#sometimes. not for the lavender i just did whatever for that

[pittsick]

Hey Mika!! I was wondering if you ever thought about possibly writing a short blurb or fic about transmasc/ftm Patrick Zweig? Cause I did see a couple of Art’s fics, and I was just thinking about the possibility, like I imagine before he transitioned he always was like a tomboy, but like he loved girly things(mainly girls) and obviously guys too. And he was probably ecstatic after he did start T about the hair growth and just being seen as a guy and all the fun stuff that comes with it. I just don’t know if that’d be something you’d be into writing about but I haven’t seen enough people talking about it compared to like say Art.

taglist: @hehimrabies, @nozhdyved, @imperishablereverie, @userhotd, @artstennisracket, @lvve-talks, @prismozo, @bluestrd, @shahabaqsa0310, @222col, @museboos, @jinxedbambi, @blastzachilles, @yardofbrunettes, @lacelottie, @elsieblogs, @jordiemeow, @lexiiscorect, @jclolz22, @gelo-time, @peachyparkerr, @jesuistrestriste

cw: patrick centered. ftm!patrick. basically fluff and slice-of-life. slight patrick x art or patrick x art x tashi. (whatever you want to interpret).

Patrick sits in the locker room long after the lights start humming. The tournament’s over. He lost in the quarterfinals—some French kid with a killer backhand—and he’s sore, sweaty, starving. But it’s quiet now. The others have gone. And quiet is rare.

He stares down at his thighs, red with tape marks, and plucks the gauze from his knee slowly, like peeling sunburn. His bag’s beside him. He could go. But something about the mirror across the room keeps him pinned.

He stands. Crosses the tile barefoot. There’s a sting in his heel from an old blister, but he barely feels it. His reflection is crooked in the strip of mirror above the sinks. Fluorescent light carves shadows under his jaw.

There he is.

Patrick. Not Patricia. Not the name his mother used to call out when he fell off the swing set. Not the name that lingered on tournament brackets until he was eighteen and finally told the association, I'm not her. I'm me.

His chest rises. Flat. Even in the white compression tank he wears after matches, he sees the lines of the body he fought for. The body that, most days, finally feels like his.

He scratches at the dark hair along his jaw. Still patchy. Still coming in. But it’s there. Like the scatter of fuzz on his belly, the thicker trail disappearing under his waistband. It’s real. It’s his.

He smiles.

Sometimes he still remembers the first time someone called him sir without hesitation. Gas station, New Mexico. He was nineteen and just two weeks on testosterone. The guy behind the counter didn’t even blink. “That’ll be $4.95, sir.” And Patrick almost cried right there over a protein bar.

He doesn’t get misgendered anymore. Not with the voice he has now. Not with the legs that look like a goddamn sculpture. The muscle took time. The T helped, yeah, but the gym helped more. The drills, the discipline. He built this version of himself like he builds his serve—deliberate, technical, precise.

But it’s not just about the body.

He thinks back to high school. The weird middle space where he still wore his hair long, but only ever backwards in a cap. Where he got detention for fighting a guy who touched his chest in the hallway. Where girls invited him to sleepovers, and he said no, even though he wanted to go. Even though he liked lip gloss. Even though he liked girls.

He liked guys, too. Still does.

Bisexual, or maybe pan, or maybe just... Patrick. He doesn’t really care what label it falls under. He just knows the freedom of being seen for what he is. A guy. A man. A tennis player. Someone who sweats and bleeds and chases the ball until his lungs give out.

And also someone who uses lavender body wash. Who cried watching The Parent Trap. Who let his ex-partner paint his nails black when they were on break between tournaments.

He’s never wanted to pick sides. Not between masc or femme. Not between girls or guys. He always wanted both. He’s allowed both.

He runs water in the sink and splashes his face. The cold shocks him, grounding him back into the room. There’s a knock on the door.

“Pat?” It’s Art. “You dead in there or just grieving?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Neither. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Art mutters through the door. “Get your ass out here. We’re going for ramen.” He considers saying no. He’s exhausted. But his stomach growls, and it’s Art. Of course he’ll go.

He grabs his hoodie off the hook. It’s oversized and soft and smells like lemongrass detergent. He tugs it on, throws his bag over his shoulder, and walks out to meet him.

Art is leaning against the hallway wall, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up and smiles when he sees him.

“There he is. Our fallen hero.”

Patrick snorts. “Did you text Tashi?”

“Yeah, she’s meeting us. She said if you’re still sulking, she’s gonna spike your broth.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“You are. It’s okay. You’re allowed. You lost. But you looked good losing.”

Patrick raises a brow. “You flirting with me?”

Art smirks. “Always.”

It used to make Patrick flinch. The flirting. The attention. Especially when he was early on in transition, when he still didn’t know how to hold his own body without apology. But now?

He leans in a little, eyes dancing. “Flirt harder.”

Art looks amused, maybe even impressed. “I will.”

Later, at the ramen bar, with steam rising from their bowls and sweat beading at their temples, Patrick pulls his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows. His forearms are covered in hair now. It still shocks him sometimes, how natural it looks. How much of himself he sees in these details no one else would think twice about.

Tashi nudges him with her chopsticks. “Hey. Earth to Zweig.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You were zoning. What are you thinking about?”

He considers lying. He could say tennis strategy or next season’s training. But she’s watching him closely. Art is, too.

“I was just thinking,” he says, “how lucky I am.” Art snorts. “You’re eating soggy noodles in a strip mall in Jersey.”

Patrick shakes his head. “No. I mean—this. All of it. The game. My body. You two. I didn’t always think I’d get to have this.”

There’s a beat of silence. Tashi sets her chopsticks down gently. “Yeah,” she says. “But you do.”

Patrick nods.

He remembers crying into a pillow at thirteen, whispering to himself that maybe by twenty, it would all be different. That maybe one day, someone would call him handsome and mean it. That he’d take off his shirt and not feel shame. That he’d fall in love and be loved for exactly who he was.

He looks at the table now—at his half-eaten ramen, his bruised knuckles from the match, the scar on Art’s forehead from a practice session gone wrong three weeks ago, the freckles on Tashi’s collarbone.

He has all of it.

Not perfectly. Not easily. But real.

Later that night, alone in the hotel bathroom, he brushes his teeth in boxers and nothing else. He flexes, just a little. Not out of vanity, but recognition. Every inch of him is earned. Every inch is home.

The toothbrush buzzes against his teeth. He catches sight of himself in the mirror again.

He’s still grinning when he spits.

[hana-bobo-finch]

i am one day late to my own character’s birthday but whatever better late than never. this image popped up in my head last night and I felt obligated to make it

for context Tornado is the name of the only social networking site on fincg island and C.C. is. very into the occult and would definitely think this is a halfway decent thing to do (it is not)

og

[ohcaptains]

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

college! peter parker x fem reader.

18+ only !!! f! receiving oral sex. peter parker has an oral fixation i said what i said. in my spider-man era again.

peter was a weekly visitor at this point. sometimes, it was twice, but never more than three. three was pushing it.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it. 

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M��sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

[jazziejax]

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐤 ‘𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐰𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Cowboy!Terry Richmond x Black!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - They had always had this lingering tension between them. But not it seems that whatever feelings were there have now boiled over and at the Sweet Tooth Saloon, things get a little hot.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - 18+!, MINORS DNI, Heavy tension, sensual dancing, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), soft!Terry, mild dominance, tender aftercare, implied feelings

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - since yall only like me when I write about Aaron Pierre 🙄 I’m not good at wiring smut and I don’t even like doing it but this is something to hold yall over in case I drop off the fave if the earth soon. I have Finals next week :( UNEDITED, sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes. There probably many because my laptop over heated…also, I can’t write a short fic to save my life.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭- 9,567+

The small bell above the door jingled as the large man stepped into the beauty salon, ducking slightly to avoid the low-hanging dried herbs strung up near the entrance. The scent of lavender and bergamot mixed with the faintest trace of hot iron and other chemicals, the kind used to curl or straighten a lady’s hair.

He had never set foot in a place like this before. Not because he didn’t believe in looking presentable—he just never trusted another person with a razor near his throat. And, to be honest, he didn't mind looking rough sometimes, but he was starting to become a little self-conscious whenever a woman looked at him for too long. Especially her. But the dust of the road clung to him, so his beard and his hair had grown past the point of comfort as he and his comrades spent more time than they thought in Sugar Cane Creek. Everything needed a trim. At least, the mirror at the bar last night told him as much, and Jim had made a comment about him “starting to look like a wild man”.

Terry didn’t care much what people thought, but he cared about feeling like himself.

A woman stood behind the counter, fingers-deep in a bowl of soapy water, scrubbing a comb. The early morning light that poured through the shop window was caught in her dark hair, making it shine like polished mahogany. She looked up, recognizing him instantly—because who in Sugar Cane Creek didn’t know who he rode with? But she didn’t stiffen or frown like some folk did when they saw a man from the Nat Love Gang.

Instead, she wiped her hands on a cloth, tilted her head, and smiled just enough to let him know she wasn’t afraid.

“Well, well." She mused, setting her rag aside. “Never thought I’d see the day you walked in here.” She said, a soft grin on her face. Her voice was as rich and smooth as honey fresh from the comb.

Terry removed his hat with a sigh, brushing a hand over his curls that had gotten a little thick on top of his head. “I think I'm in need of a trim.”

She raised a brow. “Hair or beard?”

“Both.”

Her gaze flickered over him, lingering on the rough edges of his beard. “I’ll say. Starting to look real close to a mountain man.” She quipped. Terry, however, didn’t smile, but something in his dark eyes did shift, a flicker of amusement that only she would catch. They had always danced around one another. Something they had been doing for a while now—exchanging looks in town while Terry earned his keep over at Cotton's and she began to start her work day at The Blush and Brush Parlor, brushing shoulders when they shared time at The Sweet Tooth Saloon. He was a quiet man, but she liked that about him. A man who didn’t talk just to fill space.

Her eyes flickered over his face, then lower to where his suede, dark brown, coat stretched broad across his shoulders. “Take your coat off." She said, already gathering her scissors. “You might be here a while.”

Terry hesitated, looking down at the shorter woman with a tired look. "Don't talk about me like I'm some sort of ruffian, now." He said, his voice deep and his country drawl thick. The brown skinned woman gave him a faux pout with a small laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry, bright eyes, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Now take a seat and let’s get you looking decent again, okay?" She grinned, playing coy with him. Terry didn't flinch at the name, but a small twitch was his lip was noticeable to her before he then shrugged out of his coat and laid it over the empty chair not far from him. He then sat down in the chair she stood in front of, allowing the woman to drape a sheet over his front, tying it at the back of his neck with nimble fingers before combing through his hair. She was gentle, but precise—no wasted movements, no hesitation.

"You know how to do men's hair?" He asked.

"Yup." She said. “Been cutting my daddy’s since I was eight. Used to say I was better than any barber in town.” He could hear the smile in her tone at the thought, though it veered off into something a little sad.

Terry hummed, the closest he’d come to laughter anyways, but he could also tell that the subject was a little sensitive to her. He let her work, let the soft snip of the scissors fill the quiet. Every so often, he felt the barest brush of her fingertips against his skin. He could also feel her large chest brush against the back of his neck every now and then, causing him to look up into the mirror in front of him, watching the woman work. He wasn’t a man who flinched easy, but something about that gentle touch made him tense in a way he couldn’t explain.

The shop was quiet except for the snip of her scissors. She worked with practiced ease, combing through his hair, trimming away the weight. Every so often, her fingers brushed the nape of his neck, light and deliberate. She felt the way he tensed, barely noticeable, but there.

“Relax, cowboy." She teased. “I ain’t gon' hurt you.” She said softly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, settling into the chair.

She then suddenly grabbed the side of his head, straightening his head and looking at him though the mirror. He wasn't quite sure what she was doing, but he didn't question it as he watched her intensely though the mirror.

“Alright." She murmured after a while. “That’s the hair. Now the tricky part.”

She brush the excess hair from him before she turned to the washbasin, dipping a cloth into warm water before wringing it out. He expected her to hand it to him, but instead, she pressed it against his face herself. She held his head steady with her other hand, gripping his chin. And he couldn't help but wonder if she did the same procedures with all her clients, because even though his hair looked better than before, the way she was touching felt oddly intimate. The heat from her touch as well as the warm cloth sank into his skin, soothing the roughness of travel and the dry air. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that.

She worked carefully, rubbing a mixture of soap and oil into his beard before picking up the straight razor. She tested the blade against her thumb. She hummed before moving over to the leather strap against the wall to give it a quick sharpen. She tested it again, obviously to her liking since she walked back over and tipped his chin up with two fingers.

“You ever had a woman shave you before?” She asked, looking up from inspecting his unruly beard to lock eyes with his bright ones. It was a simple question, calling for a simple answer, but their gazes were intense. Terry shook his head, just barely, caught in her big eyes and soft touch as he licked his lips.

His response, or lack there of, caused her to grin. “Good. Means you’ll keep still.” She said, only leaning in briefly as she joked with him, but her sudden contact made allowed him to catch a whiff of sweet scent like, something like Ambrosia.

“Lean back,” She instructed, her foot hovering over the pump that allowed the chair to recline. Terry hesitated, blinking at her. It's not that he didn't trust her, he'd known her for quite some time now. He trusted her hands in his hair, but a blade near his throat? That was different. He never trusted anyone that much, not even his closest comrades. It's the reason why all his self-cut's were a little choppy. Something that wouldn't have mattered if he was still up to his outlaw duties and on the road. But now he was spending his time in saloon's and around beauties they didn't offer at home.

She caught the shift in his posture, her smirk turning knowing. “You scared?” She questioned.

Terry met her gaze, his own steady. “No.”

“Then sit still.” She said before she pushed down on the pump under the chair, allowing it to recline. And that he did, opening his growing facial hair to her, ample room left in case of his worst fear. But he had no reason to fear her and her intentions, because her blade was steady. Her hands were sure, and he trusted her, even though he had no reason to.

The razor glided slow, careful. She kept her grip steady, the blade sharp and sure as it skimmed along his jaw. The heat of the late afternoon pressed into the shop, thick and lazy, but it wasn’t what made her skin prickle. It wasn’t what sent that slow, creeping flush up her neck, settling warm in her cheeks.

No, that was him. It was his eyes that were watching her.

They were unblinking, steady, tracking her every move like a man who had nowhere else to be. He was always like this—silent, still, and always looking—but something about it felt different now. Maybe because they were closer than usual. Maybe because she could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the slow rise and fall of his chest under the weight of her touch.

She set her jaw, trying not to let on just how much she felt him. The every move he made under her touch.

Instead, she focused.

“Bet you’re the kind of man who don’t like feeling vulnerable." She murmured, trying to make small talk with staring man.

Terry’s eyes stayed on her. “You talk too much.” He said, quirking a brow at her. She chuckled, dragging the blade along his jawline. “Maybe. But you don’t talk enough, so it evens out.”

Her hand shifted, fingers pressing just beneath his chin as she tilted his head for a better angle. He was warm beneath her touch, his pulse steady, but she felt it jump when her nails scraped lightly against his throat. She tilted his chin just slightly, her fingers light under his jaw, and dragged the blade down his throat in a slow, deliberate motion. He let her, not moving, not even swallowing, though she could see the tight pull of his muscles beneath his skin, right at the peek of his shirt.

She shouldn’t be looking there, but how could she not? This hunk of a man was lying below her, almost open and willing as he gazed up her with a soft look in his eyes. The air between them was thick, something unspoken curling at the edges. Her grip on the razor tightened just a little as she worked, and his gaze burned hotter for it.

“You always watch this hard?” She asked finally, keeping her tone light as she wiped the hair she cut on a rag after shaking it off in the water basin and then wiping it away. She glanced up some, catching sight of his lips—pink, full, and slightly parted—tipped up at the corner. “Always.” That single word, rough and low, sent something straight to her stomach.

She swallowed as she continued working, trying her best to focus, steadying herself. She wasn’t about to let him get the better of her, no matter how much heat curled between them. But she also took her time finishing the shave, enjoying the rare sight of the outlaw that is Terry Richmond—silent, still, and at her mercy.

“You’re awful quiet for a man with so much to say in his eyes." She murmured, brushing away the lingering shaving foam with the pad of her thumb. Her hand lingered a second too long, caught in the shape of his jaw. Terry still didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched her.

“Didn’t know I needed to talk." He said, and she could’ve sworn she saw his blue eyes flicker to a sea green as the light hit them. The warmth in her cheeks…and else where, deepened. She pulled back, making quick work of the last stroke of hair she had to eliminate, but her hands weren’t as steady as before.

And he knew that.

By the time she was done, the shop felt too small, too warm, too much. She grabbed the cloth and wiped his face cleaning, looking at her finished product around his mouth. Her eyes met his briefly as she took in the goatee she set him up with, a small smile beginning to grace his feature as his eyes bounced across her face. She cleared her throat softly, wiping an imaginary spot of lather from his jaw and leaned back to admire her work. “There. You clean up nice, cowboy.” She said with a grin.

She turned, quickly wiping the blade clean, setting it aside, and moving a few steps away to compose herself as she gathered the material she sat out in front of the mirror.

But then she felt him stand up from the chair, taking the cape off. She felt the shift in the air when he got close—just behind her. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back. She glanced up, watching as he inspected his face in the mirror from behind her. He rubbed his large hands across his face, taking in his fresh look. He only did that for a few seconds before his gazed dropped to the round woman below him. He her her eyes in the mirror, nothing but an exchange between their eyes. She was the only to look away first, cleaning the station.

Terry sat the hair cape he had in his hands in the chair, looking as himself one last time before he hummed in content. He place his hand on her shoulder, large over her breakers that was far from small. “Good job.” He said, voice low near her ear. He then stepped away, his hand dragging down and across the back of her waist as he moved over to shoulder on his coat. She froze at the feeling of him touching her, and then gulped at his fingers tracking off her body. She looked up, looking herself in the eye and blinking, making sure this was all real, before looking in the mirror to watch him put the coat over his large frame.

Terry ran a hand over his chin, feeling the smoothness. He met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

“How much?” He asked after putting on his hat, straightening his clothing, and she tried not to get distract by the way he grabbed his belt, using it to adjust his pants. She turns, tiring her head at him as she gave him a noticeable once over. “Hmm.” She stated with a hum, placing her hands on her hips as she stepped closer. “Well, if you were any other customer, I’d charge five cent. But for you, Terry Richmond, I’ll charge you three.” She smiled.

Terry’s lips twitched, his expression unreadable as he glanced off into the distance out side of the parlor’s windows. He adjusted his belt, the large buckle dinging softly while the leather shifted under his grip. His eyes, sharp and knowing, flicked back to her.

“Three cents, huh?” His voice was smooth, lazy, but there was an edge to it—like he was turning something over in his mind. “Mighty generous of you. Can’t help but to think I’m special.” He quipped, though his tone never really wavered from his deep baritone and his serious manner.

She lifted a brow, arms still crossed as she tilted her head at him. “Well, I’m feelin’ kind.” She smiled, playing along to the game she knew she started, all for the hell of it.

That little smirk of his deepened. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, closing some of the space she’d put between them. She felt it immediately—his warmth, his presence. It was impossible not to.

“You always this kind? Or only to me?” His voice had dropped, rough and low, like gravel dipped in honey.

Her pulse skipped. She held his gaze, not backing down, but he knew what he was doing. He knew the way his voice curled around her, the way his eyes made her skin prickle. Her breath caught, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she kept her expression even, playful, letting her smile linger as she tilted her chin up at him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She murmured, voice smooth as satin. “Mr. Special.” She finished, a certain glint in her eye as she tilted her chin just slightly—like she wasn’t the least bit affected. Like she wasn’t keenly aware of just how close he was now.

Terry huffed a quiet chuckle, but there was something else in his eyes—something sharp, knowing. His gaze flickered down, just briefly at the Lowe part of her face, before settling back on hers. His presence was suffocating in the best way, heavy and warm, filling up the little space between them.

“I would.” He admitted, voice slow and deliberate, like he was testing the weight of the words. “Got a feelin’ the answer might keep me up at night.” He said, crossing his arms.

She let out a soft laugh, looking away from his heavy stare as she shook her head. The heat curling in her stomach was unmistakable. He was good—too good. And she didn’t now how’s long she last in this little game they always played before she pounced on him.

“Don’t go losin’ sleep over me, Richmond.” She teased, even as her pulse thrummed in her ears. She breezed past him, making sure her side brushed against his as she moving over to the small counter on the left side of the door. His eyes trailed down her figure once her back was to him, taking in her round and voluptuous curves from behind. “Wouldn’t wanna be the cause of your troubles.” She finished as she turned to look at him from behind the counter. She leaned her weight in the counter, her hand clasped together with her forearms resting on cold wood. She watched as Terry stood there for a moment, the look in his eye darker than before as he stated at her. He then blinked before moving, not taking his eyes from her with his pace slow and deliberate before he stood on the other side of the counter, looking down at the woman.

Terry tilted his head slightly, studying her like he was seeing something no one else had the sense to look for.

“Too late for that.” He said. The words were quiet, but they landed heavy between them, sending a shiver straight down her spine. Before she could find something clever to throw back at him after gulping, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver dollar, and placed it on the counter in front of her hands. His fingers brushed hers, Cushing him to glance down at the small touch.

He then looked back up, his blue eyes staring into her brown ones. “That oughta cover the next few visits.” He said, voice even, but there was that flicker of something else in his eyes again—something smug, something dangerous.

She laughed, shaking her head. “That’s too much.”

Terry simply shook his head, glancing away from her. “Nah.”

She narrowed her gaze at him, lips parting slightly, but he was already shrugging into his coat, the weight of his scent—tobacco and something deep, something him—lingering in the air. “And here I thought you didn’t like to talk.” She mused, watching him, arms placed on the counter as she thought over all their silent but pleasant times together in the Saloon while the rest of the gang chatted.

Terry confined to gaze at her, his eyes taking across her face. “I don’t.” He said, his smirk lazy, knowing. He paused, casting her a slow, lingering glance—one that made her stomach twist up in knots. He then turned to the door, but before pausing and casting one last glance over his shoulder. His gaze swept over her—slow, deliberate, enough to make the air feel thick with something unspoken. Then, after a beat—“But you make it worth it, Mrs.Special.” Then he tipped his hat and walked out.

And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving her standing there, staring after him, her heart racing, her face burning hotter than a summer’s day in Cane Creek, her fingers gripping the counter a little tighter than before and the lingering ghost of his eyes still burning against her skin.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The Sweet Tooth Saloon was alive tonight—thick with the scent of whiskey, tobacco, and the heat of too many bodies pressed close together. Laughter and conversation swirled beneath the hum of string instruments, boots tapping against the wooden floor. The music was thick, rolling through the air like smoke, wrapping around every body packed into the space. Heat clung to the walls, thick with whiskey, sweat, and the deep, throaty hum of anticipation.

But all of it quieted—just a little—when she stepped onto the stage. Her deep red dress hugging her curves, sinching in her waist and pushing up her breast.

The pianist struck a slow, rolling tune, and a hush fell over the crowd like a held breath. She let them wait, dragging her fingertips along the microphone stand, tilting her head slightly as she took in the sea of faces before her. Then, just when the tension thickened, she let her voice pour out, smooth and rich like warm molasses.

The song was sultry, the kind that curled its way around a man’s spine and made him lean in just a little closer, made him think about things he shouldn’t in a room full of people. And Lord, did they lean in. The entire saloon was hanging onto her voice, watching the way she swayed, the way her fingers trailed down her own arm, the way she made every lyric sound like a promise whispered against bare skin.

Men leaned closer, their drinks forgotten, their gazes fixed on the woman commanding the stage. Her voice was rich, full of promise, of something dark and sweet.

But there was only one pair of eyes she felt, steady and unwavering through the thick haze of smoke and lantern light. In the very back, where the light barely reached, where the smoke curled the thickest—she saw him.

Terry Richmond.

He was leaning against the bar, broad and still, his hat tilted low but not enough to hide the way his bright eyes. He was half-shrouded in shadow, his bright blue gaze cutting through the dim like a knife. He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t talking—just watching.

Her heart skipped a little.

Heat licked up her spine at the intensity of it, but she didn’t let it shake her. She didn’t falter under his gaze. Instead, she let it fuel her, let it shape the way she sang, the way her lips curved around the lyrics, the way she dragged her fingers over the curve of her own waist. If he wanted to look, she was gonna give him something worth looking at.

She kept singing, dragging out the final note, letting it settle over the room like the last flicker of a candle before it goes out. By the time the last note left her lips, the saloon erupted in cheers, men whistling, clapping, stomping their boots against the floor. She gave a slow, knowing smile, dipping into a slight bow before stepping down from the stage.

She didn’t make a show of looking for him, but she knew exactly where she was going.

The moment she reached the bar, a whiskey was already waiting for her—on the house, as always. She took a slow sip, letting the burn settle deep before finally turning, finally meeting his gaze up close. The bar was crowded, but somehow, the space next to Terry was clear. He didn’t look at her right away, just lifted a hand slightly to catch the bartender’s attention. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just looked at her, that same unreadable expression on his face.

“Whiskey?” He asked, voice low, smooth like dark molasses as he gave a small gesture to the glass she already downed. She leaned against the counter, close enough that the edge of her skirt brushed his leg. “You know me too well.” She grinned, already feeling the buzz that the alcohol as giving her. At that, Terry slid a silver coin across the counter, and within seconds, a glass was in front of her. She looked away from him as she took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in her chest. She could feel him watching her, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. That was the thing about Terry—he could say more in a look than most men could in a thousand words.

“You always stare this hard, Richmond?” She asked, looking over at him with a tilt of her head once she had enough of the hard liquor, her voice still thick with the remnants of the song. His lips quirked, just barely, his eyes drifting over her figure. “Only when I like what I see.”

Her stomach flipped at his words, but she kept her expression even, playful. “That so?” She asked, a smirk in her lip and quirk of her brow. “That’s so.” He repeated in confirmation, then kicking his lips. Terry then leaned in just a fraction, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, close enough that she caught the scent of tobacco and cedarwood clinging to his coat.

“So much so.” He murmured, “That I might just have to get my hands on it.” Her breath caught, pulse quickening, but before she could say something sharp, something smart—before she could even decide if she wanted to—Terry’s head tilted slightly, his gaze flickering to the dance floor.

A new song had started.

Something slow. Something meant to be felt more than heard. She barely had time to set her glass down before Terry’s hand slid to her waist.

Without another word, without giving her the chance to refuse, his other hand reached for hers, his grip warm and sure as he led her away from the bar. Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded as she let him pull her into him, his palm settling low against her back. He didn’t ask. Didn’t say a damn word. Just pulled her onto the dance floor.

If he wanted to play with fire, she was more than happy to let him burn.

The moment they stepped into the space, bodies made room for them. Not out of fear, not tonight, but out of knowing. Because everyone in Sugar Cane Creek had eyes. And at that moment, everyone had seen the way Terry Richmond looked at her. The way she looked back.

The tension wrapped around them thick as smoke, curling in the air, pressing against their skin.

Terry moved slow, deliberate, his hand firm at the small of her back, the other clasping hers as he pulled her close—closer than what was proper, closer than what was wise. She let him, her breath shuddering as she settled into him, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. The saloon blurred around them, the lights dim, the chatter distant. None of it mattered. Not when his blue eyes were locked onto hers, not when she could feel the slow drag of his thumb against the back of her hand.

“You dance?” She murmured, her voice teasing, her lips dangerously close to his jaw. She felt him take in a breath with her chest against hers, and if she paused attention, she could’ve sworn she felt the way his heart was beating. “Only when I got reason to.” He answered, his voice a low rumble against her skin. “You given me plenty.” He said, his lips close to her ear as they danced.

She swallowed that his tone so close, heat curling in her belly. “Is that so?”

His fingers flexed against her back, pulling her that last inch closer. His breath, warm and slow, ghosted over her cheek. “Mmhmm.” He hummed with a lick of his lips, the sound causing his body to rumble against hers. She exhaled softly, turning her head just enough that their noses brushed, just enough that if either of them leaned in—just a little—they’d be past the point of no return.

The music swelled, the rhythm thick and slow, wrapping around them like a promise. The way they moved now—close, slow, like something dangerous just beneath the surface—only confirmed what they both had long suspected.

His hand was firm against the small of her back, his other clasping hers as he led her through the steps. It wasn’t a fast dance, nothing rowdy or wild, but it was just as electric. Every turn, every shift, had them pressing together. His breath skimmed the shell of her ear when he leaned in, his grip tightening just enough to let her feel the strength in his arms.

“You always hold a woman this close when you dance?” She whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. Terry’s lips barely curved, his smirk lazy, knowing. “Only when I don’t plan on lettin’ go.” He said, his eyes inspecting every crevice her face had to offer. He didn’t know if he’d bee be this close to her again, and he was taking advantage of the blessing he had to hold her in this way, and gaze at her face as he did.

Her breath hitched.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them blinked.

Lord, the way he watched her. He looked at her as if she was the only thing in the room. Like he was memorizing her in real time. She met his gaze, bold as ever, and let her fingers trail slow up his shoulder, tracing the line of his coat until her nails met the hot skin of his neck. A muscle in his jaw ticked at that. His grip on her waist flexed. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

And then, just when she thought he might tip his head and close the space, just when she thought she might lose her damn mind waiting for it—

He pulled her into the next step of the dance, smooth as silk, a satisfied glint in those blue eyes of his. He was teasing her. Daring her.

If he wanted a game, she was more than happy to play.

“Oh, is that how you want to play?” She asked, feigning innocence while her pulse quickened with anticipation.

Terry’s smirk returned, a challenge wrapped in his expression. “You started it, darlin’.” He replied, stepping into her space that was no longer available due to him, their bodies flush against one another. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating, lulling her in despite the playful facade they each wore. He controlled their movements with a firm yet gentle lead, the world around them fading as she lost herself in the intensity of his gaze and the cadence of their bodies moving in sync.

She narrowed her eyes, but her smirk was knowing. Two could play that game. She let her body press just a little closer, her curves molding against the hard lines of him, her breath a warm whisper against his cheek. He swallowed, his fingers tightening against her waist, a sharp inhale the only sign of restraint.

She felt it, that slip of control, and it sent something hot through her veins. "Careful, cowboy." She murmured, voice all honey and silk. "You might not want to let go, but I ain't so sure you can handle holdin’ on."

His eyes then darkened. His grip flexed, strong fingers digging into the curve of her waist, keeping her against him like he had no intention of letting her go. Not now. Not ever. Now, Terry didn’t scare easy. Didn’t flinch and didn’t fold to many.

But her?

She was dangerous in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Her voice, all thick honey and slow-drawn silk, wrapped around him, testing, teasing, tempting as it spilling through his ear and ran though his veins like it was his blood. Keeping his heart pumping. He could feel the shape of her, soft and warm against the hard planes of his body, the sway of their dance turning into something far more dangerous, far more intimate.

He leaned in, just enough that his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You think I can’t handle you?” He asked, his hands drifting lower as he practically engulfed her in his body. She let out a breathy little laugh, conveniently covering the way she took in a sudden breath at his touch, one that made his pulse jump, made his restraint strain at the edges. "Wouldn’t be the first man to try and fail, cowboy.” She whispered to him, her fingers brushing against the nape of his neck, feeling the freshly shaved haircut he had gotten only hours prior.

Terry exhaled through his nose, amused, darkly so.

She was pushing him, daring him. And he welcomed the challenge. So he let his hand slide lower, fingers grazing the base of her spine, just above the curve of her ass, applying the slightest pressure that had her breath catching. She was quick, though. Slipping her arms around his shoulders, she placed her hand on the back of his head, nails scratching ever so lightly. That same muscle in his jaw ticked again.

Her smirk widened.

That was it.

The last frayed thread of his patience snapped.

Without warning, Terry spun her, pressing her back against his front, effectively caging her in. The movement had her chest rising, her lips parting, and damn if that wasn’t the prettiest sight he’d ever seen as he looked down at her. His voice dropped, a low murmur only for her.

"Darlin'..." His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the side of her neck, lingering at the base of her throat. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath his touch while his other hand rested low on her waist in the front, easing down to a place unimaginable in front of folks. “You’re playin’ with fire." He muttered.

She tilted her chin up, leaning her head back against his chest, gaze smoldering. "Good thing I ain't afraid to burn.” She whispered. And that was all he needed. He quickly spun her around and his mouth was on hers, rough and consuming, his kiss leaving no room for question, no space for anything but him—his hands, his body, the heat of him pressing against every part of her.

She met him with equal fervor, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth when he pressed himself fully against her. The saloon around them might as well have disappeared.

Nothing else existed in that moment. Just him and just her. That and the fire threatening to consume them both.

One moment, they were moving with the rhythm of the music, spinning slow in the dim glow of the saloon lights. The next, he was leading her off the floor, through the press of bodies, past the thick haze of cigar smoke and whiskey-scented air. The second the cool night air hit her skin, she was backed against the wooden frame of the saloon’s outer wall, the rough grain pressing into her spine, his body caging her in.

There was no more teasing, just as there was no more space between them. She barely had time to breathe before his lips found hers again. Slow, at first, like he was still savoring, still memorizing, but the second she sighed against his mouth, the second her fingers slid into his hair and pulled, something broke between them. The kiss turned hungry and deep.

Like he’d been starving for this—for her—for longer than he cared to admit.

She gasped when he gripped her thigh, hitching it up against his hip, pressing her flush against him, making her feel a bulge she that didn't know was his belt buckle, the crease of his jeans or his manhood. Heat coiled between them, urgent and burning, his mouth trailing from her lips to her jaw, down the curve of her neck. She tilted her head, giving him more, losing herself to the feel of him—the weight of his body, the heat of his breath, the quiet growl he let slip when she dragged her nails down his back. "Oh, Terry," She breathed, and damn if he didn’t shudder at the sound of it.

He lifted his head, his forehead pressing against hers, their breath mingling, their bodies still tangled together in the shadows. "I ain’t lettin’ go," He murmured, voice rough, edged with something dangerous. "Not tonight."

She grinned, breathless, running her fingers down the side of his face, feeling the slight roughness of his freshly shaven jaw. "Good." She said before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him to place her lips against her. The kiss lasted for mere seconds, a mash of panting breaths and slick tongues before Terry pulled away. He didn’t say a word before he took her hand, his fingers wrapping firm around hers, rough and warm. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes, the quiet pull of his grip, said enough.

She followed him back through the saloon, past the clinking glasses and low murmur of conversation, past the haze of cigar smoke still hanging thick in the air. The wooden stairs creaked under their steps as he led her up, slow and steady, his thumb tracing slow circles against her palm like he was trying to keep himself anchored. Or like he was memorizing her touch.

She should’ve felt nervous. Should’ve felt some sense of hesitation as they moved further away from the music, from the people, from any excuse to slow this down.

But she didn’t. All she could focus on was him.

The broad stretch of his shoulders. The slow, deliberate pace of his steps. The way he glanced back at her over his shoulder, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable, something that made her stomach dip and heat coil between her ribs.

They reached his door.

And for a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just stood there, facing the wood, his breath slow and measured like he was giving himself a second to think—to decide if this was a line he was ready to cross. Then, without a word, he pushed it open. The second they were inside, it changed.

The tension that had been simmering, stretching between them in the dance, in the way he watched her, in every unspoken moment leading up to this—it snapped.

She barely had time to take in the room before she was against the door, her back pressed against the worn wood, her breath stolen by the press of his body. Terry’s lips crashed against hers, no hesitation now, no teasing restraint. He kissed her like he’d been holding back for too damn long, like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again, and she felt it all. The hunger. The need. The slow, deep pull of something dangerously close to devotion.

She gasped when his hands—big, warm, calloused from work—spanned her waist, dragging her closer, molding her to him like he needed to feel every inch of her against him. His hands tacked down, bending slightly to gather the bunch of her skirt. He hiked it up, catching a feel of her warm thighs that molded under his grip. The feeling of her hands caused her to moan in his mouth, her hands moving over him feverishly as she was filled heat she was giving her. He didn’t hold back, moving his hands up for the back of her legs and gracing over the smooth skin of her ass. He tightened his grip, needing it and causing her to gasp into his mouth. He took his as an option to slip his tongue deeper, almost sucking on hers while he moved his hands to begin to untie the strings of her corset.

She didn’t hold back either. Her fingers found the buttons of his vest, fumbling with them, her hands eager and desperate to feel the heat of his skin. His breath hitched against her mouth when she dragged the fabric from his shoulders, then she felt the quiet rumble of a chuckle against her lips when she yanked his shirt free and ragged her hands down his ribbed abdomen, impatience getting the best of her.

"So eager.” He murmured against her lips, voice low and teasing.

She narrowed her eyes, nipping softly at his bottom lip with her teeth, her nails grazing down his chest, feeling the sharp inhale he took at the touch. "So are you." She purred.

And he didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he reached back down, cupped her though just under her ass, and lifted her, carrying her further into the room like she weighed nothing at all. She barely had time to register the shift before she felt the softness of the mattress beneath her, his weight pressing her down, his mouth trailing slow, lingering kisses down the column of her throat. His touch was slow and sensual, his hands finding any place to rub and caress. Like he was still memorizing, like he was savoring.

But the moment she whispered his name—breathy and wanting—something shifted again. His slow, deliberate control had snapped.

And neither of them held back anymore.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him closer as if she was trying to meld them into one. Terry's breath caught as his bulge hit her core, his hands gripped her tighter, holding her as if he were afraid she might slip away. The world outside faded -no clinking glasses, no murmurs, just the vibrant thud of their hearts battling for attention in the silence between their kisses. Their mouths slid together with a hunger that left her breathless. Every kiss deepened the fire sparking between them, waves of adrenaline crashing over her as she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer as he dipped down to claim her throat once more. He kissed his way down, worshipping her skin with heated touches and soft bites, igniting every nerve ending in her body.

"Tell me what you want.” He murmured against her collarbone, his breath hot against the cool air of the room. “Come on, tell me baby. Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” He breathed out. There was something dangerously tender in his rough but needy words, as if he genuinely wanted to know-not just in the heat of the moment, but in that space where everything was laid bare.

She didn't hesitate. "You. All of you. Right here, right now, baby. Give it to me." It was a wild and brisk admission, and a thrill shot through her at the honesty in her voice. She could feel Terry's pulse quicken at her words, a primal urge coursing through him. He raised his head, looking directly into her eyes, and in that moment, she understood. This was more than a fleeting encounter. This was a collision of desires that had been simmering for far too long.

With a sharp intake of breath, he dove back into her mouth, a feverish kiss that stole her thoughts and drowned her in pleasure. She felt the weight of him press into her, his body a delicious contradiction of strength and softness. He paused for the briefest moment to catch her gaze, the heat in his eyes burning deeper than before, and she sensed the shift—not just in the proximity of their bodies, but in the intensity of everything that hung between them.

"Are you sure?" He rasped, pulling back just enough for her to see the uncertainty mingled with desire in his eyes. She could sense it— the weight of the moment, the gravity of their choices. "Absolutely.” She replied, her heart racing with certainty. She reached for him again, pulling him closer, and felt a grin split his face as he dove into her once more, taking her breath and leaving nothing but a breathless gasp in its wake.

Their clothes were off in an instant.

Once her corset was off and the full expanse of her skin was showing, he sucked a nipple into his mouth, his tongue trace the outline of her areola to his heart's content before pulling away to show the other the same attention. He listened to her sigh and smiled. "I love the way you sound." He said before grumbling out her name.

"Yeah?" She sighed, eyes closed as she took in the feeling of his tongue as he licked up her sternum. "I love the way you say my name." She breathed.

"Yeah?" Terry releated as his hands drifted lower in her body. “ I love your body. Your perfect." He paused to place a kiss on her stomach. “Perfect.” Another kiss, this time below her belly button. “Perfect, body.” He finished, his warm breath blowing on her core. His hands moved from her waist, deriding lower to ease her legs apart as he took in the sigh before him. He audibly moaned at the sight, practically drooling as he looked at her. “So fucking pretty.” He whispered. He wanted to taste all she had to offer. Before she could sink in, She placed her hand on his head, pushing his head back. “Wait.” She said.

Terry looked up at her, his large blue eyes dark and blown with lust. “What is it baby?” He asked, licking his lips as his eyes trailed over her form laid out before him. Her eyes sifted away from his stare, biting at her bottom lip before she spoke. “I…I’ve never had a fella go down there before.” She said softly.

Terry’s smirk faded, his expression shifting into something softer, something reverent. He rested his hands on her hips, his thumbs stroking slow and reassuring circles against her skin, before he placed his head on her bender knee. “Ever?” He asked. His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving, but there was no judgment—just understanding, just care. And something a little more that neither of them knew.

She shook her head, eyes darting away, almost shy. “Ain’t never been with a man who wanted to.” She shrugged a bit, still biting at her lower lip.

Terry exhaled sharply, his brows pulling together for the briefest moment, like the thought alone frustrated him. He cupped the side of her thigh, grounding her, making sure she felt him, felt the sincerity in his touch.

“Well.” He said, voice warm and steady, “You got one now.”

Her eyes flickered back to his, searching, cautious. But all she found was certainty. His lips brushed against her skin, his breath warm as he murmured, “You just tell me what feels good, darlin’. I got you. I just want you to play back. You ain’t gotta worry no more.” He said, his voice going back into the deep ruble that set her ablaze. And the way he said it—so sure, so gentle—made something deep in her chest tighten. Because she believed him.

So that’s what she did, ladies back against the pillows and open her legs further, barring it all and offering it to him. And Terry took it with life, gratitude, as well as pure lust. Like a magnet, Terry's fingers found their way to her slick lips as he gathered wetness before dragging his skilled digits around her clit. Her breath audibly hitched from the contact, making him chuckle before he pressed his lips against her plump thigh, squeezing with the other hand. Slow circles, maddeningly slow and gentle enough to feel like nothing at all had her willing to agree to just about anything to get off.

He then lunged forward with hunger, letting his tongue do all the talking, slithering inside of her warm walls as his nose nudged her clit. She tensed up with every nudge, let out small pants at the unfamiliar yet raviging feeling that washed over her. He glanced down, watching as he freely put his face in her center. He made it messy enough to admire when he pulled his mouth off of her, her pussy glistening like he just doused her in oil.

"Ohh, look at you, baby.” The grumble that came deep from within his throat as he watched her cute clenched around nothing as she continued to whine from the loss of contact from above. And his green eyes on her most intimate parts made it so hard not to get hot and bothered even with him not doing anything. Her poor nub was jumping with excitement as he used his large fingers to spread her lips open. “Look who’s happy to see me." He said as he took in a sharp breath, feeling her slick coating his fingers, the sound of her wetness loud within the room. “You happy to see me, hun? Huh?“ He questioned, looking up at her.

She moan and nodded eagerly, bringing her hand to cover her mouth at the stimulation he was giving her down under. Terry smiled at that, sharp teeth flashing from under his lips. He tried to keep his eyes on hers, looking into her large orbs that were filled with pleasure and a slight sheen of tears at his touch, but her pussy that just kept sucking his fingers in had him in a trance as his sick standing at attention in his underwear. “Tell me you’re happy I’m down here. Making you feel so good.” He demanded. His tone didn’t leave anymore for defiance, which she took as she angered him. “I’m so happy you’re here, Terry. You feel so good, baby.” She whined out as best as she could, breaths short and rocked her hips into his fingers.

"Mmm, yeah, I know.” Terry grinned. “When the last time sometime touched you, huh?" He asked, but this time he got no response watching as she began to reach her high and feeling her clench around his finger. Tweeting pulled his hand back at that, causing the woman to whine at the loss of contact. “Tell me, hun, and we can continue.” He said.

"I-I don't remember.” She said, and she was telling the truth, she truly couldn't. It had to be nothing worth remembering, especially in comparison to what he was making her feel now.

"Well, I’m gon’ make sure you remember this, hear" He then bent down to deliver a bite to her plush thigh, almost as if he was warning her for what's to come before he dove his face back into her heat, slurping at her hard and soaked clit. Her belly was doing summersaults, she could barely contain her volume at the feeling of his long and warm muscle working a magic she’s never felt before. But her sounds were the last of his worries, they were actually only fuel to his already burning fire.

As he ate, he made noise. He moaned, grunted, groaned in her, letting he know and feel that he was having just as much fun as she was.

Her legs had began to shake the longer he was down there, her hands gripping onto the white sheets of the inn bed since that was all she had to hold on to after he practically ripped her’s and his clothes off beforehand.

"Yes! Yes, oh, yes! I'm so close, Terry baby.” She struggled to keep her eyes on him even with his staring back up at her over her pudge, his eyes low lidded and dark. They beckoned her to stay, to not go levee the edge just yet, but her pleasure had came rolling through like a monsoon and wiped all the thoughts from her brain. She was a shaking, blubbering mess under his weight as he continued to lick and eat at her juices. He moved his mouth away from her pussy only to replace it with his hand, rubbing her clit in tight circles as he subconsciously moved her hips.

"Just feel it, baby. Let it happen.” He cooed in that sexy country drawl. She tried to fight against his hand, her thighs subconsciously closing around his wrist. But he smacked his large hand into her juicy thighs and kept at it with his other hand until he felt like he was done. "Be still and met it happen, baby." He cooed, enticing another moan from the woman. She felt like she was literally about to float up into the heavens, her back arching up off of the couch just to get away from the overstimulation.

"Okay! Oh, Fuck!" She screamed. “Yes, Terry!” He moved his hand to allow her to go through the motions, watching as she twitched until that special feeling left her center. "Good job, baby.” He said, pressing a soft kiss on her thighs. “Good job, my pretty girl." Another kiss from him was placed beside her opened mouth as heavy breathing left as he moved up her body.

As the tremors faded from her body, she lay there, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, her skin flushed and glowing in the dim lights of the room. Her limbs felt weightless, boneless, as if she’d melted right into the bed.

Terry was still there, right where he had been, his hands firm on her thighs, holding her steady like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. He pressed slow, lingering kisses to the inside of her knee, then another, trailing up, as if savoring the aftermath.

When she finally opened her eyes, she found him watching her, his expression unreadable at first—like he was memorizing her in this moment, like he was trying to etch the sight of her pleasure into his bones. A slow, lazy smirk then tugged at his lips. “Ain’t never seen somethin’ so damn pretty.” His voice was rough, thick with satisfaction, but there was something else there too. Something deeper.

She let out a breathless laugh, her fingers finding their way into his hair, rubbing lightly. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special, cowboy.” She smirked. Terry hummed with chortle, leaning into her touch, his hands sliding up to rest at her waist as he crawled up beside her. “Ain’t about makin’ you feel special.” He murmured against her skin, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “You already are.”

Her breath hitched, her heart fluttering in her chest at the way he said it—so simple, so certain. She turned her head to look at him, finding those piercing blue eyes already on her, unwavering. And for a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need to.

Instead, she reached for him, guiding his face to hers, and kissed him slow—letting him feel exactly how much she believed him. She slowly came back to herself with her lips attached to his, still basking in the warmth of his touch. She let her fingers trail down his chest, her nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his briefs. She could feel the way his breath hitched, bus bulge rubbing against her. The tension still coiled tight in his body despite the easy way he lay beside her.

A slow smirk pulled at her lips as she traced top of his boxers, slipping her hand into them with practiced ease. “Reckon I should return the favor.” She murmured, her voice soft, teasing.

But before she could go any further, Terry’s hand caught hers—not rough, not forceful, just firm enough to stop her in place. She looked up, brows furrowing in confusion, but the look in his eyes made her pause. “Ain’t about that.” He said quietly, his voice still thick, still warm, but full of something deeper. He squeezed her fingers, rubbing slow circles into the back of her hand. “You just came down from somethin’ real intense, darlin’. I just wanna hold you right now.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by his words, by the tenderness in them. “Terry, I—”

“I know.” He gave her a small, lazy smile, shifting so he could pull her closer against him. “We got time for all that. Just… let me have this. Let me have you right here in this exact moment. We might not ever get it again.”

And the way he said it, like holding her in his arms was just as much of a pleasure as anything else, sent something warm through her chest. The way he already planned for this to be something more made her body flutter in a way only he can make happen. She sighed, settling against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That’s my good girl.” He said before placing a kiss on her warm skin.

And with that, they stayed there, tangled up in each other, letting the night stretch out slow and easy.

@kneelarmhstrung @winorlosetogether @joshuafatubaee

@becauseimswagman1 @nubiagurlll @gwenda-fav

@susanhill @sIvt4her @cryotrain @fakxmbj j

@wayytoocooll @brattyfics @brownskin-bratz @alonahh

@kaylalb @blackpinup22 @xjjawsomex @borednblk

@trash-panda-xoxo @luckydaye777 @dreadheadmadi @mysecertdiaryofableedingheart @saturnville @zillasvilla @kinginwithbreezy-blog

[jjwolves]

POST PRODUCTION ・・・・・・・・・

What: 5 Headcanons of Tenna X Reader

Who: Tenna, from Deltarune (By Toby Fox)

How Much: ~1500 Words, ~8 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Toby Fox, Divider -> @strangergraphics

Warnings: None

Tenna is a textbook overworker and near-constant entertainer. He is often seen giving 200% effort to just about anything he does, and that includes courting you. Before you were even sure that he was interested, he was haphazardly leaving binders full of minigame ideas lying around, some of which were... suspicious. Sometimes you'd take a peek when he was out of the room, and they'd all be related to things you had mentioned liking in passing. Like fish? There's a crudely-drawn blueprint for a fishing minigame. Did you once say that you always enjoyed those carnival games where you throw a ball to knock a stack of bottles over? It's present in the roster, verbatim. You pretend that you weren't doing anything when Tenna returns in a hurry and grabs one of his binders off the table before urgently hurrying off. You don't think you'll tell him, just to spare him the potential embarrassment. "No need to hold in a LAUGH around me! I know I'm funny!" If only he knew.

Tenna often runs around trying to please you when he's not busy with his show. He always brings you coffee in the mornings--despite his showman flair, it is not smooth nor cute. It is frantic. He sprints to the cafe and bursts inside, leaning on the counter from exhaustion as he orders a coffee with the cadence of a man begging for his life. "Yes--yes, they like it with that lavender foam on top, they say they don't when I ask because it costs more that way, but I know they like it, I KNOW these things, please HURRY UP THEY'RE GONNA BE BUSY ALREADY IF YOU DON'T BREW FASTER! DON'T... DON'T YOU KNOW I OWN YOUR CONTRACT?!" He swipes it out of the hands of the Shadow Man working the counter and bolts to where you are, not noticing that he's slowly shrinking as he starts to doubt his timing and his memory. It was lavender, wasn't it? By the time he reaches you and skids to a stop, he's shorter than half your size. "H-hey, looks like I caught you just in time! I got a coffee for you." When you thank him and ask him how he knew exactly what you liked, he lets out a long sigh of relief as he slowly regains his size. "That's what you got two weeks ago, obviously. Oh, is this a memory game? I'll have you know I'm highly skilled!" You tell him that if he wants to get you a coffee, he doesn't have to pay extra for that sort of flavoring... You'd be happy with whatever he got for you. In fact, you'll get him one next time. "...Is that so. Ha! OK! Well! I'll take you up on that! Anyways, heh, the show's not gonna run itself!" The Hope-O-Meter is filled to the brim with fireworks.

TV Time's host is pretty horrible at hiding his adoration for you, yet at the same time, he'd never come out and confess. You think it's probably because he's worried that you'll say no (you wouldn't). His underlings feel kind of bad for him and try to clue you in as if you didn't already know. In passing, a Shadow Man tells you, "Da Boss really likes ya, if it wasn't obvious already. I don't really see why, but I'm into flatter folks anyhow. Either way, he's never gonna tell ya, so you may as well rip da bandaid off. Or make his day." You start thinking about how to best return his affections without scaring him away. He's obviously terrified of rejection, so you'll have to be subtle about it. As you walk away, lost in thought, a nearby Pippin chatters with the Shadow Man who encouraged you. "The boss is alright and all, but he can be a little scary sometimes, can't he?" The Shadow Man nods. "Yeah, but he's on his best behavior when they's around. I think we'll be in da clear once they's together."

You call Tenna to tell him to meet you in person so you can share some ideas that you came up with for his show. Little did you know, he was just ending a game show segment when you called, his antennae intercepting the signal you sent out. He paused for a moment before offering a comedic aside to the crowd. "When I said 'phone a friend', I didn't mean me!" The audience let out a short bout of laughter as Tenna listened to the signal. He gasped. "Oh! This call is--Them. They want to meet... with me?" The crowd responded with a conspiratorial "ooh". Tenna turned to the crowd and blushed. "Hey! Um, thanks for the vote of confidence, folks, but show's over! I gotta get going! Thanks for tuning in to TV Time! OK, see you next time!" After an animated wave, the show's host was quick to draw the curtains and leap off the stage to go meet with you. You're set up at a table when Tenna finds you, and he's eager to settle his giant body into the a chair which is hilariously small by comparison before twiddling with his thumbs anxiously. "It's so good to see my GREATEST fan again! I'm kind of surprised that you remembered my frequency." Of course you remembered! You also mention that you saw his show today and that it was as riveting as it always was. Tenna seemed to glow a little brighter and fill a little more space after you said that. You then, perhaps in a moment of mischief, asked why the crowd thought it was so funny that you were calling him. "W-wha? I mean, pheh, how should I know!? They're WILDer than TV Times's WILDest prizes, that lot! My fans, ever hungry for RIVETING drama! They're obviously a little... heh, mistaken? On our... relationship?" Tenna gritted out the last part like he was testing dangerous waters. You said that the audience didn't sound mistaken at all as you reached out and squeezed his cartoonishly gloved hand. You liked him a lot. It's why you wanted to see him today. "You--you're not saying--you're--your hand--whoah mama!! You're not saying...?!" You are. You think you're in love with him. He has no idea how to react to you returning his affections. He's elated. He's terrified. "I'm reeling from the feeling!! I--I still don't have those minigames for you done yet! What am I doing?! I bet I'm looking so glooby right now! And the video game isn't ready for you yet, and I still have to--" You shush him and say that he doesn't need to prepare all this stuff to get you to want to be with him. He just needs to bring himself. Tenna gingerly takes your hands in his, which are huge compared to yours, as his screen flickers off with seriousness. "...Okay! Okay. Just myself..." A pause, and then an anxious whisper. "I really want to believe that I can do that."

So, you and the host of TV World are dating now. A lot of it is old hat; even though Tenna acknowledges your sentiment that he's good enough on his own, he's very much a textbook people-pleaser and overworker. You don't work for him, nor are you really a cohost for him, since he asked you if you would want to be and you said no. Before he could shrink, you specified that nobody could do a better job than just him, and he seemed to be OK after that. Still, you tune into every show that he does, and you swear you're not a narcissist, but you're pretty sure you keep finding Easter Eggs referencing you just about everywhere. If you have a favorite accessory you're always carrying around, expect it to appear in some form within a TV Time bumper. Tenna often uses brief asides to allude to you and lightheartedly brag about "winning" you. "Isn't love a WONDERFUL thing?! (I would know, after all!) Luckily, that's the subject of this next quiz: Romance! I'd be a bad host if I didn't know the answers, wouldn't I?" (Which is hilarious--aren't you the one who got lucky?) If you have a theme song, the show's little jingles have your motif in them. And if you ever show up as a contestant? There will be bias--safety nets which don't exist for the others and made-up rankings that Tenna ad-libs on the spot. "I've never seen a score so high! You get... Gamma Rank! I know you don't get paid, but if you did, you'd deserve a rays! Anyone? Anyone?" At the end of the show, the truth is that you won the greatest prize of all, and the love that you both scored is enough to give Tenna the strength to just... be. You both find each other perfect, no post-production needed.

A/N: The day has come to post something unrelated to ENA. A return to form is in order, no worries; I just wanted to make something for this guy. I like him. I... relate to him? I'd be down to write more for him... Honk.

[hhhwnr]

ꨄInk-stained affection — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/mutual pinning word count: 1,1k

pairing: post prison!Spencer Reid x sunshine!reader

warnings: brief mentions of prison.

summary: Some things are easier to write than say. Especially when he has forgotten how to say anything at all. But you were patient—and paper listens just as well as you do.

author’s note: post prison!Spence is my beloved. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It started with a journal — not as some grand romantic gesture, but something quieter, simpler, something that didn’t demand too much. After prison, words weren’t easy for Spencer, not in the way they used to be. He still talked, of course, still rambled sometimes about quantum theory or 18th-century handwriting, but even those rambles were slower now, more deliberate, like each word had to be checked and weighed before leaving his mouth. Conversation felt like walking across a rope bridge in the wind — possible, but uncertain — and some days, no matter how much he wanted to connect, the space between thoughts and speech felt too wide to cross. So you didn’t ask him to talk. You just left a blank notebook on the edge of his desk one afternoon, nothing fancy, just a soft-covered journal with a post-it on top that read: In case speaking feels too loud today. You didn’t expect him to use it, but two days later it reappeared on your chair, opened to a page written in small, careful handwriting: Do you want to get coffee after work? That was all. But it was enough.

Over time, the journal stopped being just a bridge and became a home for the quiet parts of your connection—the kind of things too soft or too strange to say out loud. You took turns without rules, slipping it into desk drawers or messenger bags like a secret waiting to be found. Sometimes it was practical—grocery lists, book club notes, flight times for a shared case. Other times it was tender: a pressed flower from a walk you’d taken apart but thought of each other during; a doodle of his cardigan draped over your chair with a tiny “missing you” written in the pocket; a smudged coffee ring beside a scribbled line of poetry neither of you could quite finish. It was a slow, careful accumulation of small things—anecdotes, quotes, quiet thoughts in the margins. You looked tired today, but beautiful still. I thought of you when I saw a crow with a limp. This passage reminded me of the way you fidget with your sleeves. The kind of notes you don’t say aloud in case they sound too big or too honest, but that, written down, felt just right.

Spencer stared at the open page for a long time before writing anything. The journal sat between his hands like it always did—familiar, worn at the corners, faintly smelling of lavender and ink. He tapped the pen against the edge of the paper, like the rhythm could pull the words out of him. He’d written so much in this journal—facts and fragments and safe little glimpses of affection—but this felt different. This felt like crossing some invisible line he wasn’t sure he could uncross.

Still, he wrote.

You were humming in the elevator today. I didn’t know the tune, but it stayed with me all day. I think that’s what love does sometimes—slips in without a sound, nestles between your ribs, and makes a home there before you’ve even noticed.

I used to think of you when I was still inside. Not often at first. Just… little things. Your voice in meetings. The way you held a pen. How you always had a hair tie on your wrist, even when your hair was up. I think I was clinging to whatever felt normal, whatever reminded me that the world was still going even if I wasn’t really in it. But somewhere in those small, quiet thoughts, you became a kind of comfort. A light that wasn’t too bright, but steady. Familiar. You were one of the few things I let myself keep.

And now, here you are. Reading my bad handwriting, correcting my book quotes, drawing ridiculous doodles in the margins like it’s your full-time job. And I still don’t always have the words when I need them. Even when I talk, it’s slower now. Softer. I second-guess things I never used to. But you never make me feel like I have to perform. You listen like it’s second nature. Like I’m worth listening to. And that… that does something to a person.

So I guess I’m writing it here, because I still don’t trust my voice not to tremble: I am in love with you. Tell me in ink.

The next morning, he brought you coffee—your favorite, made exactly how you liked it, which he somehow always remembered even when he forgot to eat lunch or where he last put his keys. He didn’t say much, just set the mug beside your hand and lingered there a moment longer than usual. The notebook followed, placed gently on top of the folder you’d been reviewing, its familiar spine worn soft. He didn’t look at you when he left it there—just gave a quiet little tap against the cover with two fingers and mumbled something about paperwork. But his ears were pink, and you could swear he smiled when your hand brushed his knuckles in thanks.

He didn’t expect it back so soon.

But there it was, sitting neatly on his desk that afternoon like it had been waiting for him all along. The cover still smelled faintly like your hand cream—coconut and something citrusy—and there was a tiny yellow post-it stuck to the front, a smiling sun doodled in the corner. He opened to the next blank page and found your familiar handwriting, looping and full of warmth.

Spence, I read your note three times. Not because I didn’t believe it—but because I wanted to feel it over and over again. You don’t know what it means to me that you let me into your heart like that.

I think I’ve loved you in small ways for a while now—like how I always look for your face first in a crowded room, or how I find myself smiling when I see your name on my phone. It didn’t hit me all at once. It was like the warmth of the sun sneaking through a window on a cold day—soft, unexpected, and completely impossible to ignore.

And even if you’d never said it, I think I still would’ve kept writing to you. Because even before I loved you, I liked you so very much. And being liked by you in return? That’s already one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.

So… meet me after work? You can tell me in words this time. I’ll bring your favorite muffins. You bring that smile I like.

And there it was—at the bottom of the page, a soft lipstick mark, right where your signature might have gone.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his fingertips tracing the edge of the page like he could hold the feeling steady just a little longer.

He couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[gossameres]

always kind of was, j. black

chapter thirteen, however long

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: thank u to everyone who has read and came along this series!! thoroughly enjoyed writing this and hopefully write something again soon!

prev. series masterlist!

“Be honest,” you start, pulling out a sandwich wrapped neatly in foil. “Did Emily pack this for you?”

Jacob let out a scandalized gasp. “Excuse you. I made that with my own two hands.”

You raised a brow. “Right. And by made, you mean unwrapped and re-wrapped?”

He grinned, those familiar crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. “Details.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. The blanket beneath you was soft from use, spread across a patch of tall grass that swayed gently with the breeze. The clearing was quiet—just birdsong, the hush of wind, and the occasional creak of a tree shifting in the distance. The sun was beginning to dip, golden light spilling low across the field, painting everything in amber.

Jacob lay down beside you, propped on one elbow. You watched him from the corner of your eye. He looked peaceful here, the soft light catching in his hair, turning the edges gold.

“Hi,” you said, voice quiet.

“Hi,” he replied, turning slightly so your noses were nearly touching.

You’re looking at each other with soft smiles for a while, just admiring. His lashes, his hair, his eyes. Then a tiny piece of fuzz drifts onto his cheek, and you reach over to gently brush it away.

“Sometimes,” he says, voice quieter now, “I think about what it would’ve been like if none of this had happened. No wolves. No imprinting. Just us. Just normal.”

You glance at him. “Would you want that?”

He hesitates, then shrugs a little. “Part of me wonders. But no—I wouldn’t trade this. Not even close.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Even with all the chaos?”

“Even then,” he stopped to meet your eyes. “Because you’re in it. And if you’re in it then I’d choose it every time.”

You swallow hard and look away, blinking fast. The clouds are turning pink now, dusted lavender at the edges. A single star appears, faint but steady, near the horizon.

“I want you to know that I never wanted you to feel like you have no choice. If… this ever gets too much, if it’s not what you want—I want you to leave. I want you to do what’s best for you.”

You turned to him sharply. “Shut up.”

His brows shot up.

“I’m serious,” you said, nudging him. “You don’t get to say something like that and expect me to be okay with it.”

“No, listen. I’m just saying—”

“Make me,” you interrupted.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Make you what?”

“Shut up and listen,” you whispered.

He leaned in, eyes flickering between yours and your lips. You kissed him—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that says everything words fall short of. His hand came up to cradle your cheek like you were something precious. When you pulled back, you stayed close, noses brushing, breaths mingling.

There’s a long pause, the kind that lingers gently, filled with everything you’re both too full to say.

“I don’t know how long I’ve got,” Jacob says quietly. “Could be years. Could be more. Or not.”

You turn to him, your voice steadier than you expected. “However long it is, I want it. All of it.”

He smiles, a little sad, a little in awe. “Hopefully more than once every two years.”

You let out a soft laugh, swatting his arm. “Hey! It wasn’t fully my fault.”

His smile fades into something quieter, something weightier. “Whatever time I have,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “it’s yours.”

The sky was pale and overcast, the kind of muted gray that felt like holding your breath. Dew clung to the grass, dampening your sneakers as you carried the last suitcase to the trunk.

Jacob was already there, waiting. He took it from your hands without a word, loading it carefully. You wiped at your eyes, quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen.

He had.

But he didn’t say anything—just opened his arms.

You stepped into him like it was instinct, burying your face in the soft cotton of his hoodie. He held you tight, one hand cupped around the back of your head, the other warm and steady at your waist.

“I’ll come back,” you whispered into his shoulder.

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Always.”

“We’ll call,” 

“We’ll text,”

“You can come for Thanksgiving. Winter break. Spring.” You clung tighter. “You don’t have to wait until next summer.”

His lips pressed gently to your temple. “Okay.”

Your parents were already settled in the car, giving you the quiet space you needed but clearly ready to leave. You stepped back just enough to meet Jacob’s eyes one last time.

He leaned against your car’s passenger door, arms crossed, his face carefully guarded—too composed for what you both felt.

“Hey,” you whispered.

His forehead dropped to yours. “I know. It’s just—”

“Four hours,” you finished softly. “I know.”

He kissed your cheek, careful not to draw attention from your dad’s watchful eye.

When he pulled back, he exhaled, a breath that sounded like it hurt more than he let on. “Go,” he said, voice low. “Before I steal you back.”

Your mom slid into the driver’s seat, already holding the keys. You climbed into the passenger side, grateful your dad was driving your car—because you knew you wouldn’t make it through the drive without breaking down.

The engine hummed as you pulled away. You glanced in the rearview mirror.

Jacob stood in the driveway, hand raised in a quiet wave, watching until you disappeared from sight.

Your house feels too clean. Too quiet.

Your parents don’t ask questions when you head straight upstairs. They just watch you with that soft, careful expression people get when they know you’re holding something fragile in your chest.

You drop one of your bags by the door and stand in the middle of your room for a second, like you’re waiting for it to feel like yours again. The walls are the same. The sheets still smell like your detergent, but the silence feels different now. Too thin. Too still.

You sit on the floor and unzip your bag.

There’s a sweatshirt that doesn’t belong to you. A folded flannel. A faded bracelet made of string and wood. You don’t rush. You just keep unpacking, piece by piece, until your hand brushes something crinkled in the pocket of the bag.

A candy wrapper. An orange Starburst.

You smooth the crumpled wrapper out instinctively, the paper trembling slightly between your fingers. There, scrawled in the middle in messy, smudged Sharpie, are the words Kisses still owed.

A laugh bubbles up, but it’s tangled with a sudden swell of tears, and you’re not sure whether you’re laughing or crying. The feeling lodges deep in your throat, a mixture of sweetness and ache that makes your chest tighten.

Your fingers curl around the wrapper as you close your eyes, letting the quiet weight of it settle inside you.

It always kind of was Jacob Black.

Always was.

[covenofagatha]

But you're my stepmom! (Part 3)

The morning after your dinner with Agatha and then you go to a party with Wanda.

Word count: 2000+

Warnings: masturbation, brief mommy kink, underage drinking, intoxication, throwing up

Tag list: @stayevildarling @i-just-cannot @hazey-g @buttercandy16 @320viada @evilangels-stuff @rmaximoff @morganismspam23

It’s 9 am on Saturday when you finally wake up. You groggily check your phone to find a text from an unknown number, sent last night at 10:30: Had a lovely night with you, sweetheart. Hope we can do it again sometime soon. 

If you hadn’t known who the number belonged to, you would’ve assumed you had been on a date that went really well. 

But you do know who it belongs to so you turn your phone over with a groan. Thankfully you don’t have anything to do today besides just a few things for school. 

You peek through your blinds which look down to your driveway and find your mom’s car gone. Perfect. You have the whole house to yourself. You throw on a purple sports bra and gray sweatpants and head downstairs to find something to eat. 

You’re halfway through a bowl of cereal and an episode of The Office when the doorbell rings. You quickly swallow your bite and creep over to the door, looking carefully through the peephole. You have absolutely no clue who it could be. 

Your mouth drops and you unlock the door and swing it open. Agatha is standing on your front porch. You poke your head outside and look around for your dad or any reason for why she’s here. 

“Um–”

“You left your sweatshirt in my car last night,” she interrupts, holding your hoodie out to you. You blink. She came all the way over on a Saturday just for that? She didn’t even text first. 

“Oh. Thanks. Sorry about that, I didn’t even realize I left it,” you say, taking the hoodie from her. She doesn’t move. “Do you want to come in?” 

She breezes past you and walks into the kitchen. All you can think about is how mad your mom would be if she knew Agatha was in her house. And you’re also maybe thinking about how it’s just the two of you, in the house, alone. 

She clears her throat, fiddling with a ring on one of her fingers. You raise an eyebrow at her. Is she nervous? “Your dad is wondering if you’d like to spend the day with us tomorrow. We can go see a movie, go shopping. Whatever you’d like.” 

“Why didn’t he just text me?” 

“I’m sure he will. I just wanted to give you a heads up.” And then it’s like she finally looks at you and sees what you’re wearing. A light visibly sparks in her eyes. You look down at yourself and blush furiously. The cold air in the house has made your nipples poke through your lavender-colored bra. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, folding your arms in front of your chest. “I didn’t know you were coming over. Otherwise I would’ve put on a shirt.” 

She grins wolfishly. “Don’t apologize. I love a girl in purple.” 

Is she–no. She is not flirting. 

“Well, just think about it,” she says and you blanch. Did she read your mind?

“Think about…what?” 

“Spending the day with us tomorrow, silly! What else would I be talking about?”

You open and close your mouth a few times, trying to figure out how to respond. Agatha is clearly enjoying herself. 

“I should get going. Lots of work to do today. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, giving you one more heated look, and then she lets herself out. You lock the door behind her, bewildered. What the fuck was that?

Your cereal is soggy so you dump it down the sink. You flop on the couch and squirm around, trying to get comfortable, but you can’t stop thinking about the way Agatha’s eyes raked up and down your body. The way her eyes lit up when she saw your nipples. 

Before you even really know what you’re doing, you slide a hand into your underwear. Fuck. You’re already wet. You refuse to think of Agatha as you begin to touch yourself, pulling up mental images of all the women you find attractive. It works until it doesn’t. 

You keep getting close to the edge but then you just can’t finish. You grunt in frustration and slide a finger inside yourself, beginning to thrust hard. It feels good, so why can’t you cum? 

You try fantasy after fantasy until one starts to stick. 

“Mm," you moan, your hand tangled in the brunette’s thick hair. Her face works between your legs, sucking your clit just right. Her fingers are digging into your thighs and you groan at the thought of seeing half-moon indents tomorrow, a reminder of how good she’s fucking you. 

You roll your hips against your hand, finally feeling your orgasm begin to build. 

“Right there, mommy”, you say. The woman clearly likes that because she pulls you down so she can get into more of your pussy. “Fuck.” She pushes a finger into you, curling it just right. 

You pant with the effort, so close. You just need a bit more. 

“Do you like this?” The woman says into your cunt, tongue slowly licking through your folds. You’re throbbing against her as you beg for more. She slowly lifts her head, smirking at you. 

You gasp aloud. It’s Agatha. 

Cum for mommy, baby girl. 

You cum so hard your back arches off the couch and you let out a loud moan. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You absolutely cannot be thinking about your step-mother while you masturbate. 

You go to wash your hands and you see a missed text on your phone. Your heart beats faster. Is it Agatha? Could she have possibly known what you just did?

Heard Rio Vidal’s having a party tonight. Want to go? It’s from Wanda. A party is just what you need to take your mind off things. Specifically your step-mom. 

Sure. What time is it? 

Wanda texts back that it starts at 8 so that’s when she’ll pick you up. You laugh to yourself. Wanda will not be caught dead being the first person at a party. 

You get another text, this time from your dad: Hey, sweet pea. What do you think about spending the day with me and Agatha tomorrow? You chew on your bottom lip and then reply with a yes before you can talk yourself out of it. 

And now you have about ten hours to kill before the party tonight. 

***

The rest of the day passes pretty quickly. You busy yourself with homework and take a quick afternoon nap. And then finally it’s time to get ready for the party. You find a cute red top and a short black skirt in your closet and check yourself out in the mirror. You look good. 

You get flashbacks to dressing up for dinner yesterday, but you shake those thoughts from your head. You’re about to go to a party with age-appropriate girls that aren’t married to your father. 

I’m outside. You grin at Wanda’s text and gather all your stuff before going downstairs. 

The two of you easily fill the air with small talk about homework and school. And then Wanda asks if you got into trouble with your step-mom for sneaking into their pool yesterday. 

“No, not really. Agatha just made me go to dinner with her last night,” you say with a shrug, downplaying how flustered even the thought of her makes you. 

Wanda makes a face. “That’s weird. How was it?” 

“Actually not too bad. She’s alright. I’m actually gonna hang out with her and my dad tomorrow.” 

“Oh, good,” she says with a smile. 

When you get to Rio’s house, cars are already parked all along the street so you end up having to park on a different street. 

“Ugh, this sucks,” Wanda complains. You giggle at her dramatics. It’s maybe a five minute walk to the house from the car. 

Once inside, you make a beeline straight for the alcohol. It has been quite a day. Pouring vodka straight into a cup, you take a sip and gasp at the burn. And then you take another swig, embracing it. You need this. 

“There you are!” Rio comes up beside you, slapping you on the back. You cough on the vodka. “Finish that up and then come play beer pong with us.” 

You nod in agreement. You and Rio are friendly enough, but being completely honest, she kind of scares you a little. Her intense stare made you feel like she could see into the depths of your soul. And she was more than just a little odd. 

You down the rest of your cup and then follow her over to the pong table. It’s the two of you against Natasha Romanoff and Maria Hill. 

“You’re going down,” Rio hisses at them. She goes first and completely misses. Nat smirks and tosses the ball. It soars into the cup right in front of you, liquid splashing onto your stomach. 

“Drink up!” Nat exclaims. You wince and chug the cup of cheap beer, grimacing at the taste. 

The game does not go well for you and Rio after that. It seems like everytime you or her throws the ball, it always bounces off the rim or goes right in-between cups. At one point, you swear the ball goes into the cup and then ricochets off the beer and out of the cup, but you could be wrong since you’re pretty drunk at this point on account of Nat and Maria sinking every single shot they take. 

“We are not good at this!” You slur loudly to Rio, who laughs hysterically. She is in worse shape than you are.

“Last one!” Nat cheers and throws the ball. You watch in horror as it goes into the only remaining cup on your side of the table. You turn your head to Rio since it’s her turn to drink, but she is holding onto the table for dear life, eyes fixed forward. 

You figure it’s best if you take one for the team and drink the last cup, immediately gagging. 

“Shit,” you curse and run to go find the bathroom. You make it just in time before you bend over and puke in the toilet. You’re sweaty, drunk, and now you just want to go home. 

You stumble through the house trying to find Wanda, but there’s no sign of her anywhere. You grumble to yourself, thinking of what to do. Ugh. You know you can call. But you don’t like it, not right now. 

The fresh air sobers you up ever so slightly when you step outside so it’s quiet. You don’t even have to check the number before you punch it into your phone; you’ve traced over it enough times that it’s ingrained in your memory, even when you’re this drunk. 

You lift the phone to your ear, sort of hoping she doesn’t answer. No such luck. She picks up on the first ring, like she’s been waiting for you. 

“Y/n?” Agatha says and your heart leaps. 

“Sorry to bother you,” you garble, the alcohol still making your brain fuzzy. “Could you possibly come pick me up? And also, don’t tell my dad.”

“What? Where are you? Are you drunk?” Her voice is accusing and you giggle despite the seriousness of the situation. 

“Nooo, you’re drunk,” you say, still laughing. 

“Where are you?” She’s stern now. “Are you at a party? You’re being really irresponsible right now.” 

“Sorry, mommy,” you retort mockingly, heat still flushing through your body at actually calling her that. You think you hear her breath hitch, but maybe that’s just you. “Can you just come get me? I wanna see you.”

“Sweetheart,” she says lowly. “I need you to tell me where you are. I can’t come get you if you don’t tell me that.” 

“I was thinking of you earlier,” you say intently. 

“Oh, yeah? Can you tell me where the party’s at?” 

You roll your eyes. “Fine, since you want to make such a big deal out of it.” You step away from the wall you were leaning on and read out the house number and then scan the street for the street name. There’s silence on Agatha’s side for a second. “Hello?” You ask, not sure she’s still there. 

“I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” And then she hangs up. 

[golddustwomanwins]

hi could i request patrick x reader where they’re kind of friends but he has a crush on her and over time he gets progressively more down bad and pervier (the intensity of perviness is up to you, whatever you feel comfort writing) and insane until he finally sees an in to make a move or someone catches him once. no problem if this isn’t your thing, your writings amazing and i love how you write patrick <3

I made this childhood friends because it was easier to write that way. Hope this is somewhat what you envisioned <3

LAVENDER HAZE

Childhood friends Patrick Zweig x Reader

18+

Patrick prided himself in the fact that you let him be friends this long. When you joined his high school, having moved new to town, he was ready to pounce the moment you stepped into the classroom, dark scowl painting your gorgeous features.

At sixteen Patrick was a teenage boy with only one thing on his mind and when he saw you in those jean shorts, tight shirt with low cleavage he shifted in his seat with straight determination.

To his luck he swooped in early enough, cracking through the ice that consumed you. Did you insult him quite a lot? Yes. Did you barely tolerate his presence? Also yes. But over time he got to know you better. While people only knew you as the cold prissy girl, too good for anyone in their school, Patrick knew that there was more to you.

You were funny and intelligent, and you cared a lot about what people had to say about you. Maybe too much sometimes. Which is why it was your default mode to scare them off in the first place, so they couldn’t get to know you and pick out all the flaws that would make them eventually leave you again.

You still didn’t show any affection in your friendship, which made Patrick crave it all the more. He was handsy all the time. While walking beside you he’d shove his hand into your back pocket, keeping you close to his side. When you’d reached for something high in the cabinets he’d step up at your back and get the glass down for you. There was no reason for Christ to touch your back other than he just wanted it to.

You didn’t mind. Patrick was the only person you trusted in your life and you were used to him being all weird about touching you. It was innocent to you.

All the years you two stayed friends and Patrick got to add more and more snippets of you to his imagination. When he was hanging out at your house you didn’t mind changing in front of him, his eyes taking in your cute little cotton panties with hearts on the fabric, bra cupping your bouncy tits perfectly.

His favorite time was summer. To see those legs of yours in a short skirt or shorts. Or your trips towards the lake, his sunglasses hid him ogling you for hours.

You’d always lay on your tummy, untying your top so the strings of your bikini wouldn’t leave an imprint on your skin. Soft pearls of water would cling to your skin and Patrick would catch himself wanting to be water just to be able to touch your skin this intimately, soaking into your bones and never leaving your body again.

“Could you put it on my back?” You mumbled as the sun bore down on you. Before Patrick could even think of an answer his body was moving.

You arched your back and hissed when the cold sunscreen hit your hot skin. Patrick’s rough hands slowly spread the liquid along your back and you sighed as his fingers dug into the aching muscles and knots. Patrick’s lips were parted as he moved his fingers to the side, just grazing the sides of your tits and he grew painfully hard in his shorts.

“Could you go a little lower?” You asked, stopping yourself from moaning out loud when his fingers pressed into the dimples in your lower back. Pictures flashed in front of Patrick’s mind. Situations were you’d be on your tummy, a pillow under you and Patrick’s hands on your hips as he slowly slid his cock inside you.

After that day Patrick used the image of the white cream on your back to fist his cock quick and mercilessly, cum splattering on his stomach in a matter of seconds with your name on his tongue.

It only grew worse over time.

He’d start taking things. That pink sequin bikini you wore the day at the lake? Stuffed in the drawer of his nightstand, ready to be taken out whenever Patrick found his hand wandering in his boxers at night.

You always wore that one specific lip gloss shade with golden glitter called ‘orgasm’. You thought you’d lost it but it found its way into Patrick’s jean pocket one night as he stayed over.

He’d start spreading the gloss on his lips, trying to imagine what it would feel like on him after you kissed him senseless. His cock was hard in a matter of seconds. His hand moved rapidly, tip leaking when an idea sparked in his head.

He opened the tube and spread the glittery gloss along his cock, groaning as his hips bucked up. He imagined your glossy lips slowly taking him inside, gagging when his hips strut forward. The whole gloss would spread around him as you moaned and took him deeper and deeper.

He spilled not a moment later.

Once, he forgot to wipe the gloss form his lips and when you came over unannounced you caught him.

“Is that my gloss on your lips?” You frowned.

Patrick sat up in his bed, heart threatening to spill out of his chest. “No,” he stretched his body slightly. “Was out on a date.”

You shrugged and plopped down on the mattress beside him. He slowly pushed your bikini bottoms with his foot down the bed before you could notice as you grabbed his chin with your hand. You turned his head this way and that, his eyes half lidded as they watched you inspect the lip gloss on his lips.

“Pretty shade,” you said, swiping one finger against his bottom lip and he was instantly hard again, even though he came just a few minutes ago.

You swatched the color against your palm. “The girl has taste.”

Patrick huffed a laugh but nodded. “Yeah, she does.”

Moving to college opened a whole new experience for the both of you. You slowly made a few friends outside of Patrick, mostly girls but Patrick could see the lingering gazes of other guys when you two walked on campus.

He’d had to watch multiple times when you both went to frat parties, how those douchebags approached you, their hands finding your waist, leaning down to talk in your ear. You always turned them down, your icy glare and spikey persona only turning them on more.

It was after all what made Patrick chase after you his whole life.

He was sick and tired of watching and he decided that if the situation appeared he’d make his move. He had to be sneaky though.

To his dismay, your icy demeanor melted slightly when a guy in your chem class asked you out on a date. You were currently standing in front of the mirror in your dorm, reapplying lip gloss as Patrick lounged on your bed, watching you.

“Is he even nice?” Patrick asked, arms propped behind his head. He was in his boxers, the California heat bustling through the opened window, curtains fluttering slightly from the creaky fan in the corner of the room.

“What do you mean is he even nice?” You looked at him through the mirror, lip gloss applicator hovering in front of your lips.

“I mean how do you know if he’s not an asshole?” Patrick leaned up on his elbows.

“I don’t,” you answered. “That’s the whole point of going on a date.”

Patrick huffed. “Why do you want to go out on a date with him when you don’t even know, if it’s gonna be worth it.”

You laughed and put the lip gloss down before walking over to him. “Why do you go on dates?”

He rolled his eyes before his hands shot out, grabbing you by the hips.

“Hey!” You squeal, chuckling when he pulled you into his lap. Your dress rode up on your thighs, your cheeks flushing when your pelvises met.

“Why don’t you stay here with me?” He murmured, his nose trailing along your throat, hands gripping you tightly.

“I see you everyday,” you chuckle, winding your arms around his neck. You knew deep down that this kind of behavior wasn’t normal for friends but it felt good. Patrick felt good.

“And?” He nuzzled your neck, inhaling deeply. He wanted to lick the scent off your whole body, burying it deep inside his system and never letting go.

“I have to eventually go out with a guy,” you huffed and he looked up at you. “Why?” His grip on you tightened, a slight possessive undertone in his voice.

“Patrick,” you frowned, leaning back slightly. The look in his eyes was gone a moment later and the sly grin painted his lips again.

“Just wanted to hang out with you, watch a movie or something,” he drew soothing circles on the exposed skin of your thigh.

“We can do that every day,” you got off his lap and grabbed your bag and keys.

Patrick fisted the comforter but tried to swallow his anger. “Is it all right if I stay while you’re gone?” At least then he could make sure that you actually came back in on piece and alone.

“Sure, I’ll see you later,” dropping a quick kiss on his cheek you walk out the door.

*

There was no time wasted before Patrick pushed his face into your pillow, his hips rutting against the mattress. One of your panties was wrapped around his cock as he thrusted into it, gruff moans falling from his lips.

What he didn’t take into account was the sound of the key in your door, not even an hour after you had left. He turned surprised, shoving his boxers over his aching cock, your panties still tangled around him in his shorts when you stepped through the door. Tears pooled past your cheeks and quiet sobs fell from your lips.

Patrick was still short of breath, his cheeks crimson but he was up in an instant, cradling your cheeks.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing just—“ a small sob escaped you and his arms wound around you in a matter of seconds. He steered you towards the bed, lying both of you down and you crawled into his chest.

“You were right,” you said. “He wasn’t nice. Didn’t think it was a date—he just wanted to go back to his dorm and—“ you hiccuped and Patrick softly stroked your back, pushing your locks behind your ear.

“Baby,” he whispered, dropping a gentle kiss against your temple.

“Is this my fault?” You looked up at him with wide eyes. “Did I make myself unlovable?”

There it was. His opening.

“No,” he protested, thumb driving over your cheek and catching a lone tear. “Fuck him, baby, you’re perfect.”

You looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that, you think I’m lying?” He asked at the disbelieving look on your face. One hand wound around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

“When did I ever lie to you, baby?” He gripped your chin to make you look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears. “Never,” you whispered and he nodded satisfactorily.

“And you know I never will, yeah?”

You nodded quickly. One warm hand had slipped under the back of your shirt, exerting soft pressure. You were too distracted to feel his erection pressing against your pelvis, your sole wish for acceptance driving you on.

“That fucker didn’t deserve you. No one does, who doesn’t see what an amazing and perfect girl you are, yeah?” He still had a hard grip on your chin waiting for you to answer. You only managed to nod, heat rate slowly bouncing up at your close proximity.

Patrick smelled of sweat and musk, his cheeks still slightly flushed due to his earlier activities. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his gaze dipping down.

“They should all worship the ground you walk on,” he mumbled, it seemed like he was talking to himself at that point. “If I—I’d worship the ground you walk on.”

“You would?” You whispered and it snapped him out of his trance, looking at your eyes again.

“You want me to make you feel better, baby?”

“How?” Your tears had stopped by now, a different emotion finding place in your chest.

A slow Cheshire grin spread on his lips at your words. “Lemme show you.” With that he pressed a hot open mouthed kiss against your throat. His hand slipped fully under your top, his fingers moving to unclasp your bra.

You shivered slightly as his fingers trailed over your spine, lips trailing along your jaw, slowly working upwards until he hovered over your lips. He bumped his nose against yours, looking at you with half lidded eyes and you couldn’t take the tension anymore.

Your lips crashed against his in hot fervor, wanting anything to make the ache go away inside you. Patrick was eager to oblige. His tongue delved into your mouth hungrily, his whole body on fire. Finally. Finally he could squeeze your thighs generously, rocking your hips against his in the process.

You moaned into his mouth when he got rid of your top and bra, his eyes taking in your tits. “Fuck, knew you’d have the worlds hottest tits, baby,” he leaned down to capture one nipple into his hot mouth, tugging at it with his teeth. You whined desperately, tugging at his curls.

Noticing your neediness he slipped his hand inside your shorts, fingers slipping through your wet cunt until he found your clit. Sparks burst inside you at the sensation and a moan fell from your lips. “Patrick,” you huffed but he didn’t hear you at first, too occupied with your other tit.

“Pat,” you tug at his curls again, making him look up at you. “Mhh?”

“Would you…would you be open to. I mean—I need more,” you flushed and Patrick couldn’t believe it. This was the first time he saw you unsure about something, you were the inexperienced one in this. Your icy exterior finally melted to its last beats bearing you right in front of his eyes.

“What do you want me to do, huh?” His fingers slipped lower and slowly buried inside you.

“Ohh,” you arched your back slightly, eyes fluttering closed. He curled his fingers as he pumped inside of you. “This?” He asked. “Faster, slower, tell me what you need, baby?”

“Just—ahh fuck—just like that,” you said breathlessly. Patrick kissed you again, more tongue than mouth but you couldn’t care less in that moment. Your hand reached blindly for his boxers, manicured nails dipping inside until both of you froze.

You looked at each other as you frowned. “What’s that?” You slowly pulled the extra fabric out of his boxers, holding up a soft pink slip with hearts on it. Slowly, realization dawned on your face as you saw the sticky texture stuck to the fabric.

You looked back at Patrick, his cheeks flushed crimson. He waited for you to react. To yell at him, to call him a pervert and sent him out, screaming. His fingers were still buried inside you and after a moment your walls fluttered around them.

He looked at you astonished and you flushed. Were you…turned on by his perverse actions?

The panties were thrown on the ground in a hurry and you two were only a tangle of limps, teeth and tongue. You pushed his boxers past his ass, too needy to do anything else.

“Condom?” Patrick whispered in between frenzied kisses. You fumbled into the drawer of your nightstand, ripping one open. A moment later Patrick pushed inside you, bottoming out.

You both groaned in unison, until Patrick realized how tight you were. His eyes widened as he looked down at you but you wouldn’t meet his gaze, too embarrassed. At his realization he leaned down and kissed you gently this time.

“You okay?” He murmured against your skin, sucking and biting and licking. His hips slowly retreated, cock slipping through your wetness and you nodded. Winding your arms around his back.

“You can—can go on,” you moved your hips to tell him it was okay.

Patrick set a steady pace at first, trying to refrain from coming right on the spot. He alternated between kissing you and watching your tits bounce with every thrust of his, the bed creaking as his pace grew faster.

Soft whimpers fell from your lips when he told you to wrap your legs around his waist. The angle only got him deeper, making you both moan in pleasure.

“Fuck—wanted to do this forever,” he mumbled against your skin. “Could only imagine—but I knew your cunt would be perfect just like you.” He huffed, his hips slamming against you as he pounded your pussy.

“Patrick I—“ the feeling inside you grew tighter at his words.

“You gonna cum?” He asked, one hand wrapping slightly around your throat as he fucked into you.

“You gonna cum all over my cock like this?” His hand wandered from your throat in between your bodies, finding your clit.

“Oh god—fuck,” you whimpered and bowed up into his touch, the sound of skin slapping echoing in your ears and mixing with Patrick’s voice.

“Be a good girl and cum for me, baby,” with his next words you were done for. You came around him, your walls clamping furiously around Patrick and it took all in him not to come.

He rode you through your high, fingers only stopping their movements when you whined and pushed at his wrist. It only took him a few more sloppy thrusts.

“Oh fuck—gonna cum, baby,” he murmured. “Fuck—you’re so hot.” A moment later he buried into you to the hilt, his arms slightly shaking as his face nuzzled your neck.

You softly racked your nails over his back as he collapsed onto you with a long groan. You both stayed like that for a moment until he had the strength to get up and get rid of the condom, before slipping under the comforter and pushing your back flush against his chest. He pressed an uncharacteristicly gentle kiss to the back of your neck.

“How you feelin?” He mumbled tiredly.

“Good,” you whispered back, his arms feeling warm against your naked skin. You could feel him already drifting off, soft snores stumbling past his lips. A slow smile spread on your lips as you stared down at the panties Patrick had wrapped around his cock, pre cum still glistening on the fabric in the dim light.

[sanjisblackasswife]

Blk fem Reader x Geto & Gojo (SEPARATELY)

Mentions of sex, kissing

Geto and Gojo are without a doubt lover boys in my opinion, but they express their love differently. I can’t list them all, but I’ll mention a few;

I think lover boy Geto is the kind of guy that when he falls in love with you, you literally become all he is worried about. Nothing you could do and say is a burden, if anything he wants you to solely depend on him for anything.

Lover boy Geto knows you’re strong, and don’t need to depend on him, and will always respect that, but he will also remind you that when you ever want to tune off your brain and just let him do all the heavy lifting in your life you can.

Mentally exhausted? Come lay on his chest and let him hear you talk about what’s been bothering you.

Physically exhausted? Don’t even worry about it he’s there putting prison salt in your lavender bath right now.

You will never have to worry about thinking when you’re with him. He adorns you to the point that you never need any reassurance if he loves you.

Everything that lover boy Geto says always includes you, even if it’s his idea;

“Oh yes we’d love to join you.”

“We have made reservations to rent out this beach for the weekend .”

The only time he ever says my is when he is mentioning you;

“Yeah, my Y/N loves those snacks let me go get it real quick.”

“She did what? Not my y/n, who are you talking about?”

The way he makes love to you is always so overwhelming, because he’s so expressive with his body, his tongue exploring areas on and inside you. He always says, “Look at me. please.” when he’s close. Geto just can’t have an orgasm with you without looking you in the eye.

You swear he’s ruined you for anybody else, but it’s you that ruined him. He doesn’t even masturbate anymore (unless it’s with you).

Lover boy Geto that is more than willing to make a space for you both separate from the world, he doesn’t want to admit it, but he has a slight weird possessiveness over you, that he can’t seem to hide.

His eyes are always on yours, any syllable you spew out he catches himself smiling like an idiot to see and hear what you have to say.

I also can see him being the kind of guy that if you’re under a cabinet or something he’ll come behind you and shield the back of your head with his huge hand to prevent you hitting it. He knows how clumsy you can be.

Lover Boy Geto is a sight , because he’s harsh around so many that are around him, but you?

He turns into mush for you.

Lover boy Gojo to me loves loud and exciting. You’re his world and he never makes you forget that.

He’s a clingy boy, never will admit it, but his actions show it. When he falls in love with you you are set on a pedestal that nobody can match for him.

Gojo can’t last not a one conversation without mentioning you.

“ Mochi likes the strawberry ones….my girlfriend y/n i mean—“

“Y/N and i went there before! Yeah, I plan on taking her again as a surprise next month.”

Lover boy Gojo that embarrasses you with his words of affirmation, he teases sure, but sometimes his words’ll get you so flustered you have to slap him on his arm to stop.

Lover boy Gojo that TRIPLES his gift giving when it comes to you.

Graduated? New car with money in the glove compartment.

Birthday? 2 week vacation at his own private beach

Just a random Tuesday? Here’s a few just because gifts.

He would want you to be completely comfortable with being someone you can go to with trouble. Whatever it may be regardless of how silly or serious.

Gojo’s demeanor changes as well, he’s still that silly and strong Gojo, but he’s just Satoru with you. Stealing glances, basking in your comfort, tapping your ear off about the latest pokémon episode—

Being COMPLETELY babied by you. I’m talking being held, occasional kisses, or else he’ll pout—-

he’s 29 and 6’6” btw

He loves being taken care of by you, he handles the heavy work like paying bills, shopping, and anything else you need, but you take care of his emotional and mental stability a lot. The way you hold and take care of him, the way you listen and endulge him even when he’s acting too childish for most.

Lover boy Gojo never had experience with being IN love. This was new, but he was willing to learn.

Sex even became something he wanted to learn more about, the first time you both finally decide to make love he’s like a curious puppy.

“Lick here? ….How’s that? What about here—oh! You made such a cute noise that time….this fast enough?….deeper? y-yes of course—“

He’s the strongest and feared man, but nobody know that you’re his kryptonite, his weakness.

And he doesn’t mind it at all.

[santaasi]

hazel & honey

pairing: james potter x shy!reader

summary: in a café where coffee meets quiet longing, a year of stolen glances and ink-scrawled notes brews into something more — until james potter finally decides to take his shot.

warnings: just pure fluff, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 2.5k

a/n: it's kinda a part two of raison d'être but you don't need to read it if you don't want to.

ᯓ★ now playing…

zayn - there you are

SPRING ARRIVES NOT ALL AT ONCE BUT IN WHISPERS — SLOWLY, GENTLY, YET UNDENIABLY.

The coffee shop mirrors the change. Heavy coats and thick woolen scarves have vanished, replaced by light jackets, bare wrists, and the crisp air slipping through open windows. The scent of cinnamon and spiced tea fades into something fresher — lavender, citrus, and the delicate sweetness of flowers blooming just beyond the door, carried in by the breeze.

And James Potter, of course, remains the one constant.

James Potter has become a part of your routine, a familiar presence threaded through your days like the changing seasons, turning the ordinary into something bright, something electric. Something that makes your heart stutter in ways you wish it wouldn’t.

It’s been a year now. A year of stolen glances over the espresso machine, of ridiculous drink experiments, of moments tucked between steaming cups and shared laughter. A year of James leaning across the counter, all bright-eyed and insufferably charming, turning the simplest exchange — How’s your day been? — into something that lingers longer than it should.

There was the time he nearly knocked over a display case trying to reenact a new play move with a ball for you. The day he walked in soaked to the bone, dripping rain onto the floor, grinning as you handed him a steaming cup without a word. The evening he showed up five minutes before closing, breathless, just to tell you he had an excellent idea for a new drink (it was, to no one’s surprise, absolutely terrible).

Somewhere between all those moments, without meaning to, he became something to you. And you don’t know what to do with that.

Even now, even after a year, you’re still shy around him in ways you can’t quite help. Still caught off guard by the way he looks at you sometimes, still too quick to drop your gaze when his fingers brush against yours, still hesitant when his laughter sends warmth curling through your ribs.

THIS MORNING, HE STUMBLES INTO THE CAFÉ LOOKING AS IF HE BARELY SURVIVED THE NIGHT. His glasses are askew, his hair a complete mess — more unruly than usual, which is saying something. His hoodie is slouching off one shoulder, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and when he reaches the counter, he doesn’t so much stand as he does slump against it.

"Hit me with your best shot, love," he sighs.

You blink, momentarily caught up in the sight of him — tired, disheveled, undeniably James. Then, with practiced ease, you reach for the espresso beans. "That bad?"

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "I woke up late. Nearly missed the assignment deadline. Almost got run over by a cyclist. And Sirius won’t stop texting me in all caps about something, but I refuse to open it. At this point, my only remaining tragedy is falling into the Thames."

You laugh softly, the sound curling like steam in the air. "Devastating. But at least you made it here." A pause, a flicker of something fond curling in your chest. "Which means I get to experiment."

Because, somehow, that has become your thing.

It started months ago — one late evening, when James had wandered in, restless and curious, and told you to surprise him. You had. And then you did it again. And again. And now, it’s a ritual. No repeats, no hints. Just pure trust in whatever concoction you place in front of him.

He rates each one on a ten-point scale (so far, his highest is an 11/10 for a caramel-vanilla macchiato, which you swore was nothing special), and every single time, he leaves a receipt scrawled with some ridiculous note.

"You’re a caffeine genius."

"I would die for this drink."

"Marry me?" — that one had been a joke. Probably.

He doesn’t know you keep them. All of them. Pressed carefully in a box beneath your bed, where his words — his messy, absurd, wonderful words — are yours alone to hold.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind that James Potter keeps showing up. Maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind at all.

Today's drink — a honey-lavender latte — is something soft, something delicate, something meant to dispel the thundercloud hovering over James Potter’s head. The scent of warm milk and golden honey mingles with the floral whisper of lavender, wrapping the moment in something almost tender. You slide the cup across the counter, watching as his fingers curl around the warmth.

James takes a sip, his lashes fluttering shut as he exhales a slow, blissful sigh. For a moment, the weight of his sleepless night, the stress of looming deadlines, and whatever catastrophe Sirius is surely texting about — all of it seems to melt away.

"I have ascended," he murmurs.

You snort. "That good, huh?"

He nods solemnly. "Sweetheart, if I fail this semester, I want you to know — it’s entirely your fault."

"Oh?" You arch a brow, already moving to wipe down the counter.

"Absolutely. I can't concentrate when I'm too busy thinking about your drinks."

You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. "Right. Not because of poor time management?"

"Not at all." His tone is unwavering, as if this is a hill he’s willing to die on.

You shake your head and turn to the next customer, but James doesn’t move. He lingers, fingers tapping absently against the countertop, the rhythmic sound cutting through the soft hum of the café. When you finally glance back up, he's looking at you.

And not just looking.

It’s that expression — the one that makes your stomach flip, the one that sends warmth curling up your spine like steam from an untouched cup. That gaze, dark and steady, laced with something dangerous. Something unreadable.

Something that makes your heart pound far faster than it should.

Damn James Potter.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the register. "What?" you ask, trying to sound unimpressed, ignoring the way your pulse betrays you.

He only smiles, slow and knowing. "Nothing," he says lightly. "Just waiting for my receipt."

Your lips twitch despite yourself. Biting back a blush, you tear the slip of paper from the machine and hand it over, along with the pen. He takes his time, scrawling something with that familiar lazy confidence before sliding it back across the counter.

You glance down.

"9.5/10. But still not as sweet as you."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, so fast and so overwhelming that you don’t even try to fight it. A smile tugs at your lips, helpless, inevitable.

James winks.

And then he’s gone, the bell above the door chiming softly in his wake, the scent of honey and lavender lingering behind him like a secret.

AND SO IT GOES, DAY AFTER DAY.

James keeps showing up — sometimes sleep-rumpled, his glasses slipping down his nose as he yawns into his hoodie, sometimes fresh from a workout, windblown and flushed, damp curls clinging to his forehead. He drapes a windbreaker over his shoulders like a careless afterthought, all easy grins and warm eyes, always irritatingly, effortlessly charming.

And you?

You keep making him new drinks. Coconut cold brew on the first truly warm afternoon of spring, strawberry matcha latte when the scent of fresh berries lingers in the air, cappuccino with sweet maple cream on a drizzly morning when the world feels a little too gray. Each one is a surprise, a silent challenge, a reason to watch the way his face lights up with the first sip.

And James — James keeps leaving you notes.

"10/10. I’m thinking about changing my major to yours, just to see you more often." "9/10. Would’ve been a 10, but you didn’t smile at me enough today." "11/10. Maybe I’m in love. Who can tell?"

Marlene loses her mind every time she sees them. She waves them in your face, eyes wide with exasperation. "This is flirting," she huffs. "He’s flirting with you. You see that, right?"

Of course you see.

And worse — you feel it.

In the way your pulse trips over itself whenever his fingers brush against yours as he takes his drink. In the way your body gives you away before your mind can stop it, warmth pooling low in your stomach, a restless kind of anticipation curling in your chest.

But it’s James Potter.

James, who flirts with everyone. Who can make anyone feel like they’re the only person in the room.

So you tuck it away, tell yourself it’s nothing, tell yourself he’s just a regular customer. A boy with an easy smile and a penchant for ridiculous notes, who leaves you generous tips and lifts your mood on long shifts.

Nothing more than that.

And certainly nothing that should set your heart racing the way it does.

IT’S LATE, THE CAFÉ WINDING DOWN INTO THE KIND OF QUIET THAT FEELS ALMOST SACRED. The last traces of coffee and warm pastries linger in the air, mingling with something softer—the scent of wildflowers cradled in your hands, delicate and trembling.

You’re just about to lock up when the bell above the door chimes.

James Potter steps inside.

And, oh.

He looks different tonight. Too different. Not the usual whirlwind of hoodies and windblown curls, not the usual sleep-rumpled charm that makes you roll your eyes but secretly warms your chest. No — this James is something else entirely. His hoodie is gone, replaced by a loose button-down, the sleeves rolled up in a way that does unfair things to his forearms. The soft light catches in his hair, bringing out hints of copper, and his shirt stretches over his shoulders just right.

You grip the cloth in your hands a little tighter, pulse stuttering as you immediately drop your gaze to the counter, pretending to be far too occupied with wiping away an invisible stain.

It doesn’t help.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he greets, slipping into his usual seat at the counter, voice warm, rich — like the first sip of coffee on a slow morning.

Your fingers twitch around the cloth. Your throat feels inexplicably dry.

“You’re here late,” you manage, setting the rag aside and washing your hands, focusing very intently on the way the water runs over your skin. Anything to avoid looking at him for too long.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Urgent matters. But now I’m here, and– ” A pause. A breath. And then, a smile, slower than usual, softer. “I needed my daily dose of that magic you put in your drinks.”

You swallow, biting your lip to keep from smiling too much. He always says things like this, always flirts so effortlessly, and yet it still gets to you every single time. It’s unfair.

You shake your head, trying to school your expression into something unimpressed, something unaffected, already reaching for the coffee machine when–

James catches your wrist.

Oh.

Your breath snags.

His hand is warm. Big. The kind of warm that seeps into your skin, lingers in your bones. His fingers graze over your palm with something almost absentminded, a slow, lazy touch, but your body reacts like it’s something more — like it means something.

Your heart trips over itself.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything — the quiet hum of the café, the way his thumb barely brushes your wrist, the way your knees feel a little unsteady. You blink at him, wide-eyed, trying desperately to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

James doesn’t let go.

He’s still smirking, of course he’s still smirking, but–

But there’s something else there, something just a little hesitant, a little nervous. And that does something to you, something warm and uncertain and dangerous.

You open your mouth, not entirely sure what you’re about to say, only to close it again when you realize your voice might betray you.

James tilts his head slightly, his grip just a fraction tighter. His smirk deepens, but his eyes are unbearably gentle.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

And, well — you’re trying.

You really are.

"Actually," James says, voice unusually careful, "I didn’t come for coffee today."

You blink. "No?"

He shakes his head, then — hesitates.

And that’s new.

James Potter doesn’t hesitate. He’s all easy grins and reckless confidence, the kind of person who leaps before looking, who never second-guesses himself. But now — now his fingers twitch slightly where they’re still wrapped around yours, his gaze dropping to the point of contact. He takes a breath, deep and steady, as if trying to gather his thoughts.

"I was wondering," he begins, adjusting his glasses, "if you'd like to… I don’t know. Maybe we could go have a coffee somewhere else. With me. Like… on a date."

There’s a short circuit in your brain.

A date.

You must be dreaming. That’s the only explanation. Why would James Potter — James Potter — ask you out? You’re just the barista who makes his coffee, the girl behind the counter. Sure, there’s been harmless flirting, an entire year of ridiculous notes and lingering glances, but this?

James watches your expression shift, and something fond flickers across his face. He leans forward slightly, as if letting you in on some great secret.

"Yeah, you know," he teases. "A date. It’s when two people meet and do something romantic, and ideally– " his smirk deepens, " –one of them kisses the other at the end."

Heat flares up your neck. "James."

His grin is positively wicked. "Yes, my love?"

And, oh — he knows.

He already knows your answer, sees it written across your face in the way your fingers curl slightly against his, in the way your breath hitches, in the way you haven’t let go.

The air between you is thick with something golden, something trembling on the edge of possibility. Outside, the sky is painted in soft pastels, the scent of fresh flowers drifting in through the open door. Everything feels warm and new, like the first breath of summer. Or maybe — maybe — it’s just him.

Still, you keep him waiting. Just for a second.

"Only if you choose the coffee this time," you say, tilting your chin up slightly, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

James’ answering smile is dazzling. He squeezes your hand, eyes shining with something you can’t name yet — but, oh, you want to.

"Agreed."

The golden light floods the café, the smell of coffee and wildflowers wrapping around you both like a promise. And when you look at James Potter, grinning like an idiot, you realize–

There is no maybe anymore.

Now, everything is for sure.

And you’re definitely glad you switched shifts with Marlene that day a year back.

thankx for reading <з

it was the most spontaneous decision to write a part two for raison d'être, but i went to this café with my friend and just couldn't stop thinking about james and barista!reader. so here we are.

you’re always welcome to share your thoughts in the comments or my inbox :3

                      – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[angrythingstarlight]

Bee ❤️ https://www.facebook.com/reel/1925860494443898?fs=e&s=TIeQ9V&mibextid=AFL5iP

That's Bee whenever she hears Bucky ask where his favorite girl is. Bee will stop whatever she's doing and run off to find him with a happy little, "I'm here Papa. You needs me?"

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, Daughter nicknamed Bumblebee.

WC: Less than 800.

CW: Brief mention of spiders, so much fluff.

AN: Part of the Bumblebee series.

*The first time, she heard him say that, she had been napping by her mama.*

“No, it has to be done by Monday or we’ll have to push back the opening for the casino. No, that’s not my problem. Figure it out. And tell Steve I’ll be there at 10,” Bucky mutters distractedly, pushing the door open with his shoulder, and running his hand through his mussed hair.

His tired gaze immediately hones in on your face, your profile barely visible in the dim light as you lay on your side. The soothing scents of lavender and vanilla surround him as he steps inside.

A smile tugs at his lips and that familiar rush, he can only describe it as a jolt of pure happiness, he gets whenever he lays his eyes on you surges through him, making his heart race.

Suddenly, this conversation is no longer important.

“I have to go. Make sure Steve gets my message.” He hangs up, tossing his phone on the dresser.

You stir, stretching your arm over your head with a soft groan. Bucky loosens his tie, strolling across the room.

“I don’t think you know I much I missed you. Couldn’t focus on a single thing this afternoon because I kept thinking about you,” he murmurs, more to himself than you, as he approaches the bed. “I’ve been waiting all day to see my favorite girl.”

You turn your head, lips parting to respond when two little hands grab your arm and a sleepy Bee pulls herself up.

“Hi Papa. I was waiting for you too,” she yawns. You bite back a laugh, rolling over to face Bucky. “We missed you so much,” she continues, dropping her chin on your shoulder, a drowsy grin on her face.

"So much," you chime in.

Sometimes he wonders how he got so lucky to have you two in his life. His smile widens until it matches hers. Bucky plants his hands beside you and he places a kiss on Bee’s forehead before moving to you, slowly brushing his lips over yours like he can’t quite get enough of you.

“You two have a good day?”

“Yeah, I has so much fun Papa.” Her head lolls across your shoulder, and she climbs over you, plopping down beside your stomach.

“We had a great day,” you respond, a hint of laughter curling around your tone. Cupping his cheek. Bucky leans into your touch, his soft beard grazing your palm, another kiss placed on your skin.

He slides in next to the two of you, his long arm draped over your side with Bee in the middle, her bright gaze moving between you. She continues to talk as Bucky adjusts the pillow under your head before settling down.

“We mades some pwetty art for your office and I gots a new book and—and I saw a ‘pider. Mommy scweamed so loud,” she laughs, wiggling closer to you.

His brow lifts, the did you so apparent in his playful expression that you roll your eyes in response. “I mean, I might have shouted but anyone would have," you say with a sniff. "The thing was trying to attack me."

“Me and Mr. Tato saved you. Right mommy?” Bee interjects with a proud grin, her adorable chubby cheeks jutting out.

Bucky’s brow inches up even more.Amusement blooming in his gaze as he takes in the two of you.

In your defense, you were minding your own business, painting in your studio when the spider decided it was going to swing down and land right on your shirt, startling you. You had just started to swipe at it when Bee waddled over, launching her stuffed dino at you with a fierce “get him Mr. Tato.”

Which technically saved you because it knocked the spider to the floor, far away from you.

She spent the rest of the afternoon protecting you while you finished your painting, taking her bodyguard duties very seriously. You can’t wait to show Bucky the video you took of her standing guard in her bear onesie. You both stopped after a couple of hours to take a much needed nap and wait for Bucky to come home.

“Yes, you did sweet Bee." Her face lights up when you drop a kiss on her head. "Why don’t you tell your Papa about the new drawings you made for him and how one of them is going on the wall?”

Her attention turns to him and she describes what she made. Bucky intertwines his fingers between yours, his thumb sweeping across the back of your hand in lazy patterns. He attentively listens to Bee tell him all about her art, encouraging her excitement with the occasional question. You watch as the stress melts off him in waves, leaving only serene happiness simmering in his deep blue eyes.

This is exactly what he needed after the day he had. His family beside him, his entire world in his arms, reminding him of what matters most to him.

[jarofstyles]

Leather & Lace

Hello my angels and welcome to Leather and Lace!!! We’ve got a very cute 3 parter (I’ve finished writing it) coming in for you guys. We love a good grumpy x sunshine and couldn’t help ourselves writing another one. Please leave us feedback! We love to hear from you

Check out our Patreon for early access to parts 2&3, as well as 170+ exclusive writings!

Wc- 8.2k

Warnings- oral sex, praise kink, soft Dom h, opposites attract, cum play/swapping

---------

“How can you be this happy in the morning?” Harry grunted, hoodie pulled over his head as he sat down next to a bubbly Y/N. Her couch was comfortable but it didn’t make up for the fact that he was at her flat at 8 in the morning. 

“It’s not that early, lazy bones.” She hummed, tucking her legs under her as she sat down on the other side. “Thank you for coming to help today, by the way. I know you don’t like getting up early.”

He really didn’t, was the thing. He hated it. Harry only had so many days off and after working a long shift bartending last night, the very last thing he wanted to do was help someone unpack in their new flat. He’d rather claw at concrete than be awake right now, rather eat a raw egg, rather go through tattoo removal. If it was anyone but Y/N he would have laughed in their face at the mere ask. 

But it was her. It was twinkly eyed, pouty lipped, warm hearted Y/N who had asked him a week in advance and promised him a bagel with cream cheese and an iced coffee for brekkie, whatever he wanted for lunch, and ‘whatever he wanted in general!’. Little did she know he was going to say yes anyway, considering he knew he couldn’t say no to her sweet little ask with her smaller hand on his tattooed arm and wide eyes peering up at him. He wasn’t someone who liked to do things for many people without there being some sort of monetary gain, but this was different. 

Y/N had somehow latched herself onto one of the grumpiest bastards in the area while she herself was one of the sweetest girls he’d ever seen. Rarely spoke a mean word of anyone (except when they hurt someone close to her), went out of her way to help anyone who needed it and always wanted to be a shoulder to cry on. He’d seen her take money from her own wallet to cover someone’s bill when they were short, even seen her rush to help an elderly man across the street. It got her into trouble sometimes which was why he was glad that he’d been the hip she’d chosen to attach to. 

Their first interaction had been him sitting in the courtyard of their uni, listening to music under the tree. He’d had his sketchbook in hand, doodling in between classes when he looked up to see a girl with a pretty yellow bow in her hair offering him a cupcake because he looked ‘sad.’. He had been sad, actually, but that was pretty much his normal resting face. He’d tried to blow her off but she’d taken a seat next to him, introducing herself and telling him about her own day to ‘distract him’. He hated to admit that it worked. 

From then on, she popped up everywhere. At first he’d been a bit worried that she was following him but it truly was a coincidence. Y/N had found her way under his skin, wriggled her way into that cold heart of his and made it warm up just a little each time she came around. At some point she’d become a daily fixture in his life, her texts lighting up his phone with emojis and telling him to meet her at the cafe or the library- and for some reason, he followed.

“Mmm. Know y’wanted me here to see me get all sweaty. If y’wanted to see my tats and muscles so badly, you coulda just said so, Sweets.” He smirked, watching her eyes widen. So easy to fluster. 

“No! Stop teasing me, s’not nice.” She grumbled, poking his knee with her socked foot. She’d chosen lavender striped ones today. “I don’t have a lot of strong friends, you know that. Niall’s comin’ by after work to help you put the bedframe together and move the books from the car. Besides, I’ll let you sleepover and everything after we’re all done. I know you loveeeee my bed.”

He did. But more than anything he liked laying in said bed with her. Harry had a hard time admitting he had begun to gain feelings for the girl but deep down he knew he did. He liked that she insisted on cuddles, curling her leg around his and nuzzling her face into his chest, or even better yet the crook of his neck. Loved when she’d sleepily ask him questions about his life and tell him facts about her own. She resembled a tiny kitten while sleepy, insistent on getting all of the pets and attention. 

Harry had decided he wasn’t the relationship type after his last girlfriend had cheated on him with his old best mate- but meeting Y/N had reminded him of the die hard romantic that laid underneath the surface. All the hard work he’d had piling up bricks on top of his red, bleeding heart had seemed to be consistently excavated by the pastel wearing girl who still enjoyed the fairy lights he used to see online in those aesthetic bedroom photos. It scared him a bit at first. Even now, he was nervous about the idea of getting closer to her than they were now because her heart was a tender and precious thing and he didn’t necessarily trust himself not to hurt her- but then again, he knew he’d do miles better than anyone else could. He’d spent the time learning about her as the months went by, listening to her drawl on about the pinterest boards she made, her dream finds she always looked for at the thrift stores, her least favorite reality TV contestants, which pastries she found to be too dry at the cafe and which had the best level of moisture, what blankets she liked, every little tidbit he had stored away in his brain to use at a later date. 

No one would be as protective of her as he would be, which was why lately he’d been entertaining the thought of perhaps moving past the point of no return and trying to see if maybe, possibly, perhaps.. They could be more. 

It had come with a lot of deliberating but he’d come to understand that if he failed, Y/N wouldn’t caste him to the side. She’d never in a million years abandon him like he feared, which only gave him more motivation to go for it though… He was still biding his time. He had to let her get settled here before he shook up her life a bit more. 

They were opposites, the sweet girl and him. Harry was quite literally the bad boy cliche of everyone’s after school special’s dreams. His hair was long and curled, brushing his jaw. He went for darker clothing, usually his ripped black skinny jeans and a band tee but sometimes more eccentric with some silk and leaving his tits out when they went on a night out. His nose had a simple black hoop, his nails painted and chipped though this week they were a bubblegum pink, a la Y/N’s expertise. His body was hard from the gym he liked to frequent and inked, only getting more every month. He wore the occasional eyeliner when he felt spicy. That was only the physical things. 

Sometimes he wondered why she felt drawn to him, as she said. He was dark and moody with a darker sense of humor. Somewhat of a pessimist, he expected the worst from people and tended to stay away from them the best he could. The opposite of a social butterfly, he only usually went out in the past for a drink or to get his cock wet, never for the pleasure of interacting with people. Even then it was rare considering he did quite well in the hookup area being a bartender himself. 

Harry often wondered how and why she felt the pull to be around him and why she felt so at ease in his presence but he figured it had to be that he’d knocked the lights out of a bloke in her philosophy class who’d been riding her ass. He’d made the wrong decision of cornering Y/N at a party Harry had been dragged to, touching her a bit too much and not listening when her smile became thin and she backed away from him after giving a rejection much too polite than the man deserved. There had been no hesitation in laying him out, tugging Y/N into his side and demanding she stay with him for the rest of the party after she insisted she didn’t need to go home. 

Funnily enough she’d been a hit with his own small group of friends, everyone also feeling the same sort of kindred protection over her. Not many people were genuinely warm and fuzzy in the way she was. 

Y/N was… She was the sun, she was a cinnamon roll fresh baked on a sunday morning, she was a kitten sprawled in a sunbeam. All the good things, he could find a way to relate them to her. That probably should have been the indicator he had feelings for her far sooner than he’d ever let himself admit, but she had taken the time to crack him open. 

It was hard to stop thinking about what made her both his opposite and so special. Harry dwelled on how soft her clothing always was, both in color and texture. She liked those pastel colors and fuzzy cardigans, hair bows and those signature mary janes with the tiny heels. Lip oil as opposed to lip gloss because it was ‘too sticky’ but still dragged all his attention to her lips and made him wonder if it really tasted like tangerine like it smelled. 

Her touch was gentle and tender, cautious at first but as soon as she got the go ahead, she showered you in attention. At least, she did to him. Brushing stray hairs out of faces and wiping crumbs off cheeks, she had little sense of personal space once granted permission. She’d been mindful of his distaste for touch at the beginning but once he’d leaned into it, the girl had no qualms about straightening his shirt or leaning into his form, hell- there had been a few times she’d helped herself to his lap when there was no other seating option. Usually that was when she was tipsy considering she would most likely be a little shy sober, but that was something he enjoyed. 

The light to his dark, he doubted anyone else could make him feel the way she could. Hence why he was up after only getting 4 hours of sleep, sipping the coffee she’d gotten him. There was little he wouldn’t do for a hint of her smile. 

—--

“Babe, you’ve got t’make a decision.” Harry said gently, placing the large mirror down and leaning it against the wall. 

“I know, I know but… It’s bad luck to have your mirror facing your bed.” She wrung her fingers together. “I’m sorry, H. I know I’ve been a bit of a pain in the rear today. I promise m’not trying to, but It’s my first place and I just want it to be perfect.” Her head looked down, making his heart squeeze. 

God damn it. Leave it to her to make him feel like he’d kicked a puppy. Sighing, he tugged the bandana on his head back into place and approached her, placing his hand on her shoulder. “M’not upset with you. Promise. I just think you’re overthinking it a bit.” Her superstitions did tend to make her feel a little squirrely sometimes and he knew it.  “We’re gonna make it look perfect. Incredible, even. Reckon the magazines will be calling you up to feature you, but we can’t just have a freestanding mirror slab.” He’d picked it up for her off of craigslist just a bit ago. Even if it wasn’t a dodgy listing, he wouldn’t let her go on her own. That’s how people got kidnapped. 

“Ugh, I know.” She groaned, flopping into his chest. Never mind it being sweaty, she rubbed her nose between his tits and let out a tired groan, her hair smacking his chin. It’d been tossed up in a very messy bun that was a bit lopsided but made her look doubly as cute, though he didn’t tell her that. “Why don’t we mount it to the back of your door then? Not facing your bed, or another mirror.” 

He could almost hear her brain going as she mulled it over before he felt the nod against his chest. “That will be good, I think. I love that idea.” Y/N had been going back and forth over design choices with him all day as if he had a clue about interior decor, but he had appreciated her caring about his opinion nonetheless. “That can be the last thing we do. Niall’s fucked off somewhere futzing with the books so we can eat after that’s done.” 

The thud of his heart against her ear was steady as he gently ran a hand over her shoulderblade. “What’s on the menu?” 

“Think we’re ordering pizza because I know m’too tired to cook which means you lot have to be too.” She chuckled, finally prying herself out of his chest and blinking up at him.”Then we can go to bed.”  He was thankful her ear was away from his heart so she couldn’t hear the way it stuttered. You’d think after sleeping in her bed a multitude of times that he’d get used to the sound of that sentence but it still did him in every time. 

“Okay. I can run and pick it up after I mount this to the door if you call it in.” He knew she wouldn’t want to go. It was visible on her face how tired she was and it melted him internally. He knew that she’d be a little snuggly menace tonight and fuck if he wasn’t looking forward to it. “Gonna run into the pharmacy t’grab some body wash for here, if thats okay?”

“Course it is.” She beamed at the suggestion, making him happy that he’d even brought it up. Y/N used to suggest he sleep heer a lot before and he’d refuse, thinking she was just trying to be polite- but she really did enjoy him staying with her. “I liked the pomegranate one you used last time, just sayin’.” Patting his chest she moved from his grip, heading to grab her phone. “Normal for you?”

“Yeah, love. Same as usual.” He rubbed over the achy spot in his chest that she’d left by pulling away, looking forward to sleeping tonight so he could feel it fill back up.

—-----------

Harry had grabbed the pomegranate bath stuff. He’d grabbed the whole line, actually, the shampoo, conditioner, body wash and some sort of ‘skin buff.’ Whatever that was. 

Y/N had squeaked as he showed her, along with a pack of the makeup wipes she usually used and he’d steal. He’d figured it was about time to be the one to buy the replacements. “Ah! And you got the face mask I like.” Her eyes were wide and bright as she bounced on her toes, smacking a kiss to his stubbly cheek before looking back down at the holographic packaging. He’d hoped he had gotten the right one when he’d seen a sale on them when on his way to the check out counter. It was worth the little bit of money to feel her lips for a moment. “Thank you, H. You’re the best, as usual.” 

“The hell am I?” Niall scoffed, wiping his hands dry after washing them. 

“You’re great too, but he got me the face masks I like and they usually sell out. So he’s a bit higher up in points today.” She placated him, brushing past him to put them in the bathroom. “Harry, plate up the pizza, pretty please!”

As soon as she had disappeared, Niall shot him a look. “When are you two gonna make it official?” He whispered. “The heat eyes bouncin’ off the both of you is sickening at this point. She’s turned you soft.” 

Harry settled with a glare, placing two slices on the paper plate and sliding it over to him. “Eventually. Her whole life is shifting. Can’t do shit right now without rattling her.” It was the first time he admitted or even hinted at having feelings for her besides point blank telling anyone who came around that she wasn’t available. Y/N didn’t know he did that though. 

“Thank fuck you don’t still have your head up your arse. I was worried you’d never admit you’re gone for her.” He faked wiping sweat off his head making the other man roll his eyes. “She’ll be happy, H. You don’t have to worry about her rejecting you. Just go on and do it. She talks about you like you hang the moon every night at this point even when you aren’t around.” 

A weakness he’d spotted, Harry stood a bit straighter before leaning in. “She does? What does she say?” Oh, he hated how desperate he sounded to hear the answer but the fluttering in his stomach made him insisting on finding out. 

“Oh, how thoughtful and kind and generous you are and how you’re the best person she knows, all of that. She stares at her phone and waits for texts from you when she comes out and you’re working, gets these huge smiles or giggles when you do. or tries to get everyone to move the party to your bar.” 

That last part, he’d hoped for. He liked the idea of her wanting to be physically close to him and suggesting everyone come and see him, but knowing she did the same thing he did when waiting for messages from him soothed a piece of him. He wasn’t alone in it. It was hard sometimes for him to decipher her behavior considering she was genuinely so friendly with everyone and he didn’t want to flatter himself and think it he was special… but apparently he was. 

He didn’t have a chance to answer when Y/N glided from the bathroom, finding her spot on the kitchen barstools. “What did I miss?” 

“Nothin’, Babe. Just chatting shit.” He murmured, sliding her a plate with her pizza of choice on it. “Figured we’d go to the grocery tomorrow, yeah? It’s a bit sparse in here with the food.” He had the next day off and intended on spending it with her. They’d made lots of progress today and had 80% of the place unpacked, but he knew she liked those restocking videos online. “Think they’ve got those organizers back in stock.” 

“Oh!” She gasped.”Yes, you genius. I’ll need your help though, strong man. I like the one trip wonder.” It was a tease considering she knew Harry hated making multiple trips up with bags. 

“Lucky for you, you’ve got a lift now and I’ve got that collapsible wagon.” Reaching out he gently flicked her nose for being a brat. “So we won’t have t’worry about that.” 

—-----

Y/N was either very oblivious or a tease. Harry could never fully figure out which one. 

He sat on her bed, messing with her telly when she emerged from the shower in her little cotton shorts and one of his shirts. It was one he’d just been looking for last week, actually, an old Iron Maiden one with a few holes in the collar area. Unmistakably his. The faded gray complimented her skin, looking extra cozy on her as her powder blue plush bunny slippers flopped against the ground and she made her way to her skincare desk. 

“You little thief.” He grumbled from the bed, leaning against her headboard. “I was searching everywhere for that last week.” Though he had narrowed eyes she would know he was only teasing. 

“You left it with me, remember? I ended up packing it so I wouldn’t forget it but… It’s super comfy.” She smiled guiltily at him, spinning in her chair. “Is it okay if I wear it? It still smells like your cologne and it helps me sleep sometimes…”

Ah, a shot to the heart. 

Y/N didn’t know what it did to him to know he was an aid in good sleep. That it both made his heart stutter and his cock throb at the sight of her wrapped up in his clothing like she had all the rights to it. Like he was her boyfriend and she liked to wear it to remember him. Her scent had a similar effect on him, leaving it in his sheets when she stayed over,  “Totally okay, lovely.” He smiled gently. “M’just teasing you. Though it does wonders for my ego to know you like my cologne that much.” 

He knew he was making her a little flustered considering she didn’t look right at him, but he thrived off of that. Knowing he made an impact on her like that made him feel just a bit more confident that she felt similarly to him. There was no answer from her, but he wasn’t done with her quite yet. Standing up with a groan, he made his way over to her little makeup and skincare set up, placing his hands on the back of her chair. “What are you putting on your face?” He asked curiously, looking over her head to the products she had neatly organized.

“Well, first I wipe with one of these toning pads.” She opened the little tub, using a tiny pair of clear tongs to grab one. “You don’t want to be sticking your fingers in there and potentially making them all dirty so it came with this little thing. You give it a few passes over your t zone.” She showed him as she did it, Harry watching diligently in the mirror. 

“Mmm. Then what? You’re always doin’ all of this fancy stuff to your face. Figure that's why your skin is so pretty.” He let his fingers fiddle with a few strands of hair. 

“Thank you.” She said sheepishly, picking up a smaller tube. “Um, I use this undereye cream to help with puffiness and brightening. Its soothing. I apply it with the smallest finger though, because while I’m not afraid of wrinkles it’s the weakest fingers and the skin under your eyes is more delicate.” 

Huh. “Didn’t know what.” He was actually learning something from this. 

“Mhm. Why do you think I tell you to go gentle when you use the makeup remover?” A smile tilted up one side of her lips a bit further, eyes focused on the mirror in front of her. She pretended not to notice the slight shiver he gave her when he leaned down, letting his face get more level with hers- but he did. He noticed anything he could. “A-And then I use some vitamin C stuff for brightening, a serum and a cream. I use the little fan to make it dry faster so it isn’t sticky.” She pointed to the mini pink fan he’d always noticed. He’d just assumed it was for when she got hot. “Do you… Would you like me to use some of it on you when I’m done?” 

She sounded hesitant to ask which he understood. Not a lot of the guys in their friend circle would want that, but he wasn’t that insecure about himself that he’d say no to someone pampering him. Especially not when it meant Y/N getting close to him. “Sure, sweets. I’d love that. Reckon my skin needs it.” 

“What do you usually do with it?” She asked curiously, meeting his eye in the mirror. 

“Makeup remover, wash my face, that cream you left at my place if I remember.” 

“It’s not fair you have the skin you do.” She huffed, shaking her head. “Cruel, actually.” It kind of was. He got long lashes too, which she always complained about. “Go and wash your face first, heathen.”

Harry let out a small laugh before going off to do that. Returning with a fresh face, he stood in his prior position, watching her finish up the routine before holding the fan closer to her face to finish it off. It was an interesting process he hadn’t paid much mind to before, but then again, she didn’t bring every single thing to his place either. 

After putting her hair up in a claw clip, she stood up from the plushy chair and motioned for him to sit down. He did as asked, feeling her residual warmth as she lined up the products for them. “Okay, so we start with the toner pad.” She gently pushed him to lean back in the chair, her face coming closer to his as she delicately swiped it over his cheeks and nose. He was getting an up close look at her, noticing the scar near her eyebrow and a few spots on her face. It made him warm up a bit, being able to see her so close when she was awake. Usually this level of observation was reserved for when she was asleep. “Oi, keep your head up.” 

“Sorry.” He laughed, avoiding the impulse to move the chair back and forth. He liked to swing on it at times. 

“Wait- how about this.” Without giving it much thought, she gripped the chair and swung it over to turn his body to the side, helping herself to straddle his lap. “This seems a little easier, no?” Fingers gently tipped his chin up, eyes focused on her motions. 

Harry’s breath had disappeared. No longer available, he felt her sitting on top of his thighs, innocent as ever as she went through the motions. Tender with her movements and pressure, she was treating him like porcelain while giving him a little makeover. He should be focused on how nice the products felt on his skin, but his mind was elsewhere. 

She smelled amazing, as usual, but having it this close up was a little hard for him. Yes, she sat on his lap before- but not in his shirt, with her thighs on display and tiny little shorts. She didn’t straddle him before either, didn’t let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t. All his energy was focused on trying to ensure she didn’t feel the stiffy that was quickly growing in his pants. 

“I can’t believe how good you’re being for me, H.” She whispered. “No whining or anything.” Her smile was soft as she wiped the serum over his face. “You’re so pretty.”

Fuck. He swallowed thickly, trying desperately to not let his cock construe those words into the filthy praise kink he had, but it appeared to be a bit too late for that. She had no idea what she was doing to him and he didn’t want to be a perv, but god damn. If the girl continued, there would be no denying that he’d cream his damn pants. Being pet on, feeling her brush his hair off his forehead while she stroked his face and adjusted his position to where she wanted… He was only so strong. “Thanks.” He murmured, trying to keep his composure. 

“Of course.” She beamed, seeming pleased. “I’m surprised you’re letting me do this, but you’re full of surprises.” It seemed like she didn’t know the battle he was facing internally, which was his goal, but that was soon to be ruined. “Hold on a second.” Shifting slightly on his lap, she stood up momentarily before sliding further up. “Sorry, I was falling down a bit-” 

Harry hadn’t meant to, he really fucking didn’t. But she sat right on top of him, squirming a bit. Giving his dick a bit of friction, making his hands grip her hips and sit her down hard to stop the movement. He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t face her as he heard the hitch in her breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Sorry, I didn’t- I promise m’not being a creep or anything.” He winced. “Just been a while and uh-” 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Her voice rang out, fingers brushing through his hair. “H, look at me. I’m not mad.” Of course, her words were sweet and syrupy, going right to his dick yet again. Y/N had no fucking idea how much she effected him, how many times he’d thought about her in this positon and how guilty he felt that he’d turned a sweet moment into something like this. “C’mon. You don’t need to be embarrassed.” 

He took a moment before opening his eyes, looking at her face. Studying it, making sure she wasn’t uncomfortable. Her hand cupped the side of his face, a slight pout on her pretty lips. Y/N didn’t seem upset about it, seeing as she sat still and could most definitely feel his cock under her. He could feel her cunt over him, hot through the fabric and he was doing everything in his power to be fucking normal. 

“There you are.” The tables had finally turned. Harry was the shy one in this moment and Y/N was the one seemingly not freaked out. “It’s a natural body function, H. I know you’re not some kind of perv. I sat on your lap, remember?” She soothed his nerves. “Besides, I’m flattered. Was beginning to think you thought I was some kind of troll or something.” The smile kicked up on her face, but his frown deepened.

“The fuck? Why would you think that?” Brows furrowed, he didn’t like that she thought he didn’t find her attractive. He called her pretty quite a bit. 

“Well, I’m not your type. You go for all those tattooed girls with the bad ass attitudes, which is cool cause I think they’re hot too but… I’m all soft and squishy, y’know? I like the soft things, kinda the opposite of you so I just thought I wasn’t someone you’d be attracted to. M’nothing like what you go for.” She didn’t seem offended by this, rather stating it matter of fact- but Harry couldn’t believe how wrong she was. He had to wonder how long she thought this. 

While he was secretly pining after her, she was thinking he was going off to get blowies by the girls that flirted with him which, sometimes he did. At the beginning of their friendship, he tried to stave off those feelings for her by getting someone else underneath him, fucking away the frustration but he learned fairly quickly that none of it did much when his mind was on someone else. It’d been months at this point. Sure, he liked a bit of flirting to boost his ego, but that was only when Y/N was preoccupied. 

“Well, you’re wrong.” He said sternly. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Dunno where the troll idea came in when m’always staring at you.” He scoffed. “No more of that bullshit. Wouldn’t be hard if I didn’t think you were stunning. Trust me.” In fact, she was the only thing that got him hard these days. Thinking of her mouth, her thighs, her tits, her ass, anything. Even her hands, for fucks sake. “Don’t ever doubt how beautiful you are t’me. Pisses me off.”

“Sorry.” She bleated, pouting back at him. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just.. You call me pretty but I never would have thought you meant it like that. I like that you let me cuddle you and stuff so obviously I know you aren’t repulsed by me but, I dunno.” She swallowed, looking down at his bare chest. “I’m sorry for getting you… if you’re uncomfortable.” 

God, he was mucking this up wasn’t he? He shook his head, letting his thumbs rub over her hips as he softened his face. “No, sweets. Don’t apologize. S’not a big deal, I’m not mad at you. Just don’t like the idea of you thinking poorly of yourself. You’re fucking stunning.” So stunning that his cock was still hard under her. “I’ll go take care of it when we’re done, but no more squirming. Okay?” Squeezing her, he tried to rectify the situation. “No more fussing.” 

“But…” Y/N’s lips twisted slightly, sliding her hands down to his shoulders. “That’s not fair.” 

Harry blinked a few times, looking her over hesitantly. “What d’you mean? I’m okay, pet.” 

“Well, It’s my fault that you’re like this.” She protested. “I can fix it, if you want. Haven’t given too many blowies before, but I can take instruction pretty well.”

Harry truly thought he was dreaming for a moment, his face hot as she gave him an innocent look. Like she meant it, though it slightly embarrassed her for not having a lot of experience. But feeling her shift on him clued him back into reality. This was real. “You- You don’t have to do anything for me, Y/N.” He was holding on by a string. “You didn’t mean to do it. It’s not your responsibility to get me off just because my cock’s got a mind of his own.”

Y/N huffed again, shaking her head. “I want to. Can I?” Her face shifted slightly. “You’re not making me do anything. It would make me feel better If i could take care of you.” Her eyes met his. “I mean it. Promise.” 

And god, if Harry was a stronger man he’d lift her off his lap and insist on taking care of it himself. He’d explain that it could make lines blurry and he liked her a bit more than a friend and they’d have that talk. But he wasn’t a stronger man, and she rolled her hips on him again with a hum, making his head fall back when she repeated the action. “Fuck.” He whispered under his breath. “As long as.. As long you’re sure. I don’t want you to regret it or anything.” 

“I won’t.” She peeped. “I like making you feel good, Harry.” Her face seemed brighter as she watched him nod.

“Go on then, sweetheart.” He sighed. “I’ll show you what I like.” 

Never in a million years had he expected her to be visibly excited, slipping off his lap and on to her knees in front of him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Eyes looked up at him with curiosity, hands running over his thighs as she waited for direction. He’d dreamt of this so many times, stroked off in the bathroom to this very mental image to get his load out quicker. His cock pulsed inside his sweats. This was really happening. “M’not wearing briefs under these.” He warned, pushing the waistband down as he slowly tugged himself out of the pants. His hand was slightly shaky ass he gave himself a squeeze at the base, a soft hiss leaving his teeth when her hand covered his own. 

“I’ve only done it a few times but…” Her eyes widened. “Yours is the prettiest I’ve seen.”

And fuck if that didn’t get him going. Harry took pride in his dick, as a lot of men did, but to get that compliment was better than anything else. His hair was normally trimmed shorter, but it had been a while. It was groomed a bit at the base, his happy trail leading up his stomach. “Thank you.” He mumbled, removing his hand and letting hers take over. Y/N was eager and that much was obvious, feeling her give him a few strokes as she shuffled closer in between his spread thighs. “I- I probably won’t last long. I wasn’t lying, it’s been a while.” And he’d imagined her in this position so many times that he was programmed to get off to it quickly. 

“That’s okay. You’re quite big so it’ll be better for my jaw.” She giggled. Fucking giggled while her thumb rubbed over the slit, making him shudder. He’d always imagined she’d be much more shy in this situation, but again he was proven wrong. “What do you like?” 

Honestly? He could cum just like this. Her stroking him slow, looking up at him with that pretty little face. Splatter her pretty face with pearly strings leaking from the slit of his cock, let it drip down her cheeks and chin. But she wouldn’t like that answer. “I’m okay with anything you give me, but I… I like to hear you.” He swallowed, a shaky exhale leaving his nose. “And uh, a bit wet. If that’s something you’d like.” 

Y/N looked like she was taking note, nodding at his words. “I want to know what you like, m’okay with anything.” She smiled. “I knew you had to be big cause.. Y’know you’ve got the energy. And I’ve felt it a few times when we cuddle, before you wake up. It’s just different to see it.” Y/N leaned her head on his thigh, continuing to jerk him off. “I’ll probably choke a little bit, cause you’re the biggest I’ve taken. It’s okay though, I’ll be fine. I’ll pinch your tummy or somthin’ if I need a second to breathe.” 

Who the fuck was she? Y/N had never, ever shown or hinted at being filthy in her life, but here she was. Talking about choking on his cock. He throbbed in her hand, making her eyebrows raise. “You liked that. Noted.” Leaning forward, she kept eye contact with him as she dragged her pink tongue from the base up to the tip, letting it sit there for a moment before she pulled away, giving him a few more strokes. “You can show me what you like too. Don’t be shy about it, H. I want you to feel good.” 

Harry nearly lost it as he watched those gorgeous lips purse, spitting right over the tip. It slipped down his length before her hand caught it, stroking and spreading it over his cock. Filthy, filthy things filled his tongue immediately, but he tried to pace himself. “Fuck me…” He whispered, gently gathering her hair in his hand. “I didn’t know you had this in you, gorgeous.” It nearly bowled him over. “Can you.. Take it in your mouth. Suck the tip for me. I want to see that.” 

Normally, he had no problem being a cocky, arrogant man. He was dominant most of the time with his hook ups- but Y/N wasn’t just a hook up to him. She was special. He didn’t want to do a single thing to potentially fuck this up. He wanted her to like this, to see how much he liked it too. She had no problems following instructions, the man watching as her lips stretched around the tip and dipped down a bit as she suckled on it. A soft hum left her mouth and vibrated over him as he curled the hair around his fist, making him groan. “Yeah, jus’ like that, angel. Fuck.” He kept his eyes on her as she bobbed shallowly, taking moments to rub her tongue over his leaking slit. “You’re so good, so sweet t’me. Can’t believe you’re doin’ this.” 

Y/N pulled off the tip, lips wet as she peered up at him. “I’ve thought about it before.” She whispered, lapping over the side of his length. “Wanted to see your cock. I knew it’d be pretty.” 

What the fuck? Harry’s brian felt fried, completely caught off guard by this information. Sure, he had thought maybe once or twice she was teasing him but it wasn’t often. Y/N was just so sugary sweet and kind, a slight air of innocence, and… Now she was telling him she’d thought about sucking him off before. “You have?” 

“Mhm.” She stroked him a bit firmer, the slick sound of her hand around his wet cock getting louder. “I heard.. Heard rumors and felt left out. You like me the best but you never asked me to do anything.” Rubbing the tip over her pouted lips, Harry was shocked yet again. 

“Cause y’mean more to me than any of the other people.” He swallowed. “Too fuckin’ sweet. I like you the best, you’re right but.. You’re my sweet girl. Didn’t want t’use you for anything like that. Would break my heart if I hurt you and you’d not want to see me again.” 

“What if I wanted you to use me?” She asked, peering up at him with those eyes. They drove him absolutely mad. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me unless I asked, H. You’re so good to me… I just want to be good for you too.” Taking the tip back into her mouth, she pushed herself down further and he felt his stomach clench. It took him off guard, feeling the hot mouth take him down and bob herself against him, a soft hum vibrating over him. 

“Oh- Fuck.” He let out a broken groan, leaning further back into the chair. “You are, baby, you fucking are. Hot little mouth… shit.” She whimpered around his cock at his words, sucking a little harder as her hand stroked the rest of him. She liked that. “What is it, hm? Like when I call you baby? When I tell you how perfect you are?” His words got a bit darker. He was slipping into another headspace and Y/N seemed to be coaxing it on. 

She did a half ass nod, not pulling off his length as she continued. Harry wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that she’d be a greedy girl like this, but he was incredibly thankful that she was. “You are. Such a good girl, so gorgeous with your mouth stretched around my cock. Didn’t know you were gagging for it, baby. Should’ve told me.” He chuckled darkly. “Wouldn’t have wasted my loads in the shower before comin’ t’bed with you. Could’ve pushed into your needy mouth and let you swallow it down.” 

Y/N moaned around his prick, eyes watering slightly as she looked at him. He’d never seen a better sight. “You’re so beautiful, angel. So pretty. Didn’t know such a filthy thing could have you lookin’ even more beautiful.” His throat felt thick as his cock throbbed in her mouth. “Fuck, you don’t even know how many times I’ve thought about it.”

Y/N pulled off, panting slightly as webs of saliva connected her mouth to his cock. “How much?” Her voice was a little hoarse, but he could hear that she was desperate to know. “You- You could have. I don’t want you to waste it anymore.” There was the tiny bit of shyness coming back in. “If umm, if you think  I’m good enough at this. I’ll do it.” 

“Fuck me, baby.” His thumb wiped over her spit soaked lips, breaking the threads of spit as he caressed her cheek. “All the fucking time. S’the only thing that gets me off.” Confessions he hadn’t thought he’d be saying so soon, let alone before he’d ever kissed her, spilled from him. “You’re doing amazing. More than good enough, too fucking good for me.” He couldn’t believe she was offering. “You sure you want t’be the one to take care of it?”

“Yes, I want it. I don’t want anyone else to do it.” She pleaded. “I’ll be the best for you. Just- you can tell me and I’ll suck you or, or anything you want.” Harry tested it, gently pushing her head back towards his prick- which she immediately took back in her mouth. The perfect, wet heat bringing him back to that filthy place in his head. 

How could she think he could ever say no? She’d been his weakness since she brought him over that damn cupcake. 

“Oh, sweet girl. Anything?” He cooed. “Dangerous thing to promise me. Don’t want anyone else to do it either.” His breathing was getting harder, trying not to thrust his hips up into her mouth and make her take it all. Sure, she’d probably do it, but he still felt the need to be delicate with her. “Take a little more for me, baby. Just like- there, there you go.” He praised, mouth falling open as she did exactly what he wanted. “Gonna make me cum.” 

This felt a million times better than rubbing one out in her bathroom. His legs were near vibrating, the wet sound of her mouth taking him down and the clicks of her hand stroking his spit soaked cock filling her bedroom. This was the last thing he’d expected was her on her knees for him tonight and part of him wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a wet dream, but he was thanking whatever higher power that was up there that his sweet girl had a dirty side to her. One he wanted to be the only one privileged enough to see. 

“In my mouth.” She gasped, pulling up for a moment. “Want to taste you. Please?” 

How could he ever tell her no? 

Pushing her back down on his cock, he let his hips rise up and shallowly thrust into her mouth as she moaned around him, drooling down her chin and letting him use her the way he needed to get off. The best part was knowing she was enjoying it so much. It was a miracle he’d lasted this long already, but he attributed that to shock. She was dirty, his sweet girl, choking slightly on his cock as the tip hit her throat, but she made no move to want to stop. 

His last straw, though, was feeling her hand over his balls, whining around him as he let out his deepest groan yet. It was sloppy and messy and so fucking good that he felt lightheaded, tummy hot and legs weak as he felt himself approach his end. “Fuck, jus’ like that, your fucking mouth is perfect… fuck, fuck, fuck, baby- M’gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna-” His voice failed as his head fell back, lifting his hips as his cum began to pour into her mouth. Ribbon after ribbon coating her throat, pulling back a bit to get it on her tongue while she worked him through it. 

He didn’t realize he had so much in him, but perhaps it was just Y/N that made him cum this much. This hard. His ears rung a bit, curses leaving his mouth as he watched her mouth open and hand stroke him to see the pearly mess on her tongue. At the last little bit,he used his grip on her hair to tug her up to his face. 

“C’mere, sweet girl. Share with me, don’t be greedy.” holding her face while the other had her hair, he pulled back into his lap and her mouth to his and groaned as she licked over his tongue, sharing the remnants of his load with him. It was something a bit nasty and deprived, he knew, but Y/N merely moaned back, her clean hand curling around the back of his neck. 

The kisses slowed from frantic and hot, to softer, slow and sweet. Pecking her lips over and over again, her whimpers melted into giggled as he untangled from her hair, sliding his hand under the shirt she had on to get some bare skin on his fingertips. “Sweetest thing, most beautiful girl.” He murmured between kisses. “Thank you. Best I’ve ever had.” 

“You’re jus’ saying that.” She whispered, though the smile was difficult to wipe off her face. Obviously she liked praise just as much as him. 

“Nope. Mean every word.” He confirmed, rubbing his nose over her cheek. “Thank you, baby. Felt so damn good, can’t feel my legs now.” Harry’d never felt like this after a blowie, both in his legs and the fondness he felt for the girl. If there had been any doubts about his feelings for her whatsoever, they were shattered. He was so far gone for her, it was pathetic. 

“Good.” She smiled, feeling the kiss to his cheek. “I need to finish your skincare, though. So tuck yourself back in, cause m’gonna do that and then brush my teeth again. Though.. I can tell you’ve got a good diet. Tasted nice.” 

Though Harry knew cum never really tasted good, he was chuffed that she hadn’t minded. Even more, that she hadn’t minded indulging in sharing with him. “M’not selfish, I need to help you too.” He reminded, though she merely shook her head. 

“I’ll take a raincheck. M’so tired now, and I want to enjoy it fully.” Pecking his cheek in return, she picked up the moisturizer. “Think you need a lip mask too. Thankfully, you’re in the right hands.” 

Harry was sometimes a selfish lover with hookups and he could admit that, but with Y/N he never wanted to be that way. He wanted to make her feel good, but he could wait. It only made him anticipate it more- there would be a next time. 

“Okay, sweets.” He chuckled. “Do whatever you’d like.”

[kortac-sweetheart]

im too tired to flesh things out fully but

“we’ll take care of you.”

“it’s rotten work.”

“not to us, not if it’s you.”

but with kruger and nikto, they will take care of you no matter what. that’s what they signed up for when they became your partners. they’re there for you to rely on them, even if you’re scared to, then they’ll take care of you without asking.

you deserve to be taken care of, even if you yourself don’t believe it.

nikto makes sure you eat, even just a bit. he’s familiar with the pain of hunger and never wants you to experience it if he can help it. he knows your favorites or safe foods by heart, they’re always stocked at home.

he’ll gently approach where you lay on the bed, turning you over and smiling when he sees you. even with the messy hair and tired eyes and any other imperfections you might see, you’re still theirs.

he pulls you into his lap with ease, cradling your head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. he stays there for a bit, allowing you to rest against him before coaxing you to have food.

sometimes you’re able to walk to the kitchen yourself, but on days you can’t he doesn’t chastise you. simply picks you up and sets you down on a kitchen chair.

he doesn’t force you to eat the whole thing, he’d be delighted if you did, but just a few bites, please darling? he’s not really above begging you. becoming yours has shaped him into a man that would be unrecognizable to his old self, edges softened by warmth and love, yours. and he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to return it one thousand fold.

once you’re well fed, kruger snatches you up for a walk around the block. nothing intense, but staying cooped up all day isn’t doing you any favors, hm? he doesn’t touch you if you don’t explicitly ask, but when you link your elbow in his, he’s overjoyed. it soothes you. a leisurely walk to admire all the new blossoming flora you’ve missed staying inside, and maybe waving at a cute dog or two.

the wind caresses your face in just the way you like it, blowing through your hair. the day’s just how you like it, nice and cool, sunny with no cloud in sight.

kruger doesn’t say much, he doesn’t feel the need to. he just allows you to enjoy the walk without any expectations, sometimes he brushes a stray hair out of your face or presses a kiss to your cheek but he’s very laid back.

they would also shower you if need be. they don’t mind it. they’re glad that you allow yourself to be vulnerable with them, rewarding you with kisses and soft praise. nikto washes your hair with your favorite products and kruger washes your body (he also likes to admire your little beauty marks or stretch marks or whatever other spots you may have)

after you’re cleaned they bring up a bath, just for relaxation. you’re sandwiched between them, laying on nikto’s broad chest and your back pressed against kruger’s chest. they put on some soothing music, jazz or classical, whichever you prefer.

they also ask you what bath bomb you’d want. vanilla? rosemary? lavender? eucalyptus? handing you the box yourself incase you’re overwhelmed by too many questions.

the water’s warm and so are your partners as you recline into their touch. they don’t get handsy with you today, just letting you unwind your taut muscles and mind.

eventually before the bath turns cold (they know you abhor cold water) they pull you out and pat you dry. dressing you up in your (their) most comfortable clothes, nikto’s big shirt and kruger’s shorts, you look adorable, darling.

they quickly return you to bed, but with them in tow this time. they won’t allow you to be alone for the rest of the day, even if your thoughts spiral once more they’ll be there to catch you when you fall.

you’re sandwiched between them again, in bed, with the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. despite them both being in bed with you it’s not too hot. it’s warm enough to be comfortable and safe.

they don’t say much more except for an “i love you” from both of them. their weights comforting against you, a reassurance that they’ll be there when you wake up again.

they’ll always be there to take care of you when you can’t take care of yourself, always.

[thechaoticcherub]

Ohmygodddd I love your writings SO much. I saw your requests were open so here’s my idea:

I LOVE the way you write ddlg/daddy kink. I was thinking… what if reader loved sitting between joel’s legs on the floor and leaning on them when he’s on the couch. It makes her feel small and cocooned, in the best way. She likes resting her head on joel’s bare inner thigh while blowing him- but not the usual enthusiastic bj- one that’s comforting and slow, almost as if his dick was her pacifier. It soothes her to feel his weight on her tongue. And joel massages her scalp absentmindedly with the fingertips of one hand. Time just slows down and they both savor each other.

Thank you for reading my thot and for possibly writing a little something!! 🙈💕

Thank you so much!!!! This was such a fun prompt!!!

Dreamland

Pairing: Daddy!Joel x reader

Summary: You come downstairs in the middle of the night and you aren't sure if you're awake or not.

Warnings: 18+ please, ddlg, age gap, dubcon(?She wants it but might be asleep idk), somno(kind?), blowjobs, cum play, cum swallowing, metaphors on metaphors, actually kind soft, softdom!Joel

Word Count: 1.9 K

Notes: I hope you enjoy it, I really liked writing it. I sometimes really like flowery lovey things as long as theres something...kinky kinda driving it.

The house was still and quiet except for the pitter patter of rain on the roof and the crackle of the dying fire in the fireplace. You were just as still as the hazy late night while you stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the scene in the living room. Joel was reading an old paperback book on the couch, the only light came from the reading lamp on the side table and the embers in the fireplace. You were supposed to be asleep, gone to bed hours ago while Joel stayed up to do whatever it was that Daddies did whenever their charges drifted off into the dreamland. 

A part of your wondered if you were still cocooned in that dreamland as you drifted down the stairs, the house didn’t feel real and the world beyond your sleepy little home definitely didn’t seem real. The worries of an infected earth and a tentative peace didn’t affect your dreamlike reality right now. A stair creaked under your foot, alerting Joel to the presence behind him, he turned and saw you standing halfway down the stairs, in your half-stupor you watched his eyes soften as he saw you. 

“Well hello there, sweetheart,” He said, a touch of amusement in his voice. You reached up and rubbed at your eyes, trying to push sleep away from them, trying to decipher whether or not this was reality. 

“Hi Daddy,” You mumbled, walking down the last few steps, half stumbling over your clumsy feet as you reached the ground. 

“Whoopsy-daisy, don’t fall, darlin’” Joel chided, sitting up as you stumbled as if he would be able to catch you if you fell even though you were still out of arms reach from him. Joel studied your face, you noticed him searching for something in your eyes, just like you tried to search reality for answers about whether or not this was really happening. “You sleepin’ still, babygirl?” he asked as you walked over to stand in front of his knees. You slow blinked at him, one of your eyes closing before the other following. Joel chuckled and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees to look at you. 

“I don’t know, Daddy,” You mumbled truthfully. Joel reached up and cupped the side of your face, his big thumb running across your cheekbone. Dream or not, his calloused, big fingers always felt good on your skin and now you felt such a powerful affection for your old man that you wanted nothing more than to nuzzle into the hand that held your cheek. You turned your face into his hand and breathed in the smell than lingered on his hand, smoke and wood from the fire. Lavender from the soap in the kitchen. Leather from the reins on his horse and his belt and boots. Sweat. If this was a dream, it was certainly vivid and you didn’t want to rise from it anytime soon. 

Joel reached out with his other hand out and took your hip, trying to guide you into his lap but you had your own ideas of what you wanted. Joel humored you and watched you start to sink down onto the ground. He opened his knees to accommodate your body as you settled yourself on your knees in front of him. He was used to seeing you there but he was surprised by your willfulness, resisting his tug to drop to your knees instead. It sent a spark of excitement through him, gently beckoning his cock out of hibernation and into a state of almost reluctant arousal. 

You settled down with your feet splayed behind you and your bottom pressed into the ground, your legs almost making a W. You tilted your head to the side as you looked up at him, your eyes only half lidded. 

There was a shimmer around Joel as you looked up at him, like he was glowing from the inside. You wouldn’t put it past him in both reality and in your dreams. Joel shone, god-like, in your eyes; a beacon of warmth that was the author of both comfort and pleasure in your body. The first person to write about either in the book of your life. Your fingers crawled up his strong, jean clad thighs almost absentmindedly and he reached down and stroked your hair back. 

“I think you’re mostly asleep, my girl,” He whispered to you and you nodded, in no place to argue with him. You turned your head and placed a kiss and then a bite against the meat of his thigh, the feeling barely making it through the denim. Joel’s thumb drifted to your lips, rubbing the bottom one. 

“What do you need?” He asked. You didn’t have words for it, it was different than usual. Typically, the lust drove it home, making it easy to ask for it. But tonight, in the haze of stars and a dreamlight that rested over the whole scene, the lust was there but didn’t drive. It simply lived in the passenger seat, giving vague directions. You nuzzled your face into the denim of his pants again before glancing up into his face, blinking again, unable to answer but hoping the primal need in your eyes was answer enough. 

Joel petted your hair back, his dark brown eyes were scoping you out, trying to find a sense of your need and what was going to be appropriate in this dreamland. 

“Oh, I think I know, dreamy girl.” Joel gentle peeled your head off of his thigh just so he could stand up. You sat back enough to tilt your head up and watch him as he took his pants and boxers off with as much grace as an old man could muster without disturbing you too much. He sat back down on the edge of the couch and your cheek rested against his bare thigh, looking up into his eyes. Joel wrapped his hand around his hardening manhood. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting for more. 

In all truth, you were afraid that if you looked at his cock, the dream would melt away, unable to conjure up the image with enough clarity to be reality so instead waking you up. If this was a dreamland and all of this wasn’t real, you didn’t want to wake up. You wanted Joel. Distantly, there was a rumble of thunder and you scooted closer into the space between his legs. Joel wrapped them around you, cradling you in that crook of his body. 

Joel stroked your hair softly with one hand while the other held his own cock, stroking it up and down. The sound of his skin on skin made you unable to resist looking so your eyes dropped to his cock in his hand and you smiled as the whole image of him didn’t disappear. Instead the glow intensified around him, his hand around his half hard cock burned into your brain and you opened your mouth, willing him to understand what it was you wanted. 

Joel knew how much you enjoyed something in your mouth and it was so easy to indulge you right now. He guided his cock into your waiting mouth and watched as your lips wrapped around the tip, starting to suckle on it. Your tongue lazily lapped around the head, feeling it harden even more in the wet heat of your mouth. You scooted your head forward, taking a little more of the length of him into your mouth. The weight of him against your tongue soothed an ache in you that you hadn’t even been away of before this moment. 

Joel looked down at you, you looked so content with your cheek pressed into the skin of his thigh, your mouth snuggled tight around his cock head. Your tongue drove his pleasure, lavishing the tip of his rapidly hardening cock with little licks, tasting his precum as it dribbled out. One of his hands softly stroked your head, running his fingers through your hair. The other held the base of his cock, languidly stroking to make sure he stayed hard in your mouth. Not that he thought you would really mind. Your eyes were shut and you seemed to melt into him. 

“That’s my good, sleepy girl.” Joel cooed as he stroked your hair. “Daddy’s got ya,” he said as your lips tightened around his tip, suckling so sweetly, your mouth making quiet, wet noises that blended with the sound of rain and thunder. 

Your eyes slid open to look up at your Daddy above you, his hand guiding his cock into your mouth, letting you use him like your own personal pacifier, easing you further and further into that dream-like state. Being enveloped in dreamland. Joel’s legs tightened around you, seeming to gather you up against him as he watched you. Your eyes were glazed, your tongue moving in an hypnotic motion around and around the very tip of him. Joel let his head fall back against his shoulders, enjoying the slow pleasure of it. 

The pleasure of knowing his cock was your comfort. The pleasure of your tongue tracing up the slit, spit mixing with precum. The pleasure of watching you, glassy eyed, fall deeper and deeper away from the world, your head heavy on his thigh. 

Neither of you were sure how long you stayed like that, sucking on him but it was enough for him to soften in your mouth, and then slowly but surely harden again while Joel stroked himself up and down. You felt him swell to the point where all you could do was lick and suckle at the very tip while he rubbed himself up and down, working himself up. 

“Daddy,” You said very softly into his erection as you looked up at him, you could feel the tenseness in his body and it was disturbing your languid peace that came from being allowed to suck on him for so long. 

“I know, darlin’,” he said, smoothing your hair back. “Daddy’s jus’ goin’ to feed you his come and then he’ll relax again,” You felt a glow of pleasure, like the embers from the fire, stoked at his words. Your lips opened a little and Joel sighed, 

“Babygirl, keep suckin’ on Daddy’s tip,” He said, keeping his voice soft and gentle, not wanting to scare you or wake you up more. You did as you were told, your lips wrapping around the heat of his cock head. It was the thickest you had felt it be that night . Daddy’s muscular hand was  pumping himself up and down and you stayed lazily against his leg, still and accepting. Joel moaned and guided his cock head directly into your mouth, stilling his movements as he came. You stayed sucking him, your eyes barely even opening as his hot come filled your mouth. You swallowed each gush of his spend as if it was nectar and Joel watched as he milked himself into your mouth. 

Joel’s breathing was shaky for a moment but you were undisturbed, keeping his softening cock in your mouth, nuzzling your nose into his thigh. After a while, Joel reached down and stroked your hair, leaning down to speak into your ear, 

“Let’s get ya to bed, dreamy girl,” He leaned over and picked you up, grunting as his knees creaked when he stood up, holding you with your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck. Your head rested on his strong shoulder , looking up at his face. Come had dribbled onto your chin so Joel reached up, with his middle and ring finger and gathered up the drip and bringing it to your lips. He pressed his fingers into your mouth and you happily accepted another part of him to suck on while he carried you upstairs. 

[alexanderwales]

Me: I don't really like modern art. Kat: Did you see that Jacob Geller video? Me: I did. I didn't meant that I don't like modern art in a fascist way, just like ... I don't like it. I look at the paintings, at Rothko, and I just don't get it. Kat: A lot of it you have to see in person, I think. The pictures don't really do it justice, especially Rothko, some of those are huge, and you just stand in front of it and it's like ... as close as I've had to a religious experience. Me: I mean, I went to the Museum of Modern Art in Washington, D.C. And I went to the Tate Modern. And whatever the one in Seoul was called, and another in San Francisco, the de Young Museum. I've seen, in person, stuff from Rothko and Pollock and a bunch of the other Abstract Expressionists. Kat: That ... is a lot of modern art museums for someone who doesn't like modern art. Me: I want to like it. I hear the way people talk about it, how a Rothko evokes these emotions in them, and it's like all I can see is paint on canvas. I don't know. Like I'm blind. Kat: You're the opposite of a tortured artist. An art viewer who tortures himself. Me: It's not that. I mean, some of the stuff I really do get something from. It's not all Rothko. I don't walk into every art museum and just groan in agony. But there are this class where ... people like this stuff, and in my head I'm like "people like this stuff?" Kat: They do. I do. Me: Right, and I do believe that. But there's this part of me that's struggling against the human instinct to go "no, they're all lying for some reason, it's a game of peer pressure, or clout chasing". I think that way lies madness. I think that's a trap that people fall into all the time, because they do the typical mind thing, and they say "well if I don't like modern art, no one else must like modern art". Kat: And you're trying to correct for that by ... looking at a bunch of modern art you don't enjoy. Me: Kind of, yeah. I saw Barnett Newman's Stations of the Cross and I thought the idea of it was interesting, the journey of Christ as laid out in only a handful of brushstrokes. But the actual paintings, I just had never felt further from my fellow man than looking at them and trying to understand them. I sat and tried to meditate, to clear my mind, to let some thought come to me, but it was still just paint on canvas. Kat: And you're what, just going to keep going to modern art museums? Me: If I'm in a city with one, sure. Because sometimes there's something that speaks to me, it's just never the Abstract Expressionist stuff. Kat: I cannot imagine doing that, repeatedly viewing something in a genre you don't like. Is it because it's high status? Because you're clout chasing? Me: I don't think so. I think it's just alien to me, no matter how many reviews I've read extolling the works, how many people have explained these individual pieces. And you know, when we went to the one in D.C., we had our son with us, and he was looking at all this stuff too, and when we went out I asked him which was his favorite. He said it was one of the Pollocks, Lavender Mist. Kat: Cute. See, the kid gets it. Me: I asked him what he liked about it, and he said to me, "you can see the drips". Kat: Sometimes that's all there is to it.