta ask. how do you think the guys would react (any of them but preferred Floyd and Idia ) to playing them goth music/show them a trad goth outfit/makeup look (suprise them maybe? For example: I hc Leona to just have the least slay music taste to mankind (beastmankind?) so you play him- idk let’s say Lebanon Hanover, and he’s like “wtf is this herbivore?” But then he kinda gets into it. no pressure to write for it btw!

-✨♥️✨

ANON I was literally thinking about making a post like this a few days before this ask... you have my heart. I'm doing a full post

summary: nrc boys and goth type of post: headcanons characters: nrc students additional info: platonic or romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, half-headcanons half-x reader author's note: I'm assuming that goth as a subculture and a music scene already exists in this world. this post is also mostly about the music scene

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Riddle is essentially a baby bat

he's like, two bad life choices away from going full victorian goth at any given moment

he flat out refuses to listen to anything "vulgar" but secretly adores the dark, poetic side to goth

he's also morbidly obsessed with death, being a sad victorian boy and the child of two doctors. it works

as much as I hate to say it, Ace starts out as the kind of guy to say he wants a "goth gf" on multiple occasions

he proudly announces it to everyone at an unbirthday party once and Riddle almost kills him for being annoying for interrupting

thinks the music is too sad

...but he mellows out eventually (your influence)

both Deuce and Trey are not particularly interested

(Deuce leaned into punk music as a preteen but has since "given it up" because it's too unruly for an aspiring honors student, in his opinion)

Cater inexplicably already knows a lot about goth

won't talk about it unless you bring it up first but if you play him something semi-popular

he'll be like "oh yeah I know that one"

he has a few songs on his playlist he listens to when he's alone

is a goth magnet himself. pulls many hot goths. no one knows how

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Jack is also not really into it. not his thing

however I can see him secretly being into emo

make of that what you will

and Ruggie will never pass you the aux again. he calls it "halloween music"

Leona acts thoroughly uninterested for a long time

like, he'll listen to the music you give him, but doesn't really say whether he likes it or not

says he doesn't care about the scene (thinks it's too pretentious)

and pretends to be annoyed when you give him more song recs

but he gets into it. he starts listening on his own

he has a definite preference for gothic rock

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Jade is already goth (to me at least)

and very eager to talk about his favorite bands

loves giving recommendations

apparently the coral sea has its own goth subgenres and bands, which sound... much different from land ones

Floyd will listen (has listened, thanks to his brother) but he doesn't particularly care

he much prefers the aesthetic, it reminds him of home

...being that he's from the deep sea, where it's dark and cold

the flowy, dark, elegant looks are just enchanting to him. he can't keep his eyes off it

Azul couldn't be bothered

he's willing to learn, but isn't a huge fan of the general... strangeness

(he doesn't really understand why anyone would want to be perceived as strange in the first place)

and the music is so unmelodic to him

"that was just a man moaning and a gate creaking for seven minutes" and then he bans you from his office

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kalim literally listens to goth already

I don't know how to explain it but I know he does

it's so funny because he never ever dresses goth or acts stereotypically goth but every once in a while he'll be like "who wants to hear my new favorite song? :D" and it's like, alien sex fiend. and no one can say anything about it

Jamil is an appreciator

depending on what you show him, he could really get into the lyricism and general mood

...if only because he finds goth dancing absolutely mesmerizing

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Rook is goth

he only dresses the part sometimes, but he's always been very passionate about the poetic elements of the music

...really into french coldwave

in terms of fashion he leans romantic goth

it just makes sense to me. he could find beauty in absolutely anything, and the dark and macabre are no exception

will talk your ear off about his favorite bands if you give him the chance

Vil is really more into the style than the music

he's dabbled in a little bit of everything; trad goth, romantic goth, medieval goth. he pulls all of it off

honestly, if anything, the gothic style compliments his features and tastes more than anything

he has such a respect for the subculture and the dedication that goes into the visual elements

Epel doesn't get it. sorry 😔

he will listen to the music you recommend because he cares about you, but he just doesn't like it

he's in the same boat as Azul. "was that a slide whistle?"

absolutely baffled, but he likes you and it's a small price to pay for your happiness

(and he thinks the fashion is too androgynous for his tastes)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I feel like Idia also used to think he wanted a goth until he saw the e-girl vs goth discourse, freaked out, then spent two weeks reading about different subcultures

...still wants a goth partner

but now he actually knows what that means

will listen to any music you give him out of respect (fear) and won't say anything about whatever weird taxidermy-related hobby you have

he's surrounded by death all the time anyway who cares

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you could get Silver to listen to the cure's entire discography and he'd come out of it really enjoying just like heaven and nothing else

it's just... not for him

(plus the slower songs put him to sleep)

Malleus somehow hasn't even heard of goth as a genre when you approach him

he is. a little disappointed it's not music about the architecture style

but he still warms up to it, especially as someone who enjoys finding the beauty in the dark and misunderstood

you can fix him. you can goth him.

Sebek joins only after everyone in Diasomnia gets in on it with you (he doesn't like being left out)

he loves it because silver doesn't and malleus does

peepaw Lilia is an old goth

he was around when the music scene started, and he also remembers the literature movement it was named after, and the popular architecture style that was named after, and...

...you get it

still, he's always pleased to learn about new bands and subgenres and styles and the like

could and will talk about it for hours and hours with you

he dresses the part, too

we love him

[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Batfam x Neglected Mortal

Kombat Reader

Notes: this is part 8 to lucid dreams.

Warnings ⚠️: child neglect. Running away. And I called reader dumb...

'May the twenty second, 3 years ago....' You repeat in your head.

May 22nd three years ago, was when you had realized that you didn't mean anything anymore to your mother...

May the 22nd was when you guessed she stopped loving you.. or atleast that's when you figured out she did.

It was your last year of middle school and it was your graduation...

You had worked so hard to get good grades you took extra classes did everything you could to be the top student of your school... and you had gotten valedictorian of your middle school.....but you didn't care for the praise or the small medal they gave you.

No, all you wanted was for your mother to watch you walk up the stage and take your gradation paper and give your small speech that you had prepared so much for.

But she didn't show up..... no one did. So there you were in your small cap and gown giving thanks to people who weren't even there.....

You had taken pictures with your friends parents because you didn't have anyone else to take a picture with.

You didn't cry....maybe something had happened? You would be selfish to have gotten your feelings hurt over something as small as graduation if something bad had happened.

But as your friends parents drove you home you tried to think of everything bad that could've happened. Your mother surely wouldn't have forgotten...right?

You had reminded her so many times...she wouldn't have forgotten she never forgot anything that was about dick or Tim...so this had to be something traumatic..

Finally arriving into the manor you quickly thank your friends parents for the ride and hop out the car.

Finally in the house your eyes search everywhere for them...or more important your mother.

Finding her in the kitchen calmly drinking tea with a Tim, you breath a sigh of relief... she was okay..everything was okay.

Your relief doesn't last for long when you realize...everything's okay....why didn't she show up then?

You hesitatently walk up to her angry but trying not to show it.

"Mother....? Is everything okay?" Your voice is quiet almost a whisper you don't want Tim to hear you.

"Everything's fine." Your mother quickly brushes you off not even sparing you a glance.

She doesn't even notice your still in your cap and gown. No, Tim's the one that has to point it out.

"You graduated?" Tim asks in a stoic voice you can tell he doesn't even care.

You nod and look at your mother wanting to see her reaction... but she doesn't even have one.

"You were validatictorian?" Tim asks agian seeing the small medal wrapped around your neck .

You nod agian and look back at your mother but she continues sipping her tea looking at him. As if your not fucking there.

"That's cool.... it's pretty easy to get that though. I've already skipped a couple of grades. My teachers says that I'll definitely get validatictorian." Tim says and looks at your mother watching for a reaction just like you did.

But the difference? Is that she actually payed attention to him. She smiled a he spoke and looked at him with pride.

You wanted to smack Tim.

Of course he didn't have to stay up late studying like you did. He didn't have to ask for extra credits... like you did.

And of course he didn't have to work for your mother's attention like you did.

Because unlike for you..she actually cared for time.

She loved him...but not you.

Atleast not anymore.

Ignoring both of them you walk your preteen, heartbroken self up the stairs and into your room.

You wish you could tell that small girl to give up.

She'd never win her mother's love. You wish you could tell her that nomatter how long you study or act nice or train harder that her mother will never love her...

No, you wish you could her that her mother died the night she met Bruce Wayne...

But even if you did.. your preteen self would never believe you.

Your lay on the same small twin size mattress now. Three years later and yet you still feel the same.

But that would changed..it had to change.

And your not dumb. Atleast you don't consider yourself dumb. You know they're probably expecting you to leave.

You know they probably have all the cameras facing you window. And you know you can't just walk out the front door.

So you'll wait. You'll wait until the last minute when the sun is just barely above the horizon. And you'll go through the small vent in the laundry room. That only you know about....

You know kion said he'll wait for you until sunrise..but surely he'll wait a little longer..

Your bags under your bed it's already packed. There's not much that you packed anyway. You only packed the necessaries.

Clothes didn't really matter since your sure your father would make you burn them anyway. And you wouldn't need your phone or laptop. No, they'd be unused there.

So all you really have is your favorite stuffed animals and some pictures of your friends and jason.... and some of the books you and jason used to read.

You've already wrote letters to everyone saying your goodbyes. Some letters more detailed then others. Some with love and some with absolutely no emotion at all.

You watch as the clock hits 5am and you stand up setting the letter on your desk and grabbing your bag from under your bed.

Slinging your bag over your shoulder and quietly opening your door. You make your way down tha hall..

You walk passed Jason's room and everything in you is begging you to walk in and give him one last hug. To tell him that you love him one last time... but you can't.

You know you can't. Because your heart won't allow you to see him without not letting go.

So you continue your stride down the dark hall and down the stairs right into the laundry room...

Setting your bag down you carefully take off the small vent that you'll escape this prison from.

"No goodbye...?" A voice says.

You know that voice you know exactly who's voice that is. He's the only one that's went through this vent with you.

Of course he'd know you'd escape this way. Maybe you were dumb.....

And if his voice wasn't enough for you to recognize him the squeak from his cruches are as he inches closer. Because the joker fucking broke his legs...

His words are meant to be playful. To lighten the mood. But you catch the way his voice breaks slightly as he talks.

You freeze for a moment before you snap back to reality. You have to do this. You have to escape. You remind yourself.

So you continue removing the screws in the vent not daring to look at him.

"You should be asleep." You say and you know you shouldn't be so harsh with your words. These are your last moments with him....

"I'm not an idiot...I can't just let you leave." His voice is firm but it hard to take him seriously when his voice is so quiet.

You know he's looking at you and he wants you to look at him. So you stand from your squatting position.

Looking at him you don't remember him looking this small...maybe it's because of the crushes under his arms or his slightly bruised eyes...but it hurts to look at him.

"You promised you'd never leave me... you pinky promised." He says. His voice is so small and you can tell his voice still has that hint of baby tone despite him trying to hide it.

This was definitely going to hurt....

"Things are different now jaybird.... you gotta understand. "You say as you step closer. You want to hug him to tell him to go to bed and you'd be there later ,like you always do... but you can't.

Because for once you can't keep your pinky promise.....

"I ain't gotta understand nothing! You pinky swore.. You never break pinky promise...you taught me that...remember?" His voice is so hoarse like it almost pains him to talk.. and you feel the same way you did when kion was crying... useless.

"I remember jaybird....of course I remember.. but I gotta do this....for me..." Your words are true and......new?

You've never done anything for you.

Always for someone else. Always trying to please someone else...but now? You had to do this.. you had to put yourself first.

And looking into Jason's blue eyes you can tell he understands..like he always does.

And it makes your heart hurt more..

"Then take me with you."

You'd rather die then do that. Then take him away from somewhere safe..and take him somewhere you can't promise to keep him safe.

But you don't say that. So you settle for....

"Where I'm going...is only for me...it's not right for you..."

He looks down and you can see his small hands clenching into fist.

"One last hug?" He asks and you can tell he's given up. So you of course just like always fulfill his wishes.

Hugging him is different then hugging Kion... it's nice and comfortable... it's familiar.

Reluctantly you pull away... you don't have time to talk.. you have to get going.

He quickly wipes his eyes... and looks at you.

"If... if you go..I'll...I'll scream. Then everyone will wake up..."He says and is an empty threat. He probably wouldn't that.

"I'll be gone before they even get out the bed." You say and it's true. Your fast. Way faster then they are...especially in their sleepy state.

He sighs and you can tell..he knows this is it.

"Gotta go.." You say as you bend down and quickly kiss the top of his head like you've always done...he nods reluctantly and he doesn't even spare you a glance as you bend down to crawl your way through the vent.

"Sis....?" He says just before your about to go through the vent. And you turn back to look at him.

And you can tell the heartbroken look on his face will hauntyou forever.

"Yeah?" You say your voice just barely above a whisper.

"I love you. " such simple words..such normal words and yet they sting your heart.

"And I'll always love you. " That's it. Those are your final words before you crawl your way through the vent and out the other side.

You don't dare look back. There's nothing for you back there.

Atleast Not anymore.

Finally through the other side of the tunnel. Your quickly make your way out of the manor yard. Knowing all the blond spots of their camera system.

You make it to the town square fairley quickly and you reach the top of the tower where the Kion is waiting.

He smiles as he sees you. And you can tell he feels he's reliefed..

"I almost thought you wouldn't show.."

"Well,. I'm here..now..let's go." You say and he smile and a blue portal appears right infront of you two.

And it's the same portal that had brought you to gotham in the first place...

He reaches out silently asking for your hand. And you take his hand in yours and sigh. Your really doing this...

You look back and from here you can see the whole city..and the sun is coming over the horizon.

And for once... you finally see the beauty of Gotham......

But Kions voice brings you out of thoughts.

"Thank you sister...for choosing me." He says and he looks up at you with the same love that jason did...and for a moment it's like you see jason.

"Always..." Is your response and you don't know if thats entirely true...but you can't focus on what you said right now...

No, now all your focus is on the blue portal that Kion pulls you through.

...........Back at the manor.... the batfamily members came out of there hiding spots as soon as you left.

"You did it right todd?" Damians voice rings out. And jason flinches but nods.

"Yeah....I put it in her pocket when we hugged.." Jason's says quietly.

"You did good jason.." Bruce says as he puts his hand on jason shoulder in a 'im proud of you' way.

Jason nods still feeling sad that you had left, and your mother sees that..

"Don't worry jason...well find her..the tracking device Tim made will track her nomatter where she goes..." She says trying to offer comfort but jason doesn't budge.

"Yeah...Tim's tracking device better work though." Dick says almost glaring at Tim.

"It will...we had clark test it before. It works even in space." Tim says defensively.

"How long until the portal device can be used?" Your grandfather asks Bruce firmly wanting answers.

"We should have it ready by tomorrow." Bruce says just as firmly. Bruce can tell your grandfather blames this on him. And he can't deny that this is mostly on him.

"Good the sooner the better...." Your mother says trying to ease the tension between the two stubborn men....

And maybe you should've felt jason put the tracking device in your pocket...but I guess your just..... dumb?

Thanks for reading!! And I am not calling anyone dumb! So sorry if I offended anyone! 😔 😔 it's just for the fic.

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