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writella · 4 months ago

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Here He Is, Finally

Synopsis: “When’s it gonna be my turn? Open me up, tell me you like it, fuck me to death, love me until I love myself—” This is a story about the inner struggles of a desiring Daryl who just wants to be free of the perceptions the town, and his own mind, have put on him, so he can love you and love himself, in the ways he’s always wanted to.

—or: As Daryl becomes the talk of the town, insecurity sets in that hinders him from having sex with you— the thing you most want to do.

Details: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader, ambiguous age gap, mixing early seasons’ + later seasons’ personality of Daryl, the town being mean but also thinking Daryl’s hot because he is, discussions of gossiping, insecurity, and poor self-image, Daryl fights someone :), and smut— unprotected + he’s nervous but then it gets good, and it’s their/Daryl’s/your first time in whatever way you want it to be.

A/N: He’s literally me (I’m a girl).

— With love from writella. ♡

There it was. You finally said it. You told Daryl that you were ready to have sex.

When you told him, the two of you were having a quiet morning and he was about to leave. Pulling yourself up to his height, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, and he took you by the waist, one hand reached up to hold your head, rubbing his thumb there. Good, you had thought, he’s reciprocating. That let you know he was okay, but still, underneath, you knew he was embarrassed about last night. You weren’t going to bring it up though, not then. You wanted to move forward, to show him that you didn’t care. “Daryl,” you started, words slow, uneasy in voice but sure in intention, as you whispered to him from above his shoulder, “I just wanted to tell you– that– I feel like I’m ready.” You paused for a moment. “And whatever you feel, I’m okay with it. Just talk to me.” As silence ensued, you kissed him on the cheek, “I love you,” you said, and pulled back.

Daryl kept his hands in yours as he looked at you. His features were sad and soft as much as they were unreadable. He kissed you on the forehead. “I love you too,” he said– it wasn’t the first time you two had exchanged those words– and then he left. Just like that.

You had no expectation for how he would react. You only knew he wouldn’t give you a flat-out no, so this, was understandable. But still, there was something hollow about it, even if his kiss and words were tender. It was another relationship moment that reminded you that these things never happen as they do in fairytale romances.

You see, you had always pictured him or whoever you were with at the time, bringing you close, kissing you, their fingers trailing down and under the hem of your skirt or pants, asking you if you were ready, if you were sure, if you wanted them to go slow, slower, but Daryl— as it turns—was incredibly pure, or at least pretending to be. Either too nervous or sensitive about these things, possibly inexperienced, or much more innocent with his intentions than you ever expected. It’s like you knew Daryl like the back of your hand, but when it came to anything about you as a couple, his history, who he’s dated before– you were clueless. You didn’t know what it could be.

One thing you did suspect, although Daryl has never told you, is that he thought of you as precious, something to be delicate with, like a flower. Sometimes you’d tell him he didn’t have to be so slow or soft when you were kissing– he was always a little sloppy anyway– and whenever there was a task to get done you’d be the first to tell anyone you could do it yourself— he knew this about you. And it’s not like he babies you or anything, that was never his way. Like when you two were fighting walkers, or doing work around the communities, or when he’d teach you how to do something. You’ve even told him that he could be a bit demanding sometimes; grouchy, rough, even; and he agreed– that was true. He didn’t do it on purpose, the whole being hard on you thing. But alone? When he was on top of you or you over him? Waking up to you? Feeling your hand reach for his own in the dark? Even just eating dinner with you? The guy was a mess! A little boy, even. Heart racing. Eyes averted at times.

Whenever he nipped you, on the lips, or the neck, maybe he pushed you on the bed too hard, grabbed your waist too tight that it squeezed the bone, there were always silent apologizes of gentle circles, sweet kisses, and tongue licks to soothe the pain or possible bruises he left on you. And sometimes, when you’re home alone or you shower together, and he starts to kiss you or pull you in by the waist, he almost always sets out with the intention that this time he’d finally do it— the sex thing— he always wanted to. Only if you knew! Honestly, he’d feel like such a pervert if he let you know how many times, both before and after you got together, that he’s thought of being inside you, or you on your knees for him, or him kissing up your thighs and tasting you– he genuinely thinks he’d really like it, all of it, but especially that. But every time you’ve kissed and kissed enough, he’d get too overwhelmed about how to proceed or too nervous to even try. He tells you that you two should shower or go to bed or that he has to go for whatever reason. So all you’ve done is grind on each other, a lot, but that’s about it. You know he’s gotten hard and you’ve gotten wet, but you’re not sure if he’s ever noticed. He wants to put his hands in your pants, he wants to rip your blouse, he wants to squeeze your breast and slap your ass, but every time he thinks about actually doing it, he feels it's too forward or raunchy, or maybe it's not actually like him in the way he’s pictured in his head, or maybe you’d hate it, and specifically the way he did it. And he has thought about doing it slowly, romantically, but every time he thinks about doing that, he feels stupid, thinking he’ll come off as clumsy and pathetic to you. He doesn’t exactly get the concept of slow and sexy yet— reaching up, breathing you in, letting his fingers linger, or hands caress and massage. It’s not that he couldn’t do it though, or so he thinks, if he really tries; it's that doesn’t even think he’s sexy to begin with.

The only thing Daryl knows for sure are the things people call him when they think he’s not listening.

“Deep and… grunty,” one much too young girl said to her equally young friend who giggled, indicating her agreement even if she was too afraid to verbalize it. “I just like his voice,” the first girl said, “it’s sexy.” Or, “Wild,” as one of Aaron’s friends whispered to him, “Like he could throw me around, do it in front of the whole town, and wouldn’t care who saw.” To which Aaron scoffed and replied, “That’s literally my fucking friend.” But in truth, it’s not like he hadn’t thought about it himself, how Daryl looked underneath his vest and button-downs– it was just once though!– he promises!– as if he needed to explain it to himself. He even told his husband about it; they had agreed on Daryl’s attractiveness. Eric called it “rugged,” and they laughed about it over dinner. Now, Aaron would repeat that word as he overheard another group of ladies discussing ways to describe or trademark some of the male leaders in town. As Aaron passed by, “rugged,” was his suggested alternative to the word “beast” when one older lady described Daryl, in a way that would make anyone not a part of the conversation cringe, “Beast, sexy armed beast.” But Aaron was only met with silence and weird hums until a girl replied that “sexy armed rugged,” doesn’t make any sense. Accordingly, all the ladies agreed. As Aaron walked away, wanting nothing more with this kind of conversation about his friends, he caught the new suggestion: “Daddy,” a girl had said with the widest smile on her face— she wasn’t a teenager, but it was obvious that this was her first time being vocal about these things. She must have felt she said something so salacious. And as much as Aaron wanted to gag, there was also a part of him that reluctantly stopped himself from laughing and blushing with the rest of the women. One of them, rolling her eyes said, “They can’t all be daddy,” to which another girl said, “But they kind of are!” and then he was too far away to hear anymore.

Daryl didn’t get any of it.

The only ones that truly bothered him though were when they added, “I know he’s a little ugly but,” or “I know he’s not my type but,” or “I know he looks a little dirty but,” “And he never does his hair but,” “And he’s not like the smartest but,” but, but, but—

It all made him feel bad about himself; more confused.

Even when it was just generally flattering, he found it hard to take any of it as a compliment. Sometimes he would, maybe the whispers of him being “kinda hot,” on the days when he’d return to his cut-off sleeved shirts, or maybe those moments when a lady would be talking to her friend saying how he’s “handsome,” or how she just knows “he’s packing–big–” and what’s better than a big dick, right? At least that is what Daryl thought (it's the bit of Merle in him) and he bets Negan wished he had one— Daryl was pretty sure Negan’s is a tiny little bitch just like his personality. No one gets to kill one of his best friends and gets more than a three-incher. Right, J.C.? If you’re even up there? Not that Daryl would mind if He were or weren’t, or cares if you cared– Daryl didn’t think about religion that much anymore anyway. And on that note, he realizes that he doesn’t do a lot of the same things he used to anymore either. Like the way he would walk around without a care, even confidently sometimes, not thinking about how much he swung his arms or the way he talked or the way his hair fell that day. There was this one time, as he was walking over to Rick in the garden, telling him he couldn’t find whatever particular tools Rick wanted, he yelled, “They ain’t there no more, Rick!” that he heard some older guy say to his friend that Daryl sounded like a “human gremlin,” to which the friend tried to one-up him by replying, “more like garbage disposal.” Then another day, some girl said he looks like a “wet rat sometimes,” especially when his hair is flat or, as said in the phrase, wet; and he never forgot it, either of them, or anything anyone has ever said about him. It’s always been like this. Even when he was a kid.

Daryl tries to remember that people have just gotten too comfortable now that Alexandria is back on track, or at least that’s basically what you had said once. When it happened, Daryl came into your room, huffing and throwing himself on your desk chair saying, “Some people don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.” To which you had asked him what was wrong, but he shook his head.

“Well,” you begin, responding to his un-answer, “some gossip is misogynized. It used to be a way for women to spread information, but–” you avoid the lecture— “I get what you mean.” You look at him, seeing the way his eyes still drift. “I can’t tell you everything, but Rosita and I had heard some people speculate on the whole her and Saddiq and Gabriel thing.” You shook your head, your eyes rolling a little, “It made her upset. I could tell. But it took her a while to talk about it. I think some people forget they can talk behind closed doors now. Our porches aren’t as private as they used to be and… people have gotten mean.” To that, you both nodded in agreement and then you climbed toward the edge of your bed to hold his hand. Something was obviously wrong. “Has anyone said anything about you?”

Again, he shakes his head and you have to leave it at that— all he wanted to do was ask questions about you now, and he wouldn’t let you change the subject.

But at home, alone, he stares at the mirror, trying to see what other people see, the more decent things: handsome, rugged, possibly wild… but all he saw were things that he didn’t understand, things that made him feel he wasn’t good enough. Did they really think he was attractive? And if so, why did they always have to bring up that there was something completely unattractive about him before the compliment? And why were those remarks always easier to believe? Or was it all just some weird fantasy they felt dirty about having? And was being rude behind his back some sort of justification for that guilt? Was it all of the above? And most importantly, did you think any of this?

Next Saturday, a week after you told him you were ready, the town gathered in the church during the evening for the monthly communal meal. This was something that started during the rehabilitation of Alexandria, another thing that the population was getting too big to contain, but Rick and Judith liked it. So, Michonne agreed to keep it— for now— despite reasoning that “this is what holidays are for, Rick.”

It was about an hour in, 6pm, and sunset now past. Some people who had been busy working were still filing in, little by little, but for the most part, a majority of citizens were seated, eating, and chatting. There was a steady rain outside that made everything smell fresh, and if it wasn’t for all the chatter, you could even possibly hear the light drumming on the church walls. Everyone was quite pleased about it— an early spring was approaching.

Daryl had not come to see you last night and left early this morning so you didn’t know where he went or what he did, but what you did know for certain is that he never carried an umbrella. Therefore, when he finally arrived, 30 minutes later, his hair was soaked, and since he didn’t even wear his jacket, the long sleeves of his shirt were drenched with water droplets sticking to his vest and shoes that sloshed and left wet footprints on the wooden floor.

Obvious to say, he was noticed by all.

There is a fine line with Daryl between not giving a fuck about how he was perceived, and caring far too much while not willing to do anything about it, and of course, with all that has happened in the past few weeks, it was the ladder. He hated being the center of attention, but it was hard for him to not be noticeable, it never was, especially now. He felt ridiculous.

As he walks onto the stage– where all the tables of food are placed– you follow him.

“Hi,” you say next to him.

“Hi,” he replies, calling you by your nickname kindly enough, but not ever looking at you.

“You know, I think Rick was hoping you were coming back on time. I don’t know why he put all that stuff on his chair if it wasn’t for you or Michonne and Michonne sat with me.”

He simply nods, humming as acknowledgment.

“Daryl,” you move to the other side of the table as he gathers his food so he can look at you. Quietly you say, “We don’t have to talk about it now, but– I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable the other day. Or if it was about the night before, you just have to tell me.” You poke his shoulder, “You’re acting weird and you know it.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” is all he grumbles.

“But I still want to say I’m sorry if I did.”

Daryl quickly finds some napkins to dry his hands and wrists with and comes over to place them on the sides of your head to kiss you there. “You ain’t got anything to be sorry about. Alright? I’m fine.” His hands drop and holds you by the neck for a moment, the movement makes some water droplets bleed onto your clothes, you feel it but you say nothing. The only thing Daryl notices from you is that your eyes look almost identical to his despite the differing color– his mood is affecting yours, but he doesn’t know what to say right now to make you feel better so he opts for something he always know is true, “You’re perfect. You know that right?” And I’m just fuckin’ weirdo, he wants to add, but he doesn’t.

You were smiling at him. He doesn’t get it. He looked like an idiot all soaking wet and you were smiling at him. There couldn’t be a better reaction, but still, it’s moments like this where he can’t believe you’re real. All you say is “Okay,” never taking a compliment, just like him, instead of finding a way to break-up with him like he always nearly suspects. “Come to me when you finish, alright? We can leave if you want?”

“Alright,” he responds and you leave him be.

As Daryl goes down the rows of tables picking out what he wants, he heads to the last one. The way the event was set up was that everyone who came early had the opportunity to take a seat at one of the four tables that were placed along each corner of the stage and the rest sat in the pews, but despite the higher vantage point the stage gave, that did not mean Daryl couldn’t hear what those around the stage were saying around him— as always. It must be a hunter’s ear or something.

“Be careful,” a woman says smirking, her eyes gesturing to Daryl. “Let’s hope he doesn’t wet us.” The friend in front of her snickers, looking back to see that Daryl is now by the table just above theirs. Whispering, the first woman continues, shaking her head, “I don’t know how Rick or the girl put up with it. She just acted like nothing was wrong. He’s mudding up the whole damn church!”

Daryl keeps his back turned. This ends up being his last straw. “How about you shut the fuck up,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

Louder, facing no one in particular he yells, “Why does everyone act like I don’t got ears?”

You look up, synchronized with everyone in the church and get up with Rick who is already slowly approaching him, but Michonne yanks you down.

“What is your problem?”

To that, he turns back to the woman, “How ‘bout you say what you said again and stop talking shit under your breath.”

“What?”

“I said,” he starts yelling again, “if you got somethin’ to say about me lady, say it to ma’ face. That’s what I said.”

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Rick asks almost warningly, but not before someone yells, “Who the fuck are you talking to, man?” from one of the aisles in the back. It was her husband, now standing from his seat. He and his wife make eye contact, and instantly he’s moving closer.

Daryl walks to the edge of the front stage, barking a quick “move” without any pause and Eugene and Siddiq violently bob their heads and grab their plates as Daryl steps on the table and jumps to the floor.

Rick tries to push him back but it’s no use, Daryl pushes him in return and he and the husband are charging at each other, speaking over each other: “What did you say to my wife?” “Told her to shut the fuck up. Thought I said it loud enough–” “Nah, man you were mumblin’ like always–” “Or d’you need me to say it louder with ma garbage disposal mouth?” Daryl pushes him, “Huh?” “I’m not fighting you, man.” But Daryl persists, getting in the man’s face, their noses almost touching. He whispers, “You know, maybe your wife’s got everyone’s name in her mouth because she don’t fuckin’ like you.” The man keeps shaking his head, but Daryl surprises him, he isn’t the only one the town gossips about. “She’s fucking Mark,” he tells him. That was true, and people knew it. “He’s your friend, ain’t he? Maybe that’s why she’s always–” But no, not him, her husband did not know, so he punches, straight in the eye. Daryl almost smiles as he takes the next swing.

The two are tussling, but not for long as Rick takes the chance to get Daryl from behind, taking him away with Gabriel’s help. “You done?” Rick asks as Gabriel holds him on the other side, His grip honestly does nothing though and Daryl shrugs him off. Poor Gabe looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm to see the church– practically his church– in such disarray.

With that, and with Daryl raging too much to contain, he shrugs Rick off and stomps out.

Michonne finally takes her hand off of your wrist and you make you way to leave too. As you walk, you look back to Rick who is already trying to follow, and wordlessly tell him that it’s your turn now, then, turn to awkwardly dodge the people still standing in the aisle and collect your things to go.

Daryl was not hard to find. It almost made you think he wanted to be found or knew you’d go after him— he’s being such a child today. Despite the town lights, you hold out your flashlight to find him sits on a tree stump on the edge of town next to one of his favorite trees. The leaves did a terrible job of covering him from anything but you knew he didn’t care. It was almost laughable honestly. Still, you take pity, he was yours and you were concerned. “I know you don’t care about getting wet,” you say with no malice or disappointment in your voice, “but all that water in your shoes can cause blisters. You didn’t even wear the ones that don’t have holes.”

He just shakes his head, as always, and water droplets fall from the tips of his hair.

“Remember when that happened to me and you drained them with needles even though Saddiq told us not to?”

He stares at you, stone-faced for a moment. “You’re the one who told me to do it.”

“Because they hurt really bad!”

“You were being a baby.”

“Really?” You ask ironically. “So if I’m the baby why are you acting like one right now? It’s been raining since morning, Daryl! Not even a jacket? You’re obviously upset about something but I’m not going to continue this with you in the rain, looking like a sad, wet puppy.”

He sneered at the comment, wet.

“Let’s just go home, okay? Let me take you.”

“We don’t live together.”

You frown. “Don’t be mean, Daryl,” you gently warn. “You know what I mean.”

You hold your hand out for him, water collecting in your palm as you wait. It was more of a gesture than actual help as you two were still a few feet away from each other. “Please? You could have already ran away on your bike or gone home and locked your door but you didn’t. I don’t know what’s going on but don’t act like I don’t know you.”

Reluctantly, he gets up, walking to you in almost slow motion. You wish you could call him the drama queen he is right now, but it was time to get out of this rain– you would hold it in for the time being.

As you enter the small place, you make no conversation. You simply get to work and he doesn’t stop you. You take off your rain jacket and boots, then you take off his vest and boots. You drag him to his room and hang up your sweater and take off your jewelry, then you empty his pant pockets. Finally, you hold his hand as he trails behind you and into the bathroom. You unbutton his shirt and unzip his pants and place them all in the hamper. He takes off his underwear and helps you take off your clothes too. When you’re done, you turn on the water and go in, he follows. You bathe and wash his hair in silence. You are tender and gentle, and he knows it, he appreciates it, but his mind is loud, and angry, and he feels so pathetic as you wash him like he’s 5 years old. You turn around to start washing yourself as he takes care of cleaning his legs and lower area. After he’s done, all he can do is look at you, your body, the soft humming you can’t help but do when you shower. It’s exactly as he said, you’re perfect. He wants to bang his head against the wall because of it.

When you two finish, you sit on his bed, wearing one of his white shirts and a pair of boxers, he wears the same except his bottoms are sweatpants. He hates these kinds of casual clothes actually, he’s only okay with wearing it sometimes, but he has nothing else at the moment. All he had to do was give his clothes to Carol to wash, but he didn’t. He hasn’t really done anything this week.

“Ms. Ellen is a bitch.” You finally say, giving him an ice pack for his eye. “And so is Mr. Gary and they both have the whiteness names in the world. And they’re both lazy as fuck and reek of nepotism because they only had one of the biggest houses and biggest egos in Alexandria because they were friends with Deanna and they’re still bitter that their house being destroyed in the fire— which I get— but it’s not okay that she uses her bitterness to talk shit about everyone. And it’s also not okay that you used your anger to fight someone who didn’t deserve it. That wasn’t like you.”

“Maybe it is. You didn’t always know me.”

“Well, sure, can act like a tough—”

“I don’t act like anything—”

“Fine, I’ll change it: Can you be a tough guy? Yeah. But do you pick fights and make big scenes in front of the kids like that? No, you don’t.” You stare at him, tapping him on the knee and forcing him to look at you. “You not talking is obviously not working, Daryl. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

He takes a moment. “I just—”

“What?”

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” he finally says lowly.

“I don’t think you could,” you answer, “I’m not even now, I’m just frustrated. Or confused really. Why do you think you would?”

He lowers his ice pack, “Cause I’m not fuckin’ Rick.”

You laugh a little. “Well, I did have my suspicions, but great, that’s good to know. I’m glad you’re not fucking Rick.”

He sucks his teeth. “Be serious.”

“Have you not realized I’ve been trying to be? For weeks now? It obviously doesn’t work.” Both of you look down as you continue, “And I finally tell you how I feel and what I want and you just leave and barely talk to me for the rest of the week. And before you even mention coming into my bed at night or saying goodnight or good morning to me and telling me what you’ll do that day, that’s not talking, it's just saying stuff. At some point I can’t always chalk it up to Oh, that’s just Daryl; at some point, a person starts thinking that they're the problem. That I’m the problem! That I’m not good enough.”

A tear falls down your cheek involuntarily, then another; you were clenching your jaw after you finished speaking but it was no use. After everything, all the bullshit and the girls and the punch to his eye that really fucking hurt even though it was his fault he got it, this is actually the worst thing that has happened to Daryl in the past months– making you cry.

“You’re more than good enough,” he says in his mumble, still not looking at you. “I’m just stupid.”

“You’re not stupid!” You yell frustratingly as you wipe tears away. “Stop talking down about yourself!”

Daryl looks off into the window. He wants to speak, he does. The words are all on the tip of his tongue but they cannot come out, they never do. As he watches you wipe away your last tears, he thinks everyone is right, that that guy is right, he has a garbage mouth, his voice is poison. He never makes any sense and he always says the wrong thing. Why speak anyway?

“I can’t help you or at least try to understand if you don’t say anything. I know it's hard— I don’t like doing it either. I was scared to tell you what I did last week. But it just starts with one thing.”

“It's too hard to.”

“But I’ve never judged you, right? ”

He shakes his head. You haven’t.

“The first thing that comes to your mind when I say, ‘what’s wrong?’, what is it? Just say it. I don’t care what it is. I’m not going to judge you, I’m not going to say you’re wrong, anything—”

“People think I’m ugly,” he interrupts, “I’ve heard them say it.”

Your eyes widen, in shock for him and in shock that people could still care about such stupid things right now. “Who said that to you?”

He shakes his head. “That’s why I mentioned Rick. No one says stuff like that about Rick.”

“Well, I don’t want you to be like Rick and you don’t have to be.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He gestures to himself, slapping his hands on his thighs, “Look at me.”

There’s something about the way his hand then reaches to cover his eyes in frustration, the way he slides it down to scratch his beard, accidentally magnifying to you the wisps of salt and pepper among the brown that gives you a clue to what he means. “I’m not some little girl, and I haven’t been for a long time.”

“I know, but you’re not my age either. And I don’t always think about you when it comes to it, it’s about me- I think about me.”

“So what about it? When it comes to the hair on your head and your eyes and the way you talk— that has nothing to do with how old you are, that’s just who you are. You didn’t choose to look as you do. And you and Rick have always looked the same age if I have to mention him, and his beard is whiter than yours at this point. Neither of you look old, or bad.” Your words do nothing so far. “You also have a better build than plenty of people in town. You’re stronger too.”

“But when they talk about Rick, all they say is that he talks too much and that he’s bossy and hardass and at least that’s true.”

You couldn’t help but smile, almost laughing a bit at that. It kind of was true.

“I’ve never heard anyone say things about him the way they say about me. Never anything about how he looks. But when they talk about me— they think I’m a fuckin’ animal.” There is silence after this. The word wild lingers in his mind and animal in yours. Again you want to ask, who could say that and have they not realized all Daryl has done for this place? Then, the more you listen, the more you realize that hidden beneath those with endless respect are some with hearts of cruelty and minds stuck in the regular old world ways that don’t exist anymore. “And sometimes, when I think about why you like me, I think that maybe it’s despite other things.”

“Despite?”

“Despite.” He practically spits.

“We all have bad qualities though. We’re not perfect.”

“I mean that I’m not some regular good looking guy.”

“Why would I want regular?” Your smile fades as his sad eyes persist. “Daryl, I can’t change your mind or make you feel the way I do about you, but why can’t you trust that I like you, and that I want to be around you? And that I’m,” you blush, “very attracted to you and I’ve felt like an embarrassing teenage girl the past few months waiting and trying to get you to have sex with me!” Quietly you say, “Have you not realized how much I really want you? How much I care? Everyday I feel lucky.”

He can’t take it. “Guess it’s like you said— can’t believe it if I don’t see it myself.”

His mouth is screwed shut, his throat tight, but just like you, it’s no use, a tear rolls down his cheek. Immediately you hug him. He holds you tightly in return and even though it makes your ribs hurt a little, you let him. All of this makes you see how much you two are alike than you’ve ever realized.

“You know,” you say into his hair, “there was this one time, I was up super early and couldn’t go back to sleep so I went out for a walk. I passed by Olivia’s house and she waved me over from her window and asked me if I could help her restock the pantry before Rick came later in the day to check it because she had this huge migraine. Well, that turned into me doing the whole thing for her. She said she was going inside for a break and some water and the next thing I know she’s asleep on her couch! And you know how her niece lives with her? I guess she runs in the morning and while I was finishing up, her and her friend lean up against one of the garage doors and I hear them talking. I was just about to open the door to leave but then she says, ‘She’s sweet but kind of a kiss-ass, right? Like a try-hard?’ And then her friend goes, ‘Yeah, she really wants to be one of them,’ ‘But all she is, is just Daryl’s little girlfriend.’” Daryl lets go to face you, his eyes incredulous just as yours were when he said someone called him ugly. “And then they started saying how I insert myself into places or something, so thought if I came out right then and they see me having done Olivia’s job for her… I didn't want them to get an up-close look of them being right. So I waited until they went in the house and then I left and for the whole rest of the week I was upset because I thought I was becoming friends with those girls but really I wasn’t, and I questioned if Rick and Michonne or Rosita or Glenn and Maggie even thought of me as a friend because they actually like me or if I’m even good enough to be one or if it’s only because I’m associated to you that they care to talk to me. I felt pathetic too.” You pause. “So, I’m really sorry, Daryl. You don’t deserve to feel like you’re being picked on in the town you live in— in the place you helped create.”

“It ain’t your fault.”

“That doesn’t make a difference. I should have said something.”

“You didn’t have to. I wanted that to happen.”

“But I wish I knew. Cause I would have if I knew. I feel like I let Michonne stop me because I didn’t understand. And all I’m saying is whether I've had it as bad as you or not, I do get it. And I’m angry for you. And you don’t have to be embarrassed to tell me things like this. It was dumb of me to keep my feelings in, just like you do with everything.”

Daryl swipes his hair to the side, parts of it are dry and waving while other areas are still wet, making him think about the rat joke. “No one likes you because of me,” he says. “You’re likable because you’re you and you care. And fuck those dumb-ass girls. They’re idiots for saying that.” He rubs your thigh. “I didn’t say anything the other day because when we were in the shower the night before I,” God, he feels stupid, “I got hard and you saw it and I realized it was the first time you saw it like that before and, I don’t know, I got scared.”

“Did you think that I’d think you’re ugly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Daryl,” you tisk, “after the amount of times we’ve showered together already?”

He gets defensive, “I don’t know! Felt different.”

“People usually get excited to know their partner is excited because of them.”

“I just feel like you’re gonna be disappointed.”

“Why do you always think that? I don’t have any expectations. I just want you to show me you love me.” You begin to look nervous, “I want to feel wanted too.”

“But I do… I do want you.”

“Then show me.”

“I don’t know how.”

You try to think, “Daryl— what is it that you picture when- when you want to do it?”

“I picture you,” he says simply.

“You do?” Your face is immediately warm.

He laughs, “Of course I do.”

“Well what do I do? Or what do you do to me?”

“Depends.”

“Pick one,” you say, almost desperately.

“Sometimes it just starts with what we always do. Kissin’. Maybe you’re on top of me.”

You waste no time; you get on top of him.

“And I press you down.” Daryl’s hands are now heavy on your hips, your hands are on his chest, you rock into him slowly.

“And sometimes I think about you bouncing on me or-” he pauses, the way you rock and the way he pushes up to you hitting a perfect spot of friction that makes the both of you gasp.

“Say it,” you tell him.

“I’m fucking you from behind. Or you're on the bottom and I’m going hard or being all gentle and shit like you but I don’t know how.”

“You know we can do all that, right?”

Daryl is red. Both you and him are surprised at yourself, but his bashfulness almost brings it out of you naturally. And honestly, your jacked and grumpy dilf boyfriend has left you repressed for far too long— you’re horny.

Suddenly, you move yourself onto one of his thighs and start palming his bulge as you rock. “Do I do this in your dreams?”

He almost groans, “Now you do.”

You move yourself from his thigh and lay down to start kissing him. He reciprocates, grabbing your face and pulling you close. Daryl starts nipping at your neck and you try your hardest not to yelp so he won’t stop. As you two continue, your slick starts to wet his boxers and you press your legs together as he gets harder under his sweatpants.

“Have you ever noticed how wet I get when we kiss?”

“Only at night,” it’s hard for his words to come out as you continue palming him, “when you don’t have clothes on.”

“And you never did anything about it?” You whine. “Do you know how bad I need you? How much I think about you?”

“I think about you more.”

“You do?

“Yes.” Daryl swallows, whimpering a little. You now stroke him, his dick riding up against his thigh, and it feels too good. “What- What do I do in your dreams?”

“You lay me on the bed and put your dick in me and fuck me and it feels amazing,” you say between hot breaths. “And you’re not scared to do it.”

“I wanna do it.”

“So, please, Daryl, do it. I want it so bad.”

Daryl uses your words as courage. He takes you off of him and goes over you.

You both take off your shirts and he strips you from his boxers and him from his sweatpants.

Finally, without regret or without him turning away you see his cock stand. It’s proud, meaty, and you can’t lie, a little scary, but you’ll never tell him, even if your widening eyes give you away. It’ll fit, you assure yourself. You won’t be afraid.

“You okay?” He asks, timidity setting in again.

But you nod assuredly. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

You pout, he’s stalling. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

“Beautiful.”

“And you're handsome. No pretenses. No exceptions.” You come up on your knees to face him, kissing his lips softly. “It’s like we said, we’ve dreamed about this.”

You lay down again, and Daryl places his hands on your inner thighs to spread them, making space for himself. You watch as takes hold of himself, mouth agape and pumping himself a few times as he stares at your body before slowly entering you. Your pussy is drooling at the sight.

Your eyes instantly close and scrunch. Although it worries Daryl, he’s glad you’ve shut them so he can continue looking up and down— up at your face to see if you’re in pain and down as he watches his cock enter you for the first time. You were incredibly tight to him, tighter than he ever imagined, he wasn’t used to this feeling and he liked it, a lot. It made his stomach clench and all his muscles flex as his breathing gets heavier, trying to stop the possibility of him moaning at the sight of it all.

“Are you okay?”

It was big and there was something about it that felt good but it hurt, the stretch indescribable, but you nod and tell him, “I like it,” because that was true, and everything else felt like too much to explain right now, your thoughts almost dissipating.

“You sure?”

You just nod again, whining.

“Alright,” he says, putting his hands on the bed to start.

Once more your eyes screw shut. He almost takes himself out before he pushes back into you again. He doesn’t know if he went slow enough but he tried. Your eyes wrinkling because of how hard you closed them doesn’t help though. He wants to tell you to relax but he’s not even relaxed himself to even make it sound believable.

He tries again, not going so far out this time and slowly goes back in to the hilt again, so slowly in fact he thinks that must have been awkward for you. He stops, tries one more time, then stops again. Your sounds seem like you’re hurt. He knows you’ll say it’s just pain and adjustment to his size but he instantly perceives it as disgust. He knows it’s not, but he can’t help it, he can’t. He must be ‘too much’; ‘too big,’ that’s what it is. Those are things he has heard in porn tapes Merle used to give him or things he noticed in porno mags he maybe used to read that he had found in a store near Hershel’s farm all those years ago, and supposedly it was a good thing for it to be too much, but now, look at you: you were in pain. And it was taking everything in him not to ram into you. He felt pathetic, again. Stupid, again. Like he didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe he should just withdraw right now, clean you up, try to give you a sympathetic look through his hair that said he was sorry for defiling you and not even make you feel an ounce of pleasure in the process. Everyone was right, he is a joke.

“Daryl,” you say, looking up at him, “you don’t have to keep stopping for me. I just need to relax and you just need to be slow. I think I can take it.”

“I know,” he responds, kissing your forehead.

“Close your eyes,” you tell him. “Do what feels right to you. You have to trust me to tell you if it hurts or not.”

He almost laughs at that. You think he’s so strong; that he has all the power. It’s so strange to him.

Daryl puts his head in the crux of your neck, closes his eyes, and tries again. He holds your waist, thumb on your ribs and the other fingers on your back as he pushes his hips into you.

You hug his chest and feel all of it. “Make yourself feel good Daryl, it’s gonna feel so good to me if you do that, I promise.” After his 4th small pump you let out a whiny moan of relief. “Oh- okay- keep going.”

Daryl moves his elbows to the bed by your head and starts pushing his hips against you, finding a rough yet steady rhythm. He loves the slapping sound your bodies are making and can’t help but speed up. He goes deeper and you start moaning. He already feels he’s losing himself. He tries to kiss you to slow down, but realizes he can’t plow into you the same way he just found out he likes. He goes back to it and he starts grunting and groaning— there is a part of him that is embarrassed by it but it just feels so good. “Are you gonna come?” He asks between sharp thrusts.

“Don’t focus on that,” you tell him. “Stay like this. Please.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice, he really can’t think of anything anymore than continuing to pump himself in you so he does. You try your best to rock up into him, but he has full control, his hands on your hips still as tight as ever as he pushes into you, making you and the bed bounce at his mercy.

You’re more than fine with it all. Even better, you couldn’t believe this meant that Daryl was about to come inside you. Something in you knew it was about to happen. It was the way he placed his elbows by your head and started cursing and ramming into you harder and even whimpered in your ear and gave you these little puppy kisses there before getting back to it. You were surprised by how noisy he was but you didn’t dare say a word other than panting and whining back into him so he’d continue, even in moments when it felt too much and too hard. He was forgetting all his doubts and that was the goal right now. You lock your legs around his hips and tell him, “You feel amazing inside me. My handsome man,” and that does it, “Oh, fuck,” he says as he releases every last drop of himself inside you.

Now, as he slows down, he looks at you, thumb on your bottom lip and chin as he tries his best to keep rolling his hips on you as he comes down from his high, but you ask, “Will you kiss me down there, Daryl? I’ve always wanted that.”

“You don’t want me to make you come?”

“I think it’ll happen if you do it like that. I just want to know what it feels like.”

He stops for a moment deciding if this means he’s failed or not, but he simply says, “Okay,” all kindly and nodding like it was your idea even though it was because this means another one of his dreams were coming true.

Instantly, he’s licking you, feeling more assured of what he could do— this was one of his most vivid fantasies so even though he doesn’t know for sure, he thinks he’s got.

“Oh, oh my god,” his tongue is bringing up wetness to your clit and sucking on it, “that’s good.” He starts licking your clit, going fast, “Daryl, that’s so good.”

He looks up at you, dazed already, “Yeah?”

“Oh, yes.” You fix his hair and he loves the feeling. Truly, he was going a little too fast actually, going up and down and this way and that way too much, but the sounds his mouth and your pussy were making together were too glorious. You let him go, you let him be proud, and either way, you’re whining and moaning because of it. He’s perfectly imperfect and he doesn’t even know it. But you’re too in love with the feeling of him to explain what that means right now so all you say is what he told you about yourself in the church, “I think you’re just perfect.”

To that, he stops again and he looks up at you, smiling. It’s one of those rare ones he seldom does, teeth and all, and your slick coating his lips all the while. His eyes are shining, and he gives you the smallest, sweetest, most innocent kiss to the most obscene place on your body— your clit.

At this point all your sounds have been short, quiet, filled with whines but to this, you moan at the sight, full and loud. It’s involuntary. It’s pornographic. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard in his life. His cock stirs, springing up again as he goes back to giving you your first and forever the most slobberiest head of your life.

After a while he beckons you from below, “Hey, angel,” he calls.

“Mm,” you respond lightly. You’re nearly blissed out. He’s going to make you come.

“I think those girls were right.”

Your eyes become so cute yet so sad— you just want him on you again. “What do you mean?”

“You are sweet. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Oh,” you whisper, moaning again as he goes back to licking your clit. “Oh. Fuck.”

He starts licking and kissing your puffy lips, making wet sounds with his tongue, slurping little bits of you where he can. He loves how slick and noisy your pretty pussy is. Your clit throbs and he hums into it all dark and grumbled and husky going, “Mmmmmm.”

You tell him, “God, it’s so good, Daryl.” To which he responds, referring to a different it, “And it’s mine.”

Oh, so he’s cocky now? Well, that’s new for him. You lay back at the thought, at the feeling, reveling in delight.

Here he is, finally.

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ccupcakeyss · 1 month ago

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⌣⌣　　˳　 ⊹ EXCUSE ME? 𓏼 𝜗℘

SUMMARY: the school you and your husband's child, megumi attends called you one after apparently megumi got into a fight...

WC: another short fluffy fic, 657!

NOTES: HIHI BEEN A BIT SINCE I POSTED!!! guys i love fushiguro family like ohmyogd anyways PLEASE SEND REQUESTS I AM SO BORED AND ON WRITERS BLOCK

The call came just before lunch.

You were curled up on the couch, half-dozing in Toji’s lap while he scrolled through his phone, when yours started buzzing on the table. You picked it up with a groan, already expecting it to be spam.

But when you saw the name — Megumi’s School — your blood turned to ice.

You sat up fast. “It’s the school.”

Toji’s eyes immediately sharpened, phone dropping to the side as he leaned in. You put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Mrs. Takahashi from Sato Elementary. We’re calling to inform you that your son, Megumi, was involved in a… physical altercation today. We’d like you and his father to come in for a meeting.”

Toji was already standing. “We’re on our way.”

Fifteen minutes later,

You and Toji stepped into the office, calm on the surface, but both of you radiating that kind of cool, dangerous energy that made people instinctively step out of your way. You were dressed in all black, Toji in his usual fitted shirt and jacket, the kind of dad who looked like he fought people for fun and always won.

Mrs. Takahashi, the principal, and a meek-looking teacher were waiting.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, folding her hands tightly. “We need to discuss your son’s behavior today.”

“Where is he?” you asked immediately.

“Currently sitting with the nurse. He’s not injured, but—”

“What. happened,” Toji said, voice low, “exactly?”

The principal cleared his throat. “It appears Megumi punched another student. Several times. Unprovoked.”

You raised a brow. “Unprovoked?”

“Yes.”

Toji crossed his arms. “And you’re sure about that? Because my kid doesn’t swing first unless he’s got a damn good reason.”

The teacher adjusted her glasses. “It’s just that… he can be very quiet. Reserved. Sometimes children like that act out unexpectedly.”

You leaned forward slightly. “Did anyone ask him what happened?”

There was a pause.

“We didn’t get the chance before calling you—”

“You didn’t ask my son for his side of the story before labeling him a problem?” you snapped.

Toji’s tone darkened. “That’s not gonna fly with me.”

Mrs. Takahashi cleared her throat. “We understand this is upsetting, but physical violence—”

“Tell us who the other kid is,” you interrupted. “We’ll call their parents. Let’s have this conversation properly.”

The principal blinked. “I… don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Then stop trying to act like our son’s a criminal when you didn’t even ask what happened,” Toji snapped. “Megumi doesn’t throw punches for fun. What did the other kid do?”

The teacher hesitated. “…Apparently, there was name-calling. The other boy allegedly told Megumi his mom was stupid. And… made comments about her being pregnant. Called her ‘fat’ and ‘gross.’”

You felt Toji’s hand grip yours under the table.

You smiled—cold, sweet, dangerous. “So Megumi defended his mother.”

The principal looked uncomfortable. “Regardless, physical retaliation—”

“Toji,” you said sweetly, not taking your eyes off the staff, “can you remind me what we teach Megumi about defending his family?”

Toji leaned in, voice low and sharp. “That we don’t throw the first punch. But we always throw the last.”

The room went silent.

You stood, adjusting your coat. “We’re taking our son home. You can contact us when you’ve figured out how to actually handle bullying, instead of punishing the kid who stands up to it.”

Toji followed, not even bothering to look back. “And next time you call us in, make sure you’ve got your facts straight.”

Ten minutes later, in the car,

Megumi was sitting in the back seat, swinging his feet and holding an ice pack on his hand.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked softly.

You turned around, giving him a gentle smile. “No, sweetheart.”

Toji reached back and ruffled his hair. “You defended your mama. That kid had it coming.”

Megumi’s lips twitched into a smile. “He cried after the third punch.”

...

You blinked. ��Third?”

Toji chuckled proudly. “Atta boy.”

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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 9 months ago

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The Lost Condom

Synopsis: You were in the middle of a spicy time with your boyfriend, when something odd happened: the condom disappeared. Inside. Of. You.

The solution? Go to the hospital.

The problem? Your family didn't know about your relationship.

Pairing: Jon Kent X Gn!AFAB!Reader; Platonic!Batfam

Tw: 18+; Only mention and slight description of genitals and sex, but nothing too explicit; All characters are aged up of course; English isn't my 1st language.

Word count: 1,8k.

Requested? Nah.

Extra notes: This isn't an original idea of mine, it's based on a real life story someone told me. Also the family finding out scene was inspired by this fanfic from @dccomicsimagines and this scene from Megamind. Also, eventually I will work on the asks waiting for me I swear 😭

General masterlist

So… You were in the middle of… Having fun… With your boyfriend… When suddenly, he said something that really confused you.

— Hmm… Babe… Where’s the condom? — Your head snapped back to look at him, since you were on all fours.

— Where's the ‘what’? — Your eyes were wide, unconsciously. Jon was blushing intensely, looking from your eyes to your entrance. He didn't know how to explain.

— I-I-I put it inside with the condom on, but now it's… Gone! — You narrowed your eyes. You watched him wrap and then enter you, you didn't feel him pull out at any moment, and even if he did, why would he tell you that he pulled out, took the condom off and then put it inside again secretly while you were still going at it?

You were both silent for a few seconds.

— Search for it! — You practically yelled at him, making him scramble to get off of you. You laid with your back down and legs open, looking at the ceiling, trying to calm down and not feel embarrassed. You felt him entering you with his fingers and searching around for minutes, grumbling and getting frustrated. The sensation was good… But you had bigger priorities at hand!

You huffed and changed positions a few times. A pillow underneath your butt, legs up, on all fours. Nothing worked. You even searched around the room and the bed, just to be sure. At some point, you both defeatedly decided it was best you go to the hospital.

The thing is, your relationship was still new, and no one in your family was aware. Lois and Clark already knew and approved, and you thought Cass suspected you were seeing someone, but you hadn't told them yet.

Especially Damian.

You and Jon knew each other years before Damian was even part of the family, since Bruce raised you since your birth — you were the product of one of his affairs, your biological mother didn't want to raise you, but she also didn't want to abort, so she and Bruce agreed that he would have you as soon as you were born — and he's best friend was Clark. Although, you didn't see each other much back then. It was after the Supersons became a team and besties that he started frequenting the manor more. You always had a childhood crush on each other — Jon thought you were beautiful and nice, and you thought he was cute and sweet, very different from the gross and rude boys from your school. —. Until you were each other's first kiss, then years later, first relationship, and first time. Of course, all in secret from Damian. The older family members only knew about your crush because of your physical language, but since you grew older and learned to hide, they assumed it was just a childish crush from the past.

Lois and Clark knew and approved, but they also always reminded you that you needed to tell Bruce soon, or at least Alfred, especially after you started being sexually active.

Unfortunately, the day came. Yes, you and Jon were old enough to have sex, but too young to be mature and brave enough to go to the hospital by yourselves. Lois was in another country for work, Clark was in the Watchtower in a League meeting, your dad was there too. Leaving the 2nd best option: Alfred — the best would be Lois, then Alfred, Clark, Cass, and then you would have to discuss which one of your other family members would it be.

Since you were in Metropolis — again, no one knew. More privacy wink wink —, Jon flew you back to Gotham, and you both almost cheered when you realized you were completely home alone, except for Alfred, of course.

Poor Alfred knew something was up when you suddenly were back from your “shopping trip”, with messy hair and clothes, red face and Superboy looking almost sick. He released a long sigh.

— Mx/Miss/Master (Y/N). Young Mr. Kent… — You cleared your throat.

— Alfred… We need help…

After you explained everything, Alfred looked ten years older. He didn't comment on anything, but his face showed how unimpressed he was. He just gestured for you to follow him to the garage, took the keys and started driving.

— Let me warn Master Bruce while we are-

— NO! — You yelled, started. He looked at you through the rearview mirror disapprovingly.

— Should I remind you that he will see the hospital bill and go after the truth? — You bit your lip.

— No, I know that. Just… Can't we pay on cash? — You smiled at him hopefully and nervously, but it was more like a grimace. Alfred was silent. You groaned. — I will tell him okay! Tonight! — Jon’s eyes snapped to yours, wide. — Relax! You're not gonna die!

— Yeah, until Damian whips out a kryptonite sword… — He groaned, hiding his burning face in your neck. You huffed, now wasn't time for him to be adorable.

— He doesn't have a kryptonite sword. Dad didn't let him do it. He would have to build it first. That would give him enough time to calm down. — Jon looked at you, indignant. Alfred cleared his throat.

— While we're there, I can't make any promises that if your father asks, I will hide the truth. He will know. — You and your boyfriend groaned, rubbing your faces with your hands.

— Yes, Alfred, I know…

Two hours later, you were finally laid down in position for the doctor to begin the procedure. Since if wasn't anything serious, you were on the emergency and there was only a curtain separating you from the rest of the patients outside. Alfred was sitting just outside, waiting, while Jon was standing by your side, holding your hand, as if you were about to give birth. The doctor was amused by your story, and her jokes helped you calm down.

She searched around you for a few minutes, the instrument she was using inside you being a little uncomfortable. Jon was silently horrified when he saw, you were startled too, but maintained the composure.

— AHA! Found it! It was really deep inside, almost on your cervix! — When she pulled out the condom, you both let out a breath of relief you didn't know you were holding.

You quickly put your clothes on again, you and Jon chatting as everything seemed lighter, and then left.

What you didn't know was that when Bruce got home and you and Alfred weren't there, it made him call, finding out just that you were in the hospital. Alfred refused to say much more than reassure him that it wasn't urgent and that he would soon know, thus he didn't have to crazily drive all the way there. That didn't stop him from alerting all your siblings.

When you got home, your whole family was there.

— Jon?! What're you doing here? — Alfred kept a straight face. Wow, he really wasn't going to help.

— Hmmm... — Jon subtly and subconsciously hid behind you. You shifted from one foot to another. Damian got up with a threatening scowl. You just came from the hospital. With a kryptonian.

— Kent! If you hurt my sibling I will-

— I didn't! — Jon almost yelled, then covered his face with his hands.

— Then, what is happenning here? — Bruce got up with a raised brow, analyzing the situation.

You thought for a moment. You either told them now and made things easier, or you spent all the way to dinner with them bothering you to tell. You could take it, Jon couldn't.

You took a deep breath.

— JonandIwerehavingsexwhenthecondomdisappearedinsideofmewecouldn'tfinditanywheresoweaskedAlfredforhelpandwenttothehospital.

They blinked.

— … What?

You huffed.

— Jon and I were having sex, when the condom disappeared inside of me. We couldn't find it anywhere, so we asked Alfred for help and went to the hospital. — You said, slower this time, although uma lower, more abashed tone.

Silence.

— … But… It was stuck inside? Weren't you wet, though…? — Tim's analysis broke the silence.

— SEX?! — Dick and Jason exclaimed.

— YOU WERE HAVING SEX WITH MY SIBLING?!

— Knew it. — Cass smiled and nodded, proud of herself.

Bruce heaved a sigh and sat down again.

— I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS! — Damian threw Tim's coffee mug in your direction and Jon zoomed in front of you. The mug broke. Jon had a sheepish expression.

— Tim, go grab kryptonite. — Jason ordered and got up, walking toward the hidden compartment in the shelf where he kept his guns. Dick held him back while Damian threw a flower vase at Jon.

— No! Don't do that, Tim. — Dick ordered back. Tim shook his head.

— I wasn't going to anyway… — He mumbled. Damian threw the center table.

— YOU ACTED BEHIND MY BACK! YOU TRAITOR! YOU- OUCH! PENNYWORTH STOP! — Alfred tutted, pinching his ear.

— I'm sure civilized conversations don't involve breaking the forniture. — Alfred shot a pointed look at Bruce. — Master Bruce! Say something! — Your dad just kept gazing at you and your boyfriend.

Cass sighed, stepping toward Bruce and sitting beside him.

— (Y/N)’s happy. He’s good. They're careful. — Bruce nodded, finally showing some reaction and looking pleased. Jason stopped struggling against Dick and looked at you.

— I don't care. I'm going to kill him. — Damian growled, starting to pace around the room in anger. Jon silently sighed in relief that Damian kept his distance by being on the other side of the room, the couch and the whole family serving as a barrier. You stepped forward.

— It's not casual. We've been together for almost two months now. — Everyone but Alfred and Cass gasped. Damian burned holes in Jon’s head with his eyes and your dad looked at you, masking his mix of emotions.

Cass tsk.

— So clueless. Many signs. — She shook her head.

— (Y/N), why didn't you tell us before? — Dick asked carefully, walking in your direction and stopping in front of you. Jon fiddled behind you. You shrugged.

— Didn't want to deal with you all while we were just starting things. Especially if it didn't work out.

— When were you planning to tell us? — You pouted.

— I don't know… In a month or two? You guys probably would find out by yourselves. — You shrugged.

— You've been sneaking out a lot… — Tim spoke up for the second time, catching everyone’s attention. He was fiddling with his laptop, likely doing his own investigation. The ones closest to Tim looked from the monitor to you again.

— When did you go to Metropolis?! — Jason exclaimed, indignantly.

— Hehe…

Damian growled.

— So that's why you've been ditching me?! — Damian pointed a finger at Jon, who scratched the back of his head.

— Surprise...? — Jon weakly sang the word.

Bruce cleared his throat.

— So that's why Clark’s been acting like he was happy he knew something I didn't… — He got up and pointed at you. — No more sneaking out. Ask permission before going anywhere. — You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you. — Either that or you're grounded. — You pursed your lips and nodded in defeat. — Now we will talk about birth control…

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hrrysangels · 30 days ago

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#ONSET - HS

She’s used to sharing Harry with the world but sharing him with his co-star on a film set? That’s different. The smirks, the lingering touches, the chemistry that looks a little too convincing it all gets under her skin. She tries to hide it, play it cool, but Harry sees right through her. What follows is a moment both heated and tender Harry pulling her into his arms, reminding her exactly who he comes home to. In his trailer, away from the lights and scripts, he makes it clear: no one else matters. No cameras. No performances. Just him. Just her. Always her.

warnings: smut smut smut

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

Y/N hadn’t planned to spend the entire afternoon on set, but when Harry mentioned that today was one of the big shoot days “the scene” as he called it with a glint in his eye she couldn’t resist.

She knew how much this role meant to him. From the moment he got the script, he’d been walking around the apartment quoting lines under his breath, talking about the director like she was a genius, gushing over how the story was different, raw, important. He’d worked hard for this one. She was proud of him really, truly proud but nothing quite prepared her for what it would feel like to watch him perform, live and up close.

Especially that scene.

It wasn’t scheduled until later in the day, so she spent the first hour watching him laugh with crew members, run through lines, and transform before her eyes the moment the cameras started rolling. He was magnetic on set, confident in a way that made her heart tug with admiration. She could see why people loved working with him. The way he slipped into character so fluid, so natural was a kind of magic she hadn’t seen in him before.

Then Florence stepped onto the scene.

Y/N liked Florence. Or at least, she thought she did. They’d met a few times cast parties, casual drinks after a read-through. Florence was kind, sharp, charming,gorgeous. A phenomenal actress. But watching her walk toward Harry, her steps sure and practiced, something in Y/N twisted tight. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t fair. But it was real.

They were filming a moment of intimacy not just a kiss, but one of those slow, breathless, tension heavy kisses that said everything words couldn’t. And Harry was good. Too good. The way his hand slipped around Florence’s waist, the way he leaned in like gravity had chosen her, like there was no other place on earth he’d rather be it punched the air right out of Y/N’s lungs

She reminded herself it was acting. It was all pretend. She’d seen the script. She knew. But knowing didn’t stop her skin from prickling, or her stomach from flipping like she’d missed a step on the stairs.

When the director finally called cut, Harry grinned, full of adrenaline and pride. He ruffled his curls back and jogged over to her, still glowing with the energy of the scene. He kissed her cheek, then her forehead, wrapping an arm around her waist as if the last few minutes hadn’t unsettled something inside her.

“You saw that?” he asked, his voice low, sweet, full of excitement. “Was it okay? Did it work?”

“You were… great,” she said, forcing a small smile. Her throat felt dry

He kissed her temple. “Glad you came today.”

She nodded, eyes flicking toward Florence, who was laughing with a makeup artist just a few feet away. “Yeah. Me too.”

Harry didn’t seem to notice the subtle shift in her. He kept talking, telling her how the lighting was perfect, how Florence nailed her beats, how real it felt. And that was the part that got her how real it felt. He said it like it was something to be proud of. Like it was the best compliment he could give the scene. And maybe it was. Maybe that was the mark of a great actor.

But it still made something curl up inside her chest and shrink.

She wasn’t normally a jealous person. Not with Harry. Not with anyone. But today, watching someone else get that version of him the intensity, the intimacy, the softness even if it was just for the cameras, it left her feeling a little quiet.

She leaned into his side as he kept talking, trying to push it down. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t real.

But the strange ache in her chest told her otherwise.

They walked in silence for a while, weaving through equipment, set pieces, and scattered crew. The sun had started to dip behind the studio buildings, casting everything in a soft amber glow. Harry held her hand as they walked his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles against her skin but something had shifted. She wasn’t talking. Wasn’t smiling like she usually did when they were wrapped up in each other’s space.

It wasn’t until they reached the quieter stretch between set and his trailer that he really felt it. The tension humming just beneath her skin. The way her fingers weren’t quite curling back into his.

He tightened his grip a little, slowing their pace.

“What’s going on, love?” he asked gently, turning his head toward her. His voice was low, warm but his accent thickened the way it always did when he was being soft with her. “Are you okay?”

She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.”

But he didn’t let go of her hand. He just watched her, brow furrowed, waiting and eventually, she exhaled, a slow, shaky breath like she’d been holding something in for too long.

“I’m probably just being overdramatic,” she said, eyes downcast. “You were perfect, Harry. Like, really… perfect.”

The way she said it made something click.

Ah.

It hit him all at once — the quiet mood, the hesitations, the way she’d barely looked him in the eye since the scene ended. His chest swelled with a complicated mix of guilt, affection, and something a little smug. She was jealous. Not in an insecure way. Not in a petty way. Just enough to make her overthink, to make her feel things she couldn’t quite say out loud.

And God, he kind of loved it.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile not mocking, not gloating. Just touched. Because the truth was, as much as he loved acting, as much as he’d thrown himself into the character and the scene, there wasn’t a single part of him that felt anything close to what he felt for the girl beside him.

He stopped walking and turned to face her, still holding her hand.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching her chin with his thumb and tilting her face up until their eyes met. “It’s not overdramatic. You’re allowed to feel things.”

She tried to look away, but he didn’t let her.

“You know it’s all pretend, yeah?” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Everything that happened in that scene every kiss, every look it’s scripted. It’s not real. This…” His forehead touched hers, breath warm between them. “This is real.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into the space between them, her shoulders relaxing slightly. His hand slipped to her waist, anchoring her to him.

“I just… I don’t know,” she whispered. “Seeing you like that, with someone else, even if it’s acting—it just did something to me.”

Harry nodded. “It did something to me too.”

She looked up, confused.

“Made me realize how much I hate having to pretend it’s someone else,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “When it’s always you in my head.”

Her breath caught.

The moment hung there quiet, charged, delicate before he kissed her, slow and sure, right there in the fading light. Not for show. Not because the cameras were rolling. Just because he needed to. Because she was his, and he wanted her to feel it.

Harry opened the door to the trailer with one hand, the other still firmly on her waist. His touch was gentle but guiding, like he was anchoring her, making sure she didn’t drift too far into whatever storm she’d been stuck in since the scene. She stepped in ahead of him, eyes adjusting to the dim light as he pulled the door closed behind them with a soft click.

The air inside was warm, faintly stuffy in that familiar way small spaces get — thick with his cologne and the faint scent of leftover coffee. His jacket was slung over the back of the couch, script pages scattered across the counter beside a half-drunk bottle of water.

Harry’s hand never left her waist. He moved behind her, fitting his chest against her back as his fingers dipped beneath the hem of her hoodie, just enough to graze bare skin.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, voice low, close to her ear.

She leaned into him but didn’t say anything. Not yet. Her arms were still crossed over her chest, not defensive, but not fully relaxed either. He could feel it — the hesitation, the heat still simmering under her skin.

“I don’t want to talk about Florence,” she said softly.

He nodded against her shoulder, his curls brushing her cheek. “Then don’t. This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

She turned in his arms slowly, her eyes finding his in the muted light. There was something in her gaze — not anger, not sadness exactly, but a flicker of vulnerability she didn’t usually show.

“I know it was acting. I do,” she whispered. “But watching it… it felt like someone else got a version of you I didn’t recognize. And I hated it.”

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly, but only because he understood. Because if the roles were reversed, he’d probably feel the exact same way. Maybe worse.

“You don’t have to explain it” he said gently. “You don’t need to pretend it didn’t sting.”

His hands slid around her back, pulling her closer until her body met his fully, the soft cotton of her hoodie pressing against the firm lines of his chest. Her head tilted back just slightly, lips parting like she might speak but then he dipped down and kissed her.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t demanding. It was a slow, grounding kiss the kind that reminded her of who he was when no one else was watching. His lips moved with quiet urgency, but his hands stayed steady, cupping her face, his thumbs brushing the apples of her cheeks.

“You know it’s always you, right?” he said between kisses, forehead pressed to hers. “When I’m in character, when I’m faking it I’m still thinking of you.”

She nodded, her fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. Her hoodie rode up slightly with the movement, revealing the soft curve of her hip. His hands found her there again, thumbs dragging slow, grounding circles.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore it was charged, intimate, brimming with words neither of them needed to say.

He backed her gently toward the small couch tucked in the corner, eyes never leaving hers. And when the backs of her knees hit the cushion, he slowed them down, resting his hands on either side of her hips.

“This okay?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a breath.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but clear. “Yeah,” she whispered. “It’s more than okay.”

He smiled, small and tender, before kissing her again deeper this time, like he was reminding her that no camera could ever capture what they had. And even in the quiet, cramped space of the trailer, it felt like the whole world had narrowed down to just them.

The trailer felt smaller now, even with the door closed behind them. The quiet was thick with anticipation the kind that left her heart racing and her breath shallow. Harry stood in front of her, his hands on her hips, the heat between them undeniable. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, as if asking for permission to keep moving, to keep pushing her toward this.

“My girl,” he murmured, the words low and reverent as he leaned in to kiss her again. His lips were soft, slow, and he let the kiss linger before pulling back just enough to study her face, to read her expression. “Let me take care of you, love.”

Her breath hitched, her hands sliding up his chest to rest around his neck as she drew him closer, needing him against her. It was like she couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t feel him enough like there was a hunger inside her she couldn’t name.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, his voice a quiet promise as he kissed along her jaw. “You’re mine, yeah? Just say the word, and I’ll make sure you forget about anything else.”

His hands moved with purpose, sliding beneath her hoodie, fingertips grazing the soft skin of her back. He kissed her neck, then her shoulder, the light pressure of his lips making her shiver with anticipation. She felt a flutter of warmth in her stomach, her breath catching in her throat.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed against her skin.

She whimpered softly, unable to hide how much his words affected her, how they stoked the fire that had been burning low in her all day.

His hands shifted, finding her waist again, pulling her body flush against his. He could feel the way she trembled beneath him, the way her pulse raced, and it only made him more determined to show her just how much he adored her.

“My girl,” he said again, the words like a sweet, slow drug. “No one else. Not ever. Just you.”

She tilted her head back, closing her eyes as he gently lifted her, guiding her onto the bed. He hovered over her, his gaze never leaving hers, making sure she was okay with every move.

“You want this?” he asked, the question soft but filled with the weight of what he was offering. “Want me to make you feel good?”

The sincerity in his voice, the raw need and tenderness that threaded through it, made her heart skip a beat. She nodded, too overwhelmed to say much more.

He kissed her again, this time with more urgency, the fire between them escalating. But even in his need, he never lost that focus on her on her pleasure, on her feeling loved.

“I’m not rushing this, love,” he murmured against her lips, as his hands began exploring, slow and sure. “I’m going to make you feel every second of this. Every touch.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, the warmth of his touch seeping deep into her skin, and she could only hold onto him as he worked to make her feel cherished, loved, and, above all, seen.

Harry's hands slid under her hoodie, fingertips grazing the soft skin of her stomach. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, like he was worshipping every inch of her. She shivered, arching into him, craving more.

"You're perfect," he murmured, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. "So fucking perfect."

She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging him closer. "Please," she whispered, voice trembling with need. "I want to feel you."

He groaned at her words, hips grinding against hers as his hands slid higher, cupping her breasts through her bra. "God, you drive me crazy," he breathed, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they pebbled beneath the fabric.

She gasped, back arching softly as pleasure shot through her. "Off," she demanded, tugging at his shirt. "I need to feel your skin."

Harry sat back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before quickly removing her hoodie as well. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her. Standing there in her black lace bra.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he growled, leaning down to capture one of her nipples between his teeth through the lace. She cried out, fingers tugging at his hair as he suckled and nipped at the sensitive bud.

He took his time with her, exploring every inch of exposed skin with his hands and mouth. He unhooked her bra with a deft flick of his fingers before pulling it away, revealing her breasts to his hungry gaze.

"Look at you," he said roughly, cupping the soft mounds in his palms. "So fucking beautiful." He lowered his head, licking and sucking at her nipples until she was squirming him, desperate for more. He gently sat her on the couch

"Harry," she gasped, hands fisting in his hair. "I need you."

He kissed his way down her stomach, getting on his knee in front of her his fingers hooking in the waistband of her jeans. "Not yet, love," he murmured.

He unbuttoned her jeans slowly, dragging the zipper down with maddening slowness before tugging them off her legs. She was left in just her panties, pulse racing as she watched him drink in the sight of her, sitting on the couch in nothing but a scrap of lace

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said roughly, trailing a finger along the edge of her panties. "The things I want to do to you."

She whimpered, hips lifting as if seeking friction. "Then do them," she breathed. "Please."

He grinned, before he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and slowly dragged them down her legs. His gaze zeroed in on the glistening flesh between her thighs, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Fuck," he groaned, sliding a finger through her slick folds. "You're so wet for me already."

She bucked against his touch, desperate for more. "Harry, please," she begged.

Shifting between her legs, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh before trailing open-mouthed kisses up to her core. She nearly screamed as his tongue made contact, licking a slow stripe up her slit before circling her clit.

"Oh god," she moaned, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets. "Don't stop."

He growled against her flesh, the vibrations making her see stars. He licked and sucked and fucked her with his tongue until she was a writhing mess beneath him, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

"Come for me," he demanded, sliding two fingers inside her tight heat as his tongue continued its relentless assault on her clit. "Let go for me, love."

It was too much. The sensation of his fingers pumping in and out of her, his tongue flicking against that sensitive bundle of nerves - she shattered with a cry, coming apart at the seams as pleasure crashed over her in waves.

Harry worked her through it, gentling his touch as she floated down from her high. He kissed his way back up her body, taking a moment to lave attention on each breast before reaching her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips and it only spurred her arousal higher.

"Fuck me," she demanded, wrapping her legs around his hips and pulling him closer. "I need you inside me."

He groaned, grinding his hard length against her aching core. "Patience," he said softly. "I'm going to make this good for you."

He reached down, fumbling with his belt and zipper until his cock sprang free. She licked her lips at the sight, desperate to feel him stretching her, filling her.

"I want to feel all of you."

Harry's eyes darkened with lust. "You sure?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded frantically, needing him more than she needed air. "Please," she begged.

That was all the encouragement he needed. With a grunt, he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt inside her tight heat. They both cried out at the sensation, bodies trembling with the force of it.

"Fuck," he gasped, staying still for a moment to let her adjust. "You feel incredible."

She clenched around him, relishing the feel of his thick cock pulsing inside her. "Move," she urged. "I need you to move."

“needy little thing aren’t you” he teased softly in his British accent

He did, setting a steady pace as he rocked into her again and again. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small space, mixing with their moans and pants.

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, hips never faltering as he captured her lips in a searing kiss. She met him stroke for stroke, relishing the feel of him heavy and hard inside her.

"I love you," he gasped between kisses. "Fuck, I love you so much."

He groaned into her mouth, increasing his pace. "I love you too," She panted. "More than anything."

They moved together in perfect sync, lost to everything but each other. Harry could feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine, but he held off, determined to bring her with him.

He reached between them, finding her clit and rubbing tight circles around it with his thumb. "Come for me again," he urged, voice strained with effort. "I want to feel you come apart around my cock."

His words were her undoing. With a scream of his name, she came hard, clenching around him like a vice. It was enough to send Harry over the edge as well and he followed soon after with a guttural groan, spilling himself deep inside her.

They collapsed together in a sweaty tangle of limbs, chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath. Harry pressed soft kisses to her face, brushing sweat-dampened hair off her forehead.

"That was..." she trailed off, unable to find the words.

"Amazing," he supplied with a grin. "Incredible. Mind-blowing. Life-changing."

She laughed breathlessly, pulling him down for a kiss. "All of the above," she agreed.

They laid there for a long moment, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Harry stayed on top of her on that couch careful not to lay his full body weight on her

"I meant what I said," he murmured into her hair. "I love you. And I know I'm yours - only yours - always."

She pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I love you more," she whispered back.

They stayed like that for a while longer, basking in the intimacy and closeness of the moment. The rest of the world faded away until it was just the two of them, tangled together in their little haven

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry x y/n #dont worry darling #harry styles x original character #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #actor #on set #jack chambers #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry x you #harry styles writing #harry x yn

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penascigarette · 5 months ago

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smooth operator ch 2. this bitch bites

Joel Miller x f!phone sex worker

➴wc: 7k | summary: you accidentally send a picture of yourself to joel which results in a video call

➴warnings: mdni, fxm phone sex, m&f masturbation, dirty talk

➴an: hi! tysm to everyone for all the love on the first part of this silly little series. I've been having so much fun writing and interacting with everyone. y'all are the best. feel free to come scream with me about this or anything <333

masterlist | series masterlist

For the rest of the night, your mind plays your conversation with Joel on repeat.

Elliot is asleep when you barge into his room, itching to share your dirty little secret. His limbs are sprawled like a starfish, his mouth hanging open, a light snore escaping him. He looks so peaceful that you decide against waking him. Instead, you sneak back to your room, feeling as if you'll explode if you don't tell someone soon. You’re a talker, and keeping this bottled up feels like pure torture.

Blowing a breath out, you stare up at the ceiling. How you feel isn’t easy to explain.

Your body is more satisfied than it’s been in a long time, aching for more.

Your heart agrees, thrilled at the thought of a forbidden relationship with this sexy, mysterious man. It hasn’t felt much since your last boyfriend—only pain and disappointment.

Your head, though, is another story. It reminds you how much trouble you could get into. Jane has a strict no-relationships rule between workers and clients, fearing the temptation to give free "sessions" or show favoritism. She’s all business, no play.

Dread swirls in your stomach. What you’ve done is dangerous, even if it was ridiculously mind-blowing. Joel wants a repeat; if you deny him, he could tell Jane.

You could always deny it… say it was just part of the act.

But your heart hates that thought. Even considering letting Joel down makes it ache as if you’ve already done it. How can you feel so much for someone after one phone call?

Because it’s exciting, the bad girl in you whispers.

You’ll get into trouble, your rational side argues, but it’s outnumbered.

Think about how amazing he made you feel, your body chimes in, tingling in remembrance. You came harder than ever, and he didn’t even touch you.

“God,” you groan, pressing your palms into your eyes until they hurt and you see funny lights. “I need sleep.” With no way to figure it out on your own, you know you need Elliot. For now, you push the thoughts away and try to rest.

Before you open your eyes, you know you’ve woken up ridiculously early. Something feels different—a sensation you can’t quite place.

You don’t have the cozy, half-asleep feeling you usually enjoy. The blankets aren’t warm or soft enough, and you’re itching to get up and do something. So, you throw the covers off, get dressed, and spend extra time on your hair and makeup. The effort gives you a bounce in your step, though the knot of unease in your gut remains.

Grabbing your phone, you head to the bathroom, use the toilet, and brush your teeth. There’s no noise from Elliot’s room—you doubt he’ll wake up for another hour. You go downstairs instead.

The kettle is still full from yesterday, so you flick it on and get your coffee ready. You debate making breakfast but decide against it—eating without Elliot feels wrong.

Less than a minute later, the water boils. You pour it into your mug, watching the steam rise before curling up on the sofa.

Being awake this early makes you feel like you could get so much done. Maybe you’ll work out after coffee, or tidy up and throw out the takeaway boxes before more clutter piles up.

But your mind drifts back to Joel. You wonder about his morning routine. Does he put effort into his appearance because he’s good with women? You imagine him with a six-pack… God, you hope he has one.

No, stop, you think, shaking your head. What does it matter? But the thought of him only makes your fantasies steamier.

Your plans are forgotten, and you spend an hour imagining every inch of him. You don’t even notice your coffee going cold until Elliot flops onto the sofa beside you.

“There you are,” he says groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Ooh, you made coffee.” Without asking, he takes your mug, grimacing after a sip. “This is cold. How long have you been sitting here?”

“About an hour,” you admit with a shrug.

“Oh.” His brows lift. “How come, honey?” Concern laces his tone.

“I have something to tell you.” Finally, the words spill out, and you shift to face him.

“Did you finally shave your legs?” he asks, deadpan, taking another sip of coffee.

“Shut up. It hasn’t been that long, okay? This is serious.”

“Fine.” He smirks. “Go on.”

“I had phone sex last night.”

His brow furrows. “Sweetie, phone sex is your job. Are you feeling okay?” He places a hand on your forehead.

You roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “Not like that! I got off with him.”

Elliot’s jaw drops. “You… you flicked your bean to a client?”

Guiltily, you nod. “In my defense, he has the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. And he’s amazing at talking dirty. Better than me!”

“Really?” Elliot’s skepticism is written all over his face.

You nod, leaning closer. “He said things like… ‘spread yourself open’ and ‘you’re such a good girl for me.’ He even told me to force my clit out of its hood! Most guys don’t even know what a that is!”

Elliot blinks, grabbing a cushion to cover his lap. “I completely understand.”

You laugh, though the thought of getting in trouble dampens your mood.

Elliot waves dismissively. “Just don’t tell anyone. I won’t either. In fact, I expect details from future calls.”

You snort. "I don't know if there will be any more."

He looks at you like you've grown another head. "Why?"

"Because I don't want to get in trouble for this," you admit, biting your lip for a moment. "Even if it was incredible."

"You won't get into trouble." He sounds so sure. "Seriously. I may or may not...have done the same thing. More than once," he mumbles the last part.

"What!?" you exclaim, wondering how the hell you're only just hearing about this. "Why haven't you told me?" You poke your bottom lip out at him. "You're keeping a lot of secrets from me lately."

He pinches your lip between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to pull it back into your mouth. "I didn't think it was that big of a deal. I don't tell you every time I jack off to porn, now do I? As for my date with Danny, I told you as soon as I had the balls to."

"But it is a huge deal," you argue.

"Yeah, to you, but...you're a bit of a prude."

"I am not. How can you be a prude when you work as a phone sex operator?”

"You are," he teases lightly. "When you had that one-night stand after you and Ben broke up, you cried for three days."

Your shoulders slump, and you mumble, "I was ashamed."

"Well, you shouldn't be," he says firmly. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. Sex is beautiful. And fun."

"That's easy for you to say," you point out. "You're a man. Women get labeled and judged." And oh boy, do you hate being judged. It's why you don't tell people what you do for a living.

He softens at that. "You shouldn't be so worried about what people think of you. You only live once."

"I know," you mumble, not knowing what to say to that. Because it's true—you shouldn't be so concerned about others' thoughts of you—but it's not something you can just switch off. You change the subject. "So tell me about the times you've...you know." You know it’ll make you feel better.

"Well," he licks his lips and puts one hand on the back of the sofa while the other holds his coffee. "The first time, I can't even remember his name. He called when I was in the middle of getting off, and we ended up getting off together with my porno playing."

You both laugh at that.

"The second time," he continues, a certain fondness in his tone. "Was this guy called 'K.' I don't know why. There was just this... attraction, and we did it. Then it just became this thing."

You frown in confusion. "A thing? Does that mean you still do it?"

"Yep," he pops the 'p' with a grin. "He doesn't call very often, though."

"I can't believe..." you break into a breathless chuckle because here you are, worrying your ass off, and it's actually no big deal. Well, as long as Jane doesn't find out. "This is crazy."

"Maybe," Elliot shrugs and then wiggles his eyebrows. "But isn't it so much more fun that way?"

You have to agree.

___________

That night, you find yourself itching for Joel 's call. You’ve even stripped yourself naked in preparation. If that’s not eager, you don’t know what is.

Every time your phone rings, your heart leaps into your throat. It's ridiculous to act like this because of a man you don’t even know, but for some mysterious reason, he's caught your attention, and you're not letting him go anytime soon.

When it turns out it’s not him on the other end of the line, you find yourself entertaining the idea that he lied when he said he’d call again tonight. Maybe he only said it to keep you happy, or he hadn’t known what else to say.

Although he seemed interested. Interested enough to ask for your real name...you’re not counting him out quite yet. The night isn't over.

It takes another two phone calls before his name finally flashes on your screen.

Almost immediately, your stomach twists with excitement, and an ache starts to form between your legs. You're nervous but in a good way. It reminds you of the very first time you had phone sex with a client. When you manage to calm yourself down, you answer the phone, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Hey, you." Does that sound okay? You hope so.

"Hey," he greets, his voice wobbling just a little. Maybe he feels the same way you do. "How've you been?"

You blink, momentarily stunned. Did he really just ask that? None of your clients ever ask how you’re doing. Not that you’re complaining—it’s nice to be treated like an actual human being instead of just a way to get off.

"I'm great," you say honestly. "What about you?"

"Much better now," he replies, and you bite the corner of your lip to keep a goofy smile from breaking through. "I have to say, I've been thinking about you all damn day. Do you have any idea how hard it is to walk around with a near-constant boner?"

You’re already gushing down below. Squeezing your thighs shut at the image he’s planted in your mind, you reply breathlessly, "Can't say I have, but I know what it's like walking around with a fountain in your panties all day long."

His laugh is dark. "A fountain? Sounds like someone's been thinking naughty thoughts."

"More than one, actually."

"Mm," he hums in approval. You hear rustling in the background as if he’s settling in. "Tell me one of them."

There are so many to choose from, but one stands out. "Okay," you say, licking your lips. "But you can't laugh, okay?"

"I wouldn't dare," he assures, though you can hear the amusement in his voice.

"Right." You take a deep breath. "So... it's a student-teacher fantasy."

"Ah," he responds knowingly.

"Yeah, so, you're the teacher, and I'm the student." Christ, you can’t believe you’re actually saying this. It feels stupid and embarrassing—so much easier to talk about other people’s fantasies than your own. "I have detention, and it’s just you and me in the classroom. You’re looking over schoolwork, and since you’re distracted, I decide to, you know."

"Say it." It’s a command, and the increase in his breathing tells you this is getting him just as hot as it gets you.

"I play with my pussy," you admit, scraping your teeth along your bottom lip. "I slip my hand down my panties, find my clit, pinch it, and rub it. I hold back my moans because I don’t want you to hear." Without realizing it, your eyes shut, and your hands wander down your body, acting out the fantasy. You’re already wet—so wet it surprises you, soaking your thighs and dampening the sheets.

"Fuck," he draws the word out. "You think you’re being quiet, but you’re not, Princess. And your pussy’s so fucking wet I can smell it from my desk."

"God," you choke out, your breath hitching. "I don’t care that you know. I’m too close—I don’t even care if you see." You’re not lying; you’re so close, but not ready to finish yet. Leaving your clit alone for a moment, you slide two fingers inside yourself—they glide in easily. "In fact, I move further down the chair and spread my legs so you can see what I’m doing."

Both of you are worked up now. You hear him stroking himself hard in the background.

He growls dangerously. "I know exactly what you want, Princess. I come over to you, throw the table out of my way, and sink to my knees. You’re so fucking wet I can see everything through your white panties. It’s clinging to your slit and your poor swollen clit."

"God."

"My whole mouth slots over your creaming cunt, and I suck the sweet juices through your panties."

Your pussy clenches hard around your fingers. "Jesus Christ. You’re so good." Your hand is practically swimming in your own cum.

"Your hard little nub doesn’t stand a chance against my tongue, and I have you gushing into my mouth in under ten seconds."

You have no self-control. You don’t want to come yet, but your hand has a mind of its own. Before you know it, you’re going over the edge.

"Ohmygod, Joel !" you squeak embarrassingly, thighs shaking around your hand as you rock your hips, trying to prolong the sensation.

"Did you come?" he asks, both amused and proud.

"You didn’t give me much choice," you reply weakly, tiny waves of pleasure still coursing through you as your hand lingers.

"Hey, I’m not complaining, trust me," he says. "The sounds you make when you come are heaven, baby."

You blow a stray piece of hair off your face and finally pull your fingers out. "Have you come? Do you want to keep going?" you ask. "I didn’t even get to the part where I give you an epic blowjob."

"Please, by all means, continue."

You grin. "All right. So after that mind-blowing orgasm, I kiss you so I can taste myself on your lips."

"Fuck, that’s hot, Princess." You hear him stroke himself faster.

"And I grab your tie, walking you back to your desk. I make you sit down." The thought of touching him excites you all over again, and you circle a nipple with one finger. "I kneel between your thighs and unzip your pants. Your dick is so hard it’s leaking pre-cum through your underwear." God, you’re desperate to taste it. You tell him that, too.

"Keep going," he orders, his voice strained.

You do. "I lick the fabric, but it’s not enough. I grab your cock and bring it to my lips. God, you’re fucking delicious. I rub the head all over my lips, needing to taste more of your cum." Shamefully, you mean every word.

"I’m so close, Princess," he groans, his pace quickening. "Just a little more."

"I take you into my wet, warm mouth. You’re so big and hard I can barely fit my lips around you. I hollow my cheeks and suck like I would a lollipop, my tongue stroking underneath your shaft. I can feel you getting close because you start pulsing in my mouth. I go faster, wanting to feel you spill down my throat."

He finally releases with a harsh moan. "Damn, Princess."

You blurt out your name correcting him before you can stop yourself.

He’s still catching his breath. "What was that?"

You repeat your name, unsure if this is a good idea but knowing it’s too late to turn back. "It’s my name."

He repeats it smoothly, the name rolling off his tongue. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

You scoff, rolling your eyes to stop yourself from smiling. "You don’t know if I’m pretty or not."

"I don’t have to see you to know you’re beautiful."

His words touch you, but you doubt he’s worked all this out after just two phone calls. You humor him anyway. "That’s sweet of you to say."

"I better get going. Gotta get up for work in the morning," he says with a genuine yawn.

"Oh?" you ask, curiosity piqued. "What do you do?"

"I’m a fireman."

Your eyes widen, and you instantly regret asking. Now you’ll be up all night fantasizing about him in uniform. "Oh god, that’s sexy," you blurt out.

"I’m glad you think so," he chuckles. "Maybe we can work it into our role-play tomorrow?"

"That’s a fantastic idea," you agree eagerly.

"All right," he laughs. "Seriously, I gotta go. Sweet dreams princess."

"Yeah," you reply, already looking forward to the next conversation. "You too, Joel."

__________________

"Tell me how big you are," you demand lightly, still tingling blissfully from your orgasm. You finally remove your hand from between your legs and use your damp fingers to trace circles around your hard nipples.

Joel laughs, the sound a mixture of arousal and embarrassment. "It's probably going to sound like I'm bullshitting, but... seven and a half inches."

You decide to believe him. Sure, he could very well be lying—lots of guys do. Practically every man you talk to claims to have a big dick. It’s all part of the fantasy. But Joel feels different. "Wow... that's huge."

Your body responds instinctively, a clench of anticipation as you imagine how full he could make you feel.

"Yeah... well, I've had no complaints," he says, sounding both bashful and proud.

"You sure?" you tease. "I bet there have been a few comments about you being too big or going too deep."

He laughs again. "When I was younger, yeah, but I learned pretty quickly that every woman is different. I like to get a feel for her using my fingers first, see how much she can handle."

You can’t help it; a vivid image of his fingers working you over, his muscular arm straining against your thigh as he tests your limits, flashes in your mind. Jesus, you could come again just from that thought. You stumble out a response. "Oh, I, uh... yeah, that’s good of you."

"Only fair. They're lettin' me have sex with them, least I can do is make sure they damn well enjoy it."

What a gentleman, you think. How many men actually care if a woman is enjoying herself? In your experience, they get off without a second thought for you.

"I wish more men were like you," you tell him honestly.

"Well... I wish more women were like you."

That catches you off guard. "Really? In what way?"

"I don’t know... you’re just so open. Sexually, I mean. You’re not afraid to tell me what you like. You’ve got a great laugh, too. And you’re so damn easy to talk to. I feel like I could tell you everything."

The words make your heart flutter. Compliments from clients are nothing new, but they usually run along the lines of, "You’re so good at talking dirty," or, "You made me come so hard." None of them are as sweet or genuine as what Joel just said.

And none of them make you think about how easily you could fall for him.

As soon as the thought enters your mind, you push it away. How ridiculous. There’s no way you should be falling for a man you’ve never met. You don’t even know what he looks like. Having a crush is one thing, but love? God, I’m turning into one of those women who fall for anyone just because they say the right things.

And the saddest part? You’re pretty sure Joel isn’t even trying.

"Princess? You still there?"

His voice pulls you from your spiral. You don’t know how long you’ve been silent, but the realization is both embarrassing and unprofessional. You’re wasting his time—and his money.

"Sorry, Joel," you apologize. "I totally zoned out. I -I’ll refund you for the call."

"Don’t worry about that," he says quickly. "Please, be honest with me. Did I make you uncomfortable? I didn’t mean to overstep—"

Oh, god, he’s so sweet. You cut him off. "No, no! I swear, you didn’t. I was just... surprised, that’s all," you reassure him. "I really appreciate it. And... I feel the same way." You bite your lip. You hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but the words tumble out before you can stop them. "I feel like... I’ve known you forever."

"I’m glad," he says, relief evident in his tone. "Was worried I’d freaked you out."

"Not at all," you reply with a soft smile.

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence. The reality of your situation dawns on you: You’re discussing feelings—real feelings—with a client. A man you’ve never met. You don’t know his last name. It’s been, what, a week?

But you want to know him. Desperately. Maybe you’re crazy. Maybe you’re just lonely. Or maybe you need something deeper than the physical connection you’re used to.

The sound of a beeping line breaks the moment. "Damn it," Joel curses. "They need me at work. I’ve got to go."

Immediately, you feel a pang of guilt. He didn’t even get to finish. "Listen," you say impulsively, "I’m going to text you my personal number, okay? When you have a chance, call me, and we’ll finish what we started."

There’s a pause. "Wow," he says finally. "That would be amazing. I could text you throughout the day, too... only if you want, of course. Don’t wanna cross any boundaries."

If anything, it's you crossing boundaries. “I’d love that." You respond honestly, your heart fluttering and a fuzzy feeling settles in your belly. You really like him, don't you? Crap.

He chuckles, and you can almost hear his grin. "Good."

—-------‐

How'd the baking go? You still alive?

You breathe out a laugh as you open and read Joel's text. It's been about a week since you gave him your number, and you haven't regretted it for a second.

Like shit, I can't have cooked it long enough because it was still gooey in the middle. But we're all still alive...for now.

You send the text before glancing over at the modeling shoot, which is now where your living room used to be. White material hangs from metal frames, creating a backdrop for the pictures. Standing lights are positioned opposite. The photographer your mom hired is here, and your house is his studio.

Elliot is currently looking through the outfits he and your mom spent all of yesterday shopping for, now hung from a clothes rail. Some of them are latex and kinky as hell, others flimsy and revealing.

Your mom is busy pulling on a gray mini skirt. She’s already wearing stockings, a white, revealing blouse, and a tight gray blazer that cuts off at the elbows. You know she has a pair of glasses to complete her sexy secretary look. All she needs is a messy updo, and she’ll be ready to go.

You have to admit, the fake breasts she bought five years ago look fantastic in that shirt. You’re almost jealous. They look better than yours.

Elliot, meanwhile, is shirtless, with a pair of leather pants covering his bottom half. He looks amazing. His hair is messy, like he just had sex, and he’s debating with your mom whether or not he should use some eyeliner to make himself look darker and more mysterious.

You remain firm in your decision to stay out of the photo shoot. Even though you wouldn’t have to be naked, the idea doesn’t sit well with you. People could recognize you—friends from school, old work colleagues, or that bitch who stole your favorite hair clip in swimming class when you were a teen. The thought of any of them knowing—or worse, judging—what you do for a living makes you die a little inside, even though you know in your heart it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re just too sensitive, you guess.

Your phone vibrates in your hand, signaling an incoming text, and you glance down at the screen, your attention no longer on the shoot. It’s Joel again.

Ah... remind me to do all the baking if I ever work up the courage to ask you out.

Your lips part in shock before they curve slowly. He wants to ask you out? Wow… you trap your bottom lip between your teeth as you type your response.

Deal. You finding that courage any time soon?

You hesitate, then press send before locking your phone and leaning your elbows on the counter in front of you. Your eyes follow your mother’s movements as she practices poses in front of a large, stand-up mirror. You’re on kitchen duty since you’re neither a model nor a photographer, which means it’s your job to keep their coffee topped up.

“What do you think?” Elliot asks, his question floating to no one in particular as he studies himself in a small pocket-sized mirror. A black eyeliner pencil sits in his other hand.

You tilt your head, examining his eyes. One is framed in sharp black, while the other remains untouched. “Go with the eyeliner,” you say after a moment. “It matches your leather look.” You gesture toward his trousers.

Without looking up, Elliot starts lining his other eye. “Thanks, babe.”

You curl your lips in a faint reply, even though he can’t see it. Your phone buzzes again, and you quickly check the message on the screen.

I'm working on it ;)

Good. I'm looking forward to it ;)

You bite your lip, trying to hide your excitement. You don’t want your mom catching onto your texts; without a doubt, she’d know you’re talking to a guy. Then she’d question you until you gave up the goods.

A ping behind you sounds, reminding you that you were in the process of making another round of coffee. Slipping your phone into your pocket, you decide you’d better get the coffee addicts their fix.

The photo shoot ends up being a success—not that you were expecting anything different. They could have been real models, and it makes you wonder why they didn’t pursue a career in it. They’re honestly naturals.

And oh my god, your mom—you’re laughing now—manages to get a date with the photographer. He has to be about ten years younger than her. Not that it stops him, of course. You and Elliot can’t help but exchange glances and giggle knowingly when it’s your mom’s turn to be photographed. The poor guy can’t take his eyes off her.

You hope it goes well, of course, but you doubt he’ll end up being anything more than a fling. Your mom just isn’t one to settle down. Not since your dad walked out when you were a baby and left her with a broken heart. You think she lost her faith in men after that.

Not that your experience with men is much better. Your ex was an asshole who killed your confidence and then cheated on you with someone you had considered your best friend at the time. Pretty clichéd, you know. But unlike your mom, you still have hope that a Prince Charming will come along and sweep you off your feet.

And just maybe, that Prince could be Joel.

Yes, okay, it was still early days to be thinking like that but sometimes...you just know, you know? There’s a fluttering in your stomach—a warmth, a feeling of pure happiness, safety, and understanding. It’s not the same as those first-date butterflies you had with your ex, when everything was exciting and new. No, this is something different, something deeper. You can’t quite explain how—it just is.

"Hey, you’ve got a package down here!" Elliot sing-songs from downstairs, pulling you out of your thoughts.

A package? What could it—Oh! You remember the top you ordered online and let out an excited squeal. Quickly, you step out of the shower. You were finished in there anyway.

"Coming!" you call down to Elliot, quickly drying yourself off and slipping into your plain black bra and underwear. You rub the towel through your hair, barely giving a thought to your state of undress as you head downstairs. Elliot wouldn’t care, anyway.

As you step into the room, Elliot whistles from the sofa, his legs tucked underneath him and one arm draped along the back. “Looking hot, girl!” he teases, flashing you a playful grin.

“Thanks, babe.” You lean over the back of the sofa and snag the package from his lap. Tearing open the grey plastic bag, you start digging through it eagerly.

“What’d you get?” Elliot asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Remember that top I showed you and Julie? The white one with ‘This Bitch Bites!’ written on the front?” Your fingers brush soft material, and you pull it free with a triumphant grin. Tossing the plastic to the floor, you hold the top up to admire it.

Elliot throws his head back in laughter. “You didn’t!”

“Oh, I did.” You flip the shirt around, showing it off with a dramatic flourish.

Elliot gasps as if it’s the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen. “I fucking love it! Do they have it in my size?” He reaches out to pinch the fabric between his fingers, giving it an approving nod. “Ooh, I like the material, too.”

“Yeah, I think so,” you say, gathering the shirt in your hands and pulling it over your head. You smooth it down and strike a pose, hands on your hips. “What do you think?”

"Your boobs look awesome in that." Elliot nods approvingly. "Oh! Gimme your phone. I'll take a pic, and you can send it to Julie. I bet she'll wanna see it." He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers expectantly.

You instinctively reach for your pockets, but your fingers brush against bare skin, reminding you that your clothes—and your phone—are upstairs. "I'll go get it," you say, heading off.

After sending the picture, you grab a quick snack before making your way back upstairs. Your hair is still damp from the shower, and you know you need to dry it before it starts frizzing.

You sit at your dresser, plug in your hair dryer, and get ready to turn it on when your phone vibrates with an incoming message. Setting the dryer down, you pick up your phone to check the text.

Damn, I hope she does, was the response, leaving you confused.

Julie doesn’t text like that. You know how she is—always shortening her words until they’re barely readable, leaving you and Elliot to figure out what she actually means. And commas? Forget it. She probably doesn’t even know what one is.

You scrunch your nose, confused, your thumb hovering over the screen to text her back when another message pops up. This time, it’s from Joel.

You're fucking beautiful, by the way.

Okay, so that’s kind of creepy. How the fuck does he know what you look like? That’s when it hits you— the previous text was from Joel, not Julie like you’d assumed.

“Oh no…” you breathe, your fingers scrambling to scroll up through the conversation. And there it is. The picture Elliot took of you. You, wearing nothing but your white this bitch bites! shirt and black panties, your chest pushed forward so the writing stretches smooth across the fabric. And that picture? It’s been sent to Joel. Not Julie.

You growl out loud, “I’m going to kill Elliot,” your heart pounds like crazy. You spring to your feet, panic surging through you as you pace back and forth, trying to form a coherent thought. Did he do it on purpose? No, surely he wouldn’t—okay, yeah, he probably would. You groan loudly, covering your face with your hands before falling backward onto the bed. You land with a bounce.

And just when you think it couldn’t possibly get any worse, the realization hits you. “I’m not even wearing makeup, Elliot!” you shout, your voice full of despair.

You know you should respond to Joel, but you're way too busy freaking the hell out.

He knows what you look like. That’s bad. So very bad. Why exactly it’s bad, you’re not sure. But the black hole churning in your stomach insists it is.

He thinks you’re beautiful, a calmer part of your mind whispers blissfully. Without makeup. That part makes you ridiculously happy. But it’s still bad…right?

Gnawing on your bottom lip, you try to think clearly. So what if he knows what you look like? It’s not like he can track you down with just an image. Sure, okay, he also knows your first name, but you don’t even have social media. Good luck with that, buddy!

...Really? Come on.

You shake your head at yourself. You know Joel wouldn’t do anything like that. You’re just freaking out and thinking irrationally. He’s a good guy, and you trust him. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have given him your real number.

Breathing in deeply, you lift your phone to your face and read his messages again.

Damn, I hope she does.

You're fucking beautiful, by the way.

This time, you allow yourself to smile, embracing the warmth that fills your stomach at his words. He’s so sweet, with just the right amount of dirty. He hopes you’re a biter... Naughty pictures flood your mind, and you squeeze your thighs together. You’d be a biter for him any day.

Your thumbs hover over the touch-screen keyboard as you consider what to respond to him. Deciding that honesty is the best policy, you go with:

Sorry about that! It was meant for my girl friend but my other friend is a total dick. I don't make a habit of sending half-naked pics to guys. I'm glad you like it though :)

A thought pops into your head, and you quickly type:

Since you've got a pic of me...maybe you'll be open to sharing one of you?

You nibble at your fingernail as you wait for his response. You hope you didn't make him uncomfortable by asking for a picture, but you honestly do want one of him. You're curious about what he could look like. You have an image of him in your head, but you dare say it wouldn't look anything like him. A few seconds later, you get a reply.

Ah, that makes sense. I did think it was a bit odd since you never mentioned anything about us exchanging pictures. I'm glad it happened, though. Maybe I should be thanking your friend ;)

Your lips curl as you get ready to send him a response when another text comes through.

Sure, you can have one of me as long as you'll excuse my appearance. It's It’s been a rough day at work, and I haven’t had a chance to shower yet.

Again, you start typing your reply, your heart jumping into your throat at the thought of finally seeing his face when yet another text comes through. But this time, it isn’t words; it’s a picture. The picture you’ve been waiting for.

Your lips part and your heart falls back into your chest, doing a funny little dance. A slow breath escapes you as you can't tear your eyes away from the selfie he sent you.

Gorgeous doesn't even begin to describe him. whiskey-colored eyes, lips so full it almost looks like he's pouting. A day or two's worth of stubble covers his lower face.

He looks tired but still manages a small, lopsided smile for you. His hair is a mess as if he's spent a good portion of the day running his fingers through it. Full lips and dark eyes. The picture is taken directly in front, and you can see his large Adam’s apple and broad shoulders. His shirt, from what you can make out, is completely white.

“Oh my god,” you mutter in astonishment. Honestly… the guy looks like a model. You find it hard to believe someone like him needs a sex operator to get off. He must have women falling all over him. He's a firefighter for fuck’s sake. It's like every girl’s wet dream.

It makes you wonder if he's telling the truth, or if he's been lying all along and knows exactly how to draw a girl in.

Worried and paranoid, you bite your bottom lip and finally text him back.

Is that really you? Or are you screwing with me?

His reply doesn't come in the shape of a text. Instead, you get a notification about an incoming video call.

Your eyes widen, and your first instinct is to reject it. Having just gotten out of the shower, your hair is wet, and your face is make-up-free. You don’t want him to see you this way, but then you remember that he’s already seen the picture you—well, Elliot—sent him. So, you accept it. It can’t have put him off that much since he's still talking to you.

It takes a moment for the call to connect, and you bite your lip harder.

And then there he is, looking just like he did in his photo. This proves that he'd definitely just taken it moments before, and it was definitely him. You feel guilty for doubting him.

"Wow." His full lips twist into a big smile. "Hey there, beautiful."

Your butterflies return with a vengeance, and you grin back so hard your cheeks hurt. "Hey, handsome." You know your face is burning but you don't even care. You're nervous and aren't afraid to admit it. This is a big step for both of you. Who wouldn't have some kind of nerves? The hand holding your phone up shakes slightly.

He chuckles, rubbing his fingers over his lips. "I can't believe I'm actually looking at you. It's crazy. You're so gorgeous. You're perfect."

Your entire body buzzes at his words, warmth filling you. "Coming from you? You're so fucking sexy I thought you'd sent me a fake picture!"

You both laugh, the sound full of excitement, anxiety, and amazement. "No, no. I would never do that. I'm glad you approve though, I was worried I wouldn't be your type."

You splutter, "Dude...you have to be everyone's type." The nervous laughter continues. Neither of you really knows what to say or how to react, but you can't stop looking at each other with goofy expressions. "How was your day?" you finally decide to ask, figuring that maybe a more casual conversation might help you both get over the shock.

"My day?" He was grinning still, shaking his head. "My day...this has got to be the best day of my damned life."

It’s so sweet you could almost cry. Almost sobbing with tears in your eyes, you respond, “I know the feeling.”

You’re both too overwhelmed to have a normal conversation. You stay on the phone for hours, mostly admiring each other, smiling like idiots, and commenting on your disbelief of the situation. You’re in awe of each other, that much is obvious. Time quickly flies by, and you notice Joel starts to grow more tired by the second.

"Why don’t you get some sleep?" you suggest softly, one hand tucked under your cheek as you lay on your side, snuggled up underneath your duvet. You continue to hold the phone in front of you.

He groans and rubs his eye with his knuckles. It’s adorable to see. "I should...I really, really should." His hand drops, and he focuses on the phone, flashing you a sleepy smile. "But that means hanging up...and I don’t think I’m ready to leave you yet."

You giggle quietly, feeling genuinely happy. "I know the feeling," you say. "But it's getting late, and you have work in the morning. I promise we'll talk again tomorrow night. Plus, I'll be texting you all day, you know that."

He chuckles. "Damn, I just can't get rid of you, can I?" He teases.

"Nope." You pop the 'p', grinning back. "You're stuck with me now."

He sighs dramatically. "What have I gotten myself into?" You both laugh once more. "I'm joking, of course. Who'd wanna get rid of a gorgeous girl like you?"

You hide your face in your shoulder. "Stop, you'll make me go all giddy," you warn him, half serious.

He grins. "That's not gonna make me stop, princess. You're too cute when you're all giddy."

"Oh, Joel ," you sigh lovingly before you realize what you're doing. You can't help it though. He makes you feel so good. So joyful. You can't ever remember having this feeling. It’s as if you're on top of the world.

"Darlin," he purrs back, and your belly flutters. You fall into a small silence, and for a moment, just smile at each other. It’s actually pretty cheesy.

"We should go," you whisper reluctantly.

He nods. "Yeah, you're probably right."

"Good night, handsome." Moving the hand tucked under your cheek to your mouth, you blow him a kiss.

He chuckles and acts as if he grabs it before placing it onto his lips and blowing one back to you. "Goodnight, pretty girl."

Taglist: @pedrito-is-punk7 @bitchytimetravelqueen @wh0reforbucknasty @joelsrose @justajoelsreader

@guelyury @bbyanarchist @untamedheart81 @ro-nahime-things @peepawispunk

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction

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fictionalmenxyn · 8 months ago

Text

Frat!rafe is the type… (NSFW and language)

Frat!rafe is the type to greet you with a dap up then kiss each knuckle to show your not a bro but his girl.

Frat!rafe is the type to keep his arm loosely around your shoulder or waist till either a guy he doesn’t know or doesn’t like gets close. Then he be gripping on to you for dear life!

Frat!rafe is the type to occasionally give you temple kisses or cheek kisses around his frat guys. But pecks on the lips around other guys. Thinking you can’t tell, but you most definitely can.

Frat!rafe is the type to hug you from behind if you’re finishing up in class or you’re both working on a project together. He’d try to get your attention while you work.

Frat!rafe is the type of show off that he’s only showing of to you. If you both play sports, best believe he’s trying his hardest to show you his skills. If he sees you watching, he’s definitely sending a wink your way or a funny yet cringy mouthing ‘call me’ and doing the phone gesture. Already knowing he’s got you.

Frat!rafe is the type to get to know your friends better, so he knows you through and through. If you’re a big person when it comes to friendships. Best believe frat!rafe is getting close to your friends and becoming their friends. Showing you he respects your friendships and your beliefs. Also showing he can be supportive on your opinions and what you want.

Frat!rafe is the type to listen to the gossip!! This guy lives for it. He definitely won’t show it. But only you can know he loves it. So your daily trips to the frat house, can also brokke gossip seshs! He’d make sure to have your favourite snacks. Favourite drink. Everything. Just so he can know what girl hooked up with what guy or who fought who.

Frat!rafe is the type to practically cradle you in his arms as he listens to how your day was. Or if you have random rants. He’s a good listener, only for you. If it was one of the boys. It’s in one ear, out the other. But for you? Talk all day, he’s got ears for you. He’d nod, occasionally brush strands of hair out of your face. Occasionally kissing your forehead. Add little comments or thoughts, sometimes questions. He was smart when it came to you. He knew you better than yourself. So he’d know when to ask questions, to keep you talking longer. He loved your voice and your thoughts.

Frat!rafe is the type to buy small gifts, knowing you didn’t do expensive (unless you do, then that’s a different story). He’d buy small trinkets or things that ‘reminded him of you’. Just an excuse to splash his cash on you. Even if it only costed five dollars. If you wanted a piece of clothing or something that you wanted but was over a ‘budget’ you had. Expect it at your sorority doorstep a week later. A personalised card on the inside. ‘Don’t even try to give me a lecture about buying you stuff, I wanted to, love you loads, baby. From RF <3’

Frat!rafe is the type to ask you if you’re okay halfway through and at the end of each ‘intimate’ sessions. ‘You alright? Didn’t go too rough on ya?’ ‘Sure? I know you like and shit, but I don’t wanna hurt you, baby…’

Frat!rafe is the type to change positions, let you finish in your favourite position. While he’ll finish in his. So neither of you could complain, but he thought it was sweet of him to be THAT thoughtful.

Frat!rafe is the type to make you finish the same amount of goals/points you scored if you play sports. Like if you scored three goals in soccer, best believe you’re having a good night.

Frat!rafe is the type to have the sloppiest yet downright best sex if he won a game in football. Just know you’re both having a good night if he wins. Just cause HE won the game, doesn’t mean you aren’t getting a treat either.

Frat!rafe is the type to give you a small peck on the lips after rough sex. Cause he feels a little bad sometimes after you ask to go harder. You asked, ok? So? He still will feel bad. Even if you enjoyed it. You’re his girl. He wants to make you feel good. Even if it’s rough. He’ll still treat you like the princess you are.

Frat!rafe is the type to take long showers with you. Both sexually and non. He just likes the warm water running over you both. He LOVES washing your hair. He loves when you use your small thumbs on his large back muscles. Groaning and loaning at the magic your fingertips hold.

Frat!rafe is the type to only come to you for medical help or massages. Go to the team’s medic? No. Go to the college’s physiotherapist? Hell no. Not when he’s got his girl training for those things. He’s her test subject. And he still benefits from it. So it’s a win-win.

Frat!rafe is the type to cuddle you. So much, it’s cute, but not funny to him. Like it’s his lifeline. Just got in his room? Get on the bed and lay there so he can lay on you. Staying the night? Cuddles. Watching movies? Cuddles. Standing there doing nothing? Cuddles from behind. This guy loves cuddles till the end of time. AND WONT ADMIT IT. EVEN IF ITS OBVIOUS.

Frat!rafe is the type to love his baby girl. Always and forever. He’ll show it in so many ways. Whatever way you want. He’ll show it. You’re his girl, his girl gets treated well. Very well..

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necrobunni · 4 days ago

Text

he came out the mask for them?

Task Force 141 x Reader (Ghost's Partner)

Summary: Ghost invites the team over to meet his partner. They expect grim. They get a goth haven and a soft, shirtless Simon and suddenly nothing makes sense anymore.

(long so under keep reading)

Group Chat: “The Lads”

Ghost:

come over

tonight

drinks and dinner at mine

time you met my partner

Soap:

wait what partner??

Gaz:

you’ve been dating someone????

Price:

this is a trap isn’t it

Ghost:

no trap

just show up

you’ll get it when you see

___

You open the front door to the sound of the team’s muffled surprise. Their footsteps fill your hallway as they step inside the apartment — yours, all yours — every corner drenched in deep, dark velvets, flickering candlelight, and subtle gold accents. A haven wrapped in shadows with the scent of sandalwood hanging thick.

You’re calm but sharp: locs loosely tied back, ink curling over your arms, rings catching the candlelight on your fingers, and gold jewelry glinting just so. Black clothes, effortless, a resting bitch face that tells people “don’t mess with me” but eyes that betray your warmth. You smile at them warmly and walk back towards Simon.

From the living room they can see Simon is already there. No mask. No armor. Just him, in soft grey sweatpants, chest bare, muscles relaxed and unguarded. His dimples flash when he smiles, that easy, teasing smile reserved just for you.

He’s leaning back against the couch, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your hand — and you’re perched on his lap, slipping seamlessly into that easy domestic intimacy.

Soap, Gaz, and Price stand frozen at the entrance, blinking in disbelief.

Simon looks up and grins wide. “About time you guys met them.” His voice is low and confident, that quiet authority that never needed a mask.

You catch his eye, and your lips twitch into a smile as he shifts, fingers briefly slipping beneath your shirt, tracing the curve of your ribs.

“So, yeah,” Simon says, eyes glinting as he leans closer, “they own the place. I just crash here.”

The team’s eyes dart everywhere. Soap can’t stop staring at the gold rings circling your fingers. Gaz’s mouth is slightly open, clearly distracted by Simon’s bare chest and the way his sweatpants hang low. Price clears his throat but his gaze is shamelessly fixed on the subtle bulge Simon’s hand is shielding.

“So you’re saying…” Soap finally blurts, voice cracking a little, “this is... home?”

Simon smirks. “Yeah. Home.” He presses a kiss to your temple, voice dropping just low enough for the team to hear. “And nobody’s keeping secrets.”

You grin, leaning into his touch. “Not anymore.”

___

Dinner is loud and warm.

Pizza boxes scattered across the coffee table, mismatched glasses of wine and whiskey, stories tossed back and forth like old songs. You pass a bottle to Soap with an arched brow and he blushes just trying to take it from your tattooed hand.

Simon keeps close, casually possessive — a hand resting on your thigh, or your waist, or tugging at your shirt just enough to remind everyone exactly where you belong.

At one point, you say something sharp and funny and Simon laughs — full and unguarded. His dimples show again, deep and rare.

Gaz damn near drops his drink. “Wait—you have dimples?!”

Simon shrugs like it’s nothing, but he’s watching them closely now.

“The no mask really fucked with you lot, huh?” he says, voice low and teasing, mouth curved in that slow, knowing way.

Soap stammers, completely undone. Gaz’s eyes flicker between Simon and you, caught off guard by how open and real Simon is without the usual armor.

Price clears his throat, trying to look composed but failing miserably.

Simon’s grin deepens. “Didn’t think it’d have this effect, but hey—guess I’m just full of surprises.”

You nudge his leg with yours under the table, and he gives your knee a squeeze.

___

Later, when the guys drift into the kitchen for another round, you and Simon stay behind in the living room.

His arm slides tighter around you, his fingers drifting beneath your shirt, slow and warm. His other hand rests on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.

“Kiss me,” you murmur, voice hushed.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss is molten. Lazy at first, like a stretch after a long nap. Then it deepens, sharpens. His tongue slides against yours, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. One hand cups the side of your face, the other gripping your waist, your shirt riding up as he pulls you even closer. When you part, your lips are swollen, eyes glassy, and Simon’s grinning—dimples deep, mouth still chasing yours like he’s not done yet.

“Missed you,” he breathes against your cheek.

Before you can answer, you hear them—bootsteps approaching, half-muted voices.

You barely have time to shift before the team walks back in.

They freeze.

Johnny’s holding a bottle of whiskey and a set of tumblers. He drops one.

Gaz walks into the back of him with a low oof, and Price just… blinks.

Simon’s hand is still under your shirt. You’re still in his lap, his lips still kiss-wet, and your face reads pure satisfaction.

“Everything alright?” Simon drawls, completely unbothered.

Soap’s voice is way too high. “Y-Yeah! Yeah, all good, we—uh, just… wow.”

Gaz’s eyes dart between you and Simon’s hand, his gaze lingering on Simon’s chest, his abs, the lazy sprawl of his legs in those grey sweatpants. His lips part like he wants to say something but he’s forgotten how words work.

Price, to his credit, recovers quickest. “We interrupt something?”

Simon just tilts his head, mouth curving. “A little.”

He shifts, sitting upright—and the movement makes it worse. The sweats stretch. Muscles flex. You swear Soap whines under his breath.

Then Simon glances at them, slow and considering. “That was a welcome home for me,” he says, voice smooth. “So…”

He looks directly at Johnny. “Who’s next?”

Soap goes red. Gaz actually chokes.

Simon raises an eyebrow, not quite smirking, but close. “You lot always this flustered, or am I special?”

Gaz, flustered: “You’re—fit.”

Soap, absolutely unable to stop himself: “D’you always look like that under the gear? ‘Cause fuck.”

Simon just leans back, hand still resting on your thigh. “I’m off duty, Johnny. You nervous?”

“Oh, I’m—” Soap clears his throat and shifts, very visibly. “Not nervous. Just tryin’ not to do something stupid.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” you say, lips quirking, eyes on Gaz.

Gaz makes a sound that might be a laugh or a moan. It’s unclear.

Price sits down with a low sigh, clearly exhausted by everyone’s thirst. “Bloody hell, it’s gonna be a long night.”

Simon, deadpan: “Hope so.”

You grin widely and the team? They’re utterly doomed.

323 notes · View notes

moongirlrhea · 1 month ago

Text

carry me slowly, my sunlight (all these colors fade for you only)

this is part two to the azriel and his best friend drabble which you can read here

series masterlist

azriel x reader

word count: 4.5k

warnings: mentions of bad family dynamics and childhood trauma. angst + comfort

i have no idea how to conduct a summary but this is a star fall fic! as mentioned in the drabble earlier

enjoy and, as always, make sure to give me feedback and let me know if you want a continuation of this!

a/n: sooo this is coming out so much later than i intended for it to but school is killing me currently, so sorry for the wait! also the title is a lyric from hozier’s sunlight :)

Three hours before Rhysand’s starfall party was scheduled to begin, she was sitting in the vanity in her room, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She was glad to be here, she really was. And she hadn’t done anything bad, she was well aware. But still she couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in her gut. The guilt. Azriel had spent the last few days trying to make that feeling go away - but it stuck like dirt and grime on her skin.

Maybe it was the upcoming anniversary that made her go into survival mode at the mere thought of her blood relatives.

Or maybe it was the letters they kept sending.

Either way, nothing seemed to be able to make the bad memories go away. She tried to solve it all like an equation - look at the situation from start to finish, list out all the reasons why she was not some villain in her family’s story - but acting like she was guilty only cemented her feelings more.

Tonight is supposed to be good, she reminded herself. Don’t ruin this. Starfall was the most important holiday of the year, for her family - in the new definition, the one that didn’t make her want to puke her guts out - for Azriel, for her best friend, and for herself. Or so it used to be. Before Amarantha, before the war, before everything got so complicated. Don’t ruin this. Then why did the holiday make her want to lock herself inside her closet and sit in the dark until the end of time? They finally got peace in Prythian, after everything. Don’t ruin this.

She sighed and started combing through her hair. Maybe the presence of her family, the real one, would make it easier tonight. That was what starfall was for anyway, right? Holding the people who loved you, knew you, and vice versa, close. Shaking her head, she decided she would focus on her friends tonight and everything would be alright.

The hair was haphazardly brushed through as, alas, unwanted thoughts still kept recurring like waves crashing over her mind. Clean golden-brown curls cascaded down her back and shoulders and her newly made dress was laid out on her bed. She tried to win that fight with her mind, but a reprieve arrived soon in the form of a brown-eyed female in a blood colored gown.

“Please tell me you didn’t do your makeup yet, you promised I could help!” Mor was almost shouting as she came tumbling into her room. She looked her up and down and exhaled.

“Oh, good. You’re not even dressed”

“Don’t we still have like three hours?”

“Well, that isn’t very much time, really. Show me that dress you made” the words were thrown over her shoulder as Mor was looking through the makeup drawers, evaluating products and pulling some out, some away.

“Here it is”

“Oh! You really outdid yourself this year, babe,” Mor’s chocolate eyes and smile were shining as she looked the dress up and down, having turned away from the vanity. “Put it on and let’s get started on your makeup”

By the time she was laced up and out of her bathroom, Morrigan had laid out just about every single one of her makeup and hair products on the desk of her vanity. Soon her cheeks and lips were rosy, eyelashes long and darkened with kohl, and her friend was standing behind her brushing out her hair.

“Please don’t tell me you’re making me do the same hairstyle you wear everyday” the joke was light in the evening air, and she let out a soft laugh, meeting her friend’s eyes in the mirror

“I did actually think we could try something different”

“I’m all ears”

“Maybe just regular waves? I think a whole intricate hairstyle will be too much with the dress?” Morrigan hummed at that, parting her hair down the middle. Then after a beat of silence

“Tonight will be fun, right?” the blonde’s eyebrow quirked up.

“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s starfall” another beat of silence, she sent her friend a tight smile and looked down

“Yeah…”

“Is everything alright? Anxious to see a certain spymaster, maybe?” her head snapped up, green eyes wide

“What?”

“Oh, come on,” Mor laughed and met her reflection in the mirror, mischief dancing in her eyes “Everyone sees the eyes you two make at each other. And this has been going on for decades! Free me from the torment, please” her cheeks were getting redder by the second

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” she mumbled, averting her eyes

“Hey, head straight forward, now.” Mor’s fingers moved her head back in place “It’s cute how shy you get about this”

“Mother’s sake, stop now, please” she watched in a new found horror as her friend threw her head back laughing, musing

“Fine, fine. But seriously, have you never thought about this?”

Fuck’s sake. Of course she had. How could she have not? But he was her best friend. So, so good to her that sometimes she felt like her entire heart might burst. Like something in her ribs will pull so hard, she will snap and just stop breathing altogether. Because he changed her whole perspective on life, on the world.

That night he found her aimlessly wandering through the night court’s forest after travelling for days on end on a ship between the continent and Prythian. Tired and malnourished, both physically and emotionally, she quickly got lost after leaving the port.

Things could have ended badly, especially considering her lack of plan and any survival skills whatsoever - where was she supposed to get any after growing up dressed in tight dresses, locked inside a pretty manor? Raised to be a wife and mother under the cold, scrutinizing eyes of her parents and the town.

But then Azriel found her, in so many ways.

She took his hand, and still to this day felt as though she never let go of it - and hoped she never would.

“Gods, fine if you’re just gonna space out on me like that, I’ll drop it” Mor’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts

“Sorry?” but Mor was snorting, looking at her with something in her eyes that she couldn’t quite place. And then she was shaking her head.

“Hair is all done. Do you like it?” she met her own eyes in the reflection, and she really did look pretty tonight.

The curls of her hair were framing her face, the rest falling down her shoulders and back. Her eyes trailed down and followed the curve of her neck down to where a dainty golden chain with a small pendant was resting a little north of the swell of her breasts.

She stood from her seat to make sure everything was sitting right on her, and sighed, about to voice the thoughts she was torturing herself with before Mor’s appearance.

But then her friend sat on the bed, hands smoothing through the pink duvet cover and resting behind her to support her back. She snapped her fingers before grinning, and out of thin air appeared a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“I thought we could start the party a little early.”

And maybe she was right earlier - tonight would be a fun night with her friends, and she didn’t have to think about anything bad.

Rhysand’s party was well started by the time the two females made it to the main hall. The sea of bodies seemed never ending, the amount of people the high lord and lady invited was astounding - as always. But quickly she noticed two tips of Illyrian wings peaking out above the crowd, near the corner of the room. She looked around to find Morrigan already gone, and started to push through the crowd.

Azriel was leaning against the wall, two drinks already in hand. Cloaked in shadow, dressed in all black and already smiling softly once their eyes met, Azriel seemed to have already known she was coming.

She stood a few paces in front of him, anxiously smoothing down her hair and softly panting from the trudge through the room, already overwhelmed by the heat of the overcrowded hall. But before she could say anything, Azriel was handing her her drink and putting an arm around her shoulder in order to lead her out of the hall and into one of the balconies.

Velaris was always breathtaking at night, but especially this one. Even before the stars started to fall, the holiday made the sky look enchanting, somehow. The pair leaned against the railing, and her eyes were immediately glued to the city.

“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is” she turned her head in his direction, only to find him already looking at her.

His expression was so, so soft. Soft smiles and golden eyes full of stars staring straight into hers, a wing curled around her and shadows dancing in the air. She felt such warmth in her heart, almost as if it were some external feeling, that even the cold of the winter mountain air would not chill her skin. Her best friend brought his drink to his lips to take a sip, her eyes following the movement.

“Hi” she interrupted the bit of silence that ensued

“Hi” amusement or adoration swam in Azriel’s eyes. No, why would it be adoration? Amusement. For sure. Yes.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yes, I’m alright. Why would I not be?” her eyes had widened at his question, and for a moment, the thought of telling Azriel everything appeared in her mind- Don’t ruin this.

Why would she go on about all of this now and make him comfort her on Azriel’s favorite holiday of the year, of all nights? As if he hadn’t been wasting half his time lately trying to ease her mind about this already. And even though she knew Azriel would never outright judge her and be annoyed with her, there was some deep-buried shame within her that was scared of that sort of ridicule. She brushed it off as not wanting to worry him-

“Angel?”

“Yes? Sorry, Az, I spaced” Get it together

Her best friend just sighed, his eyes so, so soft and leaned down to brush a strand of her hair behind her pointed ear.

“You’re a great person.” he said, then kissed her forehead “And everyone is glad to have you here”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Az” the scoff she let out at the beginning of the sentence was softened by the look in the shadowsinger’s hazel eyes. As if he knew something she didn’t.

“There you two are! Are you enjoying the night?” Rhysand’s booming voice came from the entrance to the balcony. He neared them, drink in hand and Feyre on his arm, smiling lightly at them.

“It is one of your starfall parties, Rhys. Of course we are.” she teased and Feyre laughed a little, long silver gown gleaming in the moonlight.

“Have you two only just arrived? I saw Mor and Cass are already a few drinks in” the High Lady said, and her ears perked up at that.

“That’s my call, then” she mused starting to walk away from the group “I’ll go find them”

Rhysand’s laughter followed her, and she looked over her shoulder to see the amusement shining in his purple eyes. Azriel was suddenly in her line of sight, a shadow flying down the silk of his black shirt and over to twine itself around her wrist.

“Be careful”

“Sure, grandpa” she teased, walking away “Come take a shot with me later”

This is good, she thought, passing between a sea of bodies. She’d have a few drinks and those vicious thoughts would be well warded away.

Truth be told, at this point the anxiety clinging to her mind made her forget what exactly she was even stressing about in the first place. But if she were to stop and unpack all that - she visibly cringed - well, that was a rabbit hole she was not interested in visiting.

Besides, Mor and Cass appeared before her eyes, pouring drinks at the self-serve bar and she raised her hand to wave to them.

“Make one for me, too, Cass!”

A few hours and drinks later she was standing with a group of fae, the thoughts of her old family now reduced to a buzz somewhere in the back of her mind. Starfall was still a few hours away and Cassian was telling some story that she couldn’t really focus on. The volume at which he spoke almost made the room vibrate, his hands were high in gesticulation and his half tied up hair swooshing around his shoulders. She felt her lips turn up into a smile at the inner circle’s laughter.

“I swear to the Mother-” someone was saying something, commenting on the tale Cassian was spinning but all of the voices in the room seemed to dull to a distant ringing. In her hands appeared a folded piece of paper. She knew who it was from before she opened the letter.

Dearest daughter,

It is with utmost urgency that we write this letter to you. You have been the cause of enough embarrassment for our family, and even though your mother and I have prayed that you would soon come to your senses and put an end to the petulance you have been subjecting us to for the last decades, we have finally realized you would not. You can no longer excuse yourself with Prythian’s political situation - the lady that you were supposed to grow into never should interest herself in such matters in the first place. You have caused myself and your poor mother enough embarrassment and worry.

With your behaviour you have forced me to take matters into my own hands as it is now clear that you have no regard for the family that you left, and the consequences we would face for your own act of childish defiance. I have arranged a marriage for you. It is not a proposal, nor a suggestion. The male your mother and I have chosen is of fine breeding and heritage, but you shall find out his name once you come to meet him personally.

You are expected at the estate in two months time, considering the lengthy travel. However, for fear of a repeating of your previous behaviour, we have decided it is wise to inform you now - I will come and collect you personally if you do not obey, daughter. Allow me say this once and for all: so far you have proven to be very little but a disappointment, even though you used to have so much potential. Do you understand the pain that you continue to cause all of us by attempting to escape the role we poured all of our time, devotion and money into?

I hope this message leads to the disillusionment of the modern ways that you have learned at the night court - you are a female and you have an established place in our society. Your games will lead to very little but a loss of your virtue and any prospects a young, promising lady like yourself has within our kingdom

The letter kept going, but all she could imagine was the worn edges of the paper sharpening and cutting into her skin like blades. She felt as though the simmering hot guilt would burn through her gut.

A disappointment. A runaway. A marriage?

If they thought that would be enough to send her rushing back, they were sorely mistaken.

But then why could she feel her palms sweating and her vision tunneling until it was just that rotten letter she could see? Disappointment. Burden.

She had a duty, something she was born and raised to fulfill, and she disregarded it just like that. She had dreams and aspirations and she was more than a breeding mare, she knew that, but suddenly a vision of a life married to a male whose name she learned minutes before walking the altar and being nothing more but the body birthing his heirs flashed before her eyes.

Suddenly all the carefully learned phrases she used to comfort herself dissipated from her memory.

Disappointment.

Who was she to defy the carefully structured society that picked a role for her? The room was spinning and she could hear her breaths coming in short rasps.

Someone was calling her name.

“Sweetheart?” no one was laughing anymore, and Azriel was standing before her, hands stretched out as though not to frighten away a doe “Are you alright?”

She snapped her head up, wide eyes taking in the group of fae she considered her closest family.

How they were all standing there, stars almost reflecting in their eyes and concern shining in them. They stared at her, and she could feel their night being ruined already.

Frozen to the spot, was what she was, lips downturned and breathing so, so shallow. Then someone outstretched a hand to touch her and she was taking off running down the hallway to her chambers, confused and concerned questions following her.

She ignored the fae staring at her in shock. She would’ve heard a scoff or two, if it weren’t for the ringing in her ears. If it weren’t for a certain Illyrian following after her, glaring down those few fae.

She did not remember running through the hallways of the House of Wind. Nor could she remember getting into her bedroom.

All she felt was shame as she now sat on the floor against her bed, knees drawn up high to her chest, hiding her head between them. She faintly registered the urgent knocking on her door as salt streams rushed down her face. She hiccuped and finally heard herself let out a sob.

You’ve ruined it now. Foolish girl.

Maybe if she had never dared to dream in the first place, she wouldn’t be here now. She wouldn’t have disappointed her parents. She wouldn’t have burdened Az with all this baggage. How can he even treat her seriously after all this? He had undergone years of imprisonment, torture and war and here she was breaking down because she thought she had a chance at a life braver than the one chosen for her.

What was she going to do?

She heard herself let out more sobs and struggled to catch her breath, her nails starting to dig into her palms. She can’t come back there - gods she was so miserable there. But what if her father actually came here? By her kingdom’s law Rhysand would be obligated to hand her back to her father since she was unmarried. She could picture it all and she couldn’t- she couldn’t breathe.

“Angel? Let me in sweetheart, please. Let me fix it.”

Azriel was still knocking on her door, and without any fight left in her, she rose up to her knees and unlocked the door for him. The next second he was sitting before her, tear stained face in his scarred palms as he wiped them away with his thumbs. More came to follow.

“What happened? What was that?” there was genuine terror in his eyes, as if he couldn’t stand to see her like this. She collapsed into a new-found heap of sobs at that and he let her fall into his chest.

“Sweetheart, please-” he said with a thick voice, gathering her into his lap.

His arms came around her, one stroking comfortingly along her back, one cradling her head to the juncture between his shoulder and neck.

“Okay, shh, there you are. Shh, you’re alright, I promise, alright? I’m right here” he rushed out the words, pulling at strings to comfort her.

He knew about the guilt, the feelings she was hiding away, too scared to show even her best friend. He knew, before she did, that it would come crashing out of her in the end.

What he didn’t know was what was in that damned letter that made her this inconsolable.

When he saw how her face fell as she read over those words - he physically had to stop himself from tearing the thing apart and tucking her away in his arms, letting her forget all things bad. Had to stop himself from flying to that wretched kingdom at that moment and burning it to the ground. All he could do now was bring her closer and start rocking her while she sobbed it out.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she was able to properly breathe again. With time and her best friend's gentle words her sobs turned into hiccups and finally stopped altogether. She exhaled against him and raised a hand to rub at her eyes.

“Gentle” Azriel had captured her wrist in his hand, letting a shadow wipe away at the remnants of her tears. She looked up to meet his eyes.

“There she is” she let out a wet laugh

“Ruined your shirt.” she whispered as she tried to wipe away at the tears and makeup she left there

“It’s okay” he said, still looking at her so, so softly “Wanna talk about it, hm?” she felt her eyes stinging

“I’m really sorry for being such a mess, Az, I really am,” she told him, wide, wet eyes staring up at him “Gods, I ruined Starfall didn’t I? I promised myself I-”

“Stop it. Right now,” her breath hitched “You did not ruin anything, angel”

She looked down at her lap, starting to play with her fingers

“Hey. Look at me” when she didn’t, she took her face into his hands and tilted it up, their eyes meeting “Everything is alright. Starfall hasn’t even begun yet. You didn’t ruin anything”

“It hasn’t?”

“No, it hasn’t” she nodded, relieved

“Okay, then” he wanted to tell her how she wouldn’t have ruined anything for him regardless. She couldn’t if she wanted. But he had a feeling she wouldn’t believe him - and that wasn’t what his best friend needed now.

After a bit of silence she tilted her head to the tear stained letter discarded on the floor next to them. He raised his eyebrows in question, and she nodded in agreement. Azriel’s jaw was already set tight before his shadows handed the letter to him.

She alternated between staring at him as his eyes followed the text and looking down into her lap, where Az’s shadows played with the rim of her dress, curling around her in soothing motions. When she glanced up again, he was already looking at her, something unrecognizable in the hazel of his eyes.

“This is bullshit. You know that, right?” there was urgency in his voice “This isn’t happening”

“But- but what if he comes here? He will come here, Az”

“I don’t care”

“Az-”

“You’re not going anywhere with them, end of story. They can get through me first”

“By law Rhysand will have to hand me over, Az. I’m unmarried and he is my father” he let out a scoff.

Azriel’s shadows seemed to get more and more agitated with every reasoning she gave, starting to rise up and curl all around her - as if they alone were going to act as a shield protecting her.

“You’re no doll for anyone to be handing over. We’re in Night, our law applies here, no one can take you”

“Oh,” he exhaled and brushed her hair down and behind her ears. Gods, she must look like a mess after all this “Really?”

“Yes” he didn’t tell her how even if all the laws in the world were against them, he wouldn’t let anyone take her away from him. Ever.

“I still- I feel so guilty, you know? I mean okay, I’m- I’m here and everything is fine while they’re there making amends because I ran. But I couldn’t live that life, Az, I really couldn’t” she moved off his lap to sit next to him against her bed

“I know. You don’t have to live any life other than the one you want. You decide”

“Yeah, but-”

“No buts,” he looked down at her, with such seriousness in his eyes it startled her “I know the guilt you feel because you think you did something bad but it’s them who act like victims after terrorizing you your whole life. It is not alright how they treated you,” there were tears gathering at her waterline “You did not deserve to be treated that way, angel. I don’t think you realize how brave of a person you are. How many rooms you light up. You’re capable of great things and I know you do, but you should not feel sorry for leaving and doing something for yourself when you’ve quite literally spent your entire life living up to their whims. And then they have the nerve to call you a- disappointment” Azriel tripped over the word, and she could practically hear his teeth grinding with how hard his jaw was set “Which you’re not, do you hear me?” He looked down at her and made sure she met his eye “You could never disappoint me, ever. Do you understand?”

“Y-yeah” she nodded, wide eyed

“Good. That’s good” she allowed herself to rest her head against his shoulder

“Thank you, Az” but before he could respond, the sky lit up right in front of their eyes, through the open balcony gates. Her breath hitched and mouth opened in wonder.

“Az! Look at that”

“Yeah, starfall, sweetheart” his eyes were soft as he took in the smile that finally graced her face. Something was pulling hard in the shadowsinger’s chest but all he could do was try to memorize her expression. Engrave it permanently in his mind.

“It’s beautiful”

“It is”

They watched the souls swim through the skies for some time in comfortable silence. The stars were falling in a kaleidoscope of colors and maybe she really hadn’t ruined the night. And maybe it was in her blood to worry and feel guilty for at least a few more decades. And surely Azriel would be there to stand with her through it.

“Angel?” He looked down at her, about to say something, but the words died on his tongue when he noticed her slumped against him, asleep on his shoulder. He smiled to himself.

It was three words Azriel whispered to his best friend as he carried and tucked her in bed, stars falling in the distance. Three words that she did not hear, yet.

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