#the Sun plush in the first is one they share

[bloo-the-dragon]

Army of Moons

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

COME REST YOUR BONES NEXT TO ME ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most. 

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes. 

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks. 

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth. 

it’s beautiful. 

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded. 

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere. 

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again. 

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, surely, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s really lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling. 

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.��� 

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face. 

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips. 

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs. 

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!” 

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there. 

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot. 

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.” 

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word. 

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology. 

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown. 

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again. 

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it. 

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.” 

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?” 

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.” 

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.” 

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow. 

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice. 

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter. 

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself. 

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest. 

he hopes it never goes away.

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

Hiiiii could you do a fic where reader is pregnant for the first time? I need more soft!young president coriolanus so so bad

Soft as Snow || Young President!Coriolanus snow x reader

A/n: thank you for this request anon!! I need more soft coryo too 🥹

Warnings: fem!reader, mention of death

Wc: 860

Divider by @firefly-graphics

In the opulent sun room of the presidential mansion that you call your home, you sat in a plush chair with a bowl of fresh lychee perched carefully on your pregnant belly. The brightly lit room, adorned with decadent furnishings, seemed to reflect the weight of the world you carried not only as the First Lady but also as a soon-to-be-mother.

The door cracked open and Coriolanus entered with an air of authority that seemed to dissipate as he laid eyes on you, his precious wife. Coryo gestured the servants to leave the two of you alone as his steely gaze softened, and a small, genuine smile graced his lips as he approached.

"May I?" he gestured toward the empty space on the chair beside you. You nodded with an eager smile and he took a seat, his eyes fixed on your protruding belly which was covered by the softness of your silk dress. Gently, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "How are you feeling, my love?"

His voice, usually reserved and commanding to people outside of his inner circle, held a tenderness and softness that sent a comforting shiver down your spine. You couldn't help but smile at the sincerity in his question.

"I'm well, Coryo. Our baby seems to be quite content by these lychees," You chuckle as your rub your stomach. Coryo smiles, lychees were a rare fruit to come by this time of year but he made sure that you were fed only the most juiciest, ripe, lychees.

"I'm glad," he hums. His hand finds its way to your belly, fingers tracing delicate patterns on the fabric of your dress, ghosting over your skin underneath. "It's a remarkable thing, life," he mused, his eyes reflecting a mix of emotions—awe, anticipation, and a hint of vulnerability.

You watch him knowing where his mind was at. The thought of his mother dying during birth along with his baby sister. You knew that he was scared. Scared that maybe you would have the same fate as his late mother. But you assured Coryo, that times have changed and that you would be alright.

The weight of his responsibilities seemed to momentarily fade as he focused on you and the life growing inside you. Your fingers dipped into the fruit bowl, a lychee in between your fingers as you bring it to your lips, Coriolanus watching with fascination. The atmosphere hung in a delicate balance, as if time itself had slowed down to savour this tranquil interlude.

"Have you thought about names," he asked, breaking the silence. You chuckled softly, the sound echoing through the room, "I have actually. Vicky," you watch Snow's features contort into a mixture of emotions.

"Vicky. like my mothers-" "Yes, like your mother's name." You interrupt him as your thumb brushes over the back of his hand, a comforting gesture that spoke volumes. "I love it. Vicky Snow," He says with a smile on his face.

As you continued to share the bowl of fruit, the conversation drifted from politics to dreams, hopes and the shared future that awaited your family. Coriolanus, a man known for his strategic mind and politics, revealed a more vulnerable side, a side reserved for you, his wife carrying his child.

Time slipped away, and the room glowered in the soft hues of twilight. Coriolanus stood, his eyes lingering on you with an affectionate gaze. "I've got state matters to deal with, my dear. Just know, you and our child are always on my mind."

~

Days turned into weeks, and the swell of your belly grew more pronounced. The Capitol buzzed with excitement over the impending arrival of the newest member of the Snow legacy. Coriolanus, ever the stoic leader, became a pillar of support, attending to your needs with a grace that contradicted his ruthless reputation.

One evening, as the two of you stood on the balcony overlooking the Capitol, he wrapped his arms around you, his hands resting protectively on your belly. The lights of the city below shimmered like a sea of stars, and for a moment, it felt like the world paused to witness the union of power and vulnerability.

As the days dwindled down to the eagerly anticipated arrival, Coriolanus stood by your side, a beacon of strength. The birthing room, stark and sterile, contrasted sharply with the opulence of the Capitol. Yet, in that space, you found an intimacy that transcended the political stage.

The first cry of your newborn filled the room, and Coriolanus held the tiny bundle in his arms with a reverence that bordered on awe. His usually composed demeanor crumbled, replaced by the unfiltered joy of fatherhood.

"She's so beautiful, just like her mother," He whispers, his eyes never leaving the small face nestled in his arms. "Thank you, thank you for gifting me a gift beyond measure," Coryo looks at you as you couldn't help but let a teardrop roll down your cheek as you gazed at the future you had brought into the word.

You couldn't help but marvel at the unexpected beauty that had blossomed in the heart of the Capitol's calculated power.

[harrysfolklore]

omg! little bitch headcanon after a long time hehe - it’s reyes’s birthday this week so i was imagining piastri sis being with the sainz family celebrating it and she’s the one taking the family photograph and reyes tells her to join in on the photo because she’s family too ☺️☺️☺️

i said that i would post a little bitch blurb if carlos had a podium finish and he did soooo here it is! i hope you like it READ LITTLE BITCH HERE

The private jet touches down in Madrid, the setting sun painting the sky in vibrant hues. You stretch in your plush leather seat, feeling the familiar ache of a long-haul flight.

"Rise and shine, little bitch," you tease, poking Carlos who's still dozing beside you.

He cracks open one eye, a smirk playing on his lips. "Such a charming way to wake me up, Piastri," he retorts, voice husky from sleep. "I should leave you at the airport."

"You wouldn't dare," you laugh, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips.

Carlos hums appreciatively, deepening the kiss before pulling away with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe not, but I might make you sleep on the couch, cariño."

As you make your way through the VIP customs area, Carlos' hand finds its way to the small of your back, his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

"Cold, hermosa?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.

You elbow him playfully. "Behave yourself, Sainz. We're in public."

This isn't just another trip to Spain - it's the first time you'll be staying at Carlos' house in Madrid, spending time with his parents celebrating his mother's birthday and meeting his sisters. The significance of this step in your relationship isn't lost on either of you.

Carlos leads you to his waiting car, he insists on taking your luggage despite your protests. "You've had a long flight," he says, easily lifting your suitcase into the trunk. "Let me take care of you."

As Carlos pulls into the driveway of his house, you feel a mix of nerves and anticipation. He turns to you after cutting the engine, his brown eyes soft in the dim light. "Ready to see your home away from home?"

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. "More than ready."

As Carlos unlocks the front door, you hear the scrabbling of paws on hardwood floor.

"Piñon!" Carlos calls out as he pushes the door open. A ball of fluffy fur comes bounding towards you, tail wagging furiously.

You crouch down, laughing as Piñon jumps up to lick your face. "Hello, handsome boy! Oh, it's so nice to meet you!" You ruffle his fur, delighting in his excited yips. "You're much cuter than your dad, aren't you?"

"Hey!" Carlos protests, but his eyes are soft as he watches you interact with his dog.

After giving Piñon some attention, Carlos takes your hand to lead you on a tour of the house. In the kitchen, you can't resist teasing him.

"I'm surprised you even know what this room is for, Sainz," you quip, gesturing at the state-of-the-art appliances.

Carlos crowds you against the counter, his body pressed against yours. "I know exactly what it's for, mi amor," he murmurs, his voice low and suggestive. "Want me to show you?"

You push him away with a laugh, trying to ignore the heat blooming in your cheeks. "Later, you menace. Finish the tour first."

The apartment is spacious and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of Madrid's skyline. Carlos leads you through each room, pointing out little details and sharing anecdotes.

You notice several framed photos on the shelves - Carlos with his family, with his teammates, and to your surprise, a few of you and him together. Your heart swells at the sight.

"And this," he says, pushing open a door, "is our bedroom."

Your heart skips a beat at the casual use of 'our'. The room is dominated by a large, comfortable-looking bed, and more of those amazing windows.

Carlos wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. "What do you think?" he murmurs.

You lean back into him, sighing contentedly. "It's perfect. I love it."

"Mm," Carlos hums, his lips finding your temple, "I love you."

You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze. The intensity you find there makes your breath catch. "I love you too," you whisper.

Carlos's eyes darken as he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss. You respond eagerly, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.

"We should probably get some sleep," Carlos murmurs against your lips, even as his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you closer.

"Probably," you agree, already working on the buttons of his shirt. "But I'm not very tired. Are you?"

Suddenly, Piñon barks from downstairs, breaking the moment. You both laugh, a little breathless.

"I should probably take him for a walk," Carlos says, pressing one last kiss to your lips.

"Don't take too long," you call after him as he heads downstairs. "I might get into bed without you."

The next morning, you wake to the sound of Carlos humming in the shower. You stretch lazily, a smile playing on your lips as memories of last night flood your mind.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Carlos says, emerging from the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips. "Ready for the big day?"

You groan, pulling the covers over your head. "Do we have to go? Can't we just stay in bed all day?"

Carlos chuckles, tugging the blanket away. "Tempting as that is, mi amor, I'm pretty sure my mother would hunt us down if we missed her birthday party."

"Fine, but only because I like Reyes more than I like you."

"Ouch," Carlos clutches his chest in mock pain. "You wound me, Piastri. And here I was, about to offer to join you in the shower."

You laugh, swatting him with a pillow as you head to the bathroom. "Behave yourself, Sainz. We can't be late to your mother's party."

An hour later, you're standing in front of the mirror, smoothing down your outfit for the hundredth time. Carlos comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Stop worrying."

You meet his eyes in the mirror. "I can't help it. What if your sisters don't like me?"

Carlos turns you to face him, his hands cupping your face. "They're going to love you, cariño. Just like I do." He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, maybe not exactly like I do. That would be weird."

You can't help but laugh, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. "You're such an idiot."

"But I'm your idiot," he grins, leaning in for a kiss.

The drive to Carlos's parents' house is filled with Carlos telling you stories of past birthday celebrations. As you pull up to the house, however, your nerves return full force.

"Ready, mi amor?" Carlos squeezes your hand.

"As I'll ever be. Let's do this, little bitch."

The door swings open before you even reach it, revealing a beaming Reyes. "Carlos! YN! Come in, come in!" She pulls you both into a warm embrace.

"Feliz cumpleaños, Mama," Carlos says, kissing her cheek.

"Happy birthday, Reyes," you add, handing her a beautifully wrapped gift. "Thank you for having me."

"Nonsense, cariño," Reyes waves off your thanks. "You're family now."

Carlos Sr. appears behind his wife, clapping his son on the back before turning to you with a warm smile. "YN, lovely to see you again. How's that brother of yours? Giving our Carlos a run for his money on the track?"

You laugh, falling easily into the familiar banter. "Oh, you know Oscar. He's doing his best to keep up with your son, but it's a losing battle. Though he'd never admit it."

"Please," Carlos snorts, "Little Piastri could only dream of keeping up with me."

"Is that so?" you raise an eyebrow. "Remind me again, who beat who in the last race?"

As you and Carlos enter the living room, you spot two women sitting on the couch, engaged in quiet conversation. They look up as you approach, and you immediately recognize them as Carlos' sisters from the family photos you've seen.

Blanca, the older one, rises first with a warm smile. "You must be YN," she says, stepping forward to greet you with a gentle hug. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Welcome to the family madhouse," Ana follows, her smile equally warm.

You return their smiles, feeling some of your nervousness dissipate. "It's great to meet you both. I've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope," Blanca says, shooting a playful glance at Carlos.

"Of course," Carlos replies, wrapping an arm around your waist. "I only told her about the times you weren't being complete pains in my-"

"Carlos!" Reyes's voice carries from the kitchen, cutting him off mid-sentence.

You all laugh, and the tension in the room eases further.

"So, YN," Blanca says as you all settle into the living room, "I was just telling Ana about this amazing spa resort I discovered. I was thinking it might be fun for us to take a girls' trip there sometime - you, me, Ana, and Mama. What do you think?"

Before you can respond, Carlos interjects, "Hey, why are you trying to steal my girlfriend already? She just got here!"

"Relax, hermanito," Blanca rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "We're not going to whisk her away forever. Just long enough to share all your embarrassing childhood stories."

"Speaking of embarrassing stories," Ana chimes in, a mischievous glint in her eye, "has Carlos ever told you about the time he tried to impress a girl at school by saying he could drive a real F1 car?"

Carlos groans, burying his face in his hands. "Ana, no..."

"Ana, yes," you say, leaning forward eagerly. "Please, do tell."

Ana grins, clearly enjoying her brother's discomfort. "Well, he was about 14, and there was this girl he had a massive crush on. So, he tells her that Papa lets him drive the car all the time. Of course, she doesn't believe him, so he offers to show her."

"Oh no," you mutter, already seeing where this is going.

"Oh yes," Ana continues. "He sneaks her into the garage where Papa keeps one of his old cars. Tries to climb in, but he's too short to reach the pedals properly. Ends up falling face-first into the cockpit, gets stuck, and Papa has to come rescue him."

You burst out laughing, picturing a young Carlos in such a predicament. "Please tell me there are photos."

"There's video," Blanca says with a smirk.

"I hate all of you." Carlos groans again.

You pat his knee consolingly, still chuckling. "Aw, don't worry, babe. I'm sure you were very suave while stuck upside down in an F1 car."

"The girl never spoke to him again," Ana adds, causing another round of laughter.

"Alright, alright," Carlos says, trying to sound stern but failing to hide his own amusement. "That's enough embarrassing stories about me. Don't you have some photo albums to bore YN with or something?"

"Photo albums!" Blanca exclaims. "What a great idea, Carlos. I'm sure your girlfriend would love to see your awkward phase."

As Blanca goes to fetch the albums, you lean into Carlos, whispering, "You know, that girls' trip doesn't sound so bad. I might learn even more interesting things about you."

Carlos shakes his head, a resigned smile on his face. "Why do I get the feeling I'm going to regret introducing you to my sisters?"

"Probably because you are," you kiss his cheek, "But you love me anyway."

"That I do," he murmurs, pulling you closer as Blanca returns with a stack of photo albums.

As the evening wears on, Reyes announces it's time for cake. The family gathers around the dining table, where a beautiful cake adorned with candles takes center stage.

"Alright, everyone," Carlos Sr. calls out. "On three. Una, dos, tres!"

The room erupts into a somewhat off-key rendition of "Cumpleaños Feliz," with Carlos deliberately singing out of tune next to your ear. You elbow him in the ribs, trying to stifle your laughter.

As the song ends and Reyes blows out her candles, she turns to Carlos Sr. with a smile. "Cariño, why don't you get the camera? We should take a family photo."

Your heart swells at being included in this intimate family moment, but you also feel a twinge of uncertainty. As everyone starts to gather, you quietly slip out of the room, giving the family their moment.

You're examining some family photos on the wall when you hear Reyes's voice from the other room. "Carlos, ¿dónde está tu novia? Where is your girlfriend?"

A moment later, Carlos appears in the doorway. "Hey, what are you doing out here? We're waiting for you."

"Oh, do you want me to take the picture for you?" you ask.

Carlos's expression softens. He crosses the room, taking your hands in his. "Mi amor, you're part of this family now. That means you're in the photos, not taking them."

"But-" you start to protest, but Carlos cuts you off with a gentle kiss.

"No buts," he murmurs against your lips. "Come on, Piastri. Time to make it official."

He leads you back to the dining room, where the rest of the family is waiting. Reyes beams when she sees you. "There you are, cariño! Come, stand next to Carlos."

"I thought maybe I should take the picture..." you begin, but Reyes cuts you off with a wave of her hand.

"No, no, querida. You join in too. You're family now."

"Oh, but I couldn't—" you begin.

"Of course you can," Carlos Sr. insists, while Ana and Blanca nod in agreement.

"Yeah, come on, Piastri" Blanca teases, "You're not getting out of this one."

Carlos appears at your side, slipping an arm around your waist. "Come on, mi amor. You heard Mama. You're one of us now."

Feeling overwhelmed by emotion, you allow Carlos to guide you into the group. As you stand there, surrounded by the Sainz family, you're struck by a profound sense of belonging.

"Everyone ready?" Reyes asks, setting the timer on the camera.

As the flash goes off, capturing the moment, you realize that's exactly what you've become – part of this wonderful, loving family. And as Carlos presses a kiss to your temple, whispering "Te amo" in your ear, you know you wouldn't have it any other way.

[ovaryacted]

HOMECOMING

PAIRING: Jackson! Joel Miller x afab! reader || WC: 1.8k

SYNOPSIS: After a long day of patrol, Joel comes home later than he said he would be back. You are just happy to welcome him back into your arms.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: FLUFF. Suggestive content - 18+. Established relationship. Soft & affectionate Joel Miller. Ambiguous age gap (Joel is in his late 50s, reader is 25+). Mentions of early pregnancy. Cute stuff. Banter and teasing. No use of y/n.

A/N: Hey there, been a while. In case y'all forgot, yes I do still write LMAO. This is a little something that I wrote miraculously on my free time, and it is my first Joel Miller piece. I'm also slowly getting back into writing so pls be nice! I did originally write this with the new Pedro Pascal picture as Joel in mind, but I'm a gamer Joel type of girl at heart so that's what I went with. Hopefully, it is enjoyable for those who choose to read it. Any likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

➣ TLOU was created by a zionist and is based off of the Israeli occupation of Palestine. Please refer to this link to learn how you can help the Palestinian people.

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

Night fell over Jackson, soothing and quiet as it usually was. You’d think after some time, you’d get used to the stillness that often consoled others in a world full of unsettling clicks and gunfire, but you found yourself troubled with the calmness that followed once the sun went down. The change of the seasons propelled a temperature shift outside; bitter winter exchanged for the rebirth of spring, which hopefully meant the sun would stay in the sky just a little bit longer.

Your face nuzzled into the pillow beneath you, the material not yours to claim, but it wasn’t unfamiliar. Digging your nose further into the bedding, you subconsciously chased the faint scent of pinewood and gunpowder, one of the few things that eased your anxiety. It was a smell you got used to recognizing over the past few years, not that you’ve been keeping count.

Despite the warmth the sheets provided you as you rested on the left side of the bed, your body felt cold, missing a familiar set of strong arms and a welcoming chest pressing up against you. He had told you before he left for patrol that he’d be back before sundown, that was the plan anyway. But you knew better than anyone that stepping outside the protective gates of Jackson always left room for the unpredictable.

In the haze of your dreams, you faintly heard the click of the front door opening and closing, the floorboards of the stairs creaking with the ghost of muted footsteps. You stirred in bed, ears trained to pinpoint the noise, yet too stubborn to wake up entirely. A breeze entered the bedroom before you sensed something else sharing the space.

That’s when you felt the phantom touch of plush lips skimming along your hairline. If you weren’t awake then, you certainly were now.

“Joel?” A call of his name equivalent to a whimper at the sudden contact you craved. You caught the slight intake of breath and the exhale that followed.

“It’s me darlin’. Didn’t mean to wake you,” Joel spoke quietly, the peaceful baritone of his voice awakening you fully. As you sighed, you met his tired gaze with your own, bruised knuckles raising to brush your cheekbone affectionately.

“Things went okay on the patrol?” You questioned him, pleased that he was here with you in one piece rather than focusing on the fact that he came later than you’d like.

“Yeah, had to check something out with Tommy to be sure before coming back. I’m sorry honey, didn't want to make you stay up for me.”

Even if it was unintended, Joel felt guilty whenever he didn’t stick to his word. He was not much of a virtuous man, lived a large part of the past two-plus decades giving less of a shit about honesty and ethics. But when it came to you, it killed him when he couldn’t follow through on his promises, even if things weren’t within his control. The last thing Joel wanted was to upset you or make you worry, but no matter how many times he reassured you of his return, you still tried your hardest to wait for him to come back home, back to you.

“It’s okay, I’m just happy you’re here,” you blinked slowly as his voice filtered through the lagged mess of your head. Leaning your face towards his hand, you kissed the inside of his palm. “Go freshen up and come to bed; I’m cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckled with a smile at your forgiveness, parting from you for a second and heading to the bathroom, not planning to make you wait any longer.

You watched his silhouette from where you lay on the bed, fluttering your eyes closed at the sound of running water. When the door opened again, Joel’s broad figure returned wearing a worn-down flannel and some fleece pants he had snagged long ago.

“Scoot,” he jutted his chin to gesture to the right side of the mattress, your side, suggesting to reclaim his on the left. Shifting to the right, you let him slip into the bed feet first, hauling the sheets to cover the both of you. A bulky arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you close to him, your body molding to his like a missing puzzle piece.

“Not too far now,” Joel grinned as you nestled right into his warm chest, seeking his attention and attempting to siphon more of his warmth. It takes you off guard how your nerves instantly settled once you had Joel near you again. In his arms, that was where you belonged—protected, loved, safe.

“I missed you,” you mumbled, eyes shutting to breathe in his typical musk. One of his hands cradled your lower back, thumb running circles into your skin.

“I missed you too, darlin’. Too damn much.” Joel kissed your forehead, drawing lines up and down your back with his fingertips.

His hand moved again from behind you to the front of your body, palming your stomach protectively. A smile crept up on his face as he felt your tummy under the material of the flannel you stole from him, the only thing you preferred for pajamas. The gentle curve of your belly was not yet prominent enough to be overly detectable, but he knew what you carried. Precious cargo. That’s what he called it after you both adjusted to the shock of adding to Jackson’s current population count.

“Still feelin’ sick?” Joel asked you in the room’s darkness, his eyes shifting to watch over your facial features. The moonlight illuminated the edge of your jaw and the roundness of your cheeks, and his chest ached at the thought of witnessing other growing changes over the next couple of months.

“Sometimes. It bothers me, but nothing I can’t handle.” You reassured him the best way you knew how, having to rely on Maria’s advice for all things related to childcare and Ellie being your new overly protective guard and nurse when Joel wasn’t around.

If someone had told you that you’d find yourself alive after the apocalypse in a safe community and pregnant at that, you’d consider them crazy. Yet here you were, carrying a man’s child when you least expected it, a man years older than you with memories of a reality you couldn’t experience or remember. But you didn’t mind; the end of the world didn’t leave much room for strict morals anyway.

Make the most of it. You don’t know when you’ll miss something once it’s gone.

Joel had told you that after the first few patrols you had with him once you adjusted to Jackson, growing comfortable with the stoic and quiet man who grabbed your attention everywhere he went. He shared stories of a time before the world fell apart, discussing things like watching the sunset, listening to music from artists you’ve never heard of, and sweet treats he missed tasting. Things changed after the seventh patrol together, where you saw him smile for the first time after successfully hunting some game for the town.

That night, one thing led to another. It started after some drinks, a hungry and messy kiss on your doorstep that led to clothes on the bedroom floor, and hands pawing at one another. You woke up the next morning with an arm wrapped around your waist and his nose rubbing the back of your neck.

Simply put, you haven’t left since.

“Oh, I know. Can handle a whole lot, strong woman you are.” Joel taunted you a bit, his memory fleeting momentarily and recalling the spitfire you always were with him in particular. He could never seem to tame your spunk and attitude, but he grew to love it like the rest of you.

“Mhmm, real strong, if you ask me.” You held his gaze with a gleam of mischief, bringing your body closer to his wide chest and tilting your chin upwards, silently asking for more than a cuddle.

“You tryin’ to tell me something I don’t already know?”

“I don’t know. Am I?” You were a tease, always have been, jerking Joel’s chain more than he cared to admit. 

“Those hormones are messing with your head, darlin’. Got you acting feisty,” he smirked, shifting nearer to your face.

Curious hands reached up to curl through his thick, graying curls. The contrasting streaks along his temple became more noticeable as time passed, matching the graying beard you’ve come to love and adore. He hesitated to let his hair grow out initially, thinking he’d look too much like his younger brother. Much convincing later, paired with hiding the shears, you got the desired result, and now you were lucky enough to enjoy the fruits of your labor.

The kiss was velvety as it was intimate, your tongue lining his bottom lip before he groaned, granting you entrance into his mouth. You swallowed the rumble he released, drawing a path of your touch from his neck down to his lower abdomen. Antsy fingers itched to skim the waistband of the fleece that concealed him, reaching close to the hardness you felt before he seized your hand away.

“Aht aht, no. As much as I want you there, it’s bedtime.” Joel didn’t necessarily want you to stop. Hell, if it were up to him, he’d let you go to town on him however you wanted. But his energy levels were dwindling, and all he wanted to do after a long day was get some proper rest with you in his arms.

“But-”

“Sweetheart, if you let this old man sleep, I’ll wake you up to a real nice surprise in the mornin’.” It was an effortless proposition, easy to keep you at bay until the next day and enough to curb your insatiable appetite.

“Promise?” You beat your lashes at him, knowing the last thing Joel would do was deliberately not provide for your needs, even if that meant having to keep up with you physically.

“Pinkie swear.” Joel gave you another peck before letting you get comfy against his chest once more, cuddling into him as much as your growing belly would allow without being squished. You started to drift off as sleep called to you, listening to the gentle rhythm of soft beating in your ear.

“Breakfast too, Miller.” You murmured to him, peeping how he laughed in the dark with his eyes closed. The pleasant and lively sound made you smile and your heart pound. 

“Oh, I’ll feed you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

The peace in your bedroom matched the serenity that fell over Jackson. Now that you had Joel wrapped around you, you didn’t mind how quiet it was. So long as you have him, you can handle anything that comes your way.

©️ ovaryacted 2024. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[fawnhunter]

natural instincts…

sick and laying in my bed which also means i can’t stop thinking about cregan and the stark baby making gene that definitely runs in the family. cw: dis is mostly smut with a side of fluff, no angst at all. talk of breeding and imprégnation, as well as some talk of family life.

so it’s no secret to any of the beautiful brains on tumblr that the stark men have a certain habit of tripping and falling and maybe putting a baby in their pretty lady wives. and well i believe that cregan stark is no different. it’s so fucking cold in the north, and even though he is a man grown that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy a nice warm cunt to settle into at the end of the night. he works so hard :/ constantly walking around and performing his duty as lord of the north.

i can imagine how insufferable he’d be before you are wed. the thought of building a family with you always on him mind. sneaking into ur chambers before the sun is y over the hills, just to slide into bed with his hand on your stomach and dream about the life he can’t wait to have with you. talking over ir shoulder until you go to sleep and slipping back into his own chambers. it gets even worse once u finally belong to him under the eyes of the seven. on ur first official night together, during the bedding ceremony, he was incredibly gentle with you. so grateful to have you as his wife that he could even think to push you abt heirs. no he’s never allow those old fuck in the room to watch as he takes you over and over again, he allows them to listen to ur cries through the walls, opening the chamber doors and tossing the sheets at them after splitting u open on his cock for the first time that night. happiest man on the planet once he gets you back in his arm and under one of his favorite pelts.

i can imagine one day he sees you talking one of the young lords who had gotten lost and was search for his mother. stumbled upon you coddling him and wiping his tears until another his morhwr is found again. the whole ordeal has him feeling some kind of way, he can’t even find it in himself to approach you over the feeling of him stiffening between his thighs. he thinks about it for the rest of the day, the thought of making you a mother. just lalala scatter brained cregan stumbling around the training grounds things about stirring up ur guts the second you get back to ur shared chambers and keeping you on ur back until ur sure to be taken with his seed.

nsfw!!!!

baby making time! cregan is my man with a plan. he has been planting little seeds in ur brain for weeks now. talking about how cute having someone who looks just like you would be. or how much he would love to see ur belly get rounder with ever passing moon. wrapping his hands around ur stomach and pressing down right where ur womb would be, rocking you back and forth while pressing his slowly gardening cock into ur backside. his plan is going so well that it’s only be a matter of time before he has ur body crowded against the sheets of his bed. face down with tears wetting his sheets while his pillow sits comfortably underneath ur hips. sliding his cock in the space between ur thighs before finally oushing past the tight space of ur cunt. his front pressed against ur back while he lifts his hips and slams back into you at a toe curling pace. one hand keeping ur hips pressed against his while the other wraps around ur front, groping at whatever he can feel to lift you back into him, swallowing ur whines with a kiss. when all is said and done he likes to pull out and admire his work, the mess he’s made of you. rolling you over and sliding the pillow back under ur hips so you’ll be sure to bless him with a mini stark sometime soon.

he also is not the kind of man who refrains form touch you while you are with his child. it’s hard to ignore the way ur chest starts to swell along with your stomach, spilling out of the lovely dresses you wear. or the way ur body starts to beings softer.. more plush. completing him to dig his fingers into ur hips and revel in the marks he leave behind. so head over heels for his pregnant lady wife that he might wanna start keep her that way. swollen and sweet with his child.

this was typed during a fever dream so sorry for any mistakes. hotd requests are open!

[catscidr]

Hiii I just found your acc and really like your stuff! Can I pls request lazy morning sex with Jing Yuan (and any character you think might fit this prompt) I just looked and there is not one fic like this of this man when he's like... right there. He's like so perfect for this scenario. Thank you sm and have a great day/night! <3

i just finished writing this its 3am i think i blacked out. everybody give it up for my man jing yuan i need himSO BAAAAD AAHHH i hope u like this nonnie ♡♡ cw: nsfw, mdni. semi-clothed sx, soft dom jy, clt stimulation, size kink if you squint, praise, pet names, slight overstimulation, cuddling n fucking face-to-face, riding, creampie. /not proofread ill do that in the morning. dies/ includes: fem reader, jing yuan, fu xuan mentionned wc: 3,2k

You loved and hated waking up next to Jing Yuan in the morning. On one hand, the rhythm of his beating heart lulls you to sleep, and he makes for a wonderful personal heater; but on the other... he’s a little too comfortable. So much so that every time you sleep with him, you, without fail, end up being late for work. That, or you barely make it in time. At times you would point your finger at him and accuse him of being a wholesome, sleepy version of an incubus, and he would laugh in that smooth, baritone voice of his. 

Regardless. 

This morning was one of those mornings, of course. Jing Yuan came back home for the first time in two weeks the night before- being the general of the Luofu means that he would occasionally have to leave for an unknown amount of time to take care of business. Every time he had to leave, you’d linger around him a little longer than usual, wrap your arms around him tighter than you normally would and let your lips linger on his cheek long enough for the sun to rise completely. 

He’d come back so late last night that you were already sleeping in your shared bed, legs haphazardly thrown over the bed sheets in a poor attempt to regulate your body temperature. The button-up shirt you wore made his heart lunge in his throat in the best way, but the last thing he wanted was to wake you. So, he’d carefully remove his armored uniform, take his shirt off and slip into the bed with you with nothing but his briefs on, and pull you into his chest. You had unconsciously nuzzled closer to him, your body craving the warmth of his body you had missed oh so dearly. 

Which explained the situation you were now in. The dilemma you found yourself stuck in. Jing Yuan was back; you had your face mere millimeters away from his plush chest, his arms held you tight against him, and his soft snores almost convinced you to fall back asleep. Keyword; almost. 

As much as you loved him you knew that he’d be here once you came back from work, so with as much resolve as you could muster, you try wriggling your way out of his grip. With him being as big as he was, though, it didn’t surprise you when he tightened his hold on you, treating you as if you were his plushie threatening to fall off his bed and he was a child.

You let out a quiet oof from his strong grip and reevaluate your options. There weren’t many options, but at least you had choices; either you wake him up, convince him to let you go and then get to work early enough that you don’t risk getting written up again, or you let him hold you and... arrive at work late. Again. Which was the last thing you wanted, given the fact that your boss had specifically told you that she couldn’t allow you to miss another meeting. 

Step one was to summon the ability to be even more stubborn than your lover. Step two is to carefully wriggle your arms up, high enough that you can move your hands and you can use them to your advantage against the beast. It took you some time, given the fact that they were stuck between his and your body, but you succeeded, nonetheless. And you only got one displeased grunt from the sleeping general in response. 

As you’re about to proceed with step three, Jing Yuan cracks an eye open and buries his head into the crook of your neck while curling into you, effectively trapping you between his plush muscles and the duvet. 

Could have gone better. 

“Jing Yuan,” you huff, your voice sounding more like a whine than anything. The general doesn’t respond, leading you to believe he fell asleep again, but his morning voice graces your ears before you have the time to curse him out. “Mhm, I’m up,” he hums, pressing a lazy kiss to your neck in a false apology. 

You wriggle in response, grunting from the sheer effort. One of the downsides that came with cuddling with Jing Yuan was the way he could keep you right there with him as long as he wanted, curse his strength. 

Seeing as he wasn’t going to budge, you decide that two can play that game. You stare into his silky mop of silver hair, pondering whether you should negotiate your freedom or if you should play dirty- but where's the fun in trying to talk your way out of this predicament? You bring a hand up to gently brush his bangs away from his face. He makes a soft noise of contentment at the feeling of your fingers delicately brushing against his face and, before he can grow too comfortable, you lean in and bite his cheek. 

The general makes a noise of surprise, grunting as he pulls away from you to narrow his eyes at his perpetrator. His pout morphs into a lazy smile as he holds your glare. “If you wanted to play you could have just said so, sweetheart,” he says lowly, moving his free hand from your back to letting it rest lazily on your hips, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the exposed skin. 

You stick your tongue out at him stubbornly, “Not now, I have to get up.” Unfazed by your headstrong attitude, Jing Yuan shifts one of his legs to come between yours- his strong thigh sandwiched between your soft ones. A surprised gasp leaves your lips in response to the smooth way he molds his body to yours, but you refuse to allow yourself to be swayed by him. 

“Aeons- ‘Yuan please,” you huff quietly, but he notices the way your voice catches in your throat. His golden eyes briefly shine with what could only be described as mischief and, with a smooth motion, Jing Yuan grabs ahold of your shoulder and swivels you around so that your back is against his chest. A surprised oof rips from your throat as you bounce lightly on the bed from the impact- he lowers his face to yours, a rich, deep chuckle echoing in your ears as your resolve begins to melt away. 

Taking advantage of the new position, Jing Yuan throws a leg over yours to trap you in and, in turn, grinds his growing bulge against your ass. If he wasn’t hard at the sight of your face in the morning when he first woke up, he sure was now; while he slowly ruts against you, he allows his hands to wander down to the hem of your shirt. 

You stifle a moan as the metaphorical dam in your head begins to crumble apart. Sure, you would see him when you would get back home later, but you were with him now. Laying here with your lover, safe and comfortable in his arms while his clothed erection lazily thrusts up into your heat. 

As you let out needy whines that you aren’t even aware you’re voicing, Jing Yuan brings his lips closer to your ear. “Five more minutes?” he asks with a knowing smile, his own breath becoming more and more rugged the more he rubs up against you. Gods, he could feel you throbbing through his sweatpants and your panties. 

You swallow thickly and whine in response, your head already fogging up with desire. Going a whole two weeks without sex wasn’t particularly hard; you had your trusty toy with you and your hands if it happened to run out of battery and you were that desperate. But you weren’t- and during these past two weeks you had felt just fine, totally not pent up or even the slightest bit sexually frustrated. Your job had kept you busy, but when you’re stuck in Jing Yuan’s arms after not feeling him for so long, after not feeling his cock twitching inside you, you felt like something snapped inside you.

Distantly, you think about how pathetic this must look for him; only a few lingering touches and his hips pressing up against yours from the back and that’s all it takes for you to drench your panties. But really, you couldn’t care less. You knew he was just as pent up as you were. 

You bring one of your hands down to fumble with the hem of your panties to quickly take them off, down your legs. Hearing Jing Yuan’s hoarse breathing in your ears only made you even more eager to feel his skin right up against yours. Maybe part of the reason why you were so incredibly turned on was because of how tired you still felt, but either way, you needed him. And he needed you just as badly. 

The general’s hands leave you temporarily to slide his sweatpants down to his thighs, low enough for his cock to leave its confines. Precum builds at the tip, swollen and pulsing with the need to bury itself inside you. He sighs, one of his hands coming up to stroke his length, thumb sliding over the slit every time his fist comes up. You whine at the loss of his hands on you and reach back to take his hand, bringing it between your legs to rub your clit. He laughs at your impatience, shifting his weight on his other arm to lean over you properly. 

“Someone’s impatient and greedy,” he goads. “I thought you wanted to get to work, darling,” he purrs in your ear, his middle and ring finger coming together to tease your bud, riling you up further and making a mess between your legs. A strained fuck leaves your lips as you back your ass up into him, his hard cock tucked between your thighs, rubbing into your arousal. “Please just-” a whimper interrupts you as Jing Yuan increases the pace of his fingers, “-inside. I-I need to feel you,” you huff, feeling too empty. He considers teasing you some more, listening to the wet sounds of your pussy bounce off the walls of your shared bedroom, but his own patience was also waning thin. 

A quiet noise of protest leaves you when the man takes his hand away from your bud. He brings his fingers up to his lips to lick your slick off of them, moaning at the taste. Your thighs clench in response, jerking the general’s cock unintentionally. 

“Fuck,” he growls into your ear, hurriedly taking his length into his hand to guide it into your soaking wet cunt. Your mouth hangs open when you feel his tip slip between your lips, needy noises slipping from your mouth. Inch after inch he sinks into you, slowly letting you accommodate to his girth. He finally bottoms out, stretching your hole as you keen and whine from the satisfaction of feeling so full. 

He waits a few beats to allow you to get used to him, your hoarse breathing matching his own. When he feels you clamping down on him less, he starts to thrust- pulling out slowly and thrusting back in sharply. You moan aloud, mouth agape as his cock bullies your spongy walls relentlessly. 

“Jing Yua-aan,” you whimper, hands gripping onto his forearms weakly, nails forming crescent shapes into his skin. He reduces you to a sleepy, blabbering, moaning mess as the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the bedroom. With one hand splayed across your lower tummy, he presses down, making you arch your back into him from the sudden added pressure and pleasure. 

“Y’ like that? You missed me, huh?” he taunts, though his own voice trails off into a needy moan the more he feels the drag of your walls along his cock. “I know I’ve- fuck, m-missed you,” Jing Yuan stutters, thrusts becoming increasingly sloppy as he feels a familiar coil form in his abdomen. His thigh muscles clench as he wills away his orgasm, needing to feel you all around him for a bit longer. 

Unable to respond you simply nod dumbly, the words leaving your brain as it’s reduced to mush. Your lover hums, a smirk stretching his lips, “Yeah?” He brings his face closer to yours, your breaths tangling with each other before he smashes his lips against yours, the angle awkward and uncomfortable. But you don’t care- the added stimulation makes you melt as you crane your head back to kiss him properly, your lips occasionally leaving his from the force of his thrusts. 

Jing Yuan moans into your mouth and breaks the kiss. He looks at you with pure lust swirling in his golden eyes, your face sinful and needy. An idea pops up in the general’s mind and he smiles down at you, pressing one last chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“Ah, w-what are you-” you slur, your sentence interrupted by the general manhandling you to switch positions. He kicks the sheets off completely and places both of his large hands on your waist, gripping you firmly as he lays on his back, placing you on top him. His cock slips out of your walls with a wet shlick and you whine at the feeling of being so suddenly empty, twisting your body so that your thighs straddle his hips. Jing Yuan looks up at you with a small, cat-like smirk and your breath catches in your throat. 

His silky hair splayed out on the pillows beneath him, cheeks flushed, and eyes piercing into yours made your knees buckle and you suddenly froze in your movements. Feeling your pussy throb against him, Jing Yuan chuckles heartily, one of his hands leaving your waist to stroke his hard cock, your slick dripping down on him. 

“Lift your hips up and sit on my cock, darling,” he orders softly, a stark contrast to the way he looks at you- with pure, unfiltered lust and adoration. Your body moves automatically as you obey, hovering your tight pussy over his swollen tip, and lower yourself down. Your mouth opens in a silent moan, and you feel his girth stretching you out again as you begin to bounce on his hard cock. 

“Yeahh just like that,” he hums, the hand that held his length moving up to rest on your stomach, thumb jutting out to rub tight circles over your sensitive clit. You squeak in surprise, your body jolting forward, and place your hands over his plush chest for balance. “Feels good, baby? Feel how deep my cock is?” 

A moan leaves his kiss-bitten lips and you swear you physically felt yourself get pushed closer to your nearing orgasm, the noises leaving his lips amplifying your pleasure tenfold. “Taking me so well, look at that pretty pussy,” he coos, and you keen as his half-lidded eyes burn into yours. He feels your walls clench in response to the praise and flashes you a dangerous smirk; he places his feet flat on the bed and tightens his grip on your waist to buck his hips up, making you topple over him. Your gaze is unfocused and blurry as you look down at him, heavy breaths leaving your lips, tears threatening to roll down your rosy cheeks from the pace he set. 

“And look at you,” he whispers lovingly under his breath. Jing Yuan throws his head back deeper into the pillows, keeping his eyes on you as he watches you lose yourself to the addicting feeling of his cock bullying your sopping cunt. “Y-Yuan,” you whine, your climax threatening to rip through you as you bite your lip to stifle your needy moans. He tuts, leaning up to bite your lip to pull you out of your pleasure-filled daze. 

“Pay attention to me darling. Thaat’s it, let 'em out for me.” The general huffs, brows furrowing in concentration to focus on the feeling of your warm walls surrounding him, sucking him in endlessly. His thumb presses down onto your clit roughly to bring you closer to your orgasm; you whimper in turn, a chorus of oh fuck and please’s leaving your puffy lips. “I-I’m so close,�� you whine, eyelids fluttering shut as you feel your control leaving your body, the tight coil of your orgasm threatening to snap. 

Jing Yuan groans, hips bucking up into you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as he keeps up the pace, persistent. “Come on, give it to me, pretty girl.” He coos, voice breaking into a whine, close to climaxing himself. His thrusts become sloppier, and he bites his bottom lip to stifle a string of hearty, needy moans. 

His hips still up into you as he cums, thick ropes of his seed painting your walls white. Jing Yuan’s thumb flicks your puffy clit until you climax as well, your cunt milking his sensitive cock. You whimper, feeling your clit buzz with overstimulation as he keeps rubbing it with purpose. “S-Stop, stooop,” you cry, your eyes burning with tears as the dull pain turns into pleasure, “Aeons you’re so tight.” Your lover slows down his movements, easing the tension in his muscles, until he stops circling your clit and gently places both of his hands on your waist. His hands slide up and down your sweaty skin, soothing the bruises that will inevitably form.

Your body slumps, exhausted and utterly spent, arms caging him as you rest your face in the crook of his neck. You both feel sticky and sweaty, but the warmth you shared made up for the need to jump in the shower to wash yourselves off. Jing Yuan shifts his hips so that his softening cock slips out of you; he inhales sharply, his cock still sensitive. 

“I missed you,” you mumble quietly, voice muffled from the way you're pressed into him and the pillows and press a chaste kiss to his neck. “Yeah? I never would have guessed,” the general chuckles, arms coming up to hug you tightly, one hand placed behind your head to cradle you close to him. You hit him with a huff but then sigh, content. 

“Mmh, but I missed you too, darling,” Jing Yuan replies softly. He holds you as your eyes droop, exhaustion taking ahold of your tired body. His own eyelids droop as he listens to your soft heartbeat, and soon enough, you’re both sleeping, legs tangled together while Jing Yuan’s strong arms keep you laid atop of him. 

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

You’re not sure what time it is when you wake up, but you hear a phone ringing loudly in your ear, jolting you away from your peaceful dreams. You don’t recognize the tune, and as you’re about to wriggle your way out of the dozing general’s arms, he swings one arm over to the nightstand next to your bed and answers it without looking at the caller ID. “Jing Yuan speaking,” he says in a hoarse voice, eyes still closed. 

Even without his phone on speaker you could make out a very loud, very shrill voice from the other side of the line, yelling out two hours late, a single mission and get your ass over here. Jing Yuan doesn’t react, the same sleepy, cat-like smile on his face as he listens to the person rant. They eventually let up and hang up, saying something you couldn’t quite catch. Your lover haphazardly tosses his phone somewhere on the bed and loops his arm back around you, nuzzling into your neck. 

“Who was that?” you ask, voice cracking from how much you abused your vocal cords (apparently) two hours ago. He scoffs, amused, and pulls away just enough to speak clearly. 

“Lady Fu Xuan,” he says slyly. “I should get dressed before she decides to read into my divination and sees things she probably shouldn’t.”

[1800titz]

HI FRIENDS. WOOOOOOOOOOO. Camprry. Aimed for 5K or less and managed to get wordy again. Reader insert and basically pure smut. This one was supposed to be vanilla with some praise kink (and exhibitionism if you SQUINT since it’s in a tent) but….. hahahahaha….. WEEEELLLLLLL.

CONTENT WARNINGS: oral sex, face fucking, exhibitionism-ish if you squint, choking-ish if you squint, light dom/sub, praise kink, daddy kink, intercourse

WC: 7.5K (whoops)

There is nothing remotely sexy about a camping trip. 

In fact, Y/N thinks that if she were to deduce a list of words upon first thought when it came to camping, sexy would be the furthest one from qualifying. 

There’s nothing sexy about reverting to caveman-ism, sleeping on the ground, sheathed by some paper-thin layer of nylon and polyester and plastic support beams. There’s nothing sexy about pit stains from the lack of air conditioning or its antithetical twin sister, the bumps that rise over chilly skin and trembling bones without the luxury of an electric heater. There’s nothing innately erotic about kindling fire like electricity doesn’t exist, and cooking hot dogs on skewers over the flame, and perpetually swatting at insects that incessantly stick to shins and calves like the flesh there is coated in sugar. 

There is something sexy, though, when it comes to the way Harry’s arms work as he pitches a tent, bi’s and tri’s intermingling in an alluring duet, pumping and settling with each motion. The sleeves of his tee ride up when he raises the limbs, and sunlight catches shadow in ridge and sinew of muscle. There’s something sexy in the way his back ripples, in the way that thin fabric does nothing to cover what she imagines — no, what she’s well aware lies underneath. The same traps and lats she’s scraped her nails over and dug into. The same shoulders she’s sunk her teeth into to bridle cries of bliss. 

There’s something hot about the cinch in his brow when he works, something alluring in the curl at the plush of his mouth when he turns his head and beams lopsidedly at something that their friend has said, too low for Y/N to catch. There’s something sexy in the way that his eyes skim her frame when she’s sitting in a fold-out chair with sunglasses. When his eyes glide over his shoulder. It’s in the most subtle way. There’s something sexy in the way he tears that gaze away. 

There’s something sexy in the way that no one around them knows she spends nights bouncing on his cock. 

This lustrous affair — this sneaky fling. This filthy, dirty secret that only the two of them share, slinking and sidling through the shadows. 

Really, it’s nothing more than a raunchy circumstance of friends-with-benefits, only kept on the down-low to evade prying questions from friends and the sickly confrontation of …feelings. Because it’d be easy to admit they’re fucking, that they’ve been hooking up for months after an impromptu, late night of drinking. But then it’s sort of cementing, right? At least, in a way. 

There’s a status that floats about when you confess you’re sleeping with somebody — when you admit that you’ve entangled them into your routine beyond one mishap of sex. In the eyes of your friends, admitting that you’ve upkept a sex buddy through the roll of the seasons is, like. Well, it’s basically admitting some form of something sentimental. 

They’re just fucking. They’re just friends that fuck. And the way that nobody around them has any sort of suspicion that he’ll most likely be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night for that... 

That’s sexy, the young woman thinks. 

They’re coiled around the campfire once the sun has ducked out and simmered off behind the trees, and Y/N thinks about it. She watches the shape of his features glow beyond the crackle of the flame, and she thinks about the way his nose bumps over her clit when he licks into her. She watches his mouth move when he talks, a muted strawberry that’s dimmed in the night, and she thinks about the cushion of it pressing open-mouthed kisses to her flesh. She’s in his sweatshirt, because she had to borrow one, and it smells like him. She’s coated in it — his scent. Warm, pleasant musk and remnants of tantalizing cologne. It reminds her of the way the same sweatshirt had been discarded and draped over the foot of her bed haphazardly one night, as he kneed his way onto the mattress and clambered over her, fingertips exploring and tongue trailing. It reminds her of the way he smells when he brushes past her in the company of others, just solid weight and warmth. He does it nonchalantly, but the green of his eyes is knowing and flirtatious. That’s when the same scent teases her senses. It reminds her of the way he smells when he’s up close and personal, when he’s rocking against her and groaning softly into the nook between her shoulder and her neck. 

She stares at his hands — the way they lay over the armrests of his fold-out, the way lengthy digits adorned with chunky rings cradle a can of beer. She imagines the same fingers wrapped over her throat, squeezing lightly, in that way that he does. 

Y/N isn’t panting into the chill of the air. The white of her exhales just surface …quicker. His hands, and his smell, and his mouth are entirely irrelevant to the matter. 

By the time they all retire to their respective tents, the young woman is pleased to get a breather from his hands and his …ludicrously plush, smiley mouth. At least in a public circumstance, so she can’t be caught fawning over his mannerisms from a distance. The smell …she can’t escape that. In all honesty, it should be shameful, basking in the scent of a sweatshirt. Instead, she coils up in it under the covers.

She’s turned on her side with gritty rock coursing through wire, chords of guitar and drums rippling out from the little speakers in her ears, entirely engrossed as she scrolls through what little apps can manage access without a durable station of wifi. 

Y/N nearly squeals when an arm slinks over her chest, when a palm nudges over her mouth. And then another hand is plucking at one of the earbuds, giving her leeway into the crinkle of the sleeping bag, crickets, and the sound of bated breaths behind her. 

A low baritone, hushed and teasing against the same ear where the earbud’s been removed, “Easy, baby.” 

The gentle murmur that his lips shape does, frankly, little to soothe the hammer of her heart. In fact, if anything, the muscle soars in pace behind bone with the way cushiony pink grazes her jaw, the way his warm weight presses up behind her. 

“Easy.” 

She’d sit up and turn over her shoulder if she had the opportunity, but the same inky, muscly arm she’d admired hours earlier cradles over, preventing the motion. Harry can tell too, evidently, based on his soft snicker. He’s pleased from the way her head juts to steal a peer back. He’s pleased when she doesn’t succeed.

Instead of letting up, he takes the same earbud he’d pulled out and presses it into his own ear so that they’re sharing the set, crooning, “What are you listening to? Hm?” 

He sponges another kiss to the side of her throat, a stray tendril flopping over his forehead. Y/N knows that he’s listening to it, too, then. She knows from the playful, little nudge of his head with the rhythm, from the way the cord of the earbuds grows taut, from the sound of mirth he muzzles to her skin when he drives his mouth over the side of her neck. The young woman wriggles her arm, just enough for his grip to loosen, and then uses the opportunity to raise her head to take her own earbud out. The motion jostles Harry from the nook he’s seemingly made homage in, and he nips at her earlobe in protest. Anyways, the whole thing sends a chill wracking down her shoulders. 

When he lets up, Y/N twists in his grasp to her back. The earbuds splay over her chest, his own discarded, too. There’s still music seeping softly. She blinks, gaze tracing over his features, basked in shadow and soft amusement. 

“Hey,” she croaks, her voice catching on a crack with the effort to keep quiet. 

And Harry drags a thumb down her stomach, fingers meddling where the fabric of her (no, his) hoodie has rucked up. The ticklish sensation makes her shift a little. His mouth quirks, and he smooths over the same spot again. 

“Hey, you.” 

Her lips part and her tummy jolts when he slips the chilly pad of his thumb back over the line he’d run for a third time. She wants to bring her own hand up and trace the contours of his cocky mouth with her fingertips. It shapes the words, like baritone bathed in honey, “Ticklish?” 

When he brushes over a fourth time, her arm twitches, and her hand shoots for his wrist, squeezing lightly. Corners of muted pink spring up, dimples scoring softly. 

“Yes,” she gripes in a whisper, but the gripe doesn’t come out very gripey at all. Instead, it’s sort of small — that’s on account of his warm weight shifting onto her. Which is a new development, and it’s one that stirs something familiar and warm below the sleeping bag she’s nestled into, half-zipped and mostly just thrown over. 

His sturdy thigh slips in the empty gap between her own, and Harry ducks his head, the dimples deepening and the glint of white teeth escaping through the part of his lips. And then he dips lower until his face is nearly tucked into her hair. 

“I missed you,” his admission is soft-spoken. It’d be sort of tender if it didn’t come out so …hungry. 

Y/N takes in a little, shuddery breath. The same hand that's settled over her hipbone comes up to brush hair away from her throat, and a mouth stipples kisses over her pulse. His voice is a raspy, desirous tease, “Did you miss me?” 

Christ. She thinks that maybe if he were telepathic and had even a brief glimpse into the filthy things that’d cycled behind her skull for the duration of the day, then he’d only be more smug. 

That’s dangerous. 

She’s glad he isn’t. 

The young woman hums — an apathetic sound that feigns contemplation, like his touch doesn’t light every nerve ending in her system on fire, like she hasn’t spent hours staring at his arms, his mouth, his hands. Like she hasn’t been picturing expanses of muscle and skin hidden under his tee, imagining her tongue tracing through the vales of his v-line and her fingertips following the trail of hair below his belly button, slipping lower and lower…

“No?” Harry murmurs, lips bumping wetly over her flesh. What follows is a gentle exhale, and then his mouth is sponging another open-mouthed kiss, and his tongue brushes warmth against her, like he’s petting with it over her pulse. He caresses all the way back to her ear. Something dirty and thrilling slinks down the knobs of her spine when he mumbles, unconvinced, “I think you’re lying to me, little miss.” 

Her breath stutters. 

“I think,” Harry muses, fingers dipping beneath the shroud of the sleeping bag and smoothing back over her waist testingly, “that if I had a look right now, you’d be a drippy mess.”

Her throat bobs on a swallow. Petulantly, and so obviously feigning, Y/N tips her chin back and tells him, “…Not at all.”

Instead of smoothing tips of digits back over the naked, little expanse of skin again, they venture lower, teasing at the waistband of her sleep shorts. “I think your sweet, little pussy would tell me otherwise, wouldn’t it, pet?” 

Another deep breath rolls her chest under the cushioned sheet of fabric when fingertips dwell in. Just centimeters, practically. They retreat. Harry presses another kiss just below her ear. 

“Hm? It’s been so empty all day long. Achy, I bet.” Chills rise awake all over when he murmurs, purely condescending pity painting every syllable, “Poor baby.” 

He’s always had it — this gift of filthy, dirty gab. This ability to render her craving and wanting with his words like it’s innate, practically. She shouldn’t be surprised when he shifts over her, just enough for her to feel how hard he is, tips of his curls tickling at her cheek, “Could stuff it full. Make it all better.” 

Y/N sighs. Finally. Like it’s a release of the whole act, and the seams of it come apart to bliss when he nips with his teeth. She cranes her neck to give him more room to work. 

“Would you like that?” 

And she would, she thinks. Very, very much, and his lingering fingers — when they pull out and he hooks a thumb in and just tugs down a smidge — remind her of how hot she suddenly is. How hot everything is, despite the chill in the air. Instead of answering, the young woman nudges with her chin — a nod. An unsatisfactory one, evidently. 

“Words,” Harry mutters. It’s gentle, and quiet, and she hopes the polar opposite of the way he’s going to fuck her.

She cranes her neck more and splays her thighs what little she can under his weight. It’s kind of a plea. It’s also sort of pathetic. “Yes.” 

But it makes his mouth crook. His palm draws away. No. That wasn’t the intended effect. She curbs her sound of protest, but he can tell that it’s bridled in the chamber — she knows because the curl of mirth grows wider. He sits up a bit, bracing on his arms until he hovers over her, and then he sighs, jade sliding to the sector of the bag that’s zipped. Slowly, like he’s teasing, he grips over the notch and tugs. 

“What d’you do if you want me to stop?” Harry beckons, nearly a whisper but not quite, fingers skimming up under his hoodie. The same hoodie clings to her flesh, and every nerve sparks alive at the touch, striking her lungs to expand heavier. The air catches when the pads of his fingers graze up the vale of her sides and siphon a flinch. 

“Teacup,” Y/N breathes the safeword in response, and the fingertips climb her ribs like a staircase, pleased. 

“Good girl,” He tells her, and the pads sink back over, bumping over the ridges, and he tugs the fabric up over her chest. 

Her bra is red. It’s a nice detail, all lacy cupped over her chest. He draws the tip of an index over the edge and says, “Cheeky,” like his comment isn’t, “…Did you wear this to get fucked?” 

The young woman gnaws at her lip. Innately, it’s not an accurate statement. She didn’t wear it to get fucked — not when she knew he’d be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night and fucking into her regardless of the state of her underthings. But it’s a nice touch when he ducks, palm squeezing over one of her tits, and tacks on all low against her ear, like it’s praise, “Because you know I love you in red, pet.” 

The satisfaction of pleasing him buds in her chest, right at the core of her ribcage, warmth pitted deep, and it slinks out like beams of gooey sunshine, winding and seeping through the cavity until her veins practically thrum yellow. She’s buzzing beneath him, pulse thumping and fibers of muscle twitching. It makes his mouth curve — the way he feels her trembling under him like she’s a taut string, and he traces a thumb over her mouth. 

Then jade flits to her chest, and Harry takes the thumb away to hook fingers under the cups and tug. They settle under her tits, perking them, and the way the wire settles over her ribcage isn’t particularly comfortable, but it doesn’t really matter. Not when he shimmies down her body and draws a stripe down with his tongue, all the way from the hollow of her throat to the edge of the bra, settling in between. He kisses down her stomach, green salacious and twinkling up through shadow at her, and his tongue draws a circle around her belly button. His mouth quirks there, too, because it makes her flinch. Because he knew it would. Harry brushes with wet taste buds lower, settles on a side, low on her tummy, and sucks a pressing kiss. Her whole spine wrings and writhes, arching when he pairs the sensation with a dull graze of his hand over a nipple. It’s barely anything, but it’s a touch she longs for. And she doesn’t know why, but it always lights her on fire when the pleasure entwines with something that makes her want to squirm out of her own skin.  

Because when he turns the graze into a pinch and a roll, when he hones on the drag of his tongue and the suckling of his mouth, when he skirts featherlight fingertips up her side like he’s plucking invisible strings, the yellow thrums red, and hot, and hungry. When his mouth lets up and he drags wet lips to curl over the opposite nipple and the featherlight turns more purposeful, squeezing at sensitive flesh, this knocked-out unph escapes her, like a bridled grunt he’s punched from her. Like a half-laugh, like a moan, like a mottled gasp, like discomfort and please-don’t-stop enmeshed, curbed out of desperation. It makes the red fucking neon. 

Harry withdraws with a pop from the bud, and the air bites onto the wet to replace his mouth. The ambiance of rickets and cold reminds her that they’re kind of, sort of, definitely in public, only really shielded from said public (and the intrusive presence of their friend group) by thin sheets of nylon erected with plastic poles. Her eyes say it all then — this hesitation sparking, lashes bouncing and bounding from the nervous shift of her pupils, working from his eyes to his plush mouth and back as he rises to settle over her more. 

“They’re asleep,” he promises, a hushed murmur he seals to her own mouth in a sloppy half-kiss. His top lip ghosts over her cupid's bow, and he smooths a hand back over the vale of her waist where he’d squeezed a second ago. Her chest rolls under him, and her mouth parts, just a little to let a mottled little sound escape, like a wheezing gasp she’s muffled. 

And he muffles it more with his own lips, pressing against her. The sleeping bag rustles, and it’s quiet beyond the stilted sheets barring the wilderness. Harry’s hand skims down. 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Harry murmurs into her mouth, palm trailing until it stills at the waistband of her shorts, fingertip lingering over an expanse of skin below her belly button that he’s well aware will have her squirming. Y/N jerks. “Here? Or… maybe…”

The young woman practically does a squished, weighted version of a body roll beneath him when he moves his hand to her inner thigh, dragging the pad of his index over the sensitive skin higher up. “Maybe …here? …No, I don’t think so…” 

His tongue licks into her mouth when she opens wider for him, desperate for the taste of him on her tongue, and she nearly gasps over that same tongue — loudly — when his palm cups unceremoniously between her legs. “…I think you want me here. That’s about right, isn’t it?” 

Y/N makes a little noise — it’s something between desperation and wordless agreement, and it quirks the corners of Harry’s mouth, carving dimples in beside his smug beam. The hand withdraws so suddenly she wants to melt into the hungry soil. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweet thing,” he declares, voice hushed, a bass-deep admission soft-spoken and colored with teasing.

Instead, he presses up until he’s hovering over her and then knees his way back, and then his fingers tuck up under the waistband of her shorts. When he discards them into the beginnings of a pile of clothing beside them, coaxing her hips to rise up enough with a soft word, blood teems into her cheekbones, like it’s all new and foreign. 

It’s not. 

It’s the most comforting and familiar when he traces a fingertip over the cleft at the crotch of her panties, the most familiar when he shimmies his fingertips under the sides of the fabric at her hips and tugs those off, too. It’s familiar when he holds a leg up, fingers gentle at her calf, and sponges kisses up her leg from her ankle to her inner thigh. It’s familiar when his tongue dances over hot, slick, flesh in craving, when it rolls around her clit and circles back. When he’s amused by the proof that he was right, that she is soaked, and his ego inflates like a hot air balloon. It’s familiar in the draw of his tongue, in the brush of his lips, in the way his fingers brush over her thighs, over her hole, over the sensitive areas in between. It’s familiar in the way that she watches stars speckle in the darkness behind her clenched eyelids, in the way that Harry doesn’t let up even as she pants and wrings her own fingers into his curls. In the way that he only responds with a moan against her at the rough treatment of his scalp.  

It’s somewhere between heaven and hell, teetering on the wire, when he laps over her pulsing cunt. His irises flicker up when she shudders, when Y/N makes a futile attempt to clasp her thighs over his head and prevent the light drag of his tongue over her oversensitive button. Instead, he tucks a palm against one of her legs and holds it down, plush lips curling around an ‘o’ and sucking. Every muscle seizes, her fingers twitching and struggling to curl into the thinly stuffed fabric of the sleeping bag. She bridles a whole-body thrash, neck straining as her breath stutters. 

“Please— plea— it’s too much—“ Y/N swallows midway her begging to avoid choking on her own spit, and that’s cute, Harry thinks. 

Aw, Y/N thinks he’d coo up at her from between her thighs, if his mouth wasn’t occupied at her core, those are pretty words. They don’t sound like a safeword, though. 

He doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t say anything, humming quietly over her clit (honestly, she can’t tell if it’s in protest or agreement) and rolling a slow circle over nerves that are spent and nearly raw post his caress. 

Her chest is still rolling when he clambers his way up onto her, kneeing around her sides and then coaxing her arms up into a stretch. Harry cages those with firm thighs at the roots of the limbs, kneeing his way higher until he’s hovering over her chest and admiring her, all pliant and worn out and obedient beneath him. He sniffs, head cocked and eyes glimmering, and then sighs when he tucks fingers into the waistband of his shorts. Her fingers twitch, outstretched above her. And he’s weightless, and steady, and careful over her, but despite that, filth from his tongue punches her breath out like he’s sat directly over her lungs.

“Gonna suck my cock, baby.” 

It’s not really a question — not in tone. It’s a coo, a declaration, insight before Harry digs his fingers further past elastic and discards two layers of fabric with one tug, and his cock bobs free, glistening with a bead of precum at the head. 

Y/N swipes out over her lips with her tongue, and the sheen of spit over pink nearly matches the glimmer on the pink of his tip. The man cradles his free hand over his base and tucks the waistband lower on his hips, just until it rests under his balls and a glimpse of inked laurels and milky expanses of a bare tan line are on show. Bracing himself with a hand planted on the ground, Harry leans over her and aims his shaft, daubing over the plush of her mouth. When her tongue peeks out to swipe over the silky skin, she thinks he’s going to chastise her for her lack of patience. He doesn’t. Instead, he ogles down at the motion like she’s a goddess, cracks in otherwise apathy morphing; a light crease between his brows, a twitch in his lips. The same lips part for a shuddery breath like he’s trying to reign in his composure. And with every drag of his head over her slippery, hungry taste buds, a slow, side-to-side swipe that seems to lose precision with each motion, those cracks in his control give more. His jaw sets and he takes a long breath in through flared nostrils, and then shifts the palm that’d settled on the ground to rest over her wrists. 

“M’gonna fuck your mouth,” Harry tells her, pupils scoping carefully from her lips to her own eyes in finality. “What do you do if you want me to stop?” 

Y/N blinks. Her fingers twitch. She bends the digits over his grip and squeezes, flexing and unflexing over his own fingers like code in a tempo of frenzy. His gaze doesn’t even flicker from the aim of his tip, and he draws it over her mouth like he’s in awe of the sight.

“Good girl.” 

The young woman takes in a breath, mouth parting over his head slightly, all doe-eyed. He smushes his cockhead to the open seam.

“Open up for me,” the soft croon is accompanied by the tilt of his head, and a stray curl dangles over his forehead when he swipes the tip over her lips, “Nice and wide. Show me that pretty tongue.” 

And it slinks from her mouth as if on mindless command. Harry smears his tip over it like a filthy greeting, and then he feeds his fat cock in, guiding it up until the point to where he’s able to shift his weight onto the hand that doesn’t coat her wrists, careful not to cause the confined joints any discomfort.

“That’s it,” his praise seeps out all breathy, barely over an awed whisper as he sinks in and her tongue flexes to encompass the drag towards her gag reflex, “That’s a good girl.” 

The pointed little end grazes over his balls. 

“Eyes up here, pretty thing,” Harry encourages, ducking his own chin. There’s something pretty in the dance of her lash line, in the way her pupils flit up to his shadowy face, the way her lips tuck over her teeth to cushion his shaft. The way her tongue stays stuck out, flexing under the welcomed intrusion, “…Wanna watch them get all teary.” 

It’s like she tries to appease him. It’s as if on instinct to his words, that her lashes flutter as she tries to peer up, the beginnings of a ready sheen glazing the pretty color there as her tongue twitches and her throat bobs in an attempted swallow.  

And Christ, does it feel good when she does that. 

Harry’s own neck cranes, the muscles there flexing and veins swelling there like little ropes pulled taut under his skin. He groans, and it makes her do it again. His brows are furrowed when he risks a glance down at the picture-perfect view, and his hips nudge forward a smidge, only for him to bask in the sight of her irises lolling back and her lashes batting. A hiss lips through gritted teeth like rain through a gutter, and his head cocks further as he smooths an index to rest over her palm. She doesn’t have her digits balled — not all the way — not until his forefinger rests in her reach. She squeezes over that, almost like it’s an anchor. Something grounding to tether her. 

“Shit,” he manages out, barely over a whisper to bite back a throaty groan, hips rolling and brows furrowed in pleasure, “Shit — you’re good. You’re so good—“

And it makes the twitch of her lashes melt into a flitting bat, the color there rolling back and hiding behind the flutter. She can’t exactly hum in acknowledgment, but Y/N makes this garbled sound around him — this desperate kind she’d only make with his shaft stuffed down her throat, and it’s loud. Too loud. He squeezes over her wrists with his thumb, hips slowing until he’s wedged in to the hilt, stilled with the tip of her nose pressed to the light dusting of his pubic hair.

And Y/N thinks she’s going to implode. She’s going to implode if she doesn’t suffocate over his cock first. 

“Shh, shh,” Harry wriggles the index she’s gripping until her touch loosens enough, and he’s able to stroke the tip over her palm, “Shh.” 

Her pupils flit up to him in this deliciously delirious way for air. Harry tips his head down, the shadow of another curl flopping over his forehead. His cock twitches. Y/N makes another sound over him, this one lower. More pleading. More distressed. Her lashes flutter, cheeks puffing. Just when she’s about to clench and unclench over his fingers, he pulls out. It’s nearly all the way, but not quite, and she wheezes oxygen into her deprived lungs, muffling a fit of coughing. When she turns her head to take in more air, his tip slips out and draws a wet streak of saliva from the corner of her mouth across her cheek. 

“So pretty,” Harry murmurs. His tone sounds distant, and absentminded, and awed, like her mouth is divine and his voice is sort of full of worship, “You take me so well.”

Y/N blinks up at him, lips swollen post his ministrations and parted, slick with spit. Harry adjusts his grip, balancing his weight, and curls his lengthy digits over the base of his cock, aiming it back to that pretty, pretty mouth. 

Her jaw practically unhinges at the implication, tongue sticking out to daub at his cockhead when he croons, “And you’ll take a little more for me, sweetheart. Won’t you?” 

The sultry plush of his mouth curls up, all smug like when the tip of her tongue prods at his head, and then he feeds himself back into the warmth of her mouth. 

“Yeah,” Harry grunts, hips rolling slow and cautious as he guides himself in, “Yeah, you will.” 

He settles back into a pace of shallow, jutting thrusts, slow, and calculated, and testing. But then those melt and meld into something smoother, something deeper that brushes the back of her throat. Her fingers stretch wide and open and curl helplessly, never quite squeezing over his own digits, and Harry basks in the wet, pornographic sounds that envelop his shaft. Even as she tries to dim their volume, the sound of her sputtering around his cock isn’t something she can exactly mask when he brushes her gag reflex, again, and again. With every prod forward, every second she spends with her jaw wide open for him, that flame in her core kindles higher and higher. When he pulls out, jaw clenched and tummy flexing, ridges of his abs caught in the shadows, it’s like he pours kerosene. 

“Suck,” her friend tells her, soft-spoken as he nudges with his hips. His palm cradles his cock, fingers curled under the base. But her range of motion is limited, and Harry tips it up from her wanton, slick lips. Almost like it’s purposeful, because it definitely is.

A tentative tongue slips out to draw over his balls, and the way his front teeth lodge against the plush of his bottom lip, head cocked to indulge in the innocuous peer of her eyes beneath him — that’s a pretty sight she can make out even through the lack of light. She takes a million mental snapshots with her pupils, all of him in his all, curls dangling from the angle and the sharp line of his nose, his panting mouth as her tastebuds drag, sinew of muscle at his abdomen flexing, a rise and fall. The barest shape of the dark anchor etched into his wrist, his long, ring-clad fingers, the way they curl over his cock. The shape of it hovering over her face. 

A low groan squeezes past the door he’s made with his teeth, and then he says, “Yeah. There. Go on.” 

Her tongue morphs to her mouth, lips latching over lightly and sucking, just as he’d directed, and parting teases paste to him like doting kisses. Her lashline bounces as her eyes attempt to make his responses out through the rough angle and the dark that coats them. His head craned back there, his tummy rising and falling in pants there, his face tipped down over her to watch. The most insightful — and frankly, the most satisfying — are the sounds. 

The hisses of air he sucks in through his teeth, the way huffs fall out from between his open lips. They’re slow, and they come out like he’s trying to control them for the sake of the decibel, but they shake as they escape, and that’s a telltale. And then there’s the moans. 

There aren’t many of those to indulge in, but there’s a couple, one that Harry can’t seem to curb, despite his seemingly best efforts, when Y/N rolls her tongue over him all slow-like and comes off with a pop. And then another, later, that has him hanging his head when she stipples kisses to the sensitive skin there. 

“Christ, you’re gonna kill me.” 

The young woman hums, maybe in agreement or maybe goading, lashes batting innocently beneath him as she draws her lips over his sac aimlessly. 

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, and then he stifles and clams up like he’s contemplating. When her tongue drags over him again he seems to make a decision, tearing himself away and kneeing his way back until he’s hovering over her thighs, his cock bobbing and wet with spit, “Sit up. Take this off.” 

Do this, do that. A shudder climbs up the knobs of her spine, slithering its way up the bone as she basks in the dominating note plucking at his tone. The sweatshirt catches on her hair and tugs strands, but it’s frenzied, somehow fond, the way his hands rove up her sides and slip up her back, roaming over hot skin to toggle at the back of her bra.

Then it’s, “Roll over,” with the last of her clothing discarded into the darkness, somewhere beside them in the same, sloppy pile with her shorts and her underwear. “Gonna—“ she thinks he sheds his t-shirt then, imagines his muscles rippling and flexing as he pulls it off, over his head from the back, “—fuck you like I want your snug cunt wrapped around me forever.” 

And then go his shorts, judging by the way his weight dips and balances, the shuffling from behind as he kicks them off and they’re flung somewhere by his ankle. He presses up onto her, grappling her by the hip, all warm weight and everything brushing together. 

“You wanna bounce on my cock, baby?” Harry murmurs, pink lips grazing her temple. A curl tickles at her cheekbones when he ducks to skim his teeth over her earlobe, to ghost a breath of promise — of foreshadowing against her neck when he tells her, sultry low and smooth like honey, “Be a good girl and ask Daddy nicely. Maybe then I’ll let you.”  

Shit. Fucking Shit. That little word teems down her ears and hikes all the way down her nervous system and back up, lighting everything in her alive.  

Quietly, barely over a whisper, Y/N beckons, “Please.” And when Harry doesn’t immediately move, she licks out at her slips, swallows, and pleads, “Daddy. I need you. Need you inside.” 

In response, her friend cups a hand over a love handle and guides his cock to press against her. But he doesn’t breach. 

“Better, but not quite,” he sighs. There’s leaves rustling outside in the gentle breeze, but Y/N doesn’t hear anything besides the rush of blood in her ears when she begs more, and it doesn’t get any quieter when Harry rewards her by tucking himself inside and pumping forward, just about halfway. 

It’s a crying shame when he doesn’t make any motion to keep going. And then it’s quiet besides their panting breaths intermingling. Eventually, though, he does talk.

“Fuck yourself on it,” Harry instructs, cadence ludicrously controlled given that half of his cock is tucked into her. Y/N peers over her shoulder to catch glimpses of his furrowed brows — the rip in the stitch of semblance. She can only manage to see so much. He ducks his head and nips at the shell of her ear, coaxing tingles down her neck, her shoulders, all the way from her nape. “Go on. Don’t pretend to be shy about it.” 

Fucking fuck. How can she not be, she thinks, when he talks like that? 

There’s a heat that seeps over her the crest of her cheekbones where he can’t see, and she squeezes over him in response to the filth. Harry settles back up. From the corner of her eye, Y/N notes lines of muscle shaping his arms as he hovers over her. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she arches her hips up a tad and nudges back. It’s not enough — it’s maybe an inch, and she rocks forward by pressing her hips down and then repeats the motion. Just as there was a lack of control over her shame when he spewed dirty, brazen, filth, there’s also a lack of motion when she’s rolled forward with her tummy pressed to the ground. There’s only so much — so many inches she can ride back on when she’s rendered immobile. 

He knows it, too — it’s obvious by the poorly muffled note of mirth in his tone from behind, “Good girl. But you can do better than that, can’t you?” 

Helplessly, Y/N grits her teeth, fingers tangling into the fabric of her sleeping bag as she rolls her hips back in another attempt. It’s stuttery, and awkward, and not really a seamless, Shakira-esque roll at all. It’s a poor shuffle, hips raising more than traveling back. 

“Come on,” Harry goads, tutting like her tries are half-assed and she’s not currently exerting her body into creating motions that are simply unrealistic, “Take it proper. You want it? Then take it. Show me.” 

Camping is supposed to be wholesome. Camping is supposed to be laughter, and deep, pure breaths of air that scrub out the tainted glaze of city life from the walls of your lungs, sticky like cigarette smoke residue on the walls of a house. It’s hiking boots stuffed with the thickest socks. It’s marshmallows on twigs over curdling flames that lick up, it’s flashlights, and spooky myths and legends verbalized, and more laughter. 

Instead, Y/N is camping, and she’s currently barely grinding over inches of Harry’s cock. 

“I can’t,” she grits out, frustrated, but it sounds more like a whine than anything with bite.

“You can’t? Sure you can, pet,” Harry grapples over her hip, bracing on one arm in, honestly, an impressive showcase of athleticism, and manually rakes her hips back over him. It allows for more — more of him, more of his cock, more of his touch. More of him splitting her open and spreading her apart over him. “Just like this, right?” 

She’s sure he must be meeting her at least a quarter, if not halfway, though. It all feels like a devious ploy. Y/N whines. He makes this amused sound then, one of those puffs expelled through his nostrils like a half-laugh, accompanied by a hum. And then he pulls out and pumps his hips forward, until he’s flush to her backside, and then reverses and repeats. Three times. He gives her three, good, long, full thrusts, smoothing out to the tip and in to the root until she’s stuffed, just like he’d promised. Then, he presses in all the way and just basks in her heat. 

“Better?” Harry asks, but his tone catches on a quiet grunt and wavers in its prior composure. She squeezes over him, really squeezes, and he muffles a groan with the seal of his mouth. For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all, and then the filth spills again. It’s odd how patronizing he can sound, despite the way her cunt so obviously affects him, “Need Daddy to do all the work, is that it?” 

Y/N hums. There isn’t much she can say to disagree because it’s good. At some point, his slow rolls morph into sharp juts, and the brace of his arms bends and gives until his chest is flush to her back. 

“Please, please, please, please,” Y/N croaks out the mantra, muzzled by the smush of her cheek to the ground with the pressure of his hand palming at the side of her skull. 

“Shh,” Harry rocks forward, fingertips twitching into her roots like a meld of petting and admonishment. He rocks into her until he’s flush against her backside, splitting her over him to the hilt, “Shh …don’t need to beg, sweetheart. You can have it. Have it all.”

He’s warm weight over her, hard muscle like hot, sticky stone as he works into her from behind. He’s a welcome stretch, a pleasant burn, inches of bliss that her spongy walls cling to in a warm hug. He’s tips of curls brushing over her cheeks, filthy words in a murmur flush to the shell of her ear, little, repressed grunts and shuddery exhales as his hips rock. He’s a headlock that squeezes over her throat deliciously and keeps her neck craned back. It’s in this perfect way that almost has her gasping for breath. 

The young woman practically bites into her tongue to curb a nearly animalistic groan that climbs from the depths of her chest and squeezes out past her detained windpipe. She doesn’t need to try as hard when his opposite arm shimmies up over the poorly-cushioned sleeping bag, when his hand clamps against her mouth, palm smushing over her lips. Instead, her high whimper catches on his skin and muffles out. Her nostrils flare over his digits when Harry shushes and chastises through grunts. 

“I know, baby. I know. Need you to be — shit — a good, quiet girl for me, though.”

Her irises nearly loll back into her skull, fluttery for the ceiling of fabric in their sockets at the dominating tone of his cadence. 

“Gonna be good for me? Make me—“ his words taper off when he muzzles a groan with the seal of his own lips, and what comes out is hushed, and masculine, and obviously bridled. But it doesn’t make her as hungry as when he beckons, “—Make me pleased with you?”

Because she wants to please him, wants to be good, wants his digits to press harder over her tongue when he slinks them into her mouth. It’s not her fault when the motion siphons a whimper. So Harry does — press harder that is, an inclination for her lips to wrap over his fingers, his chin tucked over her shoulder. His mouth presses to her temple, gracing her with puffs of air through his nose as he rocks into her.

“There we go,” Harry coos, soft and barely over a whisper when her mouth seals over the intrusive digits, “There’s a good girl. Let’s keep those pretty sounds to ourselves.” 

He rocks into her until she’s whining into his hand, until they’re really slick with sweat, and he’s grazing at his own peak, working until it unravels him from the inside out. She’s still making hushed sounds against his palm when he groans all low into her hair and his motions melt into something stuttery, when he empties ribbon after ribbon as she clenches over him and milks him through it.

He’s probably going to rifle through the dark for some discarded fragment of fabric to clean the mess. It’ll be haphazard on account of the night, and she’ll still feel the sticky remnants, dried up at the peaks of her inner thighs in the morning. But it won’t really be gross. Sort of a sordid, morning-after keepsake, sort of a dirty thrill as they pack their stuff among the others in their cohort. Sort of, probably, an excuse to fuck later in the day when they have a moment alone to themselves, reminiscing on the night before. 

But before that, he’ll probably clean his mess and run a hand down the vale of her side in a praising caress, like he normally does. Probably lay next to her for a bit before sneaking off to his own tent because, even though they’re just friends that fuck, he’s never been weird about cuddling — aftercare is sort of a must. He’ll probably say goodnight with another searing kiss, the kind that burns deep inside, because every time he leaves is kerosene actively poured into the pit of a bonfire. Because every time he leaves, she wants him more.

Tomorrow they’ll still be friends. 

Just friends that fuck.

[wolverigrl]

Thirst Tweets

Hugh Jackman x reader (actress)

!Disclaimer! I’ve got a lot going on right now, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to writing. There will definitely be more parts, but not this week. I also have two oneshots saved that might go online this week, so don’t be surprised if you see them.

I'd be happy about some feedback and just a reminder to you, I have my requests open, so feel free sending some of your ideas! :)

Warnings: tiny bit of fluff and some swearing here and there

Enjoy!

Previous Part

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Returning to New York felt like waking up from a beautiful dream I never wanted to end. Sydney had been a paradise - sunshine, the salty breeze from the ocean, and Hugh. God, Hugh. We couldn't keep our hands off each other, behaving like love-drunk teenagers. Whether it was our sunset strolls by the harbor or cozy nights in, wrapped in blankets, we found ourselves growing closer every day. There was something magical about that time - like we were in a world of our own, free from distractions.

Hugh would sometimes visit his family, leaving me to explore Sydney on my own. I’d walk through the city, admiring the sights, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. But no matter where I went, I was always thinking about him. It wasn’t long before I’d be back at his place, sharing stories of my solo adventures while he teased me with that wicked smile.

Of course, the paparazzi had a field day. Every moment seemed to be caught on camera - whether we were laughing together at the beach, wandering the streets hand in hand, or lounging in the park. There were endless photos of us everywhere, but I didn't mind. Honestly, I found it kind of funny how we had become some sort of internet sensation. I had even started posting more pictures of Hugh on my socials - candid shots of him with funny, flirty captions. The fans ate it up, especially when I started liking and commenting on their fan edits of Hugh. They said I was fangirling hard, and maybe I was, but could you blame me? The man is perfect.

The hate we used to get was slowly dying down, too. People were starting to root for us. It felt good.

Today, though, was on a whole new level of fun. We were shooting a "Thirst Tweets" video, and it was as chaotic as you'd imagine. The energy in the studio was electric as we settled into the plush chairs, both of us trying to stifle our giggles before the chaos of "Thirst Tweets" began. I glanced over at Hugh, who looked far too calm for what was about to go down, his long fingers tapping lightly on his knee, his face carrying that familiar smirk that always made my heart race. It was like he knew exactly what was coming and how I’d react.

The first tweet was mine to read. I grabbed the small card from the pile and cleared my throat dramatically. “Okay, here we go…” I scanned the text quickly before bursting into laughter. “Oh my God, okay. ‘I would let y/n punch me in the face just to say I’ve been touched by perfection.’ ” I couldn’t help it - I snorted.

Hugh chuckled beside me, shaking his head. “We’re starting off strong, aren’t we?” he teased.

I leaned over, nudging him with my shoulder. “What can I say? I have violent fans.”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Perfection though? Can’t argue with that." he said, giving me a wink that made my face heat up.

It was Hugh’s turn next. He grabbed his card, took a quick glance, and then raised an eyebrow at me. “Alright, here’s a good one. ‘I’d like to officially announce that Hugh’s arms should be declared a public service. Like, those things could end world hunger. Use them for good, sir.’ "

I let out a loud laugh, slapping my knee. “See, this is what I’m saying! They should be protected. Maybe insured.”

He flexed a little - just enough to make me roll my eyes - and grinned. “I’ll take it under consideration.” he joked. The crew behind the camera was already in stitches, but I could tell this was just the beginning.

The next tweet was handed again to Hugh, and he gave it a quick scan before bursting into laughter. "Oh, this one's good. 'Hugh, you can call me baby girl and tell me to sit down, and I would happily obey for the rest of my life.' "

I raised an eyebrow, trying to hold in my laughter. "I mean.. you do have that commanding presence."

He turned to me with a devilish grin, his voice deep and teasing. "You think I should try it out, love? Call you baby girl and see what happens?"

I immediately blushed, my laughter betraying how flustered I was. "Oh no, let's not give the fans more material!"

He chuckled, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Too late, baby."

He took the card with a dramatic flourish, his eyes quickly scanning it before he burst out laughing, almost choking on his words. “Oh no, this one’s for you, love. ‘Y/n really out here fangirling over Hugh like the rest of us. She’s one of us now.’ ”

I groaned, though I couldn’t hide my smile. "Listen, I am not fangirling!" I protested weakly, but Hugh gave me a look that said he didn’t believe a word of it.

"Oh, you totally are!" he teased, nudging me playfully. “You’re in deep.”

I shot back with a grin. “Okay, maybe I’m a little obsessed with you. Can you blame me?”

The crew behind the camera was losing it by now, and I could hear some of them whispering amongst themselves, probably trying to stifle their own laughter. But we were just getting started.

I grabbed another card, still grinning. "Hugh could choke me with his biceps, and I'd die happy."

Hugh started laughing again, clearly enjoying himself. "There's a lot of love for my arms in this, isn't there?"

I looked at him, pretending to be serious. "I mean, have you seen your arms?"

He flexed again, playing it up for the camera. "I guess I have no choice but to deliver." I snorted loudly and leaned against him while laughing and hiding my face behind my right hand.

Hugh took the next tweet, shaking his head in amusement. “Alright, here’s a spicy one. ‘Hugh, please, just throw me against a wall. Like, I’m begging you.’” He read it in such a deadpan tone that I nearly fell out of my chair laughing.

He raised an eyebrow at me as I tried to compose myself. “Well?”

I fanned myself dramatically. “That’s a strong request, but relatable."

Hugh opened his mouth to say something but instead snorted with laughter and shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

I picked up the next card, already giggling before I even read it aloud. " 'Y/n’s laugh could cure my depression, I swear. She could rob a bank and I’d still be like, wow, what a cute laugh!' "

Hugh looked over at me, grinning. “See? You do have a cute laugh.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool even though my cheeks were burning. “I mean, if it works for bank robberies, maybe I should test it out.”

He gave me a look, smirking. “I’m not bailing you out.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to." I replied, laughing. “I’d just charm my way out of it.”

I grabbed the next card from the pile, glancing over at Hugh before reading it aloud. "Y/n, how do I sign up to be your sugar baby? I don't need much - just a little attention and maybe to sleep on Hugh's abs as a pillow."

Hugh let out a loud laugh, his eyes widening. "My abs, huh?" He leaned back, pretending to flex for a moment before winking at the camera. "I didn't realize they had so many applications."

I rolled my eyes playfully, unable to hide my grin. "I mean, you have to admit, they're not wrong. Those abs could solve a lot of problems."

He smirked, leaning in closer to me, his voice dropping a bit. "Is that what you think about every time you cuddle me, baby? Using me as your personal pillow?"

I nudged him, trying not to laugh. "What can I say? I'm resourceful."

The next few tweets were just as wild, some downright inappropriate but in a way that had us both cracking up. Hugh read a particularly bold one aloud: " 'Hugh in that leather jacket… sir, I’m on my knees. What do I need to do to get you to ruin my life?' " He paused, glancing over at me with a devilish grin. “What do they need to do?”

I covered my face, laughing into my hands. “Oh God. This is escalating so much!”

He looked at the camera and lowering his voice. “Maybe just say ‘please?’ ”

The crew burst out laughing again, and I could see the camera shaking slightly as the person filming struggled to keep it steady. By this point, even the sound guy was wiping away tears of laughter.

Hugh grabbed the next tweet from the pile, his eyes quickly scanning it before a sly grin spread across his face.

"Okay," he began, in that rich voice that could melt butter, "Here’s a fun one: ‘Hugh Jackman could breathe in my direction, and I’d immediately drop to my knees, ready to serve.’"

I let out an involuntary snort, burying my face in my hands. "Oh my!" I gasped between fits of giggles. "They went straight for it!"

Hugh, trying to maintain composure, turned toward the camera with a half smile. "Well, I appreciate the enthusiasm." he said, and then turned to me. "Is that something I should be adding to my skill set?"

I swatted his arm playfully, still laughing. "Please, let’s not turn this into a live demonstration."

Hugh chuckled and nodded towards the camera. “Fair enough. But hey, I’m flattered."

I grabbed the next tweet, scanning it quickly and feeling my face heat up even more. "Oh, this one’s good. ‘Y/n’s legs are so long, they could wrap around me twice, and I’d happily suffocate.’"

Hugh let out a low whistle, his eyes flicking down to my legs and back up to my face with a teasing grin. "I mean, they’re not wrong." he quipped, making the entire crew laugh again.

I gave him a playful serious look. "Careful, you might encourage more of this behavior."

He laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "Too late."

I passed the next tweet to him, still trying to suppress my laughter. Hugh's eyebrows shot up when he read it. “Oh, wow, okay. ‘Hugh could literally break me in half, and I’d say thank you.’” He paused, a devilish grin creeping onto his face as he looked up at me. “I’m sensing a theme here.”

The crew behind the camera was howling at this point again, and I could barely breathe through the laughter. "I mean… who wouldn't be thankful?" I teased, raising an eyebrow at him.

Hugh laughed, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "Should I be concerned for you people, or…?”

"Concerned, maybe. Grateful, definitely,” I replied, still giggling.

He handed me the next card, his smirk widening. “Your turn. Let’s see if it gets wilder.”

I took the card and immediately had to press my lips together to keep from bursting out laughing. “Oh God, here we go again… ‘Y/n could ruin my life, and I’d thank her by paying her rent for the rest of the year.’ ”

Hugh’s laugh boomed across the room, his head falling back as he tried to catch his breath. “Well, if you’re ever looking for a side hustle…”

I gave him a playful nudge. "Hey, rent’s expensive in New York. I might just take them up on that."

He wiped away a tear of laughter, still grinning. “You’d definitely have no shortage of offers.”

Another tweet landed in Hugh’s hands, and he gave it a quick read before raising an eyebrow at me. “Oh jeez, we’re diving straight into the deep end now. ‘Hugh Jackman’s voice is so hot, I’d let him read the phone book to me while I climax.’”

My jaw dropped. "NO." I immediately covered my face with my hands, laughing so hard. I would lie, if I'd say my body doesn't hurt of laughter by now.

Hugh, ever the professional, barely flinched. He just gave the camera a deadpan look. “The phone book? Really? That’s a bit outdated, but… hey, I’m here for it.”

I peeked at him from behind my hands, still laughing uncontrollably. “You’re not gonna let that one go, are you?”

He winked at me, his voice dropping an octave. “If that’s what the people want, who am I to deny them?”

I playfully shoved him, still blushing furiously, but loving every second of the ridiculousness. “We need to talk about boundaries later." I joked.

He shot me a grin. “Boundaries? What are those?”

I took a deep breath, composing myself enough to grab the next tweet. The second I read it, I was gone again. “Oh, this one’s golden. ‘Y/n, I will pay you $1,000 to sit on my face. I don’t even need to breathe. Just consider it.’”

Hugh burst out laughing, clutching his chest and wiping tears from his eyes. “A thousand dollars? Only? That’s a bargain!”

I covered my face again, my shoulders shaking with laughter. “This is officially out of control.”

Hugh leaned in closer, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Come on. You’re underselling yourself. You’re worth at least $10,000.”

I laughed so hard I almost fell off my chair. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, babe.”

By this point, the crew behind the cameras was barely keeping it together. The laughter was contagious, and it felt like the entire room was on the verge of tears from how absurd the tweets were getting.

Hugh, still grinning, took the next card, glancing at it before giving me a cheeky look. "Alright, last one for me. ‘Hugh, you could crush me between your thighs, and I’d die a happy person.’”

I dissolved into laughter again, leaning back in my chair. "See, this is what I’ve been saying!" I managed between giggles.

Hugh turned to the camera, looking far too amused. “I’m sensing a lot of… very creative fans.”

I wiped away tears of laughter, still grinning. “Creative is one word for it.”

With that, the video wrapped up, and the crew finally stopped laughing long enough to give us a round of applause. Hugh’s charm and my endless giggling made for the perfect combination, and I could tell this video was going to go viral the second it dropped.

One of the cameramen approached us, grinning. “I’ve been doing this for years, and that was easily the funniest shoot I’ve ever been a part of.”

Hugh smiled, thanking him, while I nodded in agreement. “That was insane!” I said, still feeling the buzz of excitement. “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard.”

After the shoot, we headed back to Hugh’s place to get ready for dinner. Ryan and Blake were coming over with their kids and dogs, and Hugh was in charge of cooking, much to his delight. He loved being in the kitchen, and it was one of those little things about him that always made me swoon.

While he started prepping in the kitchen, I disappeared into the bathroom to get ready. I slipped into something simple but nice, touching up my makeup before making my way back to Hugh. He had his back turned, fully focused on whatever he was chopping up, so I tiptoed up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning my head against his back.

He jumped, clearly startled, but then relaxed into my embrace. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!" he chuckled, setting down the knife.

I grinned, squeezing him tighter. "Sorry, couldn’t resist." My hands slid over his chest as I pressed closer. "You look ridiculously good in that shirt, by the way."

He glanced down at himself - just a casual button up and jeans - but it worked for him in a way that made my heart race. “Oh yeah?” he asked, turning his head slightly to look at me with a playful smirk.

“Yeah. Like.. annoyingly good." I teased, letting my fingers linger on the fabric. “Distractingly good. It's kind of a problem.”

He turned fully then, wrapping his arms around my waist, and leaned in close, his voice low. “Maybe we should skip dinner then?"

I bit my lip, laughing softly as I pushed against his chest. "Nice try. We’re not blowing off dinner with Blake and Ryan. You know they’d never let us hear the end of it."

Before we could get any further into our flirt, the doorbell rang, and we both groaned. The Reynolds were right on time, of course.

With one last grin at each other, we reluctantly pulled apart. Hugh grabbed a towel to wipe his hands before we made our way to the door. When we opened it, we were greeted by a whirlwind of chaos - Ryan with the kids and Blake holding onto the dogs. It was loud and warm, the kind of energy that made you feel instantly at home.

Blake gave me a tight hug while Ryan and Hugh exchanged their usual friendly banter. We all gathered in the dining room, Hugh finishing up in the kitchen while Blake and I set the table, chatting and laughing about everything and nothing.

Dinner was filled with easy conversation, laughter, and the occasional bark from the dogs. Hugh caught my eye from across the table more than once, and each time, I couldn’t help but smile. This was our life now - full of love, friends, and shared moments that felt like they could last forever.

And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.

---------------------------------------------------

@spectorrrhgf @tinawantstobeadoll @appetencyfortacos @weskerussy @kellyxo1 @larkkyoris @shukirschtein14 @corvusmorte @carefree-flowerchild @rexmeshlasblog @melmel-fandom @needz1nk @nonamevenus @morganlolitta @angelofthorr @pickuptruck01 @inlovewithcharmers @gaulty74 @mega-kittyglitter-1

Next part

[honeyedmiller]

Dawn’s First Light | Joel Miller

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors dni

warnings: jackson!joel, super fucking soft!Joel, sickeningly sweet fluff, joel is philosophical for .2 seconds in this, smut (f oral receiving, unprotected piv), praise, a whole lotta softness, sweet pet names, no use of y/n.

word count: 1.6k

synopsis: joel tells you he loves you for the first time.

a/n: i literally whipped this up so quick after i reblogged the post that had a quote from jean-paul sartre’s no exit. hope you enjoy.

divider by @saradika-graphics

Soft. 

Soft was the first thing you felt as you woke up, then, rough. 

Coarse hairs dragged across the velvety skin of your thighs. Your eyes slowly fluttered open and you squinted, your pupils slowly welcoming the winter morning sun shining through the curtains of your shared bedroom. 

A hot tongue licked at your skin, up up up until it met your already sopping core. You gasped softly, relishing in the feeling of your boyfriend waking you up in the most delicious way possible. 

Early on in your relationship, you both agreed that getting awoken in such a way would be no problem whatsoever. 

Joel was meticulous with his tongue, the strong muscle taking its time as he worked it through your folds and into your entrance, then back up to circle your clit. His plush lips latched onto your swollen bud, and you cried out his name in pleasure. 

You moved the comforter down that he was buried under until you uncovered his head, nestled perfectly between your thighs as he lapped away at your slick core. You bit your lip as you stared down at him, blunt nails digging into the soft of your flesh as he took his time with you. 

Every sense in your body was heightened, spine tingling as you felt the slow pull of an impending orgasm. Joel’s eyes flicked open, gaze trailing up your bare body until his eyes locked onto your face. 

Your jaw was slack, pupils blown wide and eyebrows threaded together. He offered a small smirk as he kept working you, loving the way you writhed underneath his expert tongue. 

Your hand slid down to intertwine your fingers with his soft locks of thick, graying hair. He moaned into you as you pushed his face closer to your aching, pulsing core, grinding your hips up to match the rhythm of his tongue. 

He releases one of your thighs and moves his fingers up, detaching his mouth from you as he slides his thick digits through your glistening folds. 

“Mornin’ baby,” He breaths, a smirk stretched onto his slick-coated lips. You moan softly as he easily slides a finger into you, burying it down to the first knuckle. “Taste so goddamn good, darlin’. Sweeter ‘n honey.” He’s nearly breathless and his words are slurred with sleep. He kisses your thigh and slowly adds a second finger into you. 

“Joel,” You’re a whimpering mess, and he fucking loves it. 

“Tell me what y’want, baby. Tell me n’ I’ll give it to you.” 

“You,” You gasp, grinding your hips into his hand desperately. “I want you.” 

“I’m yours.” He whispers, leaning down again to suckle on your pulsating clit, pumping his fingers in and out of you at a delectable pace. He curls his fingers up, hitting that sweet spot inside you that had you squelching and moaning and fucking crying. You were a mess under him, trying so hard to catch your breath as that warmth that bloomed within you shot up your spine. 

Reality crashed down around you as your orgasm washed over your entire being, hips stuttering from his tongue cleaning up everything you gave him. 

“So perfect.” He says, kissing your thighs before trailing his slick lips up your body, licking your sternum before placing chaste kisses on both of your breasts. 

You tug on his hair gently as he flicks his tongue over your skin, wrapping his mouth around your nipple for a few seconds before moving to the other. He releases you from his mouth before he kisses your neck, biting down on your pulse point ever so slightly before kissing your jaw, your forehead, your nose, and finally—your lips. 

“My sweet girl,” He breathes, forehead resting against yours. “Did you sleep well?” He asks, cradling your cheek in his large hand. You nod and smile up at him, bringing him down for another kiss. 

“I did. What a nice way to wake up, too.” You giggle, and he smiles before kissing your nose. 

“My favorite way to wake you up, besides the multiple kisses.” 

Joel Miller normally wasn’t a soft man. It’s you who made him this way, just for you. It’s you who only got to see this loving, caring side of him. 

You, who’d charmed him with your wit and sense of humor and your pure tenderness. He had come into Jackson only a few weeks after your arrival, so you both navigated this life—this safe, luxurious bite at the cherry—together. 

He’d easily taken a liking to you. It started off with sitting with each other in the mess hall for meals, then he’d walk you to work when he could, and then it turned into him confessing his feelings for you after he’d had a tough patrol one spring day. 

From then on, the two of you seemed nearly inseparable. Jackson was a safe grounding—a haven—for many, if not all residents here. 

Joel was yours. 

Joel’s lips on your forehead drew your attention back to him, and you offered a soft grin as your nails trailed down his thick torso. You reached the tuft hair above his cock, hard and leaking pre come. Your lips curled into a saccharine smile, giving his silky flesh a few tugs before swiping your thumb over his slit. You brought your thumb into your mouth and sucked on it, humming at the salty taste of Joel. 

“Need you, baby.” His voice is strained, and you move your hand back down to slide his heavy cock through your folds to coat him with your slick. 

“I’m yours.” You repeat his words, and he kisses your forehead once more as he pushes into you. He sits up, hands grabbing your hips. He circles his thumbs into your warm skin, pushing and pulling himself in and out of you at a languid pace. 

You grasp onto his thick thighs, always needing to be touching him in some way. 

“Feel so goddamn good, baby. My sweet girl. Takin’ me so well, honey—shit. That’s it.” Joel murmurs his words, eyebrows pinching together as you rut your hips up to meet his every thrust. The friction of his coarse hair at the base of his cock on your clit is otherworldly, eyes rolling back at the sensation of pure bliss. 

Joel’s pace picked up, maneuvering himself so he was hovering over you. He gripped onto your ankles and tossed them over his shoulders, gripping onto your flesh for dear life. He kissed the inside of your lower calf, grunting and puffing air as he moved his hips expertly. 

“Joel, fuckfuckfuck, please don’t stop.” You cry as he pistons into you at that perfect angle—the one that has you seeing the whole goddamn galaxy. 

“My perfect girl. You’re so beautiful. So, so beautiful. I—fuck,” Joel groans, moving a thumb down to swipe over your sensitive clit, making you gasp loudly. 

The sensation is almost too much, but it’s a welcoming devastation of bliss that ripples through you when that heat shoots through your body once more. 

“Can feel you—shit, yeah—I can feel you sweetheart. Let go. I got you.” Joel’s desperate voice reverberates off of the bedroom walls, trying his damndest to hold off on his own release until you come first. 

Just as he’d thought, it wasn’t far off at all. You cried his name repeatedly as the euphoric feeling overtook your body. 

JoelJoelJoel. 

Everything about him was all-consuming as you convulsed around his cock. A string of curses spilled out around his clenched teeth and through his lips, pulling out of you as thick spurts of his come landed on your stomach. 

He puffed air into your leg, kissing it one more time before looking down at you. Gorgeous: fucked out, glossy eyes and a smile that could end wars. 

He knew. Right then, he knew. 

He loves you. 

He has to tell you. 

He gently set your shaky legs down onto the bed, getting up to retrieve a wet washcloth to clean you up. Once the warm washcloth was carelessly tossed onto the floor somewhere, he climbed back into bed with you and slung his arm around you so you could cuddle into him. He carefully pulled the comforter up again, covering your bodies. 

Your hand played with the fingers of his hand that was slung over your shoulder, an unforgettable serenity wrapped around the two of you in that moment. 

“Much more likely you’ll hurt me,” Joel starts, voice gruff, “Still what does it matter? If I’ve got to suffer—” He pauses, bringing your free hand up to his lips to lay a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “It may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.” 

“Sartre.” You say softly. He nods. 

“I love you. I love you so much that it fucking hurts. I—I couldn’t imagine living this life without you, anymore. You’re my person.” His voice is a whisper. 

Your eyes fill with tears, and you look up at him. He has a hopeful look in his eyes, and you saw that familiar thing flash within them. You never knew what that thing was, until now. 

Love. 

This man loved you. 

Just as you loved him. 

“I love you too, Joel. There’s no one else on this damned planet that I’d rather be with than you.” 

He kisses you tenderly, and you pull away with a whisper to your lips. 

“There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.” You quote to him, rubbing your nose against his gently. 

“Sartre.” He says. You nod. 

You kiss him once more, dawn’s first light now a shining beacon of pure hope… and love. 

tags: @party-hearses ; @ilovepedro ; @nostalxgic ; @cool-iguana ; @punkshort ; @undrthelights ; @pascalpvnk ; @joelsgreys ; @amanitacowboy ; @pamasaur ; @bastardmandennis ; @tinygarbage ; @javierpena-inatacvest ; @mrsmando

(if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know!)

[queenofwands89]

Stolen Hearts and Cuddles

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

Summary: While cuddling, Jake tells Y/N that she made him believe in love at first sight.

Warning: Tooth rotting fluff.

Notes: Hello, this is my first Jake fic. I just watched twisters with my family last week, and it got me back in my Glen Powell feels (Always been down bad for him the movie just reignited that spark lmao), so yeah I hope you enjoy byeeee.

The sun has set, and the soft glow from the table lamp casts a warm, cozy light across the living room. You’re nestled together on the plush leather couch, your head resting on Jake's chest as you listen to the gentle hum of the city outside your window. The faint aroma of popcorn lingers in the air, remnants of your impromptu movie night.

Jake's arm is draped protectively around you, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on your shoulder. You find solace in these moments – the simplicity of being close to him, away from the chaos of the naval base and the pressure of his duties as a aviator.

“Y’know,” Jake's voice breaks the comfortable silence, a confident lilt even in his softer moments, “I used to think love at first sight was just a myth. A fairytale people tell themselves to make life seem a little more magical.”

Tilting your head slightly, you look up at him, your curious eyes meeting his green, mischievous yet earnest gaze. “Oh really?” you tease, a playful smile dancing on your lips. “The great Lieutenant Jake Seresin, charmer extraordinaire, didn’t believe in love?”

A chuckle rumbles from his chest, making you vibrate with the sound. “Hard to believe, huh?” he smirks. “But yeah, I was always about the next mission, the next challenge. Love seemed like a distraction.”

Your fingers play with the hem of his navy blue T-shirt, your touch sending electric shivers down his spine. “So, what changed?” you ask softly, genuinely intrigued.

Jake’s expression softens, the cockiness melting away to reveal the depth of his feelings. He gently cups your face with his hand, his thumb caressing your cheek. “You,” he says simply. “You changed everything.”

Your heart flutters at his words, and you lean into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm against your skin. “How?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Jake’s eyes lock with yours, reflecting a sincerity that’s often hidden behind his confident exterior. “The first time I saw you, it felt like someone had flipped a switch inside me. Suddenly, life wasn't just about flying high and chasing adrenaline. It was about finding a way to keep you by my side, to protect you, to love you.”

He takes a deep breath, as if steadying himself to say something deeply personal. “You didn’t just capture my attention, Y/N. You stole my heart. Completely and irrevocably. And for the first time, I realized that love isn’t a distraction. It’s what makes all the risks worth taking.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, your emotions welling up at his heartfelt confession. “Jake…” you begin, but he gently hushes you, his gaze soft yet intense.

“I’m serious, Y/N. You’re my everything. My whole world. The one I’d sacrifice everything for,” he continues, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as your lips meet in a tender, passionate kiss. Each touch, each breath seems to reaffirm your bond, a silent promise of the future you will build together.

When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his, your heart racing. “I love you, Jake. More than words can say.”

“I love you more baby,” he replies, his voice a soft murmur in the intimate space you share. “More than you could ever know.”

You settle back into his comfortable embrace, the weight of the world outside disappearing as you lose yourself in each other. In that moment, in the safety of your love, you find a tranquility you have never known before.

As you drift off to sleep, the world outside continues to spin, but for you and Jake, your universe is right there on that couch – wrapped in each other's arms, in a cocoon of stolen hearts and unyielding love.

[chrollogy]

SIGNED: LOVESICK FOOL #01

iwaizumi hajime x f!reader

next | masterlist

synopsis: You decide to try out the university confessions page as an anonymous submitter to write a vague paragraph about your feelings for Iwaizumi—oddly enough, students following the page seems to be hooked in your confession.

chapter content warning: college au, fluff, oikawa appearance :3, reader is helplessly in love with mr iwaizumi hajime, not beta read.

word count: 2.3k

notes: divider: cafekitsune. sorry this came a bit late >< i fell asleep LMAOOOOOO

Falling in love has always been a weird concept. One day you wake up, and feel completely different towards a certain someone who you swear you only love platonically; your heart starts to race faster whenever you’re in their presence, mind formulating a million different thoughts on how to act normally until it loses its meaning, suddenly becoming overly self conscious of one’s appearance, and always wanting to look your very best whenever they’re around—the whole package.

Unfortunately, you were all too familiar with this.

As though in a romance movie, the whole world slowed down as your eyes landed on the person before you, anything, and everything faded into nothing—a mere whitenoise behind the rapid pounding of your heart.

Iwaizumi’s hair gleamed beneath the sun’s afternoon rays, long lashes ghosted over the apple of his cheeks, rosy lips slightly puckered in concentration. You remembered it like yesterday—the strong aroma of roasted coffee beans, the light chatter of other customers in the café, the warm blanket of sunshine, the heart-stopping eye contact.

Iwaizumi called your name a total of three times until you finally broke free from your trance; everything flooded back the moment your name slipped past his parted lips for the third time—as though suddenly reeled from a freeze frame.

You remembered blinking at him, letting a heartbeat or two pass before asking him what he needed, though, Iwaizumi’s words entered one ear, and left the other; you were more focused on the way his plush lips moved with every word spoken, mind wondering what it’d feel like against your own.

That night, you tossed, and turned beneath your ivory blanket; mind a complete mess, and heart an even bigger mess. You just didn’t get why you had to catch feelings for Iwaizumi out of all people.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, never but everything between the two of you has been strictly platonic ever since—hell, you both even had a fair share of past relationships; you felt indifferent when Iwaizumi introduced his first girlfriend to you but now, just the thought introducing another woman made your stomach churn uncomfortably.

Realising that bottling up these feelings was a foolish thing to do, you scoured your mind for anything, and everything just to find some kind of release from all these unsaid thoughts. You were close to giving up, and retire for the night until a random thought popped into your mind,

Seijoh University Anonymous Confessions.

The unofficial page was undoubtedly popular amongst the students of the university, it served as a freedom wall where one was given the ability to express anything, and everything to fellow students behind anonymity; ranging from harmless rants about the meal prices all the way to heartfelt messages, you name it.

Submitting a confession was easy, all one had to do was fill up an anonymous form linked on the page, and wait ‘til moderators post it for everyone else to see.

You’ve always just been an avid reader of the confessions, a mere pastime in between lectures, and study breaks. It was interesting to see other students’ perspective, and thoughts in the campus you all shared, serving you a reminder that despite being in the same environment, everyone experienced things very differently.

Though, the only constant factor in everyone’s university lives was the confession page, even yours.

Despite the page ensuring full anonymity, it was still nerve-wracking to turn your feelings into words, your thumbs shook as you typed each letter into the anonymous form. You knew Iwaizumi would eventually see this confession despite only reading from the page from time to time, you just hoped it was vague enough for him to not notice—he was smart, and usually pieced clues together like it was nothing.

Surely out of all these students submitting confessions to this page everyday, Iwaizumi wouldn’t know, right?

The next few days consisted of refreshing said page, and waiting for your confession to pop up. “You’ve picked up your phone at least ten times in the past two minutes, what’s so interesting?” Oikawa’s dulcet voice pulled you into reality, your torso unceremoniously jerked away to shield your phone as he attempted to take a peek at the device in your hand.

The former narrowed his eyes at you but before he could throw a sly remark your way, Iwaizumi let out an annoyed sigh which gained yours, and Oikawa’s attention.

“Oikawa, if you’re bored, go bother someone outside the study room.”

The brunette playfully rolled his eyes before standing up to stretch, a small yawn slipping past his rosy lips. “Alright, I’m going to get some snacks. Anyone want any?” He grabbed his phone off the table before shifting his gaze between you, and Iwaizumi who only shook his head in silence, completely preoccupied with an assignment.

“Can I come?” “No, go scroll on your phone.”

Oikawa stuck his tongue out, not letting you protest before leaving the study room. The sound of the door clicking echoed throughout the walls of the study room, a deafening silence engulfed you, and Iwaizumi; for you, the silence was awkward, for him, it was completely normal.

If your heart were to pound any louder against your chest, you were sure he would’ve heard.

You randomly flipped through the pages of your textbook, trying to make yourself look busy. God, you couldn’t get more awkward than this. A flurry of overly self-conscious thoughts flooded your mind—would he think I’m weird for flipping too many pages? Fuck, am I reading this paragaph too fast? Is my posture okay? Oh god, I haven’t looked at a mirror all day, do I look fine? Is my hair messy?

Small, sharp prickles kissed down your body as heat engulfed you out of nowhere, cheeks warmed, and palms sweaty. You let out a sigh, nails digging into the skin of your nape, attempting to relieve the annoying itch.

“You okay? You seem very stressed lately.” Iwaizumi pushed his laptop screen halfway down to get a better view of you, he was slouched far into his seat, arms propped on either side of his laptop. His gaze met your own, deep emerald eyes boring into your very core. With a racing heart, you turned your mind upside down for an answer,

“Yeah . . I’m fine. Just tired is all.” Mentally cursing yourself, your nails harshly dug into the hearts of your palm—your voice came out small, and airy, not really convincing but whatever. If Iwaizumi caught your little white lie, he didn’t press on, instead returning a subtle dip of his chin before shifting his gaze back onto the laptop before him.

Sounds of soft keyboard tapping, and the low hum of the wall clock accompanied the deafening silence, you sat there twiddling your thumbs like a dumbass as if you weren’t supposed to be studying.

Iwaizumi wasn’t even doing anything yet here you were, warm faced, and as stiff as a board, if only he knew the effect he had on you. It was beyond embarrassing, really, how he was able to have this effect on you with little to no effort but then again, this was the Iwaizumi Hajime, of course it made sense.

For the first time in forever, you silently wished Oikawa came back as soon as possible—each second passed without a word spoken between you, and Iwaizumi, and you could really use the brunette right now to diffuse the growing awkwardness on your side.

As if the heavens answered your prayer, Oikawa came striding past the door, a bunch of snacks tucked neatly beneath his arm, and torso; you’ve never felt happier seeing him but you weren’t about to let anyone know. The brunette held his phone with his other hand, brown eyes concentrated on the device,

“Have you guys read the new confession? The page just posted it a couple of minutes ago.” He set the snacks on the table, and slid one your way before sitting down.

That’s right, just like you, Oikawa was also an avid reader of the university confessions page as though it was the morning newspaper. You couldn’t really blame him, the whole concept of it was interesting, plus, some confessions were rather strange but fascinating, nonetheless.

Iwaizumi wordlessly shook his head, not sparing a glance at his friend, you, on the other hand, felt a sudden wave of panic wash over your body. Did they finally post your confession? You squirmed in your seat, trying to act nonchalant, and completely normal about the situation at hand, “Mmm, no, not yet. Is it that interesting?”

Oikawa let out a low hum, an amused smile plastered on his face, with the way his gaze shifted back, and forth across the screen of his phone, he seemed to be reading the newest confession. The expression on Oikawa’s face did nothing to relax your nerves, he looked like he was enjoying every bit of the post—surely, you didn’t put much detail into it for anyone to piece it together or did you?

You expected the brunette to answer a simple yes or no along with a little explanation like he always did whenever he brought up the confessions page but apparently, he decided he’d read it out loud without you or Iwaizumi even asking.

Oikawa cleared his throat, “Here, I’ll read it out loud,” 

“Oh god. Never in a million years did I think this would happen to me but lately I’ve noticed that every time I see him, my heart starts racing. I can’t act normally around him anymore and he just looks so handsome whenever I see him. It’s hopeless, I know but some part of me wishes that my feelings are reciprocated. I don’t blame myself for falling in love because he’s such an amazing guy. He’s my everything, he knows that but he doesn’t know I don’t mean platonically. Sigh.”

As your friend read deeper into the paragraph, you slouched further into your seat, cheeks burning like the sun, and embarrassment engulfing your whole body. That was your confession. Fuck, you just wanted the floor to swallow you whole right then, and there.

Your eyes darted between Oikawa, and Iwaizumi, scanning their expressions—the former obviously had a smug smile on his face while the latter looked indifferent; the same old deadpan expression he’d worn since the start of your study session.

As if to make things worse for you, the brunette spoke up again, “It’s gaining quite the attention only because it's such a juicy confession, and students are trying to find out who’s in love with their best friend.” Oikawa chuckled, turning off his phone, and resting his palms behind his head.

What the fuck. How was your confession gaining more attention than the others? Last time you checked, yours was just a typical love confession, something all students have seen hundreds of times on the page, nothing special.

“W-what? Why? Why is it gaining attention?” Your tone came out more panicked than intended. Upon realising this, you awkwardly cleared your throat, and took a sip from your water bottle to help your nerves calm a tad bit before speaking up once again, “What’s so interesting about it, anyway?”

Oikawa shrugged, “Just a typical love confession but I’m not going to lie, it’s always interesting whenever someone has feelings for their best friend.”

Grabbing the snack Oikawa gave you earlier, you hastily opened the bag, and popped a chip in your mouth. Yeah, maybe eating something will calm your nerves.

This time, it was Iwaizumi’s turn to speak up, “Mhm. I’m guessing everyone’s just curious about it, maybe many can relate. It’s not easy being in love with your best friend.” He finally looked up from his laptop, dark emerald eyes shifting from Oikawa to you.

His gaze lingered a little too long for your liking which caused your brain to short circuit. Before you knew it, all you could do was listen to the sound of your yearning heart, fingers curling around the chip packet as your grip tightened.

You sucked in a breath, and averted your gaze from Iwaizumi, staring at the contents of your chip packet, “True . . I feel sorry for OP, especially since it's a long term friendship.” At least your voice didn’t come out shaky this time. Iwaizumi only nodded, he seemed to be in deep thought, whatever the reason was, you absolutely didn’t want to know.

Back in your dorm, you couldn’t help but check the comments under your confession, and as Oikawa stated earlier, majority of it were students tagging their friends on the post, and trying to find out who’s in love with their best friend. Some also gave sound advice about the situation which you appreciated, though, you didn’t know if you were really ready for a face to face confession with Iwaizumi.

Weirdly enough, the unexpected attention gave you a bit of confidence now that you were looking at it from another perspective. Earlier, it felt like a complete nightmare with how much other students were invested in your sad lovelife but now that you’ve calmed down, it was reassuring to see others give blind support, and words of encouragement.

Safe to say, there was still a hint of community between students despite everyone fighting their way through the semesters.

Plus, everyone seemed to await your next confession post, so who were you to deny them that? After all, you couldn’t really talk about it with anyone else, why not share it with the student population behind anonymity?

As expected, not only did your confession gain more traction within the next few days, but friends from classes you’re taking have also been talking about it. Though you couldn’t really comprehend what was so special about your submission, your feelings felt nothing but valid. Suddenly, it didn’t really feel like much of a crime being in love with your best friend—running away from your feelings was never an option but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t once cross your mind.

A million thoughts from students floated throughout the campus regarding the confession; ‘I wonder what their best friend is like?—he must be a really amazing guy.’ ‘I’m kind of curious as to what the person behind the confession is going to do next.’ ‘Heh, what if this confession is actually meant for me?’ ‘When will it be my turn?’

You’ve heard it all.

Despite everyone’s attention on the post, you just really wished that in the back of Iwaizumi’s mind, there was a pressing thought telling him the confession might be for him.

—

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From Eden. Benjicot Blackwood

✧.* masterlist (Part two here)

✧.* pairing: benjicot blackwood x velaryon!oc

✧.* summary: caught in the brewing of war, Daenys Velaryon must forge alliances for her mother's claim to the throne. The Riverlands are paramount and she had the inexplicable luck of meeting Benjicot Blackwood.

✧.* word count: 11k.

✧.* note: this is a whopping long imagine. thank you all for the support on the preview. this is brought to you by instant ramen and my inability to focus on coursework. no beta reader as I live life on the edge (truthfully i do not have any)

A loud clap of thunder followed in succession by the flashing of lightning illuminated the library of Dragonstone. In the late hour of the wolf, Daenys found herself entombed within the walls of parchment, scanning drawn-up battle plans and strategies written by maesters who had nary seen a single battle. The feeling of ever-present stress loomed over her, creeping from the shadows that were not illuminated by scattered candles. That feeling of anxiety - pressing down harshly on her chest - had been a footnote in her life. 

Daenys did not need to be a dragon dreamer, like her namesake, to see the future of her house. War was coming, that much was obvious. She knew at the age of nine that her mother’s claim would be challenged and since then her life had been spent preparing. The intensity of conflict did not matter, Daenys would be prepared regardless. So, like most nights, she had settled herself among the pages of books. Her body, worn from training all day, had relished in the feeling of sitting down in a plush chair. 

The book in her lap, An Analysis of Ground Moves of the First Dornish War, had begun to kill her mood. The maestor who wrote it had no skill of explanation, nor seemed to have care for fighting in general. She cursed his weak analyses on certain moves and more outwardly she cursed the tone in which he wrote when speaking of her Targaryen ancestors - in particular the women. Daenys leaned back in her chair and repressed the urge to chuck to tome across the room. All that access to knowledge and training yet maesters still seemed to fall short. 

The echoes of footsteps sounded between claps of thunder. Daenys glanced up to see her mother. Rhaenyra had her hair down in light waves. The nightclothes she wore were made from black and red fabrics and stitched in the fashion of dragon-influenced style, part of a matching set that the two women shared. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth set in a line. The heir apparent sat down in the chair beside her daughter and glanced at the book in Daenys lap. 

“The hour is late, yet you are out of bed?” 

Daenys’ arms rested on the book, “Sleep could not come.” 

“Or have you run from sleep? Increasingly so, as of late.” Her mother’s observation cut deep. It was true, for Daenys had become antsy. More and more nights were spent reading, and even more days training with the sword. Exhaustion had become her friend and respite her enemy. She felt behind, as her training had only started a few years prior - after years of requesting to learn. Any day a war could break, yet she sat about for most of her life doing nothing but sewing and other pointless tasks to be a good wife.

“Don’t you feel it, mother? That sinking feeling of... something clawing at your feet for that damned throne.” Daenys’ gaze rose to meet Rhaenyra. As her mother's only daughter by birth, they held a certain bond. The ability to understand what one another wished to say without so much as a word. A twitch of the brow, a quiver of the lip, or the tilt of their head was worth more than what any uttered words could convey. Mother and daughter, one unable to live without the other. Like bees and flowers or the moon and sun. A push and pull of exchange. Rhaenyra knew her daughter wanted to help, and it crushed her. She wanted Daenys to live without that fear - to relish in her days as a princess. 

“The burden is not yours to bear alone,” Daenys spoke after a minute of silence. Rhaenyra sported a fleeting smile at her daughter's words. 

“I know, but it does not pain me any less,” Rhaenyra adjusted in her seat, “Is there anything you wish to discuss about it?” 

“We need the Riverlands.” There was not a moment of pause between her mother's question and the answer. “There is loyalty secured in many regions, especially the North, but the Riverlands are important. We do not have a strong enough hold there.” 

Rhaenyra resisted smiling at Daenys eagerness in politics. Had she been born minutes before Jacaerys instead of afterwards, Rhaenyra would have been confident in claiming her as heir. Jacaerys, as dutiful as he could be, was still lagging in comparison to his twin regarding diplomacy. 

“And how do you propose to remedy this?” 

Daenys paused, reluctance flashed across her face for a moment but she pushed it down. “I have to marry.” Rhaenyra tilted her head in a questioning manner but Danys continued, “I know I have been against it, but you need a strong foothold in those lands. Many major battles in history are fought there and if our house is to remain strong, we must command as much of it as possible.” 

“The Tully’s have no available members to marry.” 

“We needn't rely on House Tully. There are other houses there that are sure to have available sons. House Frey, Mooton, Bracken, Mudd, Blackwood, Lothston, and many more. One that is as close to the Tully’s as possible and stocked with a good amount of soldiers.” Daenys’ gaze swept along the darkened room, the bookshelves being illuminated by a small number of candles and the raging storm outside. 

“I want you to be happy-” 

“My happiness is seeing you on that throne. Mother, you deserve it more than any other fat and drunk lord who lives on the continent.” The women giggled, and for a brief moment the storm outside - political and natural - ceased to exist. 

“This is what you want?” Rhaenyra held her breath after she asked. Daenys nodded gently. They once again settled into a silence, their eyes focused on the flames inside the hearth. More thunderous roars from outside continued to assail Dragonstone. “I have some news, of which only a few know.” 

Daenys sat up straighter, intrigued with what her mother had brought up. She marked her spot in the book and placed it on the small table beside her chair. Her body turned to see her mother more clearly. 

“I am with child.” Rhaenyra’s words echoed in the room, “It was just confirmed this morning with the maester.” 

“That’s good news, mother, truly.” Daenys reached out to hold Rhaenyra’s hand. They both smiled, content to last in their bubble.

“I think it's a girl. There is something about this pregnancy that feels different than all the rest.” The heir to the Iron Throne spoke softly, but loud enough to be heard above the raging storm. 

“Good. We’ve been dreadfully lacking women in the family. We are outnumbered.” Daenys looked back at her book, the title of the First Dornish War embossed into the leather binding, “Visenya.” 

Rhaenyra looked at her quizzically, and Daenys continued, “You should name her Visenya.” 

Her mother smiled gently and nodded, “I shall take that to heart. Now,” She got out of her seat, “Get to bed, ñuha prūmia.” Rhaenyra gave Daenys a gentle kiss on her forehead before walking away and out of the library. 

Daenys stayed in her seat, gazing mindlessly into the fireplace. Her heart was heavy. The prospect of marriage never worried her much. Any suitor that wished to court her quickly ran upon seeing her stepfather Daemon, who always seemed to grip Dark Sister tightly when they approached - a signal of warning. She never had to worry about ending up with a foul lord, or even end up marrying any time soon. Yet, her allegiance to her mother was stronger than any distaste for being wed. She got up and blew out some of the candles around her. 

She made her way across the library, down the many winding halls of Dragonstone, and into her bedchamber. Once settled at her vanity, she put her hair in a simple braid to protect it while she slept. Turning towards her bed, she spotted her sword resting against the chest placed at its foot. She walked over and unsheathed the steel. It was not Valyrian steel, unfortunately. But, the piece was expertly crafted at the behest of Daemon. Her hand gripped the hilt and the other gently traced the centre of the blade. 

Daenys swore that she would not make the task of gaining her hand easy for the Riverland lords. If her mother were to gain an ally, he would need to prove his worth. She had built up a reputation over the years. A beauty, that much is true, and the ability to charm members of the court easily, despite what some gossip about her parentage may say. However, upon being taught to fight by Daemon, she had managed to also build up a reputation for sharp wit and even sharper fighting skills. 

Exhaustion had finally caught up to her, so she moved to put the sword away and crawl into bed. Once settled, Daenys fell into a world of dreams. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys wished, with all her heart, that she could go back in time and club herself over the head for even suggesting a search for a husband in the Riverlands. The conversation with her mother two weeks ago quickly led to plans being laid. Daenys, on the back of her dragon Suneater, and her brother Jacaerys on the back of Vermax, had arrived at Riverrun to be greeted by Lord Elmo Tully. A kind old man, with dark red hair, streaked with the white of age. Daenys did not wish for her brother to accompany her, but Rhaenyra was adamant that she have a member of the family there to make sure she was not completely alone. Rhaenyra also added that it would help Jace’s claim to the throne more if he met and treated the lords of the Riverlands. 

However, the trip to the Riverlands quickly became sour. On the third day there after settling in, the petitions began. She was only a few hours in, and Daenys had already grown frightfully bored by the endless men - young and very much old - that made their case. Lord of this castle or that holdfast, it did not matter. All the men started to blend into one, with a few that managed to stand out. She sat on a raised dias in the grand hall of Riverrun, with Lord Tully to her right and Jace to her left. Occasionally, after a particularly awkward or gross petition, Jace and Daenys would glance at one another in complete awe. Daenys had underestimated the audacity of some men and now she finally understood why Rhaenyra had so many wild stories of overzealous lords making their petitions to her. At first, her stories seemed too odd to be fully real, but now in Daenys’ own few hours of experience, there was no doubt left in her. 

She leaned back and stifled a yawn as the old man in front of her droned on about his experience in some battle long ago. Lord Tully saw the princess's mood and leaned forward, “Thank you, Lord Ryger, for your attendance. It appears we shall end the petitions for the day and continue on the morrow.” 

Daenys resisted letting out a sigh of relief, though the look on Jace’s face showed he was just as relieved as her. Many men in the hall said their proper goodbyes, bowing to them before exiting. 

“Thank you, Lord Tully. It seems that I have many people to consider.” Daenys gave him a flattering smile, hoping that it could mask her previous displays of indifference. 

“That is good,” Lord Tully stood up and bowed to both her and Jace, “I shall you both at the feast tonight.” 

Once gone, Daenys sat up straighter in her seat and turned her torso towards her brother, “There’s to be a feast?” 

“Of course there is.” Jace smiled at the exasperated look on his sister's face. Truly, the whole time he had been rather entertained. A little bored, but ultimately found humour in his sister's expressions throughout the morning of lords' petitions. 

She leaned back in her seat and slid down slightly, sighing loudly. “A whole bloody feast.” Jace began to laugh, but Daenys would have none of it. “Don’t be too quick to humour, brother. All the lords who are already married are bound to have daughters, and as the future heir to the throne, I do believe they will flock to you like flies to shit.” 

“Are you saying I am the shit in your comparison?” The smile on Jace’s face faded. 

“You said it, Jace, not I.” She bounced to her feet and made her way towards the exit. 

Jace called out as she left, “And where are you off to?” 

“To Suneater,” Daenys responded while looking over her shoulder, “Lords cannot follow me into the sky.” She walked away to the sound of her brother's light chuckles. The dress she was wearing had begun to feel heavy on her, the weight of her mission to gain a good husband to aid in any possible future challenges to her mother seemed impossible. From the men she met so far… the outcome was looking bleak. There was one man who was closer to her age, yet every detail about him escaped her. Was it Aken… perhaps Barken… Breaker? The only detail worth noting about him was the garish yellow shade he wore, the rest was all exactly like every other man before. 

Daenys had changed into her riding leathers and gleefully made her way through the halls and to the courtyard. Upon exiting the castle, she glanced around the yard full of many men who were talking and sparring. The bustling laughter continued, with some lords near her choosing to greet her. Daenys pushed off many wishing to start a conversation with the excuse of going to visit her dragon. At the mere mention of her companion, the lords backed off. They are too fearful at the thought of a dragon, why do they think they are fit to marry one?

Glancing around at the fighting people while proceeding through the courtyard, she looked at a group. They were sporting red and black, and a feeling of homesickness washed over her. House Targaryen colours were familiar to her, mixed with Velaryon colours of course - for her father. The hushed voices of her uncles echoed in her mind; Bastard. 

Brushing that thought away, she decided to watch the group. The men dressed in those colours were sparring. A blond struggled against the blows from a dark-haired man, his lean and built form assailing with strength. 

It seemed that whenever the blond one got the upper hand, it only lasted for a short time. Daenys slowed her walking as she passed. While she was many metres away, she could still hear the words of encouragement and jest by the other men around them - dressed in the same colours of black and red. The blond man was facing her, and upon seeing the Princess, got momentarily distracted. The dark-haired man moved quickly, knocking his opponent to the ground in one fell swoop of his legs. The blond crashed to the ground and let out a string of curses, his clothes muddied. 

“Is the ground comfortable, Rickard?” The dark-haired man joked. The men around would have laughed, but their eyes moved to where the blond, Rickard, had his eyes. They all seemed frightened. Daenys could tell they were all around her age and most likely had never seen a member of the Royal family, given the fact that they were frozen on the spot. Rickard got up, albeit in a clumsy manner, and tilted his head down in a subtle bow with the rest of the men following. 

The dark-haired man turned and his eyes met hers. She could not gauge their colour, as she was standing a good few feet away. The grip on his sword slacked. He seemed stunned and a faint red coated his face. Daenys could not tell if it was from his training or her presence. He nodded to her and she hummed gently before nodding back to him and the other men. 

While Daenys was intrigued by those men, all she wanted was a reprieve from the men around her. She turned her body and continued on her previous course, oblivious to the stares that followed. On the other side of a hill - a fair distance from the gates of Riverrun - lay Suneater and Vermax. The two were beside one another, as their personalities blended. Occasionally, the two would clash much like her and Jace, but truly acted as siblings. Daenys felt the weight on her chest that accumulated throughout the day disappear. Finally, she could be free, even just for a while. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The hours had passed in mere moments. Daenys had begun her flight midday and had landed as the sun began to set, giving her just enough time to get to her chambers and have the maids prepare her for the feast. She was delighted that the courtyard was relatively empty, save for a few servants mulling about. No pesky conversations to derail her. 

However, Daenys heard the sound of grunting and the beating of a sword. She turned to a corner of the yard to see the same dark-haired man still training. The others had left, but he lingered on. His back was to her, but she doubted he would even notice her if he was facing in her direction. He seemed completely enraptured in the swings of his sword, as if the world had disappeared and here he remained. 

Daenys recognized this focus. She too felt that, albeit when riding her dragon. It was a feeling of belonging like there was nothing else meant for her to do. No more masking and pretending to feel like the people around her, just free to get lost in something she loved. The process of becoming a different person and getting lost in the way it makes you feel. She believed it must be a similar thing to the way he was fighting. She paused for a moment to study his form. Strong, but sly. With each stroke of the sword, images of the royal painters appeared in her mind. The art of their brush strokes mirrored that of the steel he swung. Calculated and precise, but free. Each time the steel met the straw dummy, it looked like paint hitting a canvas. 

Daenys did not wish to disturb his focus, but the burning intrigue of who this man was had overpowered that wish, “I do believe he is dead.” The man stopped with a jump and swung his body around in quick succession, his eyes alert. It was only upon seeing Daenys and assessing her as no immediate threat that he let his guard down. 

“Yes, princess, um… indeed.” His response made Daenys almost wish she did not disturb him. It was clear that he appeared slightly shy when not engrossed in combat. A part of her related to it. 

“I apologize for my earlier interruption. It was not my intention to have distracted your friend.” Daenys stepped close and leaned against a fence that connected to the large stables. She was within just a metre or two of the man and could now finally see him more clearly. He was a pleasant sight, exceedingly so compared to the dozens of men she met that morning. 

“You need not apologize, princess. It was his fault, he should have been focusing on the fight.” 

“Well, I hope he is alright from the fall, Lord…” Daenys trailed off, hoping to know his name. She thought back to her morning in the hall and meeting all the lords who contended for her hand. She could not remember him. That could not be right, she would remember a man who looked like that. It seemed that he was not there in the morning, most likely to see her in the days to come. 

“Benjicot Blackwood, your grace.” He nodded at her, his dark hair moved gently in the subtle breeze. 

“It is nice meeting you, Lord Blackwood.” Daenys smiled at him. She felt unusual, to be taken by charm so quickly and with so few words. She searched within her brain for any knowledge regarding the family. It was an old house, with roots deep within Westeros spanning back to the first men. Kings during the Age of Heroes. She remembered reading about their ability to field an army larger than that of House Tully, yet still bent the knee to them. 

“You flatter me, princess, but I am not Lord Blackwood yet. My father still presides over Raventree Hall.” Benjicot’s voice was calm, despite his appearance coming off as slightly nervous. 

“I am sorry, Lord Benjicot, for the misunderstanding.”

Ben broke eye contact and gazed around the courtyard for a moment before returning to her, “We seem to be apologizing repeatedly to one another, your grace.” 

“Yes, let us end that,” Daenys situated herself to sit on the fence, a rather unladylike action. She found that she could get away with that type of behaviour the further she was from the court of Kings Landing and Dragonstone. “What brings a member of House Blackwood to Riverrun at this time?” 

“Well, the crown princess happens to be visiting,” Ben answered. 

“I heard she is spoilt and vain.” Daenys joked.

Ben seemed to loosen up just slightly at her friendliness, “She is not so bad. Rather pleasant if you ask me.” The two stare at one another for a few moments, wondering which one would break the jest first. In a display of synchrony, they both smiled and let out a short burst of laughter. 

Daenys spoke after calming down, “So I am just pleasant, my lord?” 

“Yes, your grace, incredibly so.” Ben’s words sounded more sincere than expected and it caught Daenys slightly off guard. 

“You are not so bad, as well, Lord Benjicot. Incredibly so.” Daenys jumped down from the fence and brushed off her hands that were resting along the wood. “I hope you are not absent from the feast tonight as you were this morning. I should like to speak to you more, my lord.”

“I will be there princess.” 

The two both nodded to one another before Daenys began to walk away. As she retreated, she could not help but feel a little less stressed about the feast. Maybe the idea of being surrounded by boisterous lords, many eager to dance with her, would not be so bad if Benjicot Blackwood was there. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The band was in full swing. The echoes of their instruments, playing a quick jig, bounced off the vaulted walls of the great hall. People sat at multiple long tables and ate from the vast amounts of plated food. There were others out of their seats, conversing with groups or dancing in the centre of the room. Lord Tully was at the centre of a table position in front of all the others. The Velaryon twins sat on either side of him. Jacaerys and Lord Tully were engaged in deep conversation on a topic Daenys had little care for. She stared at her plate of food. No matter how hard she tried, Daenys could not will herself to eat. The nerves of this night and having countless men stare at her made her stomach ache and turn. 

A figure stood up at the table, bowing to all three of them. He was adorned in brown and a muted yellow colour, with the sigil of a red stallion on his chest. While Daenys did think it ugly, she could not say the same for his appearance. He had a slender figure, and his facial structure was pretty for a man. His brown hair reached just past his shoulders, most of it pulled into a tie at the back with some loose strands. 

“Lord Tully, Prince Jacaerys, Princess Daenys,” He started, “It would be an honour to ask the princess if she should like to dance.” 

“I believe my sister would love to join you,” Jace answered. 

Daenys kept her head facing the man while her eyes turned to the side. Jacaerys was looking at her, an amused smile on his face. She focused back on the man and put on a pleasant smile, “It would be my pleasure.” She slowly got out of her chair, hoping for some miracle to prevent their dance. A fire set in the hall, or perhaps the gods could shake the earth and swallow her whole. 

When the man took hold of her arm to escort her, Daenys turned around and mouthed to her brother: traitor. Jace just waved slightly and picked up a mug of ale. The two made their way to the dance floor and joined many others. Her hands clasped hers as they faced one another and began moving. Daenys had to concentrate on her footwork, as her dancing skills were never the greatest.

“Aeron Bracken, your grace. I am sure you remember me from this morning.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget such a memorable petition… with ah… great accomplishments.” Daenys gave him a fake smile. She hoped that response would satisfy Aeron, as she truthfully had no memory of what his petition was. The words he had said sounded the same as all the rest, so despite not remembering, she could guess that they revolved around their accomplishments and house. 

“It gladens me that you have been thinking about me, your grace.” 

Daenys almost scoffed. Where did she ever mention thinking about him? Why would she think of him of all men? There was a brief flash of red and black in her vision, accompanied by a blur of dark hair. Swallowing her frustration down, she continued her womanly facade. 

“Yes, House Bracken is wonderful in their abilities and longstanding position in history.” The few things she knew about the house were their origins with the first men, and their proclivity to engage in petty disputes with other houses. She thought it best to not bring up the latter information. However, it did not seem that she would not have to bring it up as Aeron began to rant.

“There are some houses here that are not as fortunate or kind as mine. Some that are no good to be around, your grace.” Aeron’s face darkened slightly as his vision zeroed in on a group across the hall. Daenys turned and strained her eyes, for she was not as tall as him. Upon seeing through the crowd who he was looking at, her brows furrowed. Benjicot Blackwood stood conversing with a group of men at one of the tables. 

Aeron looked away and back at the princess, “I caution you with keeping the company of Blackwoods. They can be savage and cruel.” 

A flood of information swooped over her mind. A week prior to leaving for the Riverlands, she had tirelessly scanned through books on their history. She suddenly realized why both of the Houses sounded familiar. Out of the countless battles she read about, House Blackwood and Bracken were frequently are the forefront and more often than not the ones that started those conflicts. 

Daenys felt an odd urge to defend Benjicot, “You do not think I did my research before coming here, Lord Aeron?” 

“No, princess, that was not my intention,” He seemed to stumble over his words and his face flushed, “I just wish to protect you.” 

“I do not need your protection, my lord. I do believe having a dragon does that for me.” Daenys was thankful that the song was coming to a close. They separated and both bowed to one another like all the other partners on the floor. “Your baseless attempt at character assassination is just that, baseless. Thank you for the dance, Lord Aeron, but I think I will take my company elsewhere.”

Daenys gave him one last nod and walked away. She wanted to get away from Aeron quickly. She walked in the direction of Ben and his company of men, but an old lord stepped out in front of her just as she made it to him. The lord was old and greying, his wrinkled skin sagged against his stern face. Daenys never gagged at the sight of a person before, but she found herself almost doing so. 

“Princess Daenys, would you care for a dance?” His shrewd voice shattered her temporary relief. 

“Oh Lord–” She began, but was swiftly interrupted.

“Lord Mooton,” Benjicot had spotted her approaching and saw the lord moving her way and quickly lept to action, “It is good to see you. I believe it was your great grandson's twentieth nameday celebration that we last saw on another. I have heard that your wife was looking for you.” Ben had his shoulders squared and towered over the old man's form. Daenys and Ben exchanged looks, resisting the urge to laugh in the lord's face at this awkward exchange. 

“Oh, yes, Lord Benjicot. Apologies princess, for I must go.” The man bowed and moved away, his old form moving slowly. 

“I owe you, Lord Benjicot, for saving me.” Daenys smiled at him. Her arms joined behind her back as she swayed side to side. 

“You need not thank me, your grace. Though, I would appreciate it if you would do me the favour of joining me on the floor?” Ben held out his hand. While he seemed confident, Daenys could tell there was still a shy nature being hidden - it was clear in his eyes. The hand that was outstretched shook so slightly it was hard to catch, but she did. Just a few minutes ago she wanted nothing more than to stop dancing, but in this case, she did not mind it. She had just found the right partner. 

Daenys took his hand in hers and the shaking ceased, “I shall.” Ben escorted her to the floor and they began to dance. She was even more nervous, as her lack of talent in dance may embarrass her in front of him. Ben did not seem to mind for he guided her gently before she could make any mistakes. 

“You should have seen the look on your face when Lord Mooton spoke to you. Pure befuddlement, your grace, possible disgust as well.” Ben quickly turned her to the pace of the music. 

“Do not jest of that, my lord. I felt like I would die.” Daenys retorted. 

“You would die? I think it would be Lord Mooton that goes first, considering his age.” 

Daenys let out a short laugh, “I do not know what I would have done if I had to suffer a dance with him.” She almost shivered at the thought of that lord's eyes scanning her body in such a predatory way. 

“Do not worry about it, your grace. All it would take is a stiff breeze to knock him over and it would no longer be your problem. Perhaps I could jump out of nowhere and startle him to death for you?” The dance had Ben pulling her closer with both of their hands connected. 

“I did not take you as a man quick to murder.” 

“Ah, but for you, dear princess, I would not hesitate.” Ben’s words sounded incredibly sincere and he made sure to be looking right at her when he said them. 

“You flatter me, my lord,” Daenys said, “I wanted to mention it earlier, but I must compliment your skills in fighting. Watching you train was engaging.” 

Ben spun them around and kept pace with those around them, “I shall hold those words with me for life, your grace.” 

“I also wished to ask if we could spar together.” Daenys raised her brow at him, hoping that he would like the same as well. 

“I can not even think about attacking you, princess. It would be improper.” 

Daenys knew he would not relent so easily, “I have been learning for a few years now, you need not worry about it.”

One of Ben’s hands reached down to her waist as they had to start walking to the right in a circle with others dancing. “Princess, the moment I even go in to swing at you, regardless of practicing, every lord in the castle would hunt me down.” 

“Then we shall make sure nobody sees. After the morning petitions on the morrow, we can meet up outside the gates and find a clearing somewhere.” Daenys tried to distract herself from the way his hand felt on her waist.  

“After you have been driven to frustration by all the lords? I should be worried you may take that anger out on me.” Ben spun her around again. The two of them released their grip on one another, stepping back a few paces and turning before finally coming back together again.

“With the skills I saw today, I do believe you can handle it,” Daenys said.

“I can handle that and more, princess,” Ben responded and his grip on her hand and waist tightened slightly. Daenys blushed heavily and hoped that it would not be too noticeable. She paused momentarily to figure out how to retort, but no words came to her. They settled into silence for a moment. The music died down and the dance came to a close. Daenys and Ben released their hold on each other and took a step back. 

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Benjicot. You need not worry about attending the petitions tomorrow and putting forth your name. I do not need to hear your case as I already favour your company.” Daenys tried to say what she wanted to say without making it too obvious or breaking any rules of propriety. It would be unseemly for a woman to actively pursue someone, but that would not stop her from voicing her opinion. 

“I favour your company as well, princess,” Ben responded, though he seemed slightly stunned. Daenys smiled at him and went back to the main dining table. 

Lord Tully had left, most likely off speaking to some guests, but Jace still sat at the table. He was nursing a mug of ale in his hand and sent her a large grin. 

“What have you done now, dear brother?” 

“Nothing, sister, however, I must admit I did not take you as one who liked to dance.” 

Daenys sat down in the seat beside him. She reached out for some of the ale and swallowed it down. “I don’t like dancing.” 

“Then why did you spend five dances with the same man?” Jace asked. He gave off a tone of innocence to his question, but she could sense the subtle tease.

She paused for a moment to load some food on a plate. It was five dances? She could have sworn it was only for a minute or two. Deciding not to voice that, she continued. “Why did you care to count?” 

“Because you are my sister and it is my job to watch out for you. Tell me, who is he?” 

Daenys was almost reluctant to answer but knew Jace would continue to pry until he got one. “Benjicot Blackwood.” 

“...So?” Jace placed his ale down and showed her his full attention. 

“Pardon?” 

“What do you think of him? You seem quite taken.” Jace nudged her shoulder gently. 

“We met earlier in the day. He seems nice and is easy to converse with. However, the manner of me being taken by him is none of your concern.” 

Jace leaned back in his seat and laughed, “Ah, okay. So it is not my concern that this whole time we have been talking, Lord Benjicot has not stopped looking at you.” 

Daenys froze. Jace held his gaze to her side, where other people were, and must have been looking at Ben. She knew he was there. Now that she was told, she could practically feel Ben’s gaze on the side of her face. She felt herself getting flushed again. That whole night, she felt like she was on the verge of a meltdown with all of the lords looking at her. Their greedy gazes wished to have her solely to claim her blood for their children. Yet, Daenys could not help but crave the gaze of that dark-haired man. She shook her head gently and stood up abruptly. 

“I have become tired, Jace. I shall retire for the night.” Daenys did not wait for her brother's response before she scrambled to get out of the hall. Her feet carried her swiftly out of the large doors and down the stone hallway. She picked up her pace once away from the prying eyes of people. Her hands gripped the skirt of her dress, the palms clammed up.

Upon reaching her guest chamber, Daenys threw the door open before shutting it quickly. Her chest rose up and down with each breath and the bodice felt tighter than it was just minutes ago. Her actions of the day quickly came flooding back at her. This was not supposed to happen. This was never part of the plan. 

Daenys somehow felt like she had failed her mother. She came to the Riverlands to find a strategic match, not find herself relishing in the company of some man. She was no believer. The princess knew from a young age that any sort of marriage was to be one of convenience, one arranged. She felt better having some bit of freedom in choice, but that choice was still dictated by what would be best for securing her mother’s throne if it were to come to war. 

Now, she found herself waiting with bated breath for her sparring session with Ben. As if counting the minutes would make the time go by faster. Logically, House Blackwood would be a great house to align with. They can handle more soldiers than the Tullys despite the Tullys being liege lords of the Riverlands. There is an extensive history of military triumph and a fair amount of wealth - not just monetarily - connected to Raventree Hall. It would be completely fine to connect their two houses, yet her budding feelings for Ben made her feel as though that decision was biased. 

Mother would know what to do. She always does. 

Daenys sat on the end of her bed, gazing out of the opened shutters of a window and staring into the night. The stars looked beautiful, but she missed the familiar sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores of Dragonstone. Homesickness washed over her. She went to the desk in a corner of the room and retired some parchment. The inkwell was full and a quill lay next to it. If there was one person she could vent to and get advice, it would be her mother. 

 ───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The next day, Daenys found herself in the same spot she was in the previous day. In the great hall, with Lord Tully and Jace, watching as dozens of men spoke about themselves. How great their houses are, how great they are, and how extensive their coffers are. Except today felt different than previously. She was more impatient. All she focused on was her meeting with Ben later. The ability to speak to him more freely outside of the prying watch of others. 

To be caught would be scandalous, however, that thought made it more thrilling. 

Once Lord Tully concluded the gathering, Daenys quickly left her chair. She did not run, as it would be unladylike, but she moved as fast as was socially accepted. She went back to her room to dress in the proper attire and retrieve her sword. Once finished, Daenys opened her door and crashed into someone's chest. Jacaerys stood there, barely having been knocked by her slamming into him. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” 

Danys adjusted her clothing, “Out to train.” 

“Alone?” Jace raised his brow. Although he asked the question, it was as if he already knew the answer. 

“Must I even entertain such a question?” Daaenys sighed. 

“Don’t do anything Mother would not approve,” Jace told her. Daenys resisted the urge to laugh. While Rhaenyra did not speak to her sons about her youth, she spoke to Daenys about it. The stories of her sneaking away with Daemon and later her trysts with Sir Harwin were mentioned in hushed voices over tea times. Gossiping together was one of Daenys’ favourite pastimes. 

“Of course, Jace. I will be as pious as Mother.” Daenys answered before moving down the hallway. She was almost skipping with joy at the prospect of spending the rest of the day with Ben. 

Outside the gates of Riverrun, Ben was leaning against a tree as he waited for her. When she came in sight, she sent him a smile and a slight wave. He got off the tree and walked to her as well. Once close, they began moving in the direction of the dense forest. 

“Are you well rested, your grace? You left the feast early last night.” 

She paused before responding. “If I am entirely honest, I miss my home. I left to write a letter to my mother.” She did not feel it necessary to touch on the fact that the very nature of that letter was primarily centred around him. 

“I am sorry to hear that princess. The Riverlands can be overwhelming for those not born here.” Ben paused to step over a high fallen tree trunk. On the other side, he offered his hand to her. 

“I did not mean it as a slight. I’ve found myself to be quite fond of these lands, my lord. It's beautiful here, truly.” Daenys tried not to think about how warm his hand was in hers. How the callouses were strangely comforting despite their roughness. She gently stepped on and over the trunk before coming back down. Her arm went down to her side, but their hands were still joined. She cleared her throat gently and Ben dropped her hand, coming back from wherever his mind wandered. They continued on their way under the canopy of trees. 

“Can I ask you something?” Daenys questioned. 

“Anything, your grace.” 

“Must we exhaust our title in conversation with one another? It would be much better, and easier if I may add, if you just called me Daenys.” 

Ben remained silent for a moment, his vision focused on the ground below him to not trip over a root. “That would not be appropriate, princess.” 

“At the very least, we can do so when we are alone?” Daenys awaited his answer. 

“Then just call me Ben or Benji. Benjicot can be a mouthful.” 

Daenys giggled, “Sounds good, Ben.” 

They both exchanged quick looks and then focused their attention back on where they were going. After walking for a while, they hit a small clearing. The grass was low and there were no objects around that they could trip on. 

“How much do you know of sparring, Daenys?” Hearing her name come from his voice had her dazed for a moment. It sounded good. 

Deciding to deceive him for a moment, she responded. “Only a little bit. Some basic offensive and defensive moves.” 

“Then we shall have a round to see where you are at. We will start with the wooden swords.” 

With his words, they moved into starting positions. Ben lunged first and his strike was blocked. She moved around him, turning quickly and striking him. He too managed to block it, but before he could make another move, Daenys swung again and hit his bicep. It was quick and unexpected, revealing that she may know more than what she stated. He was shocked for a moment and caught off guard. Ben smiled. He was excited by her quick thinking ability. 

“Were you telling the truth?” 

“Not quite, but the look on your face was worth it.” Daenys adjusted her stance, with the wooden sword still in her grip. 

“Who taught you? Many men seem reluctant to teach women these sorts of things.” 

“I begged for years. I was told it was not ladylike and surely not something a potential husband would accept in a wife. But, many months after my mother married my stepfather, I decided to ask one more time. I was ten and three when I did. I marched right up to Daemon and asked him. It felt inevitable that he would deny my request, but he just laughed and told me to be ready on the morrow in the sparring yard. I joined my brothers in their training.”

Daenys remembered that day vividly. She was scared out of her wits. Until then, she never really bonded much with Daemon and was terrified by his reputation. She had clasped her hands behind her back in an attempt to hide their shaking. Her small frame, made even smaller in his presence, stood tall. Years later, Daenys would be confident in saying that her relationship with her stepfather was solid. 

“As in Prince Daemon?” Ben was bewildered, “Like the Rogue Prince?” 

“Yes, him.” 

Ben shrugged his shoulders, “I doubt you could learn anything from me then.” 

“Are you the one of those men who are ‘reluctant to teach women these sorts of things’?” Daenys used his words against him. 

“There are many things I could teach you.” Daenys pretended not to catch on to the other meaning of his words. She did not even know if that was intended by him. 

The two resumed their stances before going back to fighting. It was amazing how quickly time flew afterwards. Their bodies moved together in tandem. One moved forward, the other moved back. They bumped into one another multiple times. Daenys struggled to keep her beating heart under control when they would brush. It was occasionally hard to focus, as Ben looked increasingly better when he was in his element. She also pretended to not see the somewhat longing gaze he would send her way occasionally. 

During a moment when he was particularly distracted, she used it to her advantage. She swung forward, moving her wooden sword in a circle and disarming him. The move caused her body to be closer to him, and his reflexive move grabbed onto her wrist holding her sword and pulled her close in a grip hold. 

They were exhausted from the hours of movement. Daenys chest moved up and down at a rapid rate. The fog from their breaths intertwined in the air as their faces got close. Her free hand had somehow landed on his chest. There was no denying the lean muscle under his tunic and vest. 

“I thought you did not like it when people got easily distracted?” Daenys teased him. 

“Well, it is hard not to with you here,” Ben responded. His eyes stared into hers, an intensity hidden in them. 

Daenys could not for the sake of her life find a response. It was bold, his compliment. It would not be considered appropriate had they been anywhere else, but they were alone. The realization of that struck her. They were completely alone. Ben leaned in slightly but stopped. Due to their height difference, his nose brushed the top of her cheek. His breath was haggard. 

“Please tell me if I have misinterpreted any of your advances. Tell me and I swear I will leave you alone. I will go back to Raventree Hall and give you peace.” He voiced in a low whisper.

Ben began to pull away, but Daenys used her free hand resting on his chest to grip the fabric and hold him in place. 

“Don't go,” She began, “You have not misinterpreted me.”

“I will not do anything without your permission, my princess.” Daenys did not wish to correct him on addressing her by her title, for the use of the word ‘my’ before it lit something in her chest. He leaned back to where he previously was, his breath fanning her face. She nodded to him before leaning in and connecting their lips. 

It felt feverish, the unbridled heat that surged through her. She had the blood of the dragon, yes, but this was something else entirely. The wooden sword in her other hand, which was held at the wrist by his, dropped to the ground. He moved his hands, one going to her waist to pull her close and the other settling on the small of her back. His lips were chapped but felt soft nonetheless. His nose pressed into her cheek as he deepened the kiss. They both were unskilled in it, and they were slightly out of sink, but the passion was there. Daenys hands moved to his face, cupping it. Her thumbs brushed over his high cheekbones. The kiss gave her more warmth from the mild frigid weather around than any coat she could wear. There was a safety to it, an assurance of protection. 

For a brief moment in this foreign piece of land, Daenys felt at home. 

They pulled away, but only slightly so. Their noses still touched and she was grateful to feel any part of him. His hands squeezed gently, giving her some positive affirmation. 

“You are better at this than your swordsmanship.” Daenys joked. 

“You speak as if you have experience, Dany.” Her heart stopped for a moment at his nickname. 

She breathed in and out slowly, “You’re the first.” Ben nodded at her words, a breathless smile sweeping across his face. 

“For me as well.” They both were stuck in an embrace, eyes staring back at one another. 

“I…” Daenys paused to gain courage, “I would not mind if we could do that again.” She felt terribly shy by her request, and images of her younger self being rejected whenever she asked to learn how to fight flashed in her mind. Ben leaned forward and rested his forehead against her. An amused groan left his lips. 

“You will be the death of me, my princess.” He leaned forward and kissed her again.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys sat in her bedchamber with a parchment scroll gripped in her hands. It had been a few days since she sent her letter to her mother and she had finally received a response. The petitions only lasted two days, with the rest being spent mingling among the lords during the day and feasts at night. It was the early hours of the morning and she had just finished bathing. She lounged in her room in a robe and ate from a platter of meats and cheeses to break her fast. 

The letter she had sent her mother had been filled with her worries. How she had met many lords of the Riverlands and some that may be of help. Largely, the contents centred around her blooming companionship with Benjicot Blackwood. Daenys revealed her troubles about feeling that she would be failing if she found herself attached unnecessarily. She felt that her judgement had been compromised by her affinity to Benjicot’s company. She may be overlooking another house that may be better for them come the outbreak of war. 

Rhaenyra’s response was just what she needed. Despite her mother not physically being there, her words soothed Daenys. The heir assured her that House Blackwood would be a good fit, not just strategically but for her happiness as well. She kept reading a section of the response over and over. 

I was never fully happy with your plan. Sending my only daughter off to pick an arrangement that would surely make her miserable. I of all people can relate. Let yourself feel, ñuha prūmia. You are allowed happiness, so pursue it. Many women of the realm would give anything to be in your position. Do not waste it for me and my troubles. 

Daenys sighed. It was the confirmation she had been waiting for. Over the last few days, she had slipped away from Riverrun and joined Benjicot in the woods to spar. Though, more often than not, the sparing would be accompanied by fleeting touches and fevered kisses. Despite the dropping of formalities, he still treated her as his princess. Which, if Daenys was honest, was not a bad thing.

All the time spent with him, the voice in the back of her head had filled her with worries about failing her mother. Now, with confirmation that her choice was not wrong, Daenys felt the urge to rise from her chair and keep running until she found him. Jump in his arms perhaps. But that would not be appropriate and she cursed the realm for their stupid rules. 

Daenys got up and changed into her gown for the day. She had dismissed the maids earlier, wishing to have some semblance of peace. When she was situated in her attire and sat at her vanity to style her hair, a knock sounded on the door. 

“Come in!” Daenys called out gently as her fingers moved to meticulously form a braid. 

Jace walked in. His hand rested on the sword at his hip as he sauntered over to her vanity. “Good morrow, sister.” 

“Good morrow to you,” Daenys pinned up the finished braid and moved to work on another, “What brings you to my chambers this morning? Normally you would be out hunting with one of the lords.” 

“While that is true, I did just have to most interesting conversation while I broke fast,” Jace paused, “With Benjicot Blackwood.” 

Her fingers halted their movement and she looked at him through the large mirror positioned in front of her. Jace was smiling, but it was not the usual smirk as a warning of him teasing her. It looked genuine. She tilted her head in curiosity. 

“And, pray tell, what were you two meeting for?” Daenys feigned a casual attitude. She did not want to reveal her nerves.

“He invited me to break fast together. It would be rude of me to deny him.” Jace answered. 

Daenys pinned another braid up, “You did not answer my question, brother.” 

“I believe it is Ben’s right to share.” 

She finished her hair and turned in her seat to face her brother. She narrowed her eyes at him. Why did Jace address him so informally? Her hands rested on the seat and she resisted the urge to grip them tightly. Daenys was confused and she did not like it one bit. She relaxed her shoulders and maintained a pleasant resting face. 

“I did not know you two were so close.” 

Jace was picking up and inspecting the bottles of oils and serums on her table, displaying a sense of casualty. “Oh yes, one may say we could be brothers.” 

“Enough, Jacaerys. Tell me now.” 

Her brother set a glass vial down and backed away. He continued to smile while going to her door. “I will be out riding for the morning. Have a good day, sister.” Jace then opened the door and left Daenys to sit and mull over their conversation. 

“Bloody halfwit.” Daenys huffed. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The princess found herself strolling through the halls of Riverrun. There were no particular activities she planned for the day, so her mind was distracted. It was near an alcove that a hand shot out and grabbed her forearm. She was pulled in with another hand covering her mouth. Her shout of surprise was muffled. Daenys found herself in a secluded area with her back against the stone. There was a tiny window giving the area a hint of morning glow. 

 Fear flooded her veins and she cursed herself for leaving any means of a weapon in her room. She brought her leg up to knee the assailant in the crouch. A shout of pain came from the figure, a voice so familiar. When the man crouched over the ease the pain, the streaks of light from the window illuminated his face.

“Ben! Oh, I am so sorry.” 

Daenys moved to hold his shoulders but he just held up his arms while still in visible pain, “No, Dany, this was my doing. Not the wisest decision to sneak up on you like this.” Benjicot was doing everything to show he was not in pain, but failing. He breathed in deeply. 

“Great strength and good form, my princess.” Ben tried to laugh it off, but his chest still heaved. 

“Dearest, what in the seven hells was that?” Daenys crossed her arms. 

“Oh, if I knew what it would take to be called such a sweet nickname by you, Dany, then I would have injured myself sooner.” Ben beamed at her. He managed to get over the pain quickly and stood straight. His arms moved to wrap around her waist and pull her from the wall towards his chest. 

Daenys arms rested on his shoulders. “What if I had my knife on me?” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’d have been stabbed,” Ben responded. 

“It is not funny. I could have seriously hurt you.” Daenys felt his thumbs making circles as he held her hips. 

Ben kissed the crown of her head, “I have no doubt you would have done serious damage, my princess.” 

They stood in their embrace in the dimly lit alcove. It seemed as though the only time they could spend together was during fleeting moments of isolation. Despite the worry of being caught, Daenys would not wish it to be any different. 

“My brother visited me this morning.” She began speaking, “Jace informed me of your shared meal.” 

Ben’s face dropped. Nervousness etched its way across it. “He told you what we spoke about?” 

“No,” Daenys answered. His unease cleared at her confirmation, “It was rather aggravating, what little information he gave. Is it something I should be worried about?” 

“Nothing to worry about, Dany.” One of his hands lifted to cup her face. He moved his thumb up and down her cheek.

“Can I be privy to it? Or is it some man thing?” Her hands, which were resting on his shoulders, moved lower to settle on his chest.

“No. I planned on making a show of this, but truly I cannot wait any further.” 

Daenys tilted her head, “And what can’t you wait for?” 

“Well, I went to ask your brother first, as I am a gentleman who does not wish to compromise you and-” Ben began, but was swiftly cut off by Daenys.

“You? A gentleman? You may not have compromised my maidenhood, but that thing you did with your tong-”

“My love, please, I cannot be distracted by such a memory.” Ben closed his eyes and breathed in deeply to calm down. “I wished to ask your brother for permission to court you.” 

Daenys waited with bated breath. “And my brother?” 

“He is a very agreeable man. He acquiesced but noted that ultimately, the decision remains with you.” Ben tightened his hold on her. 

She smiled widely, “I believe you already know my answer.” 

The two broke into laughter before quickly leaning in to kiss. They pushed against one another. Desperation, earnestness, and care poured out of them. Most of all, pure relief. Daenys shivered at the intimacy of his hold on her. One of Ben’s hands cradled the back of her head as he pushed them back to the wall, cushioning her from the jagged stone. A groan slipped from his mouth as Daenys opened hers. The kiss was possessive, and his grip tightened. The hold on her waist warmed, and his fingers threaded through her hair. 

“You are so beautiful.” Ben voiced between kisses before moving back to devour her again. His lips trailed from her mouth, across her cheek and to her neck. He stopped at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Daenys sighed at the contact, heat flaming through her body. 

“Ben, someone may come.” 

“Damn them. I do not care.” He seemed intent on kissing her, with his mouth moving to her collarbone. 

“I would rather not have my honour questioned, my love.” 

He paused and lifted his head to look at her. His eyes held an intensity she had scarcely seen from him before, “Say the word and any man who questions you will be dead.” 

“As much as your words are comforting, I could not put you in such a position,” Daenys gave him a chaste kiss, “I am just happy my brother gave his approval.” 

“If you were only there. He did try his best to be intimidating.” Ben said. 

“Jace was never good at threatening people. Were you scared?” She joked. 

“I feigned some bit of fear,” He began, “I find men to be more pliable when they feel better about themselves.” Ben stood proud of himself. He grabbed her hand and lifted it to his mouth to lay small kisses on her knuckles. 

“So you manipulated my bother?” 

“I would not call it that. Moreso gentle encouragement to achieve the answer I so desired.” Ben skirted her question and began to rock them gently side to side, “But even if he did manage to scare me, no amount of fear would stop me.”

Daenys pulled back from his embrace, “No amount of fear would stop you?” 

Ben paused his movements and looked her in the eyes, “I don’t like that look on your face, my dear. You’re up to something.” 

“Well, since you wish to court me, there is one such condition from me.” Daenys tried to ease his piqued curiosity. Ben awaited her explanation. “Meet Suneater.” 

His face fell immediately. His eyes darkened and the muscles in his body tightened. Daenys saw his reaction and worked to soothe him by grabbing his hands and rubbing them. 

His voice came out strained, “You want me to meet your dragon?” 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys giggled as she led Ben through the muddy pathway outside of Riverrun. Her dragon and Vermax were perched outside the castle, as it was not a large enough estate to hold the both of them. She held his hand clasped in hers as the two made their way to the sleeping dragon. They came across a clearing that was surrounded by a low stone wall. Jace had taken Vermax for a flight, so Suneater was alone. She lay curled and sleeping peacefully. Her strong breath came out of her nose. 

Suneater had dark grey scales. However, upon closer inspection, there were subtle gold flakes throughout her body, intensifying at the base of the scales before being covered by the black of a next one layered above. Daenys had never known a bond such as the one she held with her dragon. Her closeness to her family was strong- especially Jace since they were twins. But her dragon was entirely something else. 

Now that Benjicot wished to be with her, he must know all of her. Suneater was the other part of her soul. Despite hatching in her cradle and being of the same age, Daenys view her as a daughter. 

Daenys let go of Ben’s hand and walked to her dragon, “Sȳz ñāqes, Suneater.” Good morrow. Suneater’s eyes blinked open and her head lifted to see her rider approaching. Ben had stopped walking and stood by the entrance, unsure of whether or not he should get closer. “Hilago, sagon sȳz. Nyke hae bisa vala.” Please, be good. I like this man.

She reached out to scratch Suneater’s chin. The dragon let out a near purring sound at the contact and closed her eyes. Daenys continued her movements and turned to Ben. 

“Come here. She won’t hurt you.” Upon seeing Ben still standing, Daenys continued. “I swear she will not do anything. You have my word.” 

After that, Ben moved towards her. His steps were slow and calculated as he wadded through the low grass. Once he was about a metre near her, Suneater’s eyes snapped open to stare him down. A puff of air left her nostrils and Ben seized his movements to a halt. 

“Gīda. Rȳbagon.” Calm. Listen. Daenys assured her. Suneater calmed down but kept her eyes on Ben. He was an unknown man who stood too close to her rider. Daenys used her other hand to grab Ben and pull him closer. Once he was beside her, she spoke up, “You can touch her.” 

Ben swerved his head and gave her a look muddled with alarm and uncertainty. He breathed in and out slowly to stay calm next to such an intimidating beast. 

“Touch her?” His voice dripped with fear. 

“Calm down, Ben, its not like I am asking you to fly with me.” He seemed to ease at her words, “Not yet, at least.” 

Ben sputtered but went completely silent when Daenys grabbed his hand and placed it on the dragon's side. Her hand, in its small size, barely covered his. Ben felt the scales and the subtle breathing of the beast. His fear swept away and was replaced with awe. As a boy, he had heard of many older men around him who had seen dragons, but never himself had he ever seen one. The stories in his books growing up were filled with him, the history books even more so when covering events after the Conquest. In all his dreams, never did he think he would be standing so close to one and touching it. 

“See, it is not so bad.” Daenys laughed gently. She grabbed his shoulder and rubbed it gently. 

“Yes. It is not so bad.” Ben was still breathless. 

He removed his hand after a while and, with a surge of confidence, leaned down to kiss Daenys. It was a calm one, not as heated and passionate as the others. His strong arms pulled her against his chest. Daenys melted in his hold and kissed him back. She did not believe she could ever tire from kissing him. Her heart swelled. 

For the first time in many years, Daenys prioritized her own happiness. 

Ben pulled back and looked her in the eyes, “You are a wonder.” Their foreheads connected. The two closed their eyes and relished the sounds of nature around them. The steady breeze brushed the branches of trees and the crows spoke as they flew around. The rumbling of breath from Suneater produced a steady beat to focus on. 

The lovers stood in that field, each far from their homes - one more so than the other - and felt nothing but a sense of belonging. 

A budding love became solidified in their bond that day. Each mirrored the other. Their gentle demeanours were undercut by their cunning in the ways of fighting. Both a ticking bomb of violence, who would gladly follow the other into any battle. 

_______________

✧.* endnote: apologies for any typos or terrible grammar. i did come up with a couple more ideas centred around these two, so if it is wanted i could write (much shorter) pieces about these two. thank you all for the support that has been given. i appreciate it more than you know <3

[shibaraki]

AN OBSERVER OF LONGING ┊ IWAIZUMI HAJIME

synopsis: with a few days remaining, the five of you run from Tooru and Hajime's impending departure for a little longer—and tackle some unearthed feelings along the way.

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, childhood best friends to lovers, romantic + sexual tension, mutual pining, a lot of casual physical affection, sharing a bed, angst + fluff, masturbation, festivals, alcohol consumption (everyone) + smoking (makki), yay love confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, eventual smut, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (reader rec.)

wc: 18K

↳ written in three days while in my feels and on new medication: for the komorebi collab hosted by yours truly lmao ↰

Like most impulsive plans it stemmed from a tipsy throwaway comment. Ruddy cheeks, the warm, honey tinge of whiskey on his breath, Hajime’s lips came loose. 

“We should go somewhere together,” he’d said, ensconced by the booth cushions. Your gaze met meaningfully across the table, half lidded and dopey. Even as Issei’s arm wrestled its way around his neck and jostled him, wrangled him closer with the promise of teasing, Hajime had not looked away from you. 

“Oh! Let’s rent a little bus, like in the movies. That’s a cute idea,” Tooru enthused, inflection slurred by the warmth of his liquor. “Hajime, who knew you could be so cute?”

“Hajime has always been cute,” Issei drawled, eyes gleaming as his knuckles successfully rub back and forth over Hajime’s skull, even as the man squirms against it. “But you’re both leaving again soon. We can’t go far, or for long”.

It had been pure luck that Tooru and Hajime managed to synchronise their brief visit home in the first place. You think that they might’ve even conspired to match their flight times as close as humanly possible, just so they could find one another in the airport upon arrival. 

“Now look. Poor ‘kawa,” Takahiro strummed his finger over Tooru’s puckered bottom lip, pink and plush as it bounces back. “Quick. Tell him he’s cuter before he starts crying”. 

And just like that, the drink-addled idea passed. You, however, let it marinate in the morning that followed. Knowing that it was Hajime who suggested it felt significant. He’s the quiet sentimental type. With both his and Tooru’s upcoming departures you had fully expected to be inundated with their company—savouring the remaining time you had left, never quite touching on the topic, still too tender for the three of you. It surprised you. A trip felt final. Another last hurrah. The tying of loose ends, to separate on a good note. 

Ultimately you decided to forward a link to an article detailing different overnight itineraries and festivals to the group chat with hopes of bringing it to fruition. Now you found yourself standing beside Hajime’s car under an early eventide in a pair of old sweatpants too long at the ankle and listening to them bicker, wondering why you ever got the ball rolling. 

Phone, check. Keys, check. ID, check. Wallet, check. Overnight bag—

You glare down at the offending object propped on the ground beside your feet. A good twenty minutes of your frantic afternoon had been spent trying to zip the thing shut. Check.

“But Hajime, the otter cafe!”

Tooru yelps, and you glance up in time to watch as Iwaizumi jostles and loosens his grip, “No. We don’t have time. We’re sticking to the plan".

“Are those even ethical?” Issei wonders under his breath, bending at your side to lift the case and ignoring your weak protests. It’s handed off to Hajime with ease, and you allow yourself a brief appreciative glimpse of the muscle flexing under his fitted shirt. 

You shake your head, full of mirth as you call to him, “Tooru”.

The sinking sun is crowning his head in a dewy flare. Tooru looks up from Hajime’s back and the halo slips, highlighting the hidden wispy strands of ginger by his temples. Balmed lips pouted, his brow arched in question.

“Stop fussing and sit with me”. 

The curiosity smooths out and he looks increasingly pleased at the request. It lasts a few sweet moments, broken by the smug uptick of his mouth. Tooru grins, “Of course you want to sit next to me. I’m your favourite after all”. 

Years of repetitive back and forth taught you that arguing that point was futile. With a fond eye roll, you reach across in his approach to pinch at his bicep. “Just get in the car before I change my mind,” you say. 

You duck in to sit beside Tooru as he scrambles for the window seat. Hajime is angled toward you while he fiddles with the centre console, a muscled arm wrapped around the headrest, deliberately waiting for you to meet his gaze. When you do, he mouths the words, “Thank you”. 

From the minute you met there’d always been something there. Maybe it was pheromonic, the way you know something is right the instant you find it; or maybe it was the chubby, six year old hands that plucked the cicada shell from your hair one summer morning. Presque vu, years spent waiting on the tip of your tongue. It doesn’t escape you that this might be the last chance to do anything about it. 

You’re shaken from your reverie when the car rocks on its axles. Issei throws himself into the far right passenger seat beside you with a heavy sigh. Broad shoulders push you closer into Tooru, thighs pressed together and feet parted awkwardly on either side of the rear suspension. 

Takahiro excitedly clambers in the front with an energy drink in hand, uncapped, earning an indignant shout from Hajime when he slams the door with too much force. 

“Oi—!” 

You grin as he struggles to dodge Hajime’s successive smacks. “Alright, alright! I’m sorry, be nice!” 

“I told you already, it's my dad’s car. That means no tracking dirt, no spilling anything, and no smoking inside. Capiche?”

“Aye-aye,” Issei drones, knuckles grazing your hip where he fastens his seatbelt. There is little space, yet it is oddly comforting. Tooru snorts, slumping until a head of unkempt brown hair rests heavily against your shoulder, tilting briefly to nuzzle your jaw. 

The radio switches on automatically as the engine starts, an initial splutter tapering off into a gentle hum. You reciprocate Tooru’s affection and rub your cheek over his crown, inhaling the familiar scent of coconut milk shampoo. He takes your weight without complaint, and when Issei leans forward to receive a sip of Takahiro’s energy drink, your knees knock together. 

Hakone was the chosen destination, thanks to a local festival taking place tomorrow. Of the five of you, Hajime is the best driver in terms of navigation and road knowledge. Issei is a close second. Both Tooru and Takahiro got their licences for the sake of convenience, but you doubt they could make their way around a clockwise roundabout without crying. 

Takahiro whoops, his hand thudding in line with the beat on the car roof, “Road trip!” 

The scenery becomes less and less familiar, turning onto streets you do not recognise. Heading west out of Tokyo toward the Chuo Expressway, it isn’t until a passenger window is opened and a gust billows into the car that you shake the final dregs of sleep. Tooru’s hair is whipping in the wind as Hajime reaches for the radio and switches channels, bass vibrating through the speakers. 

Reality sets in like a slow simmer and excitement buzzes under your skin as the giddiness swells. You lean forward, cheek squashed unflatteringly to the back of the driver's seat, and paw at Hajime’s arm. 

“Turn it up, Haji”. 

Above the road ahead is a large blue sign detailing directions to Lake Kawaguchi—a purposeful detour, for the sake of acting like tourists. There’s a spot with a perfect view of Mount Fuji. Despite having lived only a forty minute ride from Tokyo, you can’t say you’d ever thought to look at it outside of a postcard. 

It’s nice to step into the shoes of another. View the country through a less acclimated lense. You’re taken through winding roads that thread between verdant mountains; entrenched by nature, only to be thrown out into the open as the foliage breaks. 

Lake Kawaguchi greets you brightly, the sunset surface glittering across a vast horizon. You are yelling harmoniously with Takahiro as it comes into view. Issei’s phone is already pressed against the window, scenery rolling across the camera screen as he repeatedly taps his thumb to recalibrate the focus. 

“I can hear you laughing at me,” he casts a suspicious look over his shoulder. 

You grin, “You’re such an old man”. 

“We’ll park just up here. There’s a good spot for pictures down by the bank,” Hajime says, the heel of his hand flat to the wheel as it turns left. “Not too far to walk. Pretty sure there’s a cafe just nearby, too”. 

You watch his reflection in the rear view mirror, admiring the soft crinkles by his eyes. His mouth isn’t visible but you know he’s smiling. Issei bumps his knee into yours—again. Simultaneously, Tooru bends make quiet kissing noises against your ear. Swatting them isn’t justice enough, and threatening to throw them out of the moving vehicle only makes them snicker. 

The car park is entirely deserted and unmonitored, surrounded by brush. No line markings or need for payment, just a part of the ground carved out and filled with gravel that crunches beneath the tires as it displaces. Cruising toward the far end of the lot, Hajime chooses the spot right by an old staircase that appears to lead down the bank. 

He pulls the handbrake with a resounding click and shuts off the engine. Comfortable silence befalls you as the radio cuts out. Soft, muted chirps rippled throughout the treeline, and as Issei popped open his car door, those first few notes bloomed into many more.

You climb out and step onto the uneven ground, the crisp air pinching the tips of your ears. You reach up and rub at them, running your palms over your cheeks in hopes of warmth. It isn’t cold—just refreshing. Cool enough to feel it in your sinuses when you breathe. 

“Come on,” Tooru whines. He’s already stood by the railing, weight shifting restlessly between his feet. You smile at the bounce of his hair, frame outlined in darkening sunlight, breaking through the curls like a canopy. 

An arm snakes loosely around your back and Hajime pulls you into his embrace. You fall in line with him, his pace purposefully slowed to remain at your side. He guides you forward, and once you’re close enough, the others begin to descend the staircase. 

You hear Issei whistle. Glancing up from the final step, you’re met with a watercolour come to life. Open skies, there lay smudges of orange, red and pink. No telling up from down. The surface of the lake is completely still, reflecting a perfect mirror view of Mount Fuji. 

“Wow,” you murmur, breathless. Hajime hums in agreement, awe bleeding into the sound. Tooru is crouched near the water, struck with wonder, idly swirling his fingertips over the surface as Takahiro and Issei station either side of him, the pair deep in thought. 

Dragging your eyes from the picturesque view, you take in the emotion on Hajime’s face. People always claimed him to be intimidating—he could be, without question. But to you, Hajime was made up entirely of soft lines, deliberate kindness and telegraphed movements, as though he were a gentle giant, despite being the shortest of the four players. 

He still carries some chub in his cheeks. You know, because you’re often inundated with the urge to pinch at it. This is your Hajime, the one you’ve always known; only now there’s stubble lining his jaw. 

“It’s grown back again already,” you comment sotto voce, careful not to disturb the pensive atmosphere that has settled by the lakes edge. “You really are a big boy now”.  

“It’s annoying”. 

“Looks good though,” you muse. “Kinda rugged. I like it”. 

His throat flexes as he swallows, hand coming up to itch his jawline, and you try not to stare. It’s always so easy to turn him pink. “You do?” 

Too much, you think, poking the swell of his cheek in lieu of a response. It yields under the pressure, and as he smiles it takes on the appearance of a dimple. 

Casual affection was second nature, now. You found yourself thankful for the excuse to touch, and knowing that he’ll be leaving soon has emboldened you somewhat. All those years ago you’d preemptively decided that crossing the threshold would lead to rejection, but the initial borders defining your relationship have long since blurred, and it’s hard not to wonder where you truly stand. If you got it right.

“Guys,” Takahiro demands your attention, hand cupped by his mouth with a lit cigarette held precariously between his fingers. The other is in the air waving his phone back and forth. “We’re here to marvel at the miracles of mother nature, not each other!”

You step out of Hajime’s embrace, disguising your reluctance. 

Joining their lanky huddle rewards you with a chorus of cheers as Tooru latches on to your back and props his chin atop your shoulder. He flashes an effortless peace sign. The others attempt to fit themselves into the frame mirrored on Hanamaki’s phone screen, an iridescent crack running from one corner to the other, Mount Fuji’s blushing snowy peaks crowning your heads. 

“You really gotta get that fixed,” you hear someone say. Their voice is muffled, as if they’d been talking with their lips closed, and one glimpse finds Issei trying resolutely to keep his posed smirk in place. Your own mouth flattens into a thin line to keep yourself from laughing. 

The camera shutters.

You groan, “I wasn’t ready for that one”. 

A few more are taken and sent to the group chat, eyes on you while you set a particularly sweet one as your wallpaper. Crowing with delight, you find yourself surrounded by bodies and squeezed in a firm group hug. 

“Alright, alright,” you huff. The discomfort stems more from the insistent, cramping sensation in your stomach. Your smaller hands meet a hard, muscled abdomen, pushing fruitlessly. Neither man budges. If anything, your resistance only encourages them to coil tighter. “You’re all too heavy. Get off!” 

They relent, but only at the sound of your gut rumbling. “Hungry?” Hajime asks. The sheathing sun reflects in his irises, burning bright, verdant green, as though he were part of spring itself; soft in apology.

“Food is that way,” Issei points toward a stout, cosy structure further along, tucked atop the edge of a hill and half hidden by a cradle of Japanese maple. If you squint you could make out the moving silhouettes inside. “Looks like it’s open. Maybe”. 

Tooru cranes his neck, lips comically pursed as he looks toward the cafe. “It’s pretty romantic out here. If we have Hajime get on one knee for a picture, think they’ll give us a free meal?” 

Hajime shoves him half heartedly and clicks his tongue, “Why me? Do it yourself”. 

You watch as they share a long, unspoken moment, conversing without words. Tooru offers him a scathing look, one of total incredulity and that alone is enough to break the suspension. Hajime juts his chin in the opposite direction and turns his back, beginning a stiff march toward the cafe. 

“What was that all about?” 

“He’s so bullheaded,” Tooru muses, knuckles rapping gently to your skull as he passes. When you are offered nothing but a fond laugh in the face of your confusion, you stalk off after them. 

Petulance has you speeding ahead of the group, further picking up the pace at the sound of hurried feet. The natural instinct to run nips at your heels. As the earth begins to incline upward and your strides broaden, there’s a burn in the back of your thighs that Takahiro seems to have no issue with, if his sudden sprint ahead has anything to say about it. 

“Last one there has to pay!” 

“Bastard,” Issei hollers from the back, refusing to run and carried by his heavy gait. “Just because you’re unemployed!” 

Your lungs are burning with the exertion, laughter coming in short bursts. Issei remains in last, Tooru second, Hajime fourth. From the terrace, Takahiro pieces his thumb and forefinger together into the shape of a heart, nowhere close to apologetic. “Buy me something and I’ll give you a big wet kiss,” he returned in a singsong voice.

Issei lumbers through the gate, movements broad and slow. His brow arches, Takahiro immediately losing bravado. “You’d do that for free”. 

“Get me out of here,” Hajime mutters. “Kill me”.

You take pity on him and herd them all through the doors, “Less flirting and more pastries, please”. 

Inside is painted in rich deep browns. The fresh air weaves well with the aroma of freshly baked goods. You breathe it in, your hands dancing over shelves sparsely stocked with baskets of flatbread, loaves and cakes. While quaint, the ceilings are high, held up by large beams on which decorative lights and plants are carefully draped. 

You feel slightly awkward and out of place in your shabby old sweatpants. A calming melody is playing overhead. Soft spoken voices belonging to the few employees and fewer patrons encourage you to lower your own into a whisper. 

Hajime subtly leans down to listen as you say, “I think we should get our food to go”. 

He hides his amusement against your shoulder and you accept the brief weight with a grin. Then you feel him nod in agreement. 

Issei holds his hand out when you reach the counter. There are already multiple paper bags tucked under his arm. “Give me the goods before I change my mind,” he says, exasperation set plain on his face. 

“Thank you Issei,” you recite like a child, pressing two sweet rolls shaped like a cornet into his palm. Hajime chooses comfort—curry bread. Shared on countless late night walks home; the memories stir something melancholic deep within your chest that you’d rather not examine right now. 

Your initial concern about being out of place were not entirely unfounded. The employee behind the register greets your group kindly enough, and her smile is genuine, but you cannot ignore how her eyes seem to flicker back and forth to the disgruntled customers seated by the terrace. 

If you had to guess, they were regulars. Retired elders that lived nearby and had the privilege to spend their evenings here. Though irritating, you are honest enough to admit that your gaggle of idiots would certainly fracture this place’s peaceful ambiance. So Issei pays, feigning nonchalance at the long, wet kiss Takahiro leaves on his cheek, and you trudge back to the car with food in hand.

Tooru ambles around to the front passenger seat, hip checking Takahiro toward the back where he previously sat. You knew he might do this at some point during the trip. Eating before a car ride made him prone to nausea, and since he was young he’d claimed sitting in the front helped. Anpan held between his teeth, Tooru peers at you through the headrests and smiles with his eyes, entirely too pleased. 

Takahiro nudges your side as he clambers in. Lifting your hips, he buckles the seatbelt, and soon after you are half-draped over his lap to allow Issei to do the same. You glare at him as he wiggles his eyebrows, stopping short when he flashes you his phone. There’s a picture, this time of you and Hajime at the lake curled into each other; you’re cradled by his arms, and he by the mountainside, entirely in your own world. 

You relent, “Send me it”. 

“As I thought,” he mutters smugly. 

The lake is rarely out of view. Heading south to Hakone, the road hugs the water for most of the journey. Tooru connects his carefully curated road trip playlist to the speakers and the car swells with an old city jpop song. You pick at your sweet rolls, barely humming along; choking on feelings left to fester in your throat, unacknowledged and unspoken. 

You remember the day they told you their goals for the future. Plans to leave. Together, across from you, hands wrung in their laps. Grief filled your body like lead, and you recall thinking to yourself, half-hysterically, ‘How can I do this alone?’

That was a time in your life you couldn’t imagine a world without Tooru or Hajime in it. Day in, day out, seasons passed side by side. Three small stars converging on the same path. It never needed to be clarified—all plans were made with the tacit promise of being together. The unwillingness to part pulled even your families along and you were hard pressed to recall a first New Year shrine visit without their relatives present. Until they decided to leave. 

It’s loneliness tinged with a smidgen of guilt. You’re not truly alone. Issei and Takahiro are some of your best friends, and they weren’t going anywhere far anytime soon. Still, you can’t help but brace for the ways your orbit will further unfurl in Hajime and Tooru’s absence when they return to their lives.

Hakone is tucked in the shadow of Fuji-Hakone-Izu national park. Long, mountainous roads lead you toward an expanding vista. Faces sun drenched in varying hues of red maple, pink blossom and youthful green. The next hour and a half passes in the blink of an eye and the destination closes in. You angle your head, stretching across Takahiro’s lap and squinting up to make out the shape of ropeways cutting across the burgeoning sky. Tiny, far off carriers glide along the cables. 

Something about it compels everyone to stop and take a breath. You lapse into pleasant silence. The car slows to cruise through the busy streets, music lowered into a faint buzz. It is larger than life. 

While advertised as a quaint getaway from the chaotic, fast paced lifestyle of Tokyo, in actuality Hakone is made up of seven separate villages, each with its own distinct history. Lush hills are crowned with cumulus clouds of smoke from the hot springs; young families stand beneath tall, crimson painted torii gates; vendors shelter from the sun in conical straw hats tied beneath their chins with silk. 

To get to Gora, you must first cut through Yumoto—a lively, compact area lined with shops and restaurants that have attracted an uncomfortable amount of foot traffic. Hajime drives with his body strung tight, knuckles losing colour as yet another tourist almost walks out in front of his car. 

“Almost there, man,” Issei offers sympathetically.

Hajime grunts, “Don’t talk to me”. 

Tooru is too preoccupied with taking pictures to notice his best friend's struggles. The small noises of awe only seem to push Hajime’s shoulders higher. You have to duck away from the rear view mirror and bite your inner cheek so as not to laugh.   

Eventually, the place you’ll be staying at comes into view. You all release a collective sigh of relief. The modernised ryokan is much larger than most family run facilities. It sits conspicuously on the end of a private road, concealed by forest and threadbare canopy that casts shadows across the windshield as the car pulls in, sliding effortlessly into one of the empty spaces. 

Four staff members adorning pastel yukata’s greet you by the wide genkan with a deep bow. The woman standing behind the reception desk mirrors them when she meets your eye. You’re offered a pair of new grey slippers and gently ushered out into the lobby with your outdoor shoes in hand while Hajime heads to check in. 

When he rejoins the group his expression is distinctly uncomfortable and pinched in a way you recognise as embarrassment.

“There’s been a mix up with the room—suite, I guess,” Hajime admits. Hesitant, his gaze drags up from the floor to where you’re standing beside him. “I showed her the booking but no dice. We’re stuck with a standard tatami room and bathroom, but she promised there’d be enough futons to roll out”. 

While it was last minute they’d all designated tasks to each other, and his task had been booking accommodations. Having expressed that he would make the effort to get you your own room for the sake of privacy and comfortability, despite your protests, you understood his immediate reaction. Letting people down—at least, his own arbitrary idea of it—never sat right with Hajime. 

“Let me go talk to her, Iwa-chan. I might even charm her into giving us some extra amenities,” Tooru grins wolfishly, already fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater. Faint freckles scattered along his forearms, some newer from the summer months. Tendons flexing with determination, he takes the proffered print out and saunters toward the counter. 

“I can be charming,” Hajime mutters childishly, shucking the cross bag higher up his shoulder. He frowns you. “Am I charming?” 

You pat his cheek. His pride always rears over the most obscure things. “In your own way”.

Takahiro voices his amusement with a heavy clap to Hajime’s back. “Yeah, man. You appeal to people’s baser instincts. Makes me wanna get knocked up in a cave and nap while you’re out hunting for boar, or something”. 

“Shut up, idiot”. 

Tooru leaned his body against the counter, closed the distance and tilted his head, a coy sequence you’ve paid witness to a thousand times. You can imagine how he’s holding the receptionist's attention, speaking in low, dulcet tones that slide through her like warm butter. 

“What a bastard,” Issei sighs. Hajime grunts his agreement, and you realise that the four of you are lined up, watching them unashamedly as if it were a piece of theatre. 

“Alright, weirdos. Move it,” you prod insistently at Takahiro’s waist, snickering when he flinches away from your fingers. “Stop staring and get your bags together so we’re ready”. 

“You sure are confident in him,” Issei smirks, picking up his luggage nonetheless. There’s a loud click as you extend your suitcase handle, pulling with force when it jams halfway. 

“You’re not? It’s Tooru—” your voice abruptly halts at the heat of another, their hand encompassing your own. Hajime relinquishes your grip and readjusts the handle without fanfare. Flustered, you clear your throat, “He always pulls through for us. Though I still think this is all a bit unnecessary”. 

“I, for one, am glad he’s with us and not against us,” Takahiro snorts, eyes flitting between the two as Tooru tips his head and laughs. The sound is trim, practised and forced to your own ears, yet manages to make the employee blush. “Kinda scary, isn’t he?” 

Unfettered affection pulls at the corner of your mouth. You smile, turning away from them before they can see and tease you for it. Without a doubt, you had missed being with them more than you realised, and the giddiness was hard to temper. 

When Tooru returns, it is with a self satisfied grin, a new set of keys and a slip of paper. “That her number?”

“Yep,” his lips pop as he flips it over between his fingers, flashing the numerical digits scrawled on the back before flippantly sticking it in his jacket pocket. “We now have a modern double, a tatami room and a private onsen. Don’t all thank me too quickly, now”. 

Hajime accepts the keys with a begrudged sigh. “You should worry about texting and thanking her before we leave”.

“Stop trying to make me a better person,” Tooru sniffed, allowing himself to be herded toward the cramped lift. You trail closely behind, shaking your head. 

The room is bigger than expected. Family sized, you’d say. Traditional with a modernised touch. The main tatami room flowers in the early moonlight as it floods in through the sliding lattice doors. Behind them comes the promising sound of running water and after setting all your shoes in the modest genkan—pointed outwards—Takahiro rushes to discover the private onsen.  

Hung in a recessed alcove is a silk scroll inscribed with calligraphy. Staggered shelves frame a small flatscreen TV, neatly decorated with painted clay art and incense. Tucked away in the corner is a closet full of freshly aired futons. The rice straw flooring yields softly under your feet as you explore. 

Two other rooms are cordoned off, a smaller tatami room for the futons to be lain and one largely taken up by a double bed featuring a western style ensuite bathroom. Tourists must love this place, you think. It offers a palatable amount of Japanese culture, while simultaneously providing them with the simplistic comforts of their own. 

Issei makes work of the futons, nudging the low table and cushions into a corner and dragging the blankets over to the other room. Lip worried between your teeth, you find yourself hovering uselessly with no task to attend to aside from unpacking, which you thought to be just as useless. 

A hand snakes around your arm. Tooru’s, you soon recognise; impressively soft given his choice of career, lithe, and slightly balmy from a fruity smelling moisturiser his sister gifted him from her travels in South Korea. “Come on,” he insists without explanation, a dramatic weariness about him.

You are guided into the modern room and handed a travel sized torch identical to his own. You flinch away from the bright light as it abruptly begins to blink, but catch on quickly. ”Look everywhere you can think of”. 

“What’re you guys doin’ in here?”

Ignoring Takahiro’s question, you bend to flash the torchlight into the plug sockets. As Tooru peeks into the vents—giving the theatrical whisper of “all clear” with every check—you circumvent around the bed, looking under the frame and the nearby closet. 

“Makki, stop hovering like a ghost and check the bathroom for cameras. Actually, I’ll do it,” Tooru waves him off dismissively, sleuthing precariously into the small bathroom. “Gotta check the shower head. Can’t have my darling friends showing up on some dark web auction…”

Once Tooru is mollified that there are no hidden cameras the group allow themselves to settle. You are set up in the double room. It is the only door with a lock and a private bathroom, and you suspect that is why it was foisted onto you. 

Still you are conscious about the proximity, or lack thereof. Listening to them bicker and scuffle through the walls, their footfalls and voices passing beneath the crack in the bathroom doorway. Your fingers lingered on the turning lock for too long and in the end, you’d left it horizontal. The intense anticipation in your belly culminated into what you recognised as yearning—longing. 

The shower can only be described as a transparent box. Aside from a few shallow shelves left to house the complementary body wash, you’re surrounded only by clear, frameless glass panels that do nothing to obscure the view of your naked body. Anyone could walk in at any time. Standing under the warm spray, pressure just right against your shoulders, even as the dense steam fogs up the glass your gaze still falls back to the door handle. 

You run a washcloth over your skin and ignore the muted arousal that flares between your thighs. Sounds can be heard over the white noise, muffled by hollow mortar yet still clear enough that the sounds are coalesced into words. 

“Get your shoes off my futon,” Hajime demands. Hand braced against wet tile as though to touch the baritone of his voice, the other passes innocently over your sex, and you shudder. Thoughts wander. 

Tentative, you slide your fingers through your folds. Massage wet, loose circles around your clit. Eyes fall closed and you dip into your imagination. There’s a firm body behind you, cock grinding tantalisingly slow against your ass. Shaped around your back as though you were an extension of him. Your rhythm stutters when Hajime nuzzles below your ear. Tender kisses forge a path to your shoulder while his hands smooth across a resting stomach toward your chest.

Curtained by hot water as it patters away at the tension in your muscles, droplets slip into the seam of your lips and they part for breath. You lean on the tiled wall, seeking cool relief where the steam starts to overwhelm you, and slip abruptly on the condensation. With an undignified yelp, you quickly find your footing—though not without first knocking over the travel sized bottles of body wash. 

Deafening silence follows. You inhale deeply, exhaling to steady your breathing. A hesitant knock to the door gives you pause. The handle remains mournfully upright. 

“…You alive in there?” 

Your face twists into a grimace as you attempt to recompose yourself. You clear your throat. “I’m fine, Hajime. Sorry. The only thing I’m dying of is embarrassment”. 

His short laughter is warm and uninhibited. It rings true in your ears long after he’s gone. Turning away from the spray, your head tips forwards until it thumps against the glass. Shame prickling behind your eyes, you groan, “What the fuck is wrong with me”. 

Surprisingly there are no teasing comments awaiting you when you leave the privacy of your room, dried and redressed. All the screen doors have been pulled open, connecting the main room to the spare tatami room where they’ve rolled out all the futons to create one large bed. Five, together. You smile but don’t mention it. Issei greets you with a lazy wave from his place amongst the blankets. 

“Makki’s just havin’ a smoke,” his thumb points to the door leading out toward the private onsen. Through the lattice you can make out a blurred silhouette standing on the small veranda. 

“The other two?”

“Headed downstairs to ask about the festival tomorrow, and dinner”. 

“Are you looking forward to it?” you perk up, kneeling to sit cross legged on one of the beds. 

Issei smirks at your enthusiasm and hums an affirmative. Your eyes are drawn to the subtle movements of his hands where they fiddle with the inseam of his jeans. “Yeah. Heard they’re lighting some bonfires”. 

Your mouth parts with a sound of recognition. “On the mountainside, right?” 

“That's the one,” he nods and bows forward to rest an elbow on his thigh. You straighten up as he pins you under an intense stare. “I can slip away with the guys, if you want. Tomorrow. It would be a good time for you to talk to him”. 

Heat prickles over your face. Your pinch your cheek between your teeth, eyes instinctively darting to the hallway. You’re not sure whether it’s his consideration of you or your own piteous transparency that makes you want to cry. It has been this way for years; you’re caught in a tentative dance that never seemed to end. They all know and you wished you could still be ignorant of that. 

“Do you…” you clear your throat as your voice cracks. Issei’s gaze softens and you feel naked. “Do you honestly think that’s a good idea?”

After a short, pensive silence, Issei exhales a long breath and lays his hands flat on the futon. He leans and pushes onto his knees to drop his body heavily beside yours. 

You struggle against his dead-weight as he slumps, flinging both arms around your waist. “Issei—!” an aborted yelp falls from your mouth when he hooks his chin over your shoulder and locks his jaw, pressing it hard into your back. 

“Stop! That hurts, bastard!” you squawked, pushing down against the forearm cinched across your middle like a belt. They flex under your hands, not moving an inch. You can feel his cheeks lifting as he grins. 

“Sure. When you stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he offers slyly, tightening his grip. “C’mon,” you grow slack as the fight bleeds from your body. There’s a familiar burn behind your eyes, closely followed by a swell in your throat that the words can’t quite seem to get around. “And for the record, I do think it’s a good idea”. 

“It’s a terrible idea,” you intone, smile fraying at the edges. “He’s leaving again after this, Issei”.

Issei must hear the clear defeat in your voice because he gathers you against his chest to hug you properly. “I know that,” he murmurs. You breathe in the light notes of amber lingering on his skin, his big hand splayed between your shoulders.

Then you feel the unmistakable press of a kiss to your crown. “You’re a coward,” your brows knit together as you glare up at him. It's just like Issei to make it sound like you’re fussing over nothing after you’ve spent years building it up in your head. His grin widens, crooked. “But you’re our coward, and we want to see you happy”. 

You feel your irritation melt away at his sincerity. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth. The sweet atmosphere is swiftly soured as he adds, “So hurry up and fuck already”. 

Takahiro’s return is poorly timed. Shutting the lattice door behind him, he strolls in with scent of tobacco following close behind, “Who’s fucking?”

A wave of embarrassment washes over you. It makes you go hot and cold in quick succession. Issei surrenders and rolls onto his back, cushioned by the futon as you push him away, loud cackles bouncing off the walls. 

“Nobody is. Be quiet, the pair of you”.

“Is it about Hajime?” he continues, crouched before you with eyebrows wiggling suggestively. Takahiro jumps backwards with a snicker when you angle your hips to kick at him. The bitter smoky smell is much stronger around his fingers. He grabs your ankle to keep you still but Takahiro’s smug air dissipates in an instant, mouth falling open as you drag him down. “Hey—!”

Issei stays quiet with his arms tucked behind his head, happy to no longer be the target of your ire. 

That is the scene Tooru and Hajime returned to only a minute later. Having rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, Makki had accidentally pushed you down into Issei, the three of you tumbling backwards in fits of laughter. 

Spurred by the need to be included, Tooru took it upon himself to flop unceremoniously into the pile. Your pained yelp had caused quite a stir, the image of Hajime’s face twisted in worry playing on a loop in your mind. 

Later, you inhale deeply and grimace in discomfort. The air is humid. You can feel it sticky in your lungs, right beneath the fresh bruise blooming across your rib. Tooru’s eyes flicker, caught in the movement as you rub at your sternum. The corners of his lips downturn. 

“Sorry again,” he mumbles over the sound of gentle, trickling water from the nearby spring, knocking your elbows together. You’ve strayed toward the back of the group to walk alongside him, his stride slowed to keep pace as you wandered around the low lit gardens to kill time before dinner. Flowers are few, evergreens abundant, stone lanterns guide you forward. 

With a forgiving sigh you link your arms to keep him close. Tooru’s rigid posture relaxes as you nuzzle against his bicep. “Nobody died. It’s fine,” you laugh quietly. 

“If it were up to Iwa-chan I might’ve”.

You roll your eyes. “I can handle a bit of roughhousing. Grew up with you, didn’t I?” 

Tooru’s face is thrown into stark relief as moonlight filters through the canopy, and you watch his small smile scrunch up into a moue. “With my sister you mean,” he says, with a fondness betraying his expression. “What a beast”.

You have vague memories. Downy brunette hair fisted in a small hand. Eyes swollen with tears. A young boy sent to the corner to think about his actions. Tooru always started those fights, not that he would ever admit it. But you knew he was fighting for his older sister’s attention more than anything else at the time. 

“Liar. She spoiled you all the time,” you tell him. “And you were as bad as each other”.

Tooru hums, the way he often does when he doesn’t believe you. Your paths converge, misstepping as he sways and you throw his too-innocent act a look of suspicion. “So,” he starts a beat later. 

It’s apparent in his eyes. That gleam of curiosity, and hesitance. Bingo. Tooru barely moves as you push into his side and attempt to veer him onto the grass in protest. “No,” you reply. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“No? Well if it’s not about me confessing to Hajime then please, do carry on”. 

Tooru makes a petulant, frustrated noise. There’s an indent in his cheek where the inner flesh is pinched between his teeth. You roll your eyes, scuffing your shoe to the stone path. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to confess now,” you tell him quietly. 

“You’re just scared,” Tooru returns under his breath. His expression is solemn now, as is his tone.

“And what if I am?” your voice raises a bit, rousing the attention of the men up ahead. When they look back you muster a smile and give a reassuring wave. Your attention momentarily drawn to the huddle behind them by the bamboo gate. A small family shuffled by, heads bobbing with gratitude as the boys made room, when their toddler took notice of Takahiro and became appropriately delighted by him. 

While the mother spilled panicked apologies and took her daughter's hand, the girl stood on the very tips of her purple jelly sandals and Takahiro bent to let her pat him on the head before departing. Tooru drops the topic with an offended hum as you abandon him to rejoin the group, examining the trim of his nails to feign disinterest, “She only liked you because your hair is pink”. 

“Actually it’s strawberry blond,” Takahiro snarks, equally affronted and amused. “Just heavier on the strawberry”.

Their movements coalesce, blindly shuffling after one another back into the hotel lobby. “Should probably head back soon,” Hajime mutters as an afterthought, his gaze trailing wall to wall before landing on the clock hung above the main desk. “Should we buy some drinks and stuff for tonight?” 

“I can get it,” you volunteer at the same time that Tooru interjects with, “We’ll go get it”. 

You glare at him.

Hajime is reluctant. At the very least he’s worried. It’s apparent in the flex of his fingers, the set of his jaw, the earthen eyes narrowed at the pair of you. “Will you be okay together?” 

“Yes, Iwa-chan. This isn’t an episode of ‘My First Errand’,” he reaffirms his grip on your arm, giving it a decisive squeeze. “We’re adults. It’s no problem, right?”

“Right,” you say, the decision clearly made for you. You turn your attention from Tooru’s pointed smile back to Hajime and the others. “We’re good. Text us what you want and we’ll bring it up to the room”.

Murmured acquiescence ripples through the group, and Tooru ambles you out through the main entrance as you part ways. Your entwined shadows elongate, the wall mounted sconces leading a path to the small sundry nestled in the east side of the hotel. 

“You’re not going to drop this, are you?”

“No”.

“Not even if I say please?”

“No,” Tooru chimes again, tugging you through the automatic doors. The cashier acknowledges your arrival with a quick smile and continues to restock the empty shelf in front of them. 

The temperature drops as you turn onto the drinks aisle and Tooru opens the closest fridge while refusing to let go of you. “I just don’t understand why you’re not taking the chance,” he continues, frowning at the bottle labels. When he plucks the umeshu from the rack you know it’s for him. “I don’t want you to regret it”.

“They’re asking for beer and shochu,” you read tiredly from the phone in your free hand. The text chat bumps as another message comes through. “Uh… Issei wants dried calamari. We should get seaweed tempura, too”.

“Stop changing the subject”.

Annoyance sparks in your chest. “This is what we’re here to do,” you grumble, shoving your phone into your pocket and opening the adjacent fridge door with more force than necessary. You shiver at the gust of cool air. 

An indolent sigh seeps from him. “C’mon. You have to know,” Tooru murmurs, moving closer to hook his chin over your shoulder. He softly knocks your heads together. “The chances of you being rejected are less than zero”. 

“No, I don’t know that. And—even if that’s true, what then?” you shake your head, chewing your lip. “Like I told the others, it’s not a good idea”. 

“Okay,” Tooru replies, standing upright and turning to saunter away. He draws out the word as he does whenever he concedes an argument he still thinks he has won. You stare at his retreating back with a bereft sense of defeat until your eyes sting, now cold where your arms had been linked. 

“Tooru,” you say. He makes an inquisitive noise, his nose wrinkled as he rummages through the deep fried snacks. “Being rejected and watching you two leave again—I can’t do both”. 

Your voice cracks. That strikes a chord square in his chest, his sudden crestfallen expression is evidence enough. Tooru abandons the tempura shelf and tucks the bottles of liquor under his armpit while tucking you under the other. You're a mess, a cacophony of emotion threatening to spill out through your tightly closed eyelids.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to push you”.

“Yes you did,” you laugh thickly, and Tooru has the decency to appear sheepish. He rubs his hand down your side. “But it’s okay. I know you mean well, you all do”.

It’s enough to see that it comes from a place of love. The extent of your yearning has affected him just as much as anyone. Tooru watched consistently over the years while you stood in place and dug, and dug, and dug, for somewhere to put your feelings. Some point along the line it became a crater you couldn’t climb out from. And while you were desperate to make it hospitable, desirable, to be a person Hajime could want, he had managed to blindly pivot around it his whole life. 

The electrical buzz emanating from the fridges is abnormally loud as Tooru, for a precious second, actually stalls to gather his next words. “Look. I’ve been thinking,” he says with a rather rehearsed air. 

“That’s not good”.

“Don’t be mean. Hear me out,” he grins. “It was weird for Hajime to suggest a trip so last minute, don’t you think?” 

You purse your lips thin with a contemplative hum, grabbing the snacks and shuffling along the aisle while he talks. You had thought it significant, that being the main reason you encouraged Hajime’s idea in the first place. “See, he’s a straightforward, honest guy. And he’s earnest. That’s why you think if he returned your feelings he would’ve said something, isn’t it?”

The cashier furtively looks you over as you wander closer to the counter and set them down. You offer a strained smile. “Hi, that’s everything. Tooru—what’s your point?”

Tooru pulls out his wallet and emphatically states, “My point is you’re wrong!” He hands over the money, “Oh, here. Keep the change. Thank you”. You take the carrier bag, wincing when the glass bottles clink together. “Anyway,” Tooru exhales a heavy breath, visible as he steps into the night air, “You’re underestimating his cowardice”. 

Coward was not a descriptor you’d ever ascribe to Hajime. Yourself, sure. You shoot Tooru a sidelong glance, and he smiles at your clear scepticism. “Iwa-chan is bad at being selfish. He feels a certain responsibility toward the people he cares about. Did on our old team, and with the guys, and especially with you,” Tooru continues, a warmth to his tone. “He’s probably not thinking about his own feelings. He’s mostly worried about you, and yours”.

Your pace lags until you’ve come to a stop. Tooru does so a few steps ahead. “So he brought us here for what? To let me down gently?”

“Did you listen to a word I just said?” Tooru cocks his head, the moon crowning his head, light threading through his hair as his expression is shadowed. “I think he was always aware of what could change if he outright confessed. He needed to be sure, and he needed a reason, because his gorilla brain thinks it’ll ruin your whole relationship. That’s why we’re here,” you blink at his lithe fingers, waving in your face and wriggling. “It's an excuse. A final push. Because he wants to try!”

Eyes wide, caught in the place between awed disbelief and crippling anxiety, your fingers almost slip from under the bag handle. The trip being symbolic of Hajime’s resolve—could that make sense? You swallow against the lump in your throat. Memories of every recent there-and-gone-again touch and gentle look hold new meaning as they resurface. “He said that?” 

“Well, no”.

And the lump in your throat, presumably your heart, drops straight into your stomach. You march past Tooru into the hotel lobby with a bitter laugh. 

“Wait, would you—! You’re both so frustrating”.

“Me?” you whirl around to glare at him. People linger at the edge of your vision. Those prim, soft looking women that greeted you mere hours ago gather at the reception desk and pretend not to stare. Lowered into a broken rasp, you tell him, “What happened to not pushing? You aren’t being fair, Tooru”. 

“This isn’t about fairness. You said you're scared,” Tooru says. Your eyes dipped low to avoid the surety in his gaze. “And that’s fine. I just want you to consider that maybe you’re not the only one who’s scared”.

His words register gradually, and they ache, like a deep bruise. The implications become clearer, and your reply comes quietly—not whispered, with a voice that carries no strength. “Fine,” you lift your head, ball your fist tighter and the plastic handles dig into your palm. The tension smooths in Tooru’s brow. His eyes soften, squinting at the corners, and you realise you’ve begun to smile too. “I’ll keep it in mind. You’ve said your piece. What now?”

“Oh. Now we go back to the room before Hajime sends a search party, eat as much as we want and drink until we fall asleep,” Tooru says, casting a quick glance to your surroundings. He drapes arm around your shoulders haughtily, “Then at the festival tomorrow I’ll conveniently slip away with Makki and Mattsun to leave you and Hajime alone. Do with that what you will”. 

You snort, feeling an unrestrained fondness for your friends, and will yourself not to cry. “You all already had this planned, didn’t you? Issei told me the same thing”. 

“He wants to talk to you. Confess, don’t confess. Either way, I think it’ll be good for you both,” he says resolutely. Tooru’s one armed hug has the steadiness of home. You return it, hooking around his lower back, and walk together. His strides that much longer, and you a little braver.

Returning to the room you’re greeted by the sight of three men crowded in the genkan pushing to get their shoes back on. As Tooru anticipated they were preparing to go out looking for you both. The smile on your face only grows at Hajime’s admonishments now you're considering the love behind them, Tooru’s words on a loop in your mind. 

If Takahiro and Issei exchange a look at the bounce in your step, well. You happily ignore it. 

Clothes had been laid out neatly for each of you to wear for dinner. Once you’ve changed you putter into the main room and settle on your knees, resting back on your calves. The floor is comfortable underneath your shins. Set on the table is a lavish spread of food brought up to you by the ryokan staff. 

The heat of another body radiates to your left. Hajime smiles when you look at him. Your heart thunders. He’s unbearably handsome in his complimentary robe, a darker blue than your own, and he has it loose at the neck. You feel a headache coming on with the effort it takes not to ogle his chest. 

To your right Takahiro’s navy coloured garb is worn equally loose, somehow managing to look dishevelled rather than natural. As though he had pulled it on haphazardly in his excitement to get to the food. 

Tooru saunters into the room alongside Issei. His robe matches your own. It is drawn tight at the waist and closed at the collar, closely outlining his upper half. You are always startled by how broad Tooru truly is, given how lithe his movements are. He huffs when he notices the spots rather side of you are taken. 

“Ready to eat?” Issei rumbles, sitting opposite at the low table looking nonplussed as ever. You can’t help noticing his belt is barely holding tension and could fall open at any time, both sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. It smells incredible,” you say. The dinner is beautiful, a healthy array of colour, covered in mouth watering glaze. Seasonal flowers and leaves and decoratively cut vegetables have been used as finishing touches on each dish, artistically expressing the end of the summer. Your stomach twists in hunger as both palms come together in synchrony, “Thank you for the food”. 

You take your chopsticks and reach for the dish closest. Limbs cross over the table top. A familiar, homely scent of saffron, garlic and onion fills your senses. The gloaming moon watches you eat in the relaxed atmosphere. Soft sounds of satisfaction, the clang of cutlery. “S’good,” Hajime says. He catches your gaze and lifts his chopsticks toward you, free hand cupped beneath it. “Want to try?” 

It’s unnecessary in the best way. “Mmn,” you replied, leaning forward with an indulgent smile. You don’t trust yourself to speak, the spark of giddiness was doing embarrassing things to your body. 

Could Hajime really return your feelings? Tooru certainly thinks so. Issei and Takahiro. Seemingly everyone that has been within twenty feet of you.

Tooru watches the interaction over his glass of umeshu, radiating a smugness that can only be interpreted as I told you. You don’t particularly enjoy being seen to the bottom of; it makes you want to shrink away. It’s the strange flicker of determination on Hajime’s face that keeps you from doing so. 

You’re not the only one afraid to say something, a voice insists in the back of your head. 

The food falls apart gently on your tongue. You give a pleasantly surprised hum, engrossed in the rich flavours, and you almost miss how Hajime preens. His mouth pulled into a small, boyish grin, unable to look you in the eye. 

“Hey man, give me some of that,” Takahiro bemoans, his tone on the precipice of teasing. You recline to allow Hajime to pass the dish across and instinctively know what will come next. “Oh, I see how it is. Not gonna feed me too? Favouritism at its finest—” With a flat glare Hajime scoops a large chunk of rice and shovels it into Takahiro’s mouth mid sentence, and you hide a laugh behind your hand. 

As the plates empty your imagination wanders. The whole evening had been a whole unravelling of doubt. Until this point you’d navigated every one of your relationships with a certain level of trepidation, Hajime most of all. Taking a forward step only when certain it wouldn’t creak. Years of doing nothing, saying nothing, because it was the safe option. You had been prepared to spend your life in that unspoken purgatory if it meant keeping Hajime, and there had been comfort in that decision. 

But now you have permission to hope and you don’t know what to do with it. You’re quieter than usual, though nobody points it out. If anything they seem relieved. Three of the four, atleast. Hajime won’t stop sending you worried glances. You wonder if he’s overthinking his actions, and your reactions, the way you’ve always done. 

The main room is fragrant with the remains of dinner. You’ve gathered some pillows, shared out the snacks and poured their drinks, five sups in and counting. The boys are bickering over which movie to watch. Sake heats you from the inside out, plucks you right from your entangled thoughts and back into the present with loose limbs and a looser tongue. 

You speak loudly over them, “How about a comedy?” It’s the first one you can think of. “Tampopo?”

Issei, Takahiro and Hajime pause to consider. Tooru groans, already knowing he has lost the majority vote. “I wanted to watch ‘Before we vanish’,” he whines. “Sci-fi is better than comedy!”

“We always watch sci-fi,” Hajime remarks as he works the remote, switching the movie category to comedy and searching for ‘Tampopo’. 

“There’s a drinking game for this one,” Takahiro adds. “I think you sip every time somebody says ‘ramen’”. 

“If you want to be put on a waitlist for a new liver go ahead,” Issei says. 

The room briefly fades to darkness, lighting up not a second layer as the studio logo whirls onto the screen, emphasising the shadows of Hajime’s laughter lines. “We should drink every time there’s a weird food-porn montage instead,” he suggests, sinking back onto his elbows. Your traitorous mind immediately notes the few inches between your hands. 

“Well I’ll be drinking in protest,” Tooru turns his nose up though his eyes betray him, fixed on the screen with obvious interest. “And I’m not sure I want to hear the word ‘porn’ from your mouth ever again”. 

“Porn,” Hajime says. “Porn, porn, porn”. 

“Quiet,” you hiss, focus absorbed by the opening scene. An odd pair of lovers, one delicate woman and her white-suited gangster, enter a movie theatre. Their uniformed entourage scurries behind them with champagne and a wicker basket of food, setting up a small table as though in a restaurant. 

“Oh,” the dapper man’s voice bleeds through the speakers as he approaches the camera to break the fourth wall and harangue the viewer. “So you’re at a movies too. What are you eating?”

“Dried calamari,” Issei answers loftily. Takahiro snorts into his drink. 

Scene to scene, you drink when prompted and settle into uninhibited contentment. Feet tucked up under your thighs, propped on a plush pillow. The heat from Hajime’s hand grazes your skin. Closer and closer until the simple stretch of your fingers would see them entwined. 

The movie is funny. It is also unabashedly sensual and hedonistic, and heavy handed about its themes surrounding food. From oysters to noodles, including a scene involving the two lovers using their tongues to move an egg yolk between their mouths before it bursts, you're barraged with wet slurping sounds as the characters on screen eat, and eat, and eat. 

“Hot,” Takahiro slurred, while Tooru cried, “What the hell are we watching?”

You drank twice for that one. Too tipsy to parse whether the hot flashes through your body were embarrassment or arousal or an intermingling of both. You’re overly conscious of Hajime’s movements and his closeness, so much so that the plot passes through one ear and out the other. 

The dim lamplight from the ensuite room pools across the tatami, the door left ajar to luminate the spot where you’ve lined up the liquor bottles. You squint at the labels. Fuzzy. Laughter ripples through the group at the ongoing scene, an elderly woman being chased around a grocery store and hit with a fly swatter for seemingly—fingering the food? 

You smile at the sound as you lift Tooru’s umeshu bottle to the light to discern how much remains before pouring it into your glass. A hand circles your ankle, shifting back and forth to fit the peak into the gaps between his knuckles. The soft evocation of your name. Hajime is holding out his own empty cup with a half lidded gaze, the left side of his face thrown into stark relief by the TV screen. 

Something hot flares through your chest, your perspective on his tactile habits shifted; the initial desire suffuses to the very tips of your fingers. Now you’re restless with it. He’s so handsome, you think. And he’s still looking at you. 

You hear his wordless request and fill his drink too, with hope the alcohol will not steal these warm moments come morning. 

Once the movie was over your sprawled out bodies eventually migrated toward the futons Issei prepared. You forgo the double bed to crawl into the covers, to the surprise of no one, and let your eyes trail after Tooru. The flush across his nose has steadily deepened throughout the night. He flicks on the electric fan and kneels to roots through his luggage, pulling a compact from the front pocket with a triumphant noise. 

“Comfortable over there?” Tooru circles the pad of his pinky into the balm and brings it to his mouth. The faint strawberry scent is enticing, preferable over the heady, bitter smell of beer. His brow quirks when you don’t reply. 

“Want some?” he asks. Slowly, you nod, and he flashes a wry smile, setting down the pot before stretching to reach you. The motion draws you in, tipping your chin up. His fingers are soft on your cheek, splayed out and cradling your jaw. You’re happy to indulge him.

Tooru kisses you. Your heart maintains a steady rhythm. It’s a friendly, chaste press of lips; you rub your own together as he pulls away not a second later, finding them smoother. Sweeter. The hints of strawberry linger right beneath your nose. Caught in your own world you fail to notice the other two men staring.

“Oh no,” Issei drawls, turning off the lights as he saunters in. He drapes himself across an already prone, drunk Takahiro, tilting his head in Tooru’s direction. “My lips are so dry”.  

The atmosphere sparks a little. Issei’s teasing, syrupy tone is like flint striking steel. A fond, honeyed sensation settles around your bones—or perhaps that was the alcohol easing the tension. Flirting came easily amongst the others because it was without expectation. The silly pet names and heavy handed affection; it’s all a playful toeing of the line. People found your group dynamic odd no matter how much you tried to articulate it to them. You think in the end, it boiled down to trust. To safety. They all loved you in their own, individual ways, as you loved them. Maybe that's how you'd managed to be so content with Hajime's friendship. It had been enough.

Tooru hums and sits cross legged on his futon. He settles back onto his hands, smiling hazily as Hajime kicks his foot in passing, “I’ve noticed”. 

You can’t help appreciating how genuinely coy it is. Patently different to the way he behaves with strangers—not so forced. With his friends flirting is more about working for Tooru’s permission. It’s more fun that way. 

Issei purses his lips expectantly. Tooru leans forward. 

“You okay?” 

You blink. Hajime lowers onto the futon beside yours. His yukata has fallen further open to display his firm chest. Not that you’re looking. You’ve been cordoned on the far end of the room together. Takahiro was too drunk to make any purposeful decision but it was obvious—at least to you—that Tooru and Issei chose from the remaining futons to keep you and Hajime together. 

“Sleepy,” you say, the lull to your voice earning a gentle smirk in response. 

“Want any, Iwa-chan?” Hajime’s frowns at the interruption and looks over his shoulder, taking in the suggestive intermittent puckering of Tooru’s mouth. You think at this rate there’ll be no balm left. 

“No thanks,” he says. 

“Have it your way,” Tooru grumbles from his place beside Takahiro, right in the centre. Pale legs kick at his covers until they’re rumpled a certain way, apparently satisfying to him, and he wriggles down into the mattress. “Still think we should’ve watched ‘Before we vanish’. I’m going to have nightmares about oysters”.

Issei snorts. He turns on his side, laid at the furthest end from you. “But does your nerdy sci-fi movie use an egg yolk to symbolise orgasm?” his hand makes a sweeping gesture in the shadows, “I don’t think so”.

“Tha’s cinema baby,” Takahiro abruptly slurs, mouth muffled against his pillow. A beat passes. You meet Hajime’s gaze. His lips are pressed thin, trembling. You hear a smothered wheezing sound coming from Tooru’s futon, and a beat later the stillness is broken by a unanimous fit of laughter. 

“Shit,” your cheeks ache, your stomach is in knots as you pull the covers up over your persistent grin. The collective glee tapers. “I’ve,” Hajime starts after a deep breath, rubbing at his eyelids, “missed you idiots”.

Tooru sniffles at that. “Don’t make me cry,” he says, clearing the emotion cloying in his throat. You feel a pang of sympathy, overcome with it yourself. “I’ll wake up with swollen eyes and I forgot to bring gel masks”.

“Use a cold damp cloth or something”. 

“Mattsun, you're so primitive”.

Eventually the murmuring between the boys settles into silence. The kind of silence that makes the shadows in your room a little darker, dense branches spreading across the ceilings and walls into a daunting canopy. The electric fan and the cicadas hum a cohesive song into the night. 

Through the thick of it, you hear a new whisper. Hajime calls your name and there’s barely any voice behind it—uncharacteristically timid. Blinking away the haze, your eyes adjust to the lack of light. You can see an inviting, wide open embrace. The corner of a blanket pulled back to expose his torso. 

Intention clear, you first glance at the sleeping figures over his shoulder. Tooru curled into a cocoon with his bedsheets tucked under his feet. Takahiro laid out on his belly, open mouthed and drooling. Issei on his side, arm bent beneath the pillow, breathing so shallow you’re tempted to pinch him awake. 

Hajime waits while you think. Your vision has sharpened enough to make out the trepid smile on his face. Emboldened, you crawl out of the futon and into his. 

“Looked cold over there,” he reasons. 

You hum in agreement. Compared to his body heat, you’d say it had been freezing. Despite all the hard earned muscle over the years, Hajime is pliable when he’s relaxed, doughy, and he yields when you begin to adjust your shared position. You guide his arm down to cinch around your waist and nestle against his chest, legs overlapped. Made up of yourselves but also each other. 

“Better?” he murmurs, breath tickling your ear. A final shiver dances the length of your spine as your nerves settle and anticipation thaws. You can feel his heart beating like a wing beneath your palm. 

It reminds you of when you were kids. The jagged shape of a tall, lego Godzilla had forced you to find home between him and Tooru more times than you could count. Everything had been so much bigger. Scarier. Still, those gauzy memories don’t quite hold a candle to this. 

Hajime’s hand glides down your back in repetitive, methodical strokes. It makes you feel delicate, like something in you might fracture. You try to ease your breathing as he pulls you closer. The proximity isn’t anything new, but this is something else. Different. It always is, with him, only this time you don’t need to convince yourself otherwise. 

Fingers twisting into the thin cotton of his yukata, you mumble, “Thanks, Haji”. 

You feel his lips on your temple like hot wax. Your eyes flutter closed, and all at once you feel brave enough to say it, but the moment passes as his head drops against the pillow. 

From the recesses of your mind rose the rehearsed speeches, the recipes for honmei chocolate, the imagined cliche scenarios that you left dog-eared in highschool. All the ways to say ‘I love you’. 

Hajime has always expressed love in smaller ways. You’ve observed, over the years, his little habits. Easing small burdens. He’d take the clothes off his own back if it could make your journey smoother but wouldn’t ever dream of asking you to stray from it. That’s where you differed, and what you feared. 

If he got cold feet you would need to be the brave one. 

For all that you had doubted about the nature of Hajime’s feelings towards you over the years, you could have some faith in it now. The thought of him leaving again without hearing it from you—without knowing you were an option—doesn’t bear thinking about. 

Vague and half-formed, you succumb to sleep on the end of a drowsy self imposed promise. Tomorrow, you’ll tell him. 

Wading through a cottony haze, your consciousness sharpens in increments. Every single physiological response in your body is shouting that it is far too soon to rise. You groan, tilt your head and let it loll against your arm; the other is flung outside of the covers, fingertips skimming the futon edge. 

You’ve turned on your side in the night. Slowly, you realise a firm body has conformed to your back, knees nudged up behind your own, bending them toward your chest. The way you melt into their warmth and nudge against the cradle of their hips is instinctive. Then the shallow, steady breaths brushing the nape of your neck stutter on a sharp inhale and your eyes fly open, remembering where you are. 

Hajime. 

After a few seconds endured with bated breath you release the tension in your muscles. He’s asleep. 

There’s stark relief. The initial terror in your chest ebbs. Careful as you go, you slip out from Hajime’s grip. A crease forms in his nose, frowning at your absence, and you stay to see how he reaches for you even subconsciously. 

A long yawn forces your jaw open, tongue sitting like cotton as the last dregs of sleep fade. A quick look around the room tells you Takahiro is the only one up. The latticed door to the onsen is cracked open. You pull your yukata tighter to your chest to shield against the slight draft. Blood rushes down to your toes as you walk, prickling white noise filling both legs. 

Bordering the onsen is a quaint patio area mimicking a traditional veranda. There’s a mosaic garden table and two matching folding chairs, one of which is occupied by a visibly hungover Takahiro. 

“Anyone would think you had a wild night out,” you murmur, closing the door behind you. The air is cool again. Birdsong carries over from the trees.  Takahiro peeks at you through his lashes, a permanent frown etched into his brow. A headache, if you had to guess. He’s slumped in the chair with long legs stretched outward, a cigarette nestled in the ‘V’ between his fingers, held up by a loose wrist like it alone was too heavy.

The tip glows red as he takes another drag and turns his head away to exhale the smoke into the dew laden air. “Never let me mix drinks again,” he rasps.

“You say that every time,” you cross your arms over your middle and sit down. The metal is cold under your thighs, felt through the thin fabric. “Sleep well, atleast?”

“Like the dead,” he flashes a conspicuous smile as he brings the cigarette to his lips. “You?”

His nonchalance falls flat and betrays his interest. Subtle in his teasing. Despite already knowing he would’ve seen you and Hajime on his way to the veranda, the confirmation leaves you feeling hot.

“It was comfortable,” you reply stiffly, braced to defend yourself ad nauseam. Takahiro’s eyes softened in the rousing grey-blue daylight. 

“Good,” he says. 

“That’s all?”

“What, you want me to force the subject? Figured you've had enough of that already”. 

“No,” you sigh, sinking into your chair. “…Thanks, Makki”. 

Takahiro shrugs lightheartedly and stubs his cigarette out. There’s movement from inside the room. At that moment the door slides open, and Hajime pops his head through the narrow gap. 

Your fingers twist hard around your belt. He looks sleep mussed where he’s sitting on the tatami, pushing the door further open to lean against the frame. There’s recognition and relief in his gaze as he glances from Takahiro to you. No indication he was awake before. 

“Hey,” Takahiro says. 

“Morning,” Hajime replies, sounding as though his throat is dry. A draft dances through and his face scrunches slightly at the nicotine smell. “I set an alarm for breakfast. They’ll be here in any minute”.

“The other two up?” you ask. 

“Mostly,” Hajime nods in their general direction. “Tooru’s getting in the shower and Issei’s on the phone to his little brother”.

Takahiro takes a deep inhale and pushes his centremost knuckle to his forehead. “I’ll go help put away the futons,” he states with a groan. Hajime tucks his legs in to allow him through and swats at the hand that scrubs over his hair in passing. 

He turns his attention to you. A crease from his pillow marks his cheek. “Have you been awake long?” 

“About ten minutes,” you reply, staring hard at the dense garden and dwindling into silence caught somewhere on the knife’s edge between awkward and companionable. Running water streams from the wooden spout into the onsen, making the surface ripple. You latch onto the sound. “Shame we didn’t use the onsen”.

“We’re still here another night,” Hajime says placatingly. “Use it when we’re back from the festival if you want”. 

You nod, adjusting your yukata without reason. The simple need for distraction. “Maybe,” your mind can’t help veering toward the worst case scenario. What would’ve changed by that time, tonight? What would you say, and how, if anything at all? The thought makes your stomach twist. You’re not sure you could recover if he reacted poorly. 

Blinking out of your reverie, you realise that Hajime had been talking. Heat prickles under your skin. “Sorry,” you grin awkwardly, and it feels brittle on your face. “Got lost in my thoughts”.

“About what?”

You wet your lips, like that could soften the blow. “I’m going to miss you,” you tell him. His expression falls. “Both of you,” you add hastily, which does little to reassure him. “When’s your flight again?” 

Hajime’s mouth thins, eyes dipping low. “Late tomorrow night. Or early I guess,” he answers. His shoulders shake and he laughs ruefully, “I’ll miss you too, y’know. Not sure you realise how much,” like it was a matter of fact. The earth would go around the sun and Hajime would miss you.

“Like a hole in my head,” you murmur, so quiet you’re not certain he heard you. Then, slightly louder, “Are you excited to get back to California?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m excited to leave. Got a lot of interesting stuff coming up this semester, though,” he perks up when you gesture, encouraging him to continue. Inwardly, selfishly, you only want to hear him speak a little longer. “One thing I’ve really wanted to do is biomechanical testing. We use it for detailed analysis of our players movement. So…”

The air stifles as the sun rises and drapes across the private veranda, warming the wood panels beneath your feed. Once breakfast has been laid out—and you’ve been bid an enthusiastic ‘good morning’ by the staff—you gravitate toward the same seating arrangement as the night prior. 

It’s nothing short of a buffet. A traditional Japanese-style breakfast, hot rice and miso soup, grilled fish, dried seaweed and shellfish boiled in soy sauce and sugar, all served across four hand-woven bamboo trays. There are western elements to the spread, including coffee and bread, which Tooru happily reaches for. 

“A person like you should really avoid stimulants,” Hajime muttered as he came to sit at the table. 

Tooru startled, hands poised over the steaming coffee pot. He pouted, “A person like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Paranoid, is what I mean”.

“If you're so concerned about my overactive limbic system maybe try being nicer to me!” 

The morning crawls onward with an atmosphere of trepidation. As if waiting for the other shoe to drop. You squirrel away in the ensuite bathroom again to get dressed, taking longer than is necessary. Condensation from Tooru’s earlier hot shower sticks to the tile and the mirror’s surface. The reflection is foggy, your figure like a smudge.  You regret not bringing nicer clothes for the festival—knowing you’ll be surrounded by all that beauty and colour and you worry you’ll look dull in comparison. 

Regardless, you smooth out any lingering creases in your outfit. Dull or otherwise it flatters your silhouette nicely. 

“Oh”.

You step out just as Takahiro angles his mouth to exhale. Smoke plumes out the open door in delicate wisps, swept away by a humid gust of wind. “Shit—sorry,” he mutters, a little flustered as he scrambles to shield you from the smoke, eyes roving over your form. 

“You okay?” you ask, unsure if you should be amused or insecure. 

He stubs his cigarette out into the ashtray balanced on the side table and wipes his hands on his jeans with such speed you worried it might create static. Then, suddenly, he’s across the room with his thumb sinking into the swell of your left cheek, tobacco fingertips framing the right. He pushes them together until your mouth is puckered. There’s nothing sweet about it. Rather, it looks as if he wants to squeeze you like a clementine. 

“You’re all glowy. And determined,” the crease in his brow deepens, and he adds pressure to his fingers until you’re squirming, flustered. “And you look cute”. Issei emerges from the garden at that moment. Hand up his dark turtleneck shirt, scratching idly at the hair on his belly. 

A deep groan rumbles in his throat. “What are you two doing?”

“I think it’s finally happening”. 

Drawn to Hanamaki’s incredulous outburst, Issei stares at your confused, squashed face as it is turned in his direction. His mouth parts and he squints, as though he were searching for the right words. 

What the fuck, you think. 

“What the fuck,” he says, as if plucking the thought from the air. 

“Right?”

They sidle either side of you. Tall and looming, their overbearing presence has anticipation swooping in your belly. Issei smells it like blood in the water and hooks two fingers to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Well look at that,” he teases, bending forward until your eyes cross. “Wonder who you’re getting all dressed up for. Us?”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, though it comes out muffled and terribly nasal. Takahiro laughs, and his thumb skips over your rabbit-footed pulse as his hand slides down the column of your throat and away. 

“Oi. In all seriousness you do look good,” Issei smiles. His kind eyes squint with it. They’ve made a clear effort themselves. That’s part of the fun. 

A voice floats in from the genkan, “Who are we talking about?” Tooru looks up from his phone and he beams. “Oh! You look cute,” he says, tone light and pleasant. “Hajime will like it”.

“Your reactions are worrying me a bit,” you reply dryly in favour of ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “Anyone would think I usually look awful”. 

“No,” their three voices overlap as they protest. “You never look awful,” Tooru says, shaking you by the shoulders. Then he stops to consider his words. “Well. Maybe that time we thought you had strep throat”.

“What Oikawa wants to say is,” Takahiro cuts in with a flat glare in the other’s direction, “We’re here to support you today, and stuff. That’s all”. 

“And stuff,” you repeat, a fond smile coming unbidden to your lips. The surge of affection has you trying to stretch your arms around three big bodies. “You’re being overbearing. But thank you”. 

Their arms come up to wrap around your back and reciprocate. You are corralled into a long, strong hug, compressed from every direction. They release you when Hajime returns. He is visibly stupefied at the scene, brow knit as he fiddles with the collar of his dark denim jacket. 

Your spine straightens, taking an unnecessarily deep breath. “Hi Hajime,” you say. It feels so different now, now there's all that premeditated intent behind it. Like ‘IloveyouHajime’ bunched into a single word. 

“Hi. You look…” Hajime's throat bobs. “Good. You look good”.

You glance at the boys and chew the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress your grin, “So I’ve heard”.

The sun is at its highest point when you leave the ryokan together. You are swallowed up by gold beneath the gingko trees flanking the road, a mosaic of dappled light filtering through the partial canopy and intermixed with the softly shaded ground. 

Foot traffic grew dense on the main street, teeming with life. “Stick close,” Hajime murmured next to your ear. You suppressed a shudder and took his arm so as not to stray far. The crowd herds your group closer to the heart of the festival. Sound assailed you from every direction. Thousands of lanterns have been strung up, forming a blushing canopy over the yagura, a makeshift stage housing performers and musicians, handsome taiko drummers setting the pace for participants to gather around it and dance along in circles.

There’s a sense of harmony, pigments blended into one another. Families are swathed in beautiful kimonos and silks, jinbei and traditionally woven hats. Your group stood out for their height alone—Mattsun especially, the tallest of the four men. People part to let you through, and children look skyward with awed eyes, jumping in place to see how high they can get. 

The current pushes you towards the stalls, where an amalgamation of savoury scents pervade the air. Sweet, crisp okonomiyaki sauce, intense pickled ginger, charcoal smoked meats. Hunger knots in your stomach. Hajime looks over the heads of people and spots some vendors. 

“Guys,” he raises his voice and drops his arm around your back with firm reassurance. The others pause, colliding with the moving bodies around them. “Food first. Then we can go to the games”.

You’re suitably satiated after takoyaki. The folded boat-shape container they’d handed over to you is warm in the already throbbing heat. It burns at the nape of your neck; the sun and the many stares of those around you. Takahiro, Issei and Tooru, too, keep flicking their eyes over, as if waiting for something to happen, or some kind of sign. 

Music plays over the din. A quick-tempo showy melody, like one would hear at a circus. Takahiro points at the ring toss stall. “Hey, ‘kawa. Win me something,” he says. 

“Win it yourself!”

“Don’t be like that babe,” Takahiro laments dramatically, his movements becoming languid and sloppy as he drapes himself around Tooru’s shoulders with his mouth curled into a smarmy grin. “You’re so much better at tossing than me”.

At your back, Hajime trembles with restrained mirth. Issei catches your eye and shakes his head while Tooru sniffs primly, attempting to scrunch his own smirk into a displeased pout. “Fine,” he relents. “But one of you needs to win me a mask at the rifle-shooting game”.  

“I don’t need to do anything,” Issei replies dryly as they start toward the ring toss game with startling synchrony. You glance at Hajime’s face, at another tentative, uncertain beginning of a smile, and feel the limitless joy of being together ballooning inside you.

“Did you want anything?” he asks as you walk. 

Giddy, you cling closer. Part of your brain is stuck on the thought that anyone on the outside looking in would probably assume you were a couple. “If you’re feeling generous,” you exaggerate the flutter of your eyelashes, making Hajime snort. 

Hours slip through your fingers like sand. In no time at all the sky began to darken. There’s a bubbling anticipation in your chest the later it gets. You lift your head to be met with the ochre of evening, azure blending into vivid orange at the horizon. 

Issei tips his head back to take in the sky. “Fireworks are starting soon,” he announces. Tooru’s eyes flicker to you. The tangible sense of finality that had permeated the afternoon comes to a long awaited fulcrum. You’re tempted to linger amongst the stalls, simply to vy for extra time. 

“You two should go and find somewhere to sit,” Tooru insists, shaking his finger from Hajime to you, “We’ll go grab some more food and join you later”.

Hajime levels him with a flat look. “All three of you are needed for that?”

“Yes,” Tooru smiles back, an intensity to his expression. You shift your weight from left foot to right and wait with bated breath.

After a moment of anticipatory silence, Hajime exhales his acquiescence and turns to you. “Come on then. Let’s find a spot”.

You’re pulled along with him, casting a lasting glance toward your friends and their encouraging gestures as you go. He leads two steps ahead, shoulders drawn to his ears, which are now notably pink. The fingers around your forearm are clammy and loose enough that you could break free. Instead, you overturn your wrist and slide up into his palm, aligning your hands to properly hold him. You squeeze three times, and the rigidity in his posture lessens.

Hajime leads you away from the crowded centre toward the river bank as the display starts in an explosive burst. Couples and families have dispersed there to watch the fireworks. When he manoeuvres himself to his knees you bend to sit beside him, the soft blades of grass flattened under your weight. 

The fireworks go on for close to half an hour, great pulsing strobes, fiery dandelions and starbursts of light brightening both the sky and the water. You hear nothing over the noise, not even your own breathing. A streak of gold shoots up, few becoming many, fizzling into pinpricks of light mimicking fireflies.

You wonder after it ends, "Are the Californian displays better?"

Hajime binks at you, registering the question. He makes a contemplative sound. "Bigger, yeah. Especially on the fourth of July," he brings your joined hands over his lap and you stare as he absentmindedly strokes the back of your knuckles. "Wouldn't say that makes it better. Better depends on the company".

You mumble your agreement, "Think the others missed it?"

"Would be pretty hard to miss," he smirks softly, falling into a comfortable silence. Childlike laughter chimes around you, sparklers of every colour glowing etching names and shapes into the darkness. “They’ll be around here somewhere”.

You lift your gaze, staring at his profile. Your eyes traced the line of his jaw up to the delicate shell of his ear. “Hey,” you mumble, drawing his attention away from the surroundings. Speckles of light reflect in his irises as he turns to face you, cheekbones burnished with a soft red afterglow. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something”.

His brow arches in lieu of a response. Every movement he made you mirrored without meaning to. Quieter than before, you start, “I…” and as fast as it comes your resolve withers. Stretches and thins into weak, fibrous threads.

“What’s wrong? Is it that bad?” he tries for a grin. Hajime puts on a brave face for you, he always does. But you can hear the genuine concern in this voice, and it spurs you on.

"Just don't want you to think I'm being selfish".

“You can be selfish sometimes," Hajime argues.

“Even with you?”

“Especially with me”.

You scrunch your eyes shut.

Hajime frowns and rushes to wipe the stray tear with his thumb, swiping right through it like spider silk. "Take your time," he murmurs, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Your heart beats, a desperate rattling behind your ribs. Trembling hands, damp skin. The swoop in your stomach that makes you feel as though your body is precariously balanced on a cliff's edge. This could be everything you’ve ever wanted. This is it.

A slow burn has to catch fire eventually.

So you reach inside and twist the spigot of your heart. A trickle becomes a flood fit to burst. It’s all encompassing, like love and heartbreak at the same time. You look at him and blurt, tremulously, “I’m in love with you,” then wince for having said it, as if you hadn’t really meant to.

“I have been for as long as I can remember. You’re my best friend and I was scared to say it and…” you continued, voice all in a rush, with the pained expression of someone who hadn’t meant to say that either, “I still am. Scared, that is. I'm sorry it took this long. My feelings for you were always at odds with my fear of losing you. And I’m sorry if it’s selfish. I know we don’t have much time left until you leave, and this could make everything weird, but you deserve to know that you're loved. That I love you. And—really, Hajime, if you could just stop me whenever you feel like it that would be great,” you snapped your mouth shut, white hot with embarrassment.

Hajime remained motionless, jaw slack and muscles wire-tight with tension for a long, sickening moment. The sting has you backing off, away, trying to think of something to explain, some excuse—

—Hajime surged forward and kissed you.

It is not like you imagined. There's nothing slow about it, no hesitance nor gentility. Hajime kissed as if trying to press the full weight of his want upon you. As if gravity were a mere suggestion. You suck in a sharp, surprised breath. Relaxing into it your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders to pull him impossibly close, drinking in his soft shudder when you brush the nape of his neck, making all the little hairs there stand endwise.

Hajime's lips are smoother than they look. His hands roam over your hips, kneading the soft parts of your body, and you give way to indulgence. You tilt to kiss his shallow cupid's bow, down to the corner of his mouth. Teeth nibble at your lower lip, the tip of his tongue hatching hundreds of butterflies in your stomach as he traces the seam with promise.

Another loud bang startles you out of the kiss. Laughter and whispers. You sharpen to the surroundings, noting the distant acrid smell of smoke. Rather than release you, Hajime wrapped his arms around your waist and tucked his nose into the hollow where your jaw and neck met. Faint stubble tickles your throat. Your heartbeat clamours in your ears, the blood in your body blush rushing to your head.

"Sorry," you hear him say. His lips drift across your skin as he speaks. The apology fills you with immediate dread. "Should've asked before I did that," he continued quietly.

"Fuck. Is that all?" you slump in his grip with a quiet, wet laugh. "You scared me".

Hajime rears back to look at you, enough room to share a shallow exhale. His palm, large and rough, rose to cradle your cheek. He leans his forehead against yours. You feel like you’ve eaten the sun, brimming with inexpressible tenderness.

"Sorry," he repeats, understanding washing over his expression and a sheepish, fond smile playing on his lips. Pinker than before, not cold bitten, but kiss bitten. "Waited to do that for a long time," his eyes soften in the shadows, half lidded as they flit across your features.

"You have?"

"Used to think you would be my first kiss. First everything, really," Hajime's smiles broadens at your uncertainty, awed and dumbfounded, as he maps out the curve of your jaw with his thumb. Light over your fluttering pulse point. His hand drops and the heat lingers on your neck. He swallows, a sobering moment. "I love you too. Not sure if there was ever a time that I didn’t," he pauses then, looking out toward the orange glow flickering through the treeline, expression unguarded and open. “I kept trying to find opportunities to tell you. I didn't know how. Thought it wouldn't be...”

"Fair?" you finish for him. Of course.

The bonfire has been lit. Cheers can be heard across the river. Your thoughts splinter, stuck in the present while wondering if the others found their way, or if they were hidden somewhere, watching it all unfold. The mental image of them crouched in a random bush together makes you snort, and Hajime's brow pinches.

"Just," you rush to explain, grasping his forearm. You're halfway into his lap. When had that happened? "I imagined the guys hiding somewhere trying to spy on us. S'stupid".

An impish grin graced Hajime's face, ducking his chin as though to hide it. "I wouldn't put it past them," he says. And it hits you that—Hajime has always looked at you like this. Has been saying he loved you, for a long time.

You dither, your skin suddenly cool, and your palms clammy. "Hajime," you say at the same time as he begins to speak.

"Oh—you can—"

"No, you".

"I was going to say we should head back," his voice is infused with fond exasperation, gaze dipping to your union. He clears his throat, "For some privacy. I can't touch you the way I want to, out here".

“Right, right,” you nod slowly through the rush of adrenaline. It prickles in your fingers, the skin on your arms pebbling as Hajime eases you to your feet and a strong arm snakes around your waist. His lips brush your cheek.

“This okay?” 

Melting into the crook of his elbow like it was a space carved just for you, you return a kiss to his jaw and tell him, “You don’t need to ask”. 

“Noted,” he says roughly. 

The walk to the ryokan is a blur. You hardly remember the faces of those you passed. The dancers had been bright in your periphery, their movements reduced to streaks of colour, and every beat of the taiko drum thundered in your chest. 

The quick text you sent to the group chat receives an overwhelming litany of winking emoticons and exclamation marks. Inwardly you hope Hajime doesn’t read them until after—whatever it is you’re heading back to do. Hajime notices. “What’re they saying?” 

“That, uh,” the phone screen dims as you lock it and shove it deep into your pocket. Your legs keep moving. “They promised not to be back for a while,” you shared a meaningful look and wet your lips at the ideas flitting through your mind. The taste of him lingers. Takoyaki, toothpaste and lip balm. 

Together you stumble through the lobby to your room. Hajime remains close at your heel; not once do his hands leave your waist, steadying your movements. You feel drunk. Exhilarated and swept up in the newness of it, as if in a free fall. The keycard almost slips from your trembling fingers as the door beeps open. You step into the shadowed genkan and swivel to take his face into your hands. Another beep as the door closes. You press yourself to Hajime’s front and kiss him. Natural as anything. 

Hajime leads you deeper into the room. The tatami yields under your feet. He sighs blissfully as your tongue swipes along the seam of his mouth, opening up for you and coaxing you in. It’s languid and without demand. The soft, wet sound makes your skin hot. You shudder as he sucks on your tongue, letting go to take the flesh of your bottom lip between his teeth.  

“Need you. On the bed,” you murmur, threading your fingers into his cropped hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Starting at the crown, you make your way down the back of his head to the nape of his neck where you found him to be sensitive. He shudders, goosebumps spreading over his skin, and arousal seeps through your core. 

“Anything you want,” he breathes. A frisson of anticipation zips up your spine when he steps forward to crowd you against the bedroom door, fumbling at the handle. It swings open and your stomach tightens at the abrupt inertia, stumbling onto the bed together with an oomph. 

Hajime rises onto his forearms, flicks on the lamplight before bracing either side of your head. His nose bumps yours, a warm puff of air against your mouth as he bends his knees, slotting your hips together. You kiss him again. It’s more of a press of mouths, because you can’t stop smiling, and neither can he. 

The outline of his cock is pressed hot against you. You hook your heels into his lower back and breathe his name into his mouth. Flint sparks in your belly as he instinctively ruts forward, rising frantically to meet him. Lips part above your own in a shaky groan, quivering as he deepens the kiss. 

There’s tension buzzing under your skin, the restless, pleasant kind that diffuses into every fibre of muscle and leaves you shaking. A soft hitch of breath. You rock your hips in search of relief, feeling his cock hard in the tight confines of his jeans. “More,” your voice dwindles into a weak moan.

“Slow down,” he calls to you, gentle and placating in a way that makes your eyes sting. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” and you wish that were true.

The rustle of fabric as you undress is inordinately loud in the intimate atmosphere he draws you into. Hajime’s eyes deign to stray from you as he shucks his jacket off and pulls his shirt over his head. The blush on his chest looks like the aftershock of a shot of sake; colour that seeps through his body and stains his skin. He’s gorgeous in the warm dim light, emphasising the shadows of his pecs and the downy hair on his navel. You trace a finger through it and preen at how his abdomen clenches. 

A rough hand slips behind your knee, not quite prying them apart. Hajime thumb strokes the skin there. “Can I taste you?”

Desire tugs at the base of your spine, heart racing. You’re wet. You can feel the cool kiss of air between your thighs. With a surge of want they fall open to him. The quiet hitched breath doesn’t escape you as he looks at you. 

Palms smooth down the backs of your thighs. They ache and stretch to accommodate him. Hajime descends, forging a languorous path of wet kisses on his way. Your stomach twists in anticipation when he blows lightly over your pussy, bringing your legs up to straddle his head, kneading the soft flesh there. 

Hajime’s eyes can’t find a place to call home. Flitting from your sex to your chest to your face, mouth hovering just above where you want him. Even so you find yourself wanting to kiss him again. Wanting for more hands, more mouths, more time to learn him with. 

“You’re beautiful,” he rasps, pressing praise into the delicate skin there. It’s the expression on his face that makes you throb. The intense, unabashed want. You’ve never seen him look like that. “You’ll tell me what you like, yeah?”

You concede with a barely audible mumble, unable to trust your voice. The corner of Hajime’s mouth quirks into a smirk. Then his thumbs are tucking into the innermost creases of your thighs, gently spreading your folds. He presses a chaste kiss to your clit before licking a broad stroke through your folds. 

Forcing his eyes open, Hajime clutches at the fat around your hips. He laps at your pussy, alternating between slow and fast, firm and languid, finding a rhythm that plays your body until your hips are rolling against his face. You cling to the bedsheets, head dropping back into the pillows. “Like that. Hajime,” you gasp as flickers back and forth over your clit, breathlessness abated by the sudden rush of air to your lungs. “Fuck. Don’t stop—!”

You hear his deep inhale, and his eyes scrunch shut with a long groan as he keeps pace. It sends an echo of pleasure through you—makes you clench around nothing, an innate plea from your body. He kisses your pussy, open mouthed, sweet and precise. Heat gathers in your belly like a solar flare. The pressure has you bursting at the seams. 

“You’re gonna make me cum,” you say, voice caught in your throat. Your thighs wrap around his head, toes curling. He doesn’t push, or adjust his pace, or let his enthusiasm get the better of him. A broken moan spills from your lips, pelvis undulating with each wave. Hajime maintains the rhythm—exactly as you need it, right as your spine arches into the sheets, and your orgasm ripples through you. 

Your breathing begins to steady. Your legs fall slack, hung limp over Hajime’s shoulders. He hums, a satisfied little noise, and rests his cheek against your inner thigh as his tongue slides lazily through your folds. You take in the arousal and spit coating his cheeks, half lidded stare, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and feel a surge of affection. 

Your fingertips graze his temple. His eyes flutter at the tender touch, and Hajime tips into it, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Good?” he asks, smiling. 

“Good?” you repeat with disbelief. You grab at his shoulders to coax him back up, pleased when he goes willingly. You readjust as he buries his arms under you and gathers you close to his chest, kissing the corner of your lips. You turn and murmur into his mouth, “You’re a little too good at that”.

Hajime laughs, lolling his forehead to yours. “Just good at following instructions,” his voice goes tight at the pressure against his cock, your hips raised to feel him through his briefs. “Fuck”.

“If you want to,” you tease dazedly. He nips at your lip in retaliation. 

“Don’t feel like we have to,” Hajime reassures after a beat, hand coming to rest on your waist. He strokes up and down your flank. “I don’t have any condoms. And I know this has been pretty fast”. 

You consider him closely, love suffusing through you like a warm, pleasant fog. It spurs you to admit things you wouldn’t have otherwise. “I’m clean. We can stop if you want to,” you kiss his cheek, “But I’ve waited enough. I want you,” you kiss the bridge of his nose, “Wanna know what you feel like inside me,” you kiss his slack mouth, tasting yourself. “Want you to know what I feel like when I cum, so you can think about it when we’re apart—”

Hajime pins you to the bed like a butterfly, his jaw set tight. His eyes are dark, gone is the colour of nascent spring. You feel swallowed up by him. “Keep talking and you’re going to make me cum,” he rumbles, reaching to push down his briefs. 

“I don’t care if you cum as soon as you put it in,” you squirm, tucking your chin to watch the moment his cock slips free. He sits in his palm and wraps his fingers firmly around the base, leaning deeper into the cradle of your hips, legs splayed overtop his firm thighs.  

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hajime replies dryly, dipping to kiss you again. You’ve lost count of how many. He positions his arm above you by the headboard and the hot weight of his cock settles on your sex. You share a soft sigh as he guides the tip through your folds, the underside nudging against your clit. 

“You know what I mean,” your focus is torn between talking and angling your hips to take more of him. “Doesn’t have to be mind blowing I just—want to be with you,” you mumble, quiet like an admission, and Hajime’s concentration comes apart at the seams. 

The air is stolen from your lungs as the tip slips in. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, seeking—something. Leverage. A tether. Chest to chest, Hajime presses you deeper into the mattress as his cock sinks into you. Slow, attentive to your shifting expression while you adjust to the stretch. 

And when he bottoms out you feel full. He’s thick. it has a sense of contentment spreading throughout your body. Eventually, “You can move, big guy”. 

Hajime gives a gasping breath, groaning your name on the next. The rough timbre of his voice makes you pulse around him. The corded muscles in his arms flex as he shifts. There’s a dull sting while he pulls out, and a startling emptiness, immediately sated as he rocks his hips forward. You arch upward, angling your hips to take him deeper, and his eyes screw shut, lips parted in a silent moan.

Hajime fucks you with slow, deliberate thrusts, gradually building a rhythm, finding a pace that you respond to. You can hardly bear to look away from him. Flushed pink with exertion, the light lovingly kissing the left side of his face, mouth swollen and red. He’s murmuring little incantations of praise that you strain to hear over the sharp slap of skin, every thrust plucking another breathless sound from your throat. 

And he’s looking right back, almost reverential. A desperate pinch to his brow. You dig your heels in, nails biting at his back. It’s all you can do to hold on. His kisses grow clumsy as his attention wanes, reaching a spit-wet hand down to play with your clit as he pistons his hips. 

“M’close,” he grunts like it pains him to admit. 

Your ears are ringing. The sticky, wet echo reverberates around the room as Hajime fucks you. His strokes press impossibly deeper and you choke on a moan, feeling him in your throat. His fingers rub faster over your swollen clit. Pleasure spreads through your belly, blood rushing between your thighs. 

“Please,” you cradle his cheek, hot against your palm. He takes it in his free hand, interlocking your fingers against the bedsheets. The intimacy has your mind going numb. You’ve become a knot of a person. That new vulnerability, the love he’s immolating you with, is what knocks you toward the edge. “Hajime,” you cling to him desperately. “Hajime”.

“Fuck. I’m coming, I’m—” Hajime buries his face into the crook of your neck, intermittently squeezing your hand. His thrusts are harder, sloppy. He shudders to a stop, his orgasm carving him straight down the middle with a drawn out moan. 

The tension seeps from him all at once. You laugh breathlessly at his collapse, the weight both comfortable and bruising. His pelvis is nestled perfectly against your clit, and every twitch creates another wave of pleasure. You undulate your hips to chase the friction. 

The only indication that Hajime notices is the smile curling against your throat. He lets his lips drift across your pulse, folding his arms around yours until the world and it’s axis are just that—Hajime. Without needing to ask, he stays close and circles his hips even as his cock softens inside you, tipping you over the precipice. 

Time is difficult to measure while swaddled in your intimate little bubble. You’re not sure how long you spend simply holding one another, commiting how the other feels to memory. Hajime kisses your forehead. “I love you,” he says.

“Love you,” you croak back unattractively. He flinches at the sound, and props himself up to search your face. 

Eyes wide and earnest he asks, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m alright. Just processing everything,” you reply, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. Hajime doesn’t look convinced. 

“Tell me,” he gently encourages. There’s an anxious edge to his tone that you want rid of. 

“Besides the fact that I had sex with the guy I’ve been in love with since middle school and everyone is going to know that when they get back?” you laugh. Hajime’s mouth curls at the sound as he carefully manoeuvres you both onto your sides. Better. “I’m just scared about what this means for us, I guess. Are we—you know, together now? Doing the long distance thing?” 

Giving a thoughtful hum, he hooks your knee over his hip. Whether it’s to put off the mess a little longer or keep you close, you’re not going to complain. “I want to be with you,” he says. 

“Even though we’ll be…” you squint as you think and reach inward for the specific number “…five thousand three hundred and fourteen miles apart?” 

“You looked that up?” Hajime’s smile widens, dopey and fond in a way that makes your heart ache. “But yeah. We’ll take it one step at a time”. 

“Then what’s the next step?” 

“Next?” he says. Another tender kiss to your temple, a deep, pensive inhale. “Next, we use the onsen”.

EXTRA:

You can’t be sure how long you stand there, sluggish and unblinking, fixated on the distant threads of grey cutting across an otherwise dark sky. It felt dissonant to the torrential downpour in your chest.

A warm body comes up behind you. Issei rests his chin on your crown, rubbing it back and forth as Takahiro knocks your elbows together, “Ready to go?”

No, you think. After a few beats of silence you phone buzzes in your hand and you scramble to check it. The background is the picture Takahiro took of you and Hajime by the lake, in a world of your own. A notification bar cuts across the screen. 

Hajime (03:34): I love you. I’ll call when I land. 

You swallow that thought and uproot yourself, “Yeah. Yeah I think so”.

[loveshotzz]

I guess it’s never really over

mechanic!steve x fem!reader exes to lovers

Chapter Four -

Honey, on your knees when you look at me

The consequences of your actions hang heavy around you neck when you wake up, so you go to the shop to tell Steve this is definitely not what he thinks it is.

warnings: 18+ slight angst, confused feelings, semi public smut, fingering (fem!receiving), oral (fem receiving), body worship, praise kink, unprotected p in v smut, cream pie, fluff.

wc: 10k

authors note: This chapter has been almost two months in the making between life and writers block, I didn’t think I would be here. Thank you to everyone who sent me messages about this story and about him because of you, I never gave up writing this series I was so excited about. beta’d by: @superblysubpar

series masterlist | series playlist

songs from the playlist that inspired this chapter: Unravel Me, If You Think I’m Pretty, Please Don’t Fall In Love With Me, Make Up, Eastside, Holy.

Streams of shining golden yellow make your lids still heavy with sleep flutter, lashes tickling the tops of your puffy cheeks as you surrender to the sun’s wishes to wake you up. The orange shag carpet in Robin’s living room slowly comes into focus, along with the rest of your surroundings as the ends of your palms rub the rest of the night from your eyes. Stretching your legs, they’re met with warmth like the rays of sunshine peeking through the blinds still lingering on the cushions next to you. 

¨Shit.¨ 

Your muscles freeze, threatening to cramp in your calf as the night floods back into your memories. How his plush pink lips slotted between yours like they should never be anywhere else, or how they made your back arch, kissing a messy path down your neck, perfect teeth nipping, threatening to bruise your delicate skin that lights up under his touch. 

A shaky breath pushes out of your lungs as you shimmy your body deeper into the couch, fingers finding their way to your chest where you swear you can still feel his smile pressed into your skin, the tips of them hitting something smooth and warm. 

A metal chain.

The weight of it around your neck finally registers through the sleepy fog that lifts from your brain. Looking down the slope of your nose, you nearly go cross-eyed when you’re met with the rich yellow gold that matches the sun, especially because It looks just like the one that belongs to Steve Harrington. 

“No, no, no, no.”

The realization that it is in fact, Steve Harrington’s kicks in just like your feet in a silent fit, the thin throw he must’ve put on top of you before he left falling to the ground. You remember his plea for a date, and it has panic curling deep in your gut, the consequences of your actions arriving first thing in the morning before you’ve even had any coffee. 

There’s a little bit of pride that hides in a small space in your chest that you didn’t just fold and say yes. Something you would have done in high school when he was giving you much less. Still, you didn’t say no. You were just prolonging the inevitable matter of letting him down right? It’s the self-respecting thing, it’s what you told yourself you’d always do. 

Say no.

You twist the metal between your fingers, your eyes finding the dust particles that seem to float between the plastic of Robin’s blinds. There’s an ache in your heart at the fresh reminder of what it feels like to be held in his arms, something he rarely did when you were dating, at least not if it wasn’t the dead of night. The sleepovers at his big empty house were your favorite until you realized how sad it was. All his whispered secrets and deep confessions that he only shared when you were lit by the moonlight - the kind that hid all the stars in the sky and that boy he was trying to hide. The ones that kept you hanging onto hope until the last bit of rope tethering you to him, cut your skin. Those were the nights that really made you have to run. 

You’re not sure if you could survive it again, and the end of August is only a distant friend. Pushing yourself off the couch, your eyes catch the bright bold numbers on the microwave that read 9:45 AM and you try to remember all the reasons you left in the first place. Not the way he looked at you last night in the kitchen making your best friend’s favorite snack. 

Your flip-flops clack loudly against the hot pavement, the determination in your walk up to the shop threatening to set the street ablaze. The spaghetti strap sundress you threw on in a rush trying to be careful not to wake up Robin does very little to help cool you or your mood down when you’re met with the mugginess of the Midwest. 

Steve’s chain bounces against your chest with each step, the gold shimmering against the sunlight in a pretty reminder that you still haven’t taken it off yet. One that you choose to ignore in your huff trying to think of all the mean things he's done and not the way he begged you to make it right.

Reaching the end of the block, you notice Eddie’s van is missing from the parking lot, leaving only Steve’s BMW against the side of the shop. It stops you dead in your tracks because the buffer that would stop you from making the same mistake isn’t there. Your proven lack of self-control only a few weeks into the summer has your confidence waver with nerves that try and get the best of you, but with a deep breath, you force your feet to keep moving.

Steve’s side of the garage is the only one open, the faded green metal door at half-mast to keep some of the sun away. Michael Jackson’s The Way You Make Me Feel bleeds out of the open space, bouncing and echoing off the cars inside, waking up the butterflies and sending them soaring. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you try not to imagine the way he’s probably singing along, or that curl that won’t stay in place, falling over his forehead as he bobs his head to the beat.

Why is Eddie not here? 

You see his black work boots first, then the legs that were intertwined with yours just a few hours ago, now adorned by blue coveralls. Walking across the grease-stained cement, he comes to an abrupt stop, and for a second you think maybe he sees you, heart thumping wildly in your chest until he shuffles back a few steps before continuing forward. 

He was dancing and you hate the way the corners of your mouth twitch because of it.

The smell of oil is bittersweet hitting your nose as you stop in front of the opening, silently working up the courage to duck under the door. Steve doesn’t notice your sneaky entrance from where he stands at his workbench with his back facing you, completely lost in whatever’s on the paper he’s holding in black-stained hands. It gives you the few minutes you need to get your thoughts together as he bops his head to the music that’s loud enough to hide you a little bit longer. 

Your gaze lands on Eddie’s empty office, successfully diminishing the last bit of hope you clung onto that maybe he just didn’t drive today, before your eyes catch the burnt orange of your car tucked away in the corner. A cherry red Corvette sits parked in front of it, making your face sour at the instant comparison. It outshines the car you scraped up enough money to get after moving to the city, sparking the kind of anger you’d been scrambling to cling onto walking up here. Maybe if your car hadn’t broken down, you wouldn’t have kissed Steve Harrington, and then maybe you wouldn’t be standing here secretly wanting to do it again. 

Clinging to that notion with everything you have, you take a deep breath, straightening your posture before clearing your throat, letting him know he wasn’t by himself anymore.

”The music’s a little loud don’t you think?” 

The pleased grin that spreads wide across your face can’t be stopped when the sound of your voice makes him jump with a ‘Jesus Christ’ so loud you can hear it over the music, crumbling the paper in his hands.

Point one - you.

Your victory is short-lived the moment Steve turns around with his ever changing brown eyes that are somehow warmer in the daylight, reflecting the flecks of green that shine and light up even more at the realization that it’s you and not some random intruder. He runs those long fingers through his hair, trying to tame the mess on top of his head that you made, while his heavy stare fixates on the chain still hanging off your neck. Right where he left it.

Leaning over to turn the volume down on his boombox, he doesn’t break eye contact, giving you that crooked smile that makes your heart skip a beat pushing up the two moles on his cheek. Raising his hands in a silent apology, you try not to think about how big they look or the way they grabbed at your hips last night. It's a fruitless effort, so you try to make up for it with a sassy tongue.

”Wow, I could have easily stolen one of these cars if I had wanted to.” 

Crossing your arms, you suck at your teeth, deciding that standing right where you are is the best move, especially when you see the sweat that glistens, beading off of his tan skin, curling the coarse hairs on his chest that’s hardly hidden by the sheer white of his tank top. At least his coveralls are fully on this time.

“Maybe I should report you to Eddie.”

“Most of the cars in here don’t run,” Steve tuts, dark eyes roaming over your curves hugged tight by the soft cotton of your dress unashamed before meeting your narrowed gaze, “You of all people should know that.”

“Sounds like maybe you’re just bad at your job.” 

You ignore the uncontrollable press of your thighs that only gets worse the more his smile widens with your attitude, reading your body language like his favorite book.

“Did you come here just to pick a fight?” Steve sighs, carding another hand through his hair, threatening to punch the air out of your lungs when he looks up at you through his lashes “Or do you just want another kiss?”

It’s impossible to sound out the word ‘no’ even though it’s just two letters because watching him lick his full bottom lip before tugging it between his perfect teeth makes you wish it was yours instead.  

“Is that it baby?” Steve taunts, pushing himself off the work bench and tossing the crumbled paper aside.

”No,” you finally manage to get out, but the venom you had less than twenty-four hours ago is gone, and it barely stings when you try to deny with a jut of your chin and a quieter than intended, “That’s not why I’m here.”

The little bit of self-control you’ve been hanging onto with an iron grip starts to slip from in between your fingers with each heavy thud of his boots that bring you closer to your demise as he closes the gap.

”Are you sure?” He asks with a glint in the darkening russet of his eyes that land on the gold wrapped around your neck again, close enough now to smell last night's leftover cologne.

“A-absolutely,” you stutter, taking a few steps back, the clack of your flip flops echoing, making you wince with embarrassment as you try to counteract his advances only for your back to hit the cool metal of a pickup truck. 

”Hmmm, I know what it must be then,” he hums, a faint hint of smirk twisting the corners of his full lips, big boots stopping with a scuff on the cement floor right in front of your pink painted toes. 

Reaching up, his bold fingertips trace the smooth edges of his chain, rough calluses tickling your collar bone daring to explore a little more. The quick rising of your chest spurs him on as he tries to hold his composure, teasing the dip of your breasts, he curls his finger around the metal, lifting the chain a little before letting it fall back into place. Mischief twinkles in his stare that matches the same color staining his hands.

“You must be here to tell me when you’ll be ready for our date later tonight, huh baby?”

It takes your brain a second to catch up, the freckles that spread across his cheeks like wildfire in the light distracting you from this close.

“The opposite actually,” clearing your throat, you try to hide the way your tongue dries when he looks at you like this, “I’m here to say that whatever happened last night doesn’t change anything.” 

The corners of his lips twitch, his gaze getting lost in the details of your features like you weren’t denying him, finally giving you the fuel you needed to make your blood simmer, the anger you thought you’d lost forever buzzing under your heated skin.

“So!”  You snap your fingers in his face, interrupting whatever daydream he was getting lost in, getting the glare you were searching for, “You better get that out of your head right now. We’re not going on a date.” 

Your words finally bite with a tone that almost seems final and for a minute it starts to feel like you have a semblance of your self-control back. Holding your head up high, you try to really end whatever started on your best friend's couch last night. 

“We can be friendly for Robin’s sake, but it’s never going to happen again. I’m not your girl, Harrington.”

Steve rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, something you can’t quite put your finger on flashing behind the gold in his eyes. Leaning forward, his hand finds the chipped teal paint of the truck behind you. Caging you in, the spice of his cologne overwhelms you as it mixes with the heat in the garage, and the sweat glistening on his tan skin. The warmth of his breath fans across your cheeks that burn like they’re being licked by a flame, thighs pressing harshly under your dress as you try not to let his gaze swallow you whole. 

“If that’s how you really feel, fine.” He says cooly, seemingly unphased and it makes your blood boil more. “I’ll take my chain back now then.”

 “No.”

“No?” He snorts incredulously at your refusal, watching the way your fingers come up to play with it. Taunting him.

”I don’t even know why you put it on me in the first place,” you scoff with a roll of your eyes, channeling his nonchalance before ducking under his arm, your escape in sight.

You refuse to look back at him making a beeline to the open garage door, heart thumping wildly in your chest as you do your best not to give away the attachment you have to the weight of it around your neck that you really aren’t ready to unpack yet.

”I left it!” Steve yells hot on your heels, the cracks in his confident demeanor starting to show, “I left it so you didn’t think I just disappeared on you this morning because I personally have zero regrets about what happened last night.”

The sarcastic ‘HA!’ you let out is almost comical, picking up your pace with an extra sway to your hips because you know he’s staring.

”How about this, Steve?” You antagonize, turning around and walking backward with a smug grin that mirrors his from before, “I’ll think about it.”

Steve doesn’t take the bait, instead, he side-steps quickly to smash the round red button on the wall with a deadpan face. Letting the rumble of the garage door coming to life do all the talking for him.

”Are you serious?!“ You shriek, watching it close faster than your feet can carry you, even contemplating a tuck and roll when you see the sunlight and any chance you have at not going back on your promise start to disappear behind it.

“It’s simple honey,” he sighs with an irritated edge, “Give me my chain and I’ll open her back up so you can go run back to Robin’s and pretend like last night never happened. Just the way you want, right?”

”This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Let me out asshole!” 

A new level of stubbornness that you never thought you could reach locks you in place, facing him with arms crossed tight over your chest.

”I’m ridiculous?” Steve chuckles darkly, the steel toe of his boots echoing louder now that you’re sealed inside as he walks towards you, “Look at yourself.”

”What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap despite the way your teeth gnaw nervously on your bottom lip, greedy eyes roaming his tall frame as your body betrays you for what feels like the hundredth time today when he steps into your space again.

“I know you enjoyed drama club in high school, but you’ve always been a terrible actress.” 

“And you’ve always had way more confidence than you should.” 

Steve’s nostrils flare, his gaze threatening to set you on fire.

”I’m going to get back to work, you’re free to go whenever you give me my necklace back. I’m getting paid to be here all day baby, you aren’t, so just know that I’ve got time.” He holds your stare for a second longer, sucking at his teeth before turning around. Testing you.

“Come take it off me then, Harrington, if you want it so bad.”  

Two can play that game.

He stops in his tracks, shoulders tensing at the implication of your words, turning his head to the side, he gives you a perfect view of his sharp jawline. 

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he warns, with a tone sharp enough to make your stomach flip.

“I said,” your shoulders square with a defiance that matches your glare, acting as if you aren’t sealing your fate with the next four words, “Come and get it.”

Steve’s long strides close the distance faster than you can comprehend. A big hand grabs at your hip, grease-stained fingers digging into your curves, while the other cups the side of your face, surely leaving a mark. He's getting what he really wants.

Gasping into his mouth, the force of his kiss sends a shudder through the garage door when your back slams against it. Lost in the sensation of his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, you barely notice. Your fingers weave through the thick locks of his hair at the nape of his neck as if they were always meant to be there. A harsh tug on the silky strands earns you a groan that's deeper than you remember, and you immediately want to hear it again.

The clash for dominance ignites as your tongues collide clumsily, teeth grazing and noses pressing into each other’s cheeks. His grip tightens on your hip in a warning before his hand trails down to where the bottom hem of your dress rests at the top of your thigh. Pushing up the thin fabric, the blunt tips of his nails skim across your soft skin, goosebumps pebbling despite the heat.

His fingers tease the edge of your panties, tracing the curve where they meet your ass, stealing your whine with a cocky grin that he kisses into your lips. He lingers just long enough to turn you needy before he hooks your knee around his waist, getting the instant roll of your hips and more of your little noises that will haunt his every waking thought after this. 

“Steve,” you breathe, tugging your swollen bottom lip between your teeth while he starts kissing a slow, agonizing path down your jaw, tickling you with the stubble on his cheek.

He hums in between kisses, nipping at the sensitive spot behind your ear, he soothes it with a swipe of his tongue before he starts to suck–hard. Your moan bounces off the metal and concrete that surround you, echoing in your ears while your greedy fingers tug even harder at his roots. His grip on you tightens when you start to squirm as his efforts to mark what’s his intensify, leaving a bruise you’ll have to explain to Robin later.

”Yeah?” He mumbles against your heated skin, the tip of his nose running along your pulse point, a saccharine smile pressing into the curve of your neck where his chain still rests.

“Shut up,” you manage to get out, despite Steve leaving open-mouthed kisses on the swell of your breasts, palming roughly at the dough of your ass, encouraging another rock of your hips.

“You're always so mean to me, honey,” Steve sighs, nipping at the supple skin, before meeting your poor attempt at a glare from under the thick hood of his lashes.

”Yeah? And? What are you gonna do about it?” You bite, but it doesn’t sting the way you want it to, not with the way your chest heaves in anticipation of his next move.

Steve flips you around so quickly that the change in position has you gasping, your palms meeting the warm metal of the garage door that bakes in the sun outside. Heavy work boots push your legs apart, while hot breath that rivals the summer dances across the nape of your neck. He presses himself into you, letting you feel just how hard you really have him, the tip of his nose brushing along the shell of your ear. Butterflies multiply, tickling your rib cage just like your lashes that kiss the tops of your cheeks.

“I think it's pretty obvious what I want to do,” he whispers against your neck, lips ghosting across the freshly formed bruise, “The real question is…”

The backs of his fingers brush along the sides of your breasts, goosebumps pebbling across your skin. His big hands follow the curve of your waist, smoothing down to the tops of your thighs. Taking his time, he curls them under the hem of your dress, pulling it up to rest on top of your hips, still giving you the chance to stop him. One you don’t take.

“Are you gonna let me?” His words are gruff coming out next to your ear, your walls fluttering around nothing because of it.

The humid air doesn’t help your sticky thighs that only get worse as two of his calloused fingers trace agonizingly slow along the waistband of the only fabric separating you now. Peppering soft kisses to all the sensitive spots that make your skin come alive, his teeth nip playfully at your earlobe, fireworks lighting up in the sky behind your eyes when he takes it into the heat of his mouth. The sensation has you mewling, jaw going slack as your toes curl into the foam of your flip flops from a feeling only Steve Harrington can give.

”I could be so nice to you, baby,” he whispers, letting you go with a pop, his fingers daring to go lower than just teasing, smirking against your cheek at the gasp you give when he drags them through your slick folds, wrapping your hands around his wrist for support, your hips chase him for more. “Don’t you want that?”

Your pride has your teeth biting into your bottom lip. Refusing to answer his question loaded with too many double meanings for your head to wrap around right now, but you still spread yourself wider for him, because the last thing you want him to do is stop.

“Gonna make me earn it, huh?” He breathes, biting back his groan at how you start dripping down his hand, “That’s okay. I’ll show you I’m worthy.”

His promise is enough to finally draw out the moan you’ve been fighting, the sound making him kick up in his coveralls, while the movements of his wrist become more pointed. Your head lulls back against his broad shoulder, and his cologne smells even better with the way sweat starts to drip from his pores. Your eyes are needy, meeting the black coffee of his and you know it, especially at the furrow of his brows when he looks at you completely transfixed.

“God, I almost forgot how soft you are. How fucking wet you get for me.” He whispers between gritted teeth, awestruck at the feeling of your silk walls begging him for more, daring him to explore, “Bet you taste even sweeter than I remember too.”

Leaning down, he runs the tip of his nose along the bridge of yours, the mint that still lingers on his breath tickling your lips. Your hips roll with the rhythm of his wrist, warmth spreading across your cheeks as the sounds of just how wet you are echo in the big space. Too close to falling apart all over his fingers to care, the blunt ends of your nails dig half-crescent moons into his wrist chasing it.

“Baby, are you gonna come already? I’ve barely touched you.” 

His words mock you despite the sugary sweetness they drip with, every swipe against your bundle of nerves becoming unrelenting, determined even. But it’s still enough for you to take the bait and force your eyes open, meeting his hungry stare dead on and say:

”Y- you wish it was that easy.”

Amusement dances across the hard lines of his face, his dark gaze narrowing before something between a laugh and a growl rumbles deep from his chest. The motions of his wrist come to a halt, and it takes everything inside of you not to cry in protest. Pulling his hand from your soaked panties, his wet fingers dig into your hips spinning you around, quick strides pushing you to the corvette that started your spiral. 

“What are you doing?!” You squeal, your butt hitting the cherry-red metal of the hood that sticks to your sweat-slicked skin.

He just grins, the pearly whites of his teeth showing as grease-stained hands spread your knees apart enough for him to step between, leaving raven fingerprints in their wake before grabbing at your chin, he forces you to look at him.

“Need you to keep your eyes on me, honey, and remember what you just said.” He pulls your bottom lip down with the pad of his thumb, watching it pop back into place. 

Letting go of your chin, he holds your stare, fingers ghosting across the tops of your thighs as he drops to his knees like someone praying to a god. Hooking his arms under your bent legs, he tugs you to the end of the hood with a squeak. Spread wide for him to see, your calves rest on top of his shoulders that you hate to admit you wish you could see. Leaning forward, the tip of his nose traces the wet path of your covered folds, breathing you in like the sweetest summer breeze.

When his big eyes meet yours from between your thighs, just begging you to get lost in them like you used to, it’s almost enough for you to forget the game you’re both supposed to be playing. There’s a softness that lingers inside melting caramel that manages to shine through the black that overpowers it, and you wonder if he can hear the way your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. 

His touch is gentle now, long fingers curling around the waistband of your underwear, silently asking you for permission to cross the line that deep down you know there’s no going back from. Nodding your head with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you even help him, lifting your legs when he pulls them from around your ankles.

Steve stuffs the satin in his pocket ignoring the way you tell him that you want them back. His pink tongue that’s seconds away from being your undoing wets his lips, jaw going tight at the sight in front of him. Roses bloom on his tan cheeks, and he can’t help but run a hand through his hair, the reality setting in that he really has you like this. He looks completely wrecked. At least it isn’t just you.

“Fuck.” He breathes, the blunt ends of his nails digging into the dough of your thighs, shuffling himself even closer, his eyes glaze over. 

Goosebumps pebble across your buzzing skin, your velvet walls fluttering around nothing as you lose the witty response you had saved on the tip of your tongue, managing just a quiet, “I thought you were supposed to show me somethin’?” 

His lips twitch so close to where you need him most that you can almost feel the curve of them, your knees bending just a little more, urging him on by his shoulders.

“So impatient,” he tsks, the vibrations of his words only making it worse, “My girl needs me huh? She missed me as much as I missed her didn’t she?”

“Steve - shut uhhhhohmygod!”

His mouth latches onto your cunt like he’s thirsty for everything you’re offering him, collecting your dripping honey that’s sweet on his tongue. Running a broad stripe up your folds, his grip on your thighs tightens when you start to squirm, holding you in place, as he swirls messy circles on your bundle of nerves before sucking it hard enough for your head to fall back against the car. Your fingers bury themselves into the sweaty silk of his hair, pulling harshly at the roots, earning the kind of grunt that has you whimpering, dripping down the stubble on his chin as your hips buck up to meet him.

Letting you go with a loud pop, he huffs out a dark laugh at your whine, hardly giving you time to recover before pulling you even further down the hood of the car, till your ass hangs off the edge. The tip of his nose brushes against your sensitive clit while his tongue begins to tease your entrance that quivers just for him. The new angle has you practically sitting on his face, and before you have a chance to overthink it he slowly starts to work you open with his greedy mouth.

”Holy shit I -“ Your eyelids droop, jaw going slack as he starts to move side to side, licking into you like you’re the sweetest prize. His nose adds just the right amount of pressure while he eats you up like a man starved, “You’re gonna - fuck - Steve!”

His hands move from your thighs to the soft fat of your ass, encouraging your hips more, and if you weren’t so far gone, you’d be scared you’re suffocating him. You dare to look down at the scene between your legs, and it’s almost enough to have you cumming all over his face. His pitch-black eyes gaze up at you enamored, completely lost and still hungry because after all these years it’s still not enough. He moans into your folds when you meet his half-lidded stare, the sensation vibrating in all the right places, making your legs shake.

The feeling of your walls pulsing tight around his tongue, knowing how close you are already has him twitching painfully hard in his coveralls. It’s enough to ignore the discomfort of his knees, doubling down on the movements of his jaw. His name bounces off the metal and concrete, while the roll of your hips gets more and more aggressive because it feels like he’s eating you from the inside out, the tip of his tongue reaching the spot that makes you gasp.

“Right there, shit, right there, right there, I’m gonna, oh my god I’m gonna cum!”

Your scream is silent, body going rigid, giving into him already. The muscles in your legs tense, as your thighs squeeze tight around his head while your pussy tries to push him out but he only doubles down with a completely relentless tongue. He moans loud enough inside you to hear through the ringing in your ears, your fingers curling harshly in his thick locks, back hitting the metal of the hood again.

He ignores the first few pushes against his forehead when his kitten licks become too much before he finally listens. Sticky legs fall open releasing him from a trap he never asked to escape from, his shiny wet lips leaving kisses along your shaking thighs, tickling the supple skin with the stubble on his jaw. You feel his tongue dart out to collect everything he missed, earning the kind of sweet noises he can’t wait to hear all summer long. 

Steve stands up wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and you try to be mad at his smug grin but your body can’t help its reaction to the way he struggles against his coveralls. The hard outline of dick reminds you of the stretch that you know will ruin you for anyone else, spent walls fluttering despite yourself. 

”Now what was that you were saying a few minutes ago, pretty girl?” Leaning down, his palms find a new home on either side of your head. 

The whites of his teeth shine at the eyeroll you find enough energy to give him, even with your legs wrapped around his waist. His nose nudges the tip of yours, the playful glint in his eyes changes into something lovesick and it brings the ache in your chest back because you know it’s going to hurt even worse walking away again. 

“Hey, what’s going on up there?” He questions, placing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, eyebrows furrowing as he searches your face for answers.

You don’t give him one, pushing aside the worry for when you lay awake in the middle of the night. Instead, you let your fingers wrap themselves in the cotton of his tank top, pulling him to your lips that silently beg him to help you forget. He meets you with an eager mouth, and a big hand that comes up to rest on your flushed cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the high bone while his tongue asks you for permission for more. 

Your thighs lock tighter around his waist, granting him the access he wants, tasting yourself all over him. Shaking fingers find the zipper of his jumper, tugging down the metal, he helps your shimmy off his sleeves. The freckles that dot his shoulders like the night sky beg you to open your eyes as the top of his coveralls fall to his sides, the rock of his hips making you say his name like it’s the sweetest thing. 

“Want you,” you whisper with a nip at his bottom lip, ankles crossing at the two dips you know are on his lower back.

”Baby,” He groans, dropping his head down, burying it in the crook of your neck as you roll your pussy over the length of him that’s still covered by the navy blue material you can’t seem to get off fast enough.

He lets you do it a few more times before his hands find both your wrists, pinning them above your head, he peppers kisses along your jaw, letting his fingers glide down the length of your body, making sure to catch his chain still hanging off your neck as he stands back up. You finally get a good look at him, and the sight is enough to know the memory of today will be etched into the corners of your mind, just like the rest of them. 

Pink cheeks still kissed by the sun, and dark chestnut hair that matches his eyes twist at its golden ends in an even bigger mess now on the top of his head. The thick thatch of it on his chest curling from the sweat that drips down his neck, leaving translucent patches along the white cotton of his tank top, teasing even more of him to your starving gaze. His uniform hangs low on his hips, giving you a glimpse of the waistband of his boxer briefs, making you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. He grabs at the sides of your thighs, his handsome face going kind.

“You came in here ready to tell me to fuck off,” he laughs softly, thumbs rubbing gentle circles, “I just need to know this is what you really want.”

His words tighten in your chest, forcing you to make a decision so that when you have no one else to blame but yourself when you lay awake in your apartment with a broken heart in the fall, you can’t hate him anymore. 

“I really want it.” 

The answer stumbles past your lips before you can think too hard about it, pulling the rest of your rucked up dress over your head, leaving you completely exposed for his heavy chocolate eyes to drink in. Despite the muggy heat of the garage, your nipples pebble under it, cheeks going hot because you always feel like the most beautiful girl in the world when Steve Harrington looks at you like this. 

It’s all the encouragement he needs to let you go and do the same with his tank top, tossing it to the side before shoving the rest of his uniform down the tops of his thighs. Thick, long and heavy, your eyes widen as his hard length springs free, smacking against the happy trail at the bottom of his stomach. The pink tip leaks for you, shining with precum, while his big hand wraps around it, tugging a few times and making you drip more on the hood.

“I’ll go slow,” he coos, leaning down to capture your lips in something sweeter than the rest of them. “I know you can take it, honey.”

Nodding your head, you look up at him with glassy eyes, completely giving in, shutting off the part of your brain that’s telling you that you know better. Spreading your legs wider, his eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, cursing under his breath at the sight of you like this. He silently thanks whatever gods or girl that got Eddie sick, because this moment shatters any fantasies that have consumed his late nights. 

He runs the length of his cock through your slick, spreading you apart around him, earning the kind of mewl that makes him twitch in his hand. Your back arches off the corvette when he does it again only this time with added pressure to your clit. Locking your legs around his waist, you make sure he doesn’t get away. 

”So fuckin’ beautiful baby, Jesus Christ, look at you.” Steve grunts, lining himself up with your entrance, pushing just the tip into the tightening silk of your walls before both his hands find their way back to your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh. ”Wanna make you feel so good. You gonna let me?”

“Mmhmm,” you whimper a little high pitch and out of breath, letting go of all the control you’ve hung onto for the last five years with a dirty roll of your hips that begs to suck him in.

“Oh fuck, you’re still so - shit.” Steve practically whines, his jaw going hard with eyebrows that pinch together, trying to regain his composure from the way you pulse around him just nudging halfway in, the aftershocks of your first orgasm have you feeling every ridge of his cock, lighting your body up.

The stretch burns, your eyes rolling in the back of your head as flames lick deep in your gut from the feeling you’ll never get enough of. His calloused fingers grab at your chin, demanding your attention. Your lashes tickle the tops of your cheeks as you force them back open, only to find his face is closer now, both his palms landing on either side of your head, black iris’s threatening to drown you, holding your gaze with the kind of intensity that makes your heart palpitate.

”I want to look at you.” He breathes against your lips as one swift thrust has you completely filled up.

”Steve!” 

Gasping into his mouth, it takes all of your strength to keep your eyes open, focusing on the imperfect circles of the chestnut freckles that explode across the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah?” He smirks, pressing his forehead against yours, the rough hair on his chest tickling the softness of your breasts, nipples pebbling as your arms wrap around his neck.

“It feels, you feel -“

A loud moan rumbles from the back of your throat when the tip of him hits the spot that makes your toes curl into the fat of his ass, pushing him even deeper, the ends of your nails dig pretty marks all over his shoulders. 

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how good it feels.” He grunts, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, the roll of his hips becoming a slow grind. 

His pelvic bone hits your bundle of nerves just right while the tip of him bullies the spot that has your eyes threatening to close against his wishes, and it has you sounding like ‘Steve’ is the only word you’ve ever known. It’s a hazy mess inside your mind, especially when he looks at you like this. It’s worse than before, and you don’t know how you’re going to find your way back this time, something different inside of his gaze that you know is going to make it impossible.

”Missed you so much, so damn gorgeous angel, think about you all the time. All the fucking time.” Steve babbles, completely drunk off the way you flutter at his words, the angry facade you’ve been putting on crumbling around him as your body lets the truth come out.

The confession makes your chest tighten with all the unresolved feelings you’ve shoved down for so long, the ones you almost forgot were there until a few weeks ago. Fingers curling into the hair on the nape of his neck you lean up, capturing his lips to shut him up, rocking your hips to meet his thrust. He grunts into your mouth, cock twitching against your walls, eagerly licking into your mouth. 

It’s easier to get lost in him without the reminder of what used to be, teeth scraping together as the kiss gets messier. The metal of the car crunches and bends under your movements, but neither one of you can find it in you to care with noses pressing into each other's cheeks, tongues fighting for the kind of dominance your hips are at war about.

Steve is the one that breaks first, coming up for air, with eyes that seem even darker than before as he pushes himself up to stand. Big hands grab at your hips as a loose strand of hair falls across his forehead. Pulling halfway out, he takes a moment to admire the sheen you coat him, pink tongue darting out to lick his swollen lips before shoving himself all the way back in.

”Oh my god!”  You gasp, throwing your head back against the hood, your hands landing on top of his, fingernails digging into the tops of them.

“I wanna watch you cum again, can you do that for me, baby?” He tugs you closer, your body squeaking across the metal that tries to stick to your skin, the tip of him hitting that spot again.

Nodding your head, every hard thrust of his hips echoes through the garage, the car shaking underneath you as tires threaten to roll. He feels himself getting close, the pad of his thumb finding your clit to rub the kind of messy circles that have you saying his name just how he likes. 

“Come on, let me see how pretty you can get, let me have it.” He coos, finding the perfect combination to make you come undone all over him.

Your walls clench hard enough to try and push him out but he just buries himself deeper, a loud groan rumbling from his chest watching the way your face contorts with pleasure. White dances behind your heavy lids that squeeze shut as your legs start to shake around his waist. You try to shove his hand away, but he refuses, remaining relentless, milking your second orgasm for everything it's worth, making you cum even harder. 

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s iiiiit, so fuckin’ good for me.” He praises, completely lost in the way your body responds to him and it’s enough to send him flying over the edge he’d been teetering on since had you against the garage door.

A string of curse words falls pretty from his lips, twitching hard inside you and with the last bit of strength you have, you squeeze him even tighter, relishing in the way his jaw goes slack because of it. The movements of his thumb finally end its assault so he can grab onto your sides with both hands, fingers digging bruises as one last hard thrust has his warmth filling you up.

The feeling of being so full sends your body buzzing, watching him fall apart on top of you with sweat dripping off the ends of his hair. His head drops between his shoulders, body shaking as his orgasm rakes through him. Red cheeks and skin so warm it rivals the sun, he lets himself collapse on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck totally spent, still chasing his high with a slow circle of his hips.

Your nose finds its way into his damp hair, inhaling deeply because it somehow smells even better than before. You wrap your arms around his shoulders even though you know you should leave and forget this ever happened, but it feels too good to have hands sliding up your curves as he starts to drip out of you and onto the car. 

“God, Eddie’s going to kill me.” He mumbles against your skin, making you squirm because it tickles, and you can feel him smile because of it.

“How’s he gonna find out?” You giggle, the metal of the Corvette popping under your shifting weight.

”Baby.” Steve snorts, leaving a kiss on the curve of your jaw before pushing himself up on his elbows, the endearment falling too easily off his tongue in a casual way, reminding you very quickly of your reality.

It’s harder to meet his eyes that search for yours, but you do anyway. They’re warm again, like a dark sand beach and it's hard not to want to lay out a towel and live inside them. Both of you wince as he pulls himself out, cursing under his breath at your walls staying greedy and trying to pull him back in. 

He doesn’t notice the shift in your demeanor pulling up his coveralls and tying the sleeves around his waist, or if he does he chooses to ignore it, grabbing your dress off the floor before offering you his hand. There’s less grease staining them now and you know it's because it's all over you, completely marked by him nearly head to toe whether you like it or not. 

Sliding your hand in his, you duck your head down as you take it, legs wobbling when your feet hit the ground, not missing the smug grin that pushes up his cheeks clocking it. You go for your dress but Steve just tuts at you pulling it out of reach, ignoring your scoff he shakes it out before lifting it above your head signaling for you to put your arms up. Rolling your eyes with a smile you can’t fight, you pretend not to feel the butterfly wings tickling your ribcage, turning around and doing as he asks, letting him drag the soft cotton down your body. Calloused fingertips tracing the goosebumps they create.

”Let’s go get cleaned up in the bathroom,” he hums softly, grabbing you by the hips, and pressing a kiss into the fresh bruise behind your ear.

You tell yourself you’ll leave after this letting him guide you by the waist and a chin on your shoulder. You think it again when the small space of the bathroom is filled with giggles and bashful smiles as he sits you on the closed toilet seat, wetting paper towels that turn into mache in his hands. You scream at yourself to do it watching him try and fix his hair in the mirror after wiping you down the best he can, pressing kisses on both your kneecaps. 

“I’ve been using this new product, but nothing hits like Farrah. I can’t believe they discontinued it. Dustin swears he can find me some, but who knows if you can even trust it’s the real deal, you know?”

Steve interrupts your inner turmoil with a face that’s far too serious for the words that just left his mouth and the thoughts running through your head. Your mood shifts almost instantly with a laugh loud enough to turn his cheeks the color of your toes, giving you an exaggerated eye roll despite the twitch of his lips.

“I can’t believe you still hang out with a middle schooler.” You tease, getting up on your feet, legs feeling a little less like jello but the reminder between your thighs only seems to intensify.

”I told you he’s like 19 - “

”Whatever you gotta tell yourself, Steve,” you grin, taking the break in the intensity of everything to try and work up the self-control to leave, wincing at the echoing clack of your flip flops that give you away instantly.

”Wait, where are you going?” Steve’s brows furrow in confusion, turning around to face you, he tightens the sleeves wrapped around his waist, biceps flexing while all the playfulness drains from his eyes.

”I should go before Robin -“

”What? No, she’ll be fine, it’s like noon. I’m sure she’s not even awake yet.” 

“Steve.”

”Honey.”

The two of you face off in a silent challenge, stares unwavering, mimicking each other with arms crossover over your chests. 

“Don’t run again.” He pleads with a whisper that’s barely audible against the beating of your heart in your ears, the room feeling smaller.

“I’m not running, I’m walking.” You try to lighten the mood with a joke, the corners of your eyes stinging but you refuse to acknowledge why.

”I’m not letting you walk home.”

“It’s down the road-“

“I don’t care! You’re not walking. Let me close up and then I’ll at least drive you.” 

You don’t argue with the hurt expression on his face, you can’t.

It’s somehow even hotter outside when the two of you sneak out the side door of the garage. A different kind of tension hangs thick in the air putting the humidity to shame, even with the sun shimmering from the highest point in the sky. His skin glows like liquid gold in its rays as he walks in front of you, your eyes following the movements of his freckled shoulders that flex with every swing on his arms. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you hate the pit that settles deep in your gut because you don’t want to say goodbye just yet. Another consequence of a choice you made rearing its ugly head.

You aren’t expecting him to open the passenger door for you, the metal creaking loudly breaking a silence that’s filled with a thousand unspoken words just hanging on the tip of both of your tongues waiting to fill up the space. His gaze meets yours from under the thick length of his lashes, the corners of his lips twisting at the way you get bashful from the gesture.

”Thanks,” you whisper, catching a whiff of his cologne as you duck into the passenger seat that’s starting to feel like yours again.

He just hums in response, shutting it quickly and trapping you inside a metal box filled with every smell that reminds you of him. It pulls at your heart, and intensifies the burn between your thighs. Your fingers come up to twist the metal that still dangles from your neck, and you’re not sure you can bring yourself to give it back after this. The already small space of the car shrinks even more when the driver side door opens and he slides in next to you with a huff, keys jingling loudly in his hand closing the door behind him. 

His shoulders brush with yours shoving the keys in the ignition, the seat vibrating underneath you as the beemer quietly roars to life. He keeps his hand on the stick shift, sweat slick skin pressing into yours shifting the car into drive. The radio isn’t as loud as you thought it’d be considering the way he was blasting it in the shop. Meatloaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love spills out of the speakers and you try not to laugh at the irony, scrambling to think of what to say to him as Robin’s apartment complex quickly comes into view. 

But he never stops.

“Steve, what are you doing?” You sigh, crossing your arms across your chest watching the baby blue paneling of her apartments whiz past. 

“This is technically my lunch break, and I’m hungry.” He shrugs, glancing at you with something mischievous in his eyes that you want to smack away because it makes your heart skip a beat, “You’re telling me you’re not starving after that honey?”

Smacking your lips together, you roll your eyes as hard as you can, trying to hide the smile that pushes up your cheeks. 

“Wow, your confidence always just astounds me.” Shaking your head, your sarcastic laugh only makes him grin.

”I think you like it.” 

You can’t bring yourself to deny it, fluttering your lashes at him with an attitude instead.

”But if you really can’t stand the thought of spending like another hour with me, I’ll turn around right now, honey.” You know he means it, feeling his foot slowly press on the brake in anticipation for your answer, “Just say the words.”

‘Say it, say turn around Steve.’

“Take me somewhere with fries.”

When you left Robin’s house this morning, you didn’t think watching Steve juggle two shakes and a large order of fries to the booth you’re sitting at with a heart so full it threatens to crack your chest, was where you’d end up at. His cheeks flush a deep shade red almost losing his footing, lovesick eyes too busy staring at you to watch where his boots land. 

God, this was not a part of the plan.

“I got you strawberry,” his grin is proud, remembering your favorite from high school when he drops your cool treat in front of you, and instead of sliding into the seats across the table, he plops down into the spot right next to you, knees bumping underneath the wood.

“What if I wanted chocolate?” You tease, body turning into a lit match pressing into his side.

“That’s what I got, and maybe, if you ask nicely,” he breathes, leaning in close enough for the tips of your noses to brush, “I’ll share.”

You wonder if he can hear the way you swallow at his tone over that oldies station that plays in the Hawkins Diner. 

“No thanks, you can keep your cooties.” Sighing, you have to fight the twitch of your lips tearing your eyes away from him to focus on the fried potatoes in front of you.

”I think it’s a little late for that baby, I’m afraid you’re completely covered in them.” He doesn’t hesitate to press a sloppy kiss on your cheek that's loud enough to catch the attention of the girls that’d been staring at him since the two of you walked in.

”Steve!” You try to scold, but the smile that spreads across your face gives you up, even if you wipe the kiss away with the back of your hand.

”What?” He smirks, grabbing a few fries and plopping them in his mouth and you try not to focus on the way his tongue darks out to collect the salt left over on his lips.

“I can’t stand you.”

It’s impossible to keep a straight face around him, even avoiding the playful gold that swirls in his gaze that hasn’t stopped showering you with adoration. 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep better at night.” He shrugs, taking a big swig of his shake, subtly scooting closer so your thighs touch.

The two of you eat in a peaceful silence for a few minutes, your head swimming with questions as your morning starts to really sink in. But your nerves make it impossible to focus on just one, especially every time you fingers brush, catching his small smirk from the corner of your eyes.

”So tell me something,” you try, ignoring the slight shake in your voice, “How did Steve Harrington, ‘king of Hawkins’, become a mechanic? I always thought you’d be in some big office with a suit working for your dad.” 

You notice the sour look that contorts the handsome features on his face at the former nickname again and you immediately feel bad for saying it. His thick eyebrows furrow, marrying in the middle as he tries to shake it off with a few harsh blinks grabbing another handful of fries.

”Umm, I did work for my dad’s firm for like six months actually.” He confesses, clearing his throat before tossing them into his mouth. “I think we hate each other even more now.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude that's not why I asked -“

”Honey, you’re fine.” He smiles warmly, a big palm finding the top of our thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it occupy the space permanently. 

”Turns out I’m a terrible office manager. I’d get super overwhelmed, which made me disorganized and we’d lose clients making my dad pissed, then one day I just kinda snapped after he laid into me in his office. Had a panic attack and then never showed my face there again.”

”Steve-“

“I knew he was going to fire me anyway, it’s fine” he laughs, running his free hand through his hair, the other sliding down your thigh so his thumb can rub circles into the soft skin next to your knee cap.

“So I wallowed in self pity for a month before Eddie started needing help at the shop. At first it just gave me something to do, he’d teach me a few things and turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it. It honestly feels really fucking freeing to stop being the person everyone expected me to be.”

He smiles with all his teeth, the kind of pride radiating off of him that makes the hard brick wall you’ve built around yourself start to soften, cracks forming in its foundation.

”Well, it looks good on you Harrington.” You have to look away when you say it, the butterflies becoming unbearable, because you weren’t supposed to feel like this. “I guess.”

He snorts at your stubbornness, bumping shoulders with you before snatching your strawberry shake earning the kind of glare that makes him realize he’s never going to get over you. 

Steve’s one hour lunch turns into two, almost becoming three getting lost in the kind of conversation that barely scratches the surface of everything you’ve missed. It’s all hushed tones, sweet eyes, and linked fingers that threaten to make you fold again, with the only thing saving you is the reminder of the mess you made on top of his client's Corvette, and Steve reluctantly admitting he needed to leave so he didn’t actually lose his job in the morning. 

It didn’t matter though, he got his date. 

And when he pulls up to Robin’s he doesn’t hesitate to steal your breath away, grabbing you by the chin, giving you the kind of kiss over the center console that leaves you dizzy, just like in high school. He doesn’t ask for his chain back, and you don’t offer it, bounding up the stairs to the apartment with it shimmering against your chest.

🌻chapter five

[writingsbychlo]

SWEET LIKE SUGAR | (05)

summary; azriel is away on a mission, and you get an unexpected visitor. when he returns, you also get an unexpected surprise.

word count; 5988

notes; fun fact!! I got confused about which part I was on because I actually forgot all about the events of this part and started writing for part six before realising!! also the way this is months late... my bad, y’all. 

Slumping a little further in the plush seat, your eyes scanned across the page before you for the fourth time. Finally, you’d settled on a book, after procrastinating it all morning. Then, you’d put it off with the excuse of cooking breakfast and eating, making a cup of tea… and then another. 

The house felt too big, too quiet, too light without shadows crawling in every corner. 

Azriel had been gone since yesterday morning, your first overnight alone without him as he did Cauldron knew what, Cauldron knows where, out in the world. He’d left early yesterday morning while you had still been asleep, waking you with a hand shaking your shoulder gently before the sun had even risen. Dressed in those same dark leathers, strapped head-to-toe with weapons, he’d mumbled about some sudden work from Rhys, and that explanation, along with a delicate kiss on your forehead, had been all you’d gotten. 

It had half felt like some kind of odd dream, until you’d woken up, and the house had been far too still without his presence. 

He was due back tonight, and you were holding onto that, attempting to focus back on your book. Three hours. Only forty pages in. 

You’d hardly made it two more pages, before there were footsteps on the creaky porch, your heart rate shooting through the roof, and a knock. A knock. Azriel wouldn't knock on his own front door. Matter of fact, Azriel would have likely just winnowed right to the door, not walked up the porch. 

On light steps, hoping whoever was on the other side couldn't hear you, you peeked up through the hole in the door, noting Elain standing on the other side. You barely knew her, recognising her only from the first dinner you’d shared with Azriel’s family, heart leaping into your throat at the sight of her. 

Clicking the door open after only a second or two of hesitation, she offered a beaming smile when your eyes met. 

“Hello, Elain.”

“You remember my name!” Her smile somehow only stretched wider, and it was like the sun itself seemed to get brighter as she did. You wanted to scoff. Did it just do that, or was Lucien out there somewhere, glowing every time she smiled? 

“Uh… Azriel isn’t here.”

“I know.” She waved a hand, as though that was supposed to be obvious in some way, following it up with a giggle. You wracked your brain, stumbling over every piece of information Azriel had given you on them all over the last couple of weeks. Seer. Elain was a seer. Had she seen Azriel leave and chosen this moment to approach you? “I’m here to see you.”

Apparently so. “Why?”

“I was thinking we could go for a walk in the public gardens together.”

“Why?” The word spilt out again, and she laughed, cocking her head to the side. “I’m, sorry, I don’t— I don’t mean to sound so rude. This situation is just unexpected, that’s all.”

“I know. I would have come sooner, but I was waiting for Azriel to be gone because he’s been playing defence about who gets to see you and when. He growled at Rhysand last week for asking how things were going.” Your stomach flipped at that, flopping in on itself and you rubbed a hand over your ribs slowly, hoping to steady the beating of your heart. “I’m not here for Rhysand, just to be clear. I’m not here for anyone, not even Az. I’m here for me, because I’d like to get to know you.”

“You want to get to know me?”

“Of course. You’re going to be around for a while—”

“I am?” She merely hummed, brows raising a little as humour shone in those doe-eyes, and your cheeks heated. “Seer, right. Of course. Do you want to come in for lunch or something, then?”

“I was thinking we could go for a picnic.” Nudging one delicately slippered foot out from under the hem of her dress, she nudged a picnic basket at her feet with her toes, and you shifted nervously from foot to foot. “It’s a nice day, and the Velaris Gardens are just beautiful. I volunteer sometimes, and I must say, the flowers this year are breathtaking.”

“Alright,” She was like a puppy, someone you just couldn't say no to when she stared at you with those big brown eyes, only seeming to light up more when you finally agreed. Leaving her standing on the porch for no more than a few minutes, you marked the page in your book, swapped out your loungewear for a summer dress and some sandals, and grabbed your keys. 

She had been right, the two of you were barely more than a few steps down the sidewalks before the golden rays of the sun truly began to soak into your skin, warming you. It was a lovely day. Hopefully, the sun was shining on Azriel too, wherever he was.

The streets of Velaris were crowded as the pair of you ventured closer to the busier parts of the city, your workplace was packed full, the tables outside almost overflowing, and one of the waitresses you’d come to know waved as you passed by, flustered and carrying a tray of drinks. 

Children were playing in the streets, darting from one side to another. Adults were wandering, lovers arm in arms, and friends gossiping. Here you were, wandering alongside Elain, who was humming a tune gently to herself under her breath. Only once you had entered the gardens, the kind old man at the front gate greeting Elain with a smile and a hug, did she speak up once again. 

Her tune came to an end as the two of you were walking down the main pathway, weeping willows curtaining on either side, birds chirping overhead and fluttering between branches in the trees. 

“I'm happy Azriel has you, you know.”

“You might be the only one.” Your words were bitter, harsh, and you wanted to bite them back in, still not entirely sure where you stood with Elain or to what extent you could trust her, but she only laughed again. “Apologies, that was…”

“Don’t worry.” That casual hand wave again, the metal bracelets on her wrist clinking as she did. One held a sun, another with a moon, a third gold band with an orange gem, and a fourth with a metal tag on a leather band, an engraving too small to make out. “Although, it’s not true. Nesta talks very fondly of you, and while Feyre might not speak up as often, she does not approve of the way Rhysand treats you.”

“Nesta is great. I shouldn’t have said that. And of course, I was out of turn to imply anything at all about the High Lord and Lady. I do—”

“Please, none of those formalities.” She stopped suddenly at the end of the pathway, aiming to turn neither left nor right, but instead stepping out onto the large field before you both, wildflowers cropping up, wandering across the soft ground and leaving you to trail through the grass behind her. “Rhysand can be a stubborn arse when he chooses to be, and Cassian is merely being bull-headed. Mor could be a swaying hand if she chose to, but she’s actively staying out of it, to let things play out on their own. Amren is… well, Amren.”

She had managed to coax a laugh from you, despite your wary mood, and she seemed to stand a little taller at the triumph. Finally finding a spot she liked and placing the basket down, Elain opened it up to pull out a blanket, flapping it out into the light breeze and laying it on the ground slowly. She sat on it, patting the space beside her for you to sit on, and opening the basket only when you had. 

“I brought several sandwiches, because I wasn’t sure which you’d enjoy.” She began to unstack each labelled and wrapped meal portion, laying them out around you both until the blanket was covered in food and treats, a wine glass in your hand as Elain filled it with bubbling grape juice. “I try not to drink as much these days.”

It seemed the two of you had moved on from whatever conversation you’d been having, and no matter how much you wanted to circle back around to it, it felt rude to do so when she was clearly leading the chat. She was rubbing a hand over her stomach with contemplation, and you swirled the bubbly drink in your glass. “Are you… are you trying for a baby?”

Her hair glinted in the sun as she tipped her head back, eyes closed and smiling at the sky. “We’re thinking about it. Nothing concrete yet, but, I know Lucien desires children. I do too. We aren’t putting any kind of timeframes on anything, but we’re getting into some good habits and lifestyle changes now.”

“I wish you both the best of luck,” 

She only hummed, again, a contemplative sound that seemed so wrapped up in mysterious and knowledge that it made your skin itch. To distract yourself, you took a sip of your drink, eyes scanning over the food options before you as she sighed and pulled herself back from whatever thoughts she had lost herself in. “My happiness with my mate now is so much due to Azriel.”

It was like a ball, bouncing back and forth between the walls, getting faster and faster as she whipped from the topic of Azriel to anything else, like she couldn't decide between acknowledging the elephant in the room or ignoring it. 

“I’m happy he has you.”

“So you’ve said.” You smirk, settling on a sandwich at last and unwrapping it. 

“There was a while when I thought I might be his happy ending, and he might be mine.” Your chewing slowed, and your focus fixed on her. You weren’t sure why she was saying these things, revealing things about his past or her own, whether it was some kind of game or not. She seemed to read all of this on your face, sitting up more fully to face you, legs crossing before her. “He never fought for me the same way he fights for you, though. Like he can’t help himself. What we had was hidden away and sneaking around in the dark. It was wrong for us both, I see that in hindsight, but with you, he doesn’t hide you. It’s like he wants the whole world to know you’re at his side.”

The food was like trying to swallow a mouthful of cottonwool, choking it down dry and wincing. “I don’t think what we have is the same. What you had must’ve been… well, like a real relationship. You do understand what me and Az have is more like an agreement, right?”

“Are all relationships not just agreements to be together, monogamously?”

You sipped at your drink, buying time to find a reply as she tucked into her own food, surely knowing she’d won this round. “Relationships are different.”

“In what way?”

“In every way!” You said, and she still only managed to look mildly amused, waiting for you to go on. “Relationships shouldn’t start the way ours did, for the intent of mutual benefit and gain. They’re supposed to be about passion and feelings and connection.”

“And do you not have passion, or feelings, for Azriel? Is there no connection?”

“What we have is complicated.” You didn’t know how to define it at all, everything that was shifting and changing so thoroughly was enough to make your head spin, and her mumble only confirmed that she knew she had the upper hand here. “How did Azriel help you to find Lucien if you were… together?”

“Oh, no, we were never together. We snuck around at night and shared heated looks across the dining room table. I wanted to choose my own path for once, not the one everyone was telling me I should be on. The one that led to Lucien. And Azriel, well, he just wanted someone. I wasn’t the right someone, I was just there.” That didn’t answer your question, not at all, but it seemed that if you were going to get the reply you wanted, it was in return for listening to the whole story. “We had stolen moments in dark corners, and Rhysand warned us off one another, put a stop to what likely would have ended in tragedy.”

“Seems like the High Lord is fond of telling Azriel who he can and cannot be with.”

“He had a sister once, you know.” The words struck cold, and you stiffened. Of course, you knew. Everyone in Prythian knew. Had heard of the tragedy before the first war, when the Lord of Night had lost his wife and daughter, leaving only the Prince who would soon take the throne. “She fell in love with someone who she shouldn’t have, someone who betrayed her in the end,”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“—and it broke him for so long. I had no idea about any of this until Feyre told me. He watched his sister get her heart broken before she lost her life, and watched his mate fall for Tamlin and get hurt. He watched Mor hide such an important part of herself and get hurt for centuries. He even watched Lucien pine for me while I was too blind to see him. He has watched love break and harm over the years, watched people abuse those feelings and use them for their own gain. He knows that need for touch more than anyone, and knows the price companionship can cost.”

“Elain,” The food was beginning to taste like ash, this was becoming more of a petition than a chat. “I understand that. I know he’s suffered too, I know he’s felt pain, and I’m sorry for that. But that doesn’t excuse him for his cruelty. It doesn’t excuse him for stopping Azriel from finding happiness. He cannot control everyone around him, no matter whether his intentions are good or not. Other people’s happiness is not his responsibility, and not his right. What, only mates are allowed to be together? Do you know how rare it is to find your mate? Azriel has waited five hundred years, he may never find his mate, but does that mean he should never be allowed to know happiness because Rhysand decrees it?”

She stared at you, lips pursed for a long moment, considering all that you had said. And then, instead of getting angry, or yelling, or defending them further, she smiled. She nodded her head and something passed over her face that you couldn't possibly decipher. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Azriel would have fought for me, if I had asked him to. I’m sure I could have put up a fuss about it, but when he was told to stop, he did. That rejection…”

“Led you to Lucien?”

“Gods, no. It made me so angry. Azriel just rolled over and showed his belly because Rhysand snarled. I was mad, beyond words!” Your laughter broke free, surprising you both, until you were laughing together amongst the flowers. “He would barely look at me, wouldn't talk to me at all if not for polite dinner conversation. I’d gone from someone he’d feel up in dark corners to acting like I had a disease!”

“That’s awful!”

“I know! So, I wanted out. I was so stifled. I managed to persuade Rhysand to send me to the Human Lands for a while, to track down some information. Except, of course, I couldn't go alone. I needed an escort, and who better than the Emissary to the Human Lands?”

“This was Lucien?”

“Mhm.” She rolled her eyes, slipping away into her memories, a smile forming on her face. “Gods, he drove me insane. He was there all the time when I’d just been pulled from the Cauldron, like a lost puppy. So full of adoration and love. I was expecting that, but that’s not the Lucien who showed up. The one who showed up was so… nonchalant. Like the bond between us didn’t exist, we were friends, more like mere partners on a task. I even made a drunken move on him one night in a gross tavern far from The Wall, and he turned me down! Put me to bed and left a glass of water on the nightstand for me. Acted like it never happened in the morning.”

“Oh, Gods…” Your snicker bought you a mock glare from the flowery female beside you.

“I was even angrier, then. It was like nobody wanted me! So, when I returned, I gave Azriel a piece of my mind. And he let me yell at him for twenty minutes. And then awkwardly held me while I cried for another twenty.”

“Does this story have a happy ending? Well, I guess I know it does,” You offered her stomach a pointed look, “But when do we get there?”

“Fine, fine,” She rolled her own eyes now, “To keep it short, Azriel then offered to help me with Lucien. Managed to trick Lucien into going on our first date, a blind-date set-up, and wouldn't let him leave when he tried to. He then continued to help me sneak around with Lucien behind everybody’s backs, until we were ready to come out with it.”

“When was that?”

“Two weeks before we got married.” You fell to your back, laughter like light spilling from you at that, and she continued to share the details of everyone’s reactions through giggles of her own. “I’d seen all their responses, and I wanted to avoid them as long as possible! That was the last time I ignored my visions to try and put them off. What I see will happen, it's only a matter of time. I can’t avoid it.”

“That must suck for surprise parties and gifts.”

“Maybe, but it was pretty good to see you coming.” She smiled, laying herself down beside you and staring up at the sky overhead. “We will be good friends, you and I. I’ve seen that too.”

You were preparing dinner when you finally heard Azriel arrive. The scuff of his boots on the porch, the rustle of his wings as he entered the house, and then—

Then the slam of the front door. So loud and violent that the house shook a little, trembling the trinkets in the hall that sat on the side unit. You tensed, hearing his loud huff of frustration. Shadows whipped and whirled through the house, a few even making it as far as you were in the kitchen, and you followed them, peeping around the threshold before they were all snapped back in a hurry to their owner. 

You saw his retreating back, stomping up the stairs of the house, tense lines and rigid muscles, disappearing in a dark cloud from sight. Another slam made you jump, one of the upstairs doors closing with a bang. 

Silence filled the house once again, far heavier and more tense than it previously had been, and you worried your lower lip between your teeth. 

It didn't feel like you were welcome, like perhaps this was a moment you shouldn't intrude on. But, was this not part of the reason that Azriel had brought you here in the first place? To comfort him, and be his support?

Minutes ticked by as you contemplated the matter, before deciding that at least checking in on him couldn't hurt. If he wanted alone time, he’d say that, and you’d happily give it to him. The idea of leaving him alone in his suffering created a phantom pain in your chest, spurring you up the stairs and on a search for him. 

He wasn’t hard to find, darkness flicking around the doorway of the office, idle shadows striking like dark lightning bolts in the air as you opened the door, only to find Azriel hunched over his desk, wings tense behind his body. 

“Hi, Az. It’s good to have you home.”

He only murmured, a vague noise, not even lifting his head from his work as you stood in the doorway. You paced a little further inside, standing by his desk, hoping to catch a glance of those pretty caramel eyes, but he kept his head down. His pen never stopped moving across the paper, his shadows never stopped their stormy swirling. 

“I’m going to start making dinner soon, if you want to come down?” He didn’t reply, just a grunt, and you gave up, despite the worry filling you from head to toe. “Alright, well, you know where to find me.”

With that, you left, a pulse of power following you from the room within as soon as you clicked the door shut, back pressed to the wood on the other side. With a couple of deep breaths, you steadied yourself. It was only a matter of time before something came up, everything had been going too smoothly, too perfectly to last. Azriel was bound to snap under all that pressure at some point, and if this was that snap, you could handle it. 

Setting a chicken off to roast only took a couple of minutes, basted and seasoned and into the oven, enough of a distraction to pull your thoughts away from the warrior upstairs. It was as you were chopping vegetables that your mind wandered back, the mind-numbing task of slicing peppers and carrots made it easy for your thoughts to trail back to Azriel.

Still, he had not emerged. Not for food, or water, or even some space from that office. 

Setting the table didn’t help to distract you either, laying down plates and cutlery and glasses, choosing a bottle of wine and setting it out to air, even going so far as to set down some candles, searching for matches to light them. The house was all but vibrating with power not, steady thumps that occasionally jostled the cutlery on the table with powerful bursts. 

Whatever had happened today had Azriel so riled up that his power was all but leaking out, siphons doing little to control the feelings welling inside him now. You’d never known the true strength of his power. Of course, you’d heard of the High Lord’s brothers, the spymaster and the warlord, the three champions of a lethal death-match among young soldiers, who’d come out bonded stronger than ever, with power to match. 

Never, though, did you expect to feel the power like this. Feel his emotions ricocheting off of every wall, bouncing through the foundations of the house. Suddenly, it dawned on you just how mighty the ranks of the Night Court truly were, a chill settling into your bones at the thought.

One bad mod, one temper tantrum, and the building could simply crumble to dust. Street lamps would flicker, and animals would scatter. Too many thoughts, too much and all of it became overwhelming as the house continued to tremble to the steady pattern of a heartbeat. 

Blowing out the candles as the flames flickered precariously once again, you put them away, not daring to risk them tipping over and creating a far worse problem. You knew the scars on Azriel’s hands, he’d told you the story behind them on one of the many nights the two of you had lay in bed, wrapped in one another’s arms, seeking comfort. 

Or perhaps, it had been during stolen moments in the café, when Azriel would come to visit you, sitting and doing his work at one of the tables in the back. He’d take a break only when you’d bring him a fresh pot of tea and a pastry, sit across his lap and talk in hushed whispers during the quieter parts of your shifts before you had to get back to work. 

It could even have been one of your late-night walks, or early-morning strolls, while the streets of Velaris were quiet and mist-kissed. Your hands clasped together tightly, his wing shielding around you as you walked together, talking of everything and anything that came to mind. 

He’d told you quiet stories of his past, of his present, of his hopes for the future. All about little baby Nyx, Nesta and her journey to finding the Valkyries, what it had been like growing up in the camps, or all the best little villages and towns he’d visited on his worldly travels. 

Your heart had been doing crazy things, lately. Crazy, stupid things, like skipping a beat and speeding up and bursting with adoration for a man so new to your life. It did crazy things, like encourage you back up the stairs an hour later, to ignore the tremble in your hands or the wobble in your step, heart calling out to him. 

You’d tried to ignore the urge. To sit and read your book, until you’d read the same line over and over while not absorbing a single word, and giving up with a frustrated huff. You re-basted the chicken, and added the vegetables to cook, and even set off some potatoes to boil but all the while, as your body worked, your mind and heart lay with him. 

This time, you knocked as you entered, knuckles a soft rap on the door before you pushed it open. Magic thrummed through the air, calling you closer and pushing you away, and you found Azriel, still in the same uncomfortable position, working at his desk. His shoulders were locked and rigid, his head hung, hair messy from constant tangling, and you lifted a hand, brushing it slowly through his hair. 

“Azriel…”

He barely even acknowledged you, nothing more than a grunt tossed in your direction as you stood by his side, and a sigh broke free from you. His lips were turned down in a frown, dragging all of his pretty features into misery too, and you hated to see this side of him. Hooking your fingers under his chin, his writing came to a stop as you forced his head to turn, to look up at you. His eyes were dull, a spark of irritation and anger bursting through them as recognition and consciousness flashed back into his lifeless form. 

“Azriel.”

This time, a growl tore free, that frown becoming a snarl as he pulled back, gaze narrowing a little. “I’m fucking working. What do you want?”

You froze, staring at him, taking in the exhaustion under his eyes, the pain in his stance, the spinning thoughts you could practically see surrounding him, so much so it must be dizzying and painful. Dropping your hand back to your side, he only returned to work, not sparing you another thought as he chased to catch up with the ones already running him ragged in his head. 

Silently walking away, you left his door open, hurrying away from the scene and back to the kitchen. Taking the kettle in trembling hands and filling it up, you set that to boil too, a mug from the cupboard clacking as you set it down on the counter, throwing open the doors to the tea cupboard soon after. 

Your nervous fingers skimmed across the labels, searching the front of each one, and it was as you were holding two, undecided on which to choose— perhaps just brew them together?— that the air in the room shifted, and a pair of strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist, tugging you back into a solid chest. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, face tucking into the crook of your neck, where he left a kiss to your skin. His hold tightened, squeezing you against his body as he slumped down into you. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Az.” You ran a hand along his forearm, banded around your body, feeling it loosen just a fraction as you squeezed. “I’m just so worried about you, I wanted to make you some tea to help, but I couldn't decide which one.”

At that, a whine slipped free from him, nuzzling deeper into your neck, another kiss, and another. Putting down the teas on the counter, you wiggled a little, managing to get him to loosen up just enough to turn in his arms. His forehead came to rest on your own, noses brushing, a sad frown on his lips as his eyes remained closed. 

“Az…”

“No more work. If I’m stressed to the point of snapping at you, then it’s too much. I’m sorry. You were just trying to help, and clearly, I needed the help.”

Looping your arms around his neck, he sighed, a happier sound as you scratched at the nape of his neck soothingly. “Stop apologising, Azriel. I appreciate it, but it’s unnecessary. I’m not angry at you, just concerned.”

“I like that you worry about me.” He whispered, deep voice running like honey as he bent enough to pick you up behind the backs of your legs, spinning you to place you onto the kitchen counter, and step comfortably between your thighs. “But you don’t deserve that kind of treatment. You deserve better. I don’t deserve you, but I don’t want to let you go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Az. I wouldn't be in this relationship if I was going to run. I can handle you, even when you’re not at your best.”

He only answered with a shaky laugh, hands smoothing up your thighs to sit on your hips, squeezing in a series of happy pulses. “We’re in a relationship?”

Elation was clear on his face, no denying it, at your choice of words, and you gave a little chuckle of your own, nodding against him as your noses came back to brushing together, heads resting on one another. Your conversation with Elain flickered through your mind once again, and you wondered if she had seen this, seen you give into her whims and silently admit she was right. If she’d seen this, you hope she picked up on your mental scowl, too. “Well, what would you call what we have?”

“I like ‘relationship’. I like it a lot, actually.”

Throwing your arms over his shoulders, they looped around his neck, and you pushed your face up a little closer to him. “We may not be conventional, Az, but I like what we have. I like our relationship. I think we’re perfect as we are.”

He didn’t need words to respond, not this time, not as his mouth sealed over your own in a gentle, tender kiss. The first kiss you’d ever shared, a timid one, his lips working slowly and cautiously over yours, giving you plenty of time to pull away. 

You didn’t want to, kissing him back with just as much tenderness and affection as he was showing you, pouring every feeling you had into it, to make sure he knew just how much you cared. Your heart was beating hard, fast, racing like a drum under your ribcage as you melted into his touch. One scarred hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing across your skin, in tandem with every stroke of his lips. 

You pulled back for breath, just to find yourself tangled back up in him, his tongue stroking across your lower lip, teasing the roof of your mouth as you opened up for him. A groan skittered across your tongue from him, a pant for breath, his hand slipping up under your shirt to sit on your bare waist as you tugged on the slight curls of his hair. 

When he pulled back, at last, your lips were swollen, your lungs burning in the best way possible, and your head was spinning so much you could barely focus. The world felt fuzzy at your touch, glowing and glittering as you stole a final kiss from his lips, his soft chuckle breaking it. 

“Am I still invited for dinner with you?”

“Yes. I’m making chicken and potatoes.” Your smile lasted only a second, before you were sitting upright. Time had melted away around you, disappearing into dusk outside beyond the windows, “Oh, no, the potatoes!”

Pushing him back and hopping down from the counter, he watched with a dazed, kiss-drunk expression as you rushed to the stove, taking off the pan lid and prodding at the potatoes with a fork. 

“I amend my earlier statement. We’re having chicken and mashed potatoes, because these have gone soft. Entirely your fault for distracting me.”

“I distracted you?” He mused, sneaking up behind you and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, tugging you back to kiss at your cheeks, trailing down toward your mouth. 

“You know you did.” His only response was a smile. Draining the potatoes was a challenge, what with Azriel plastered to your back like a new limb that served no purpose, and you had to elbow him off in order to finish the food. 

While he waited, he tinkered with the dining room table, pouring two glasses of wine and rearranging. When you turned, he’d dug out the candles you’d put away, lighting them with a match once again, and blushing as he laid them out. “I thought they’d be romantic.”

“I like them.” Your cheeks were equally as heated, smiling to yourself as you turned away to check the food. 

His distance didn’t last long, as you searched for a knife with which to carve the chicken, he was once again backing you into a counter, his mouth hungrily descending upon your own. Mutters of ‘waiting long enough’ silenced on your mouth as he dove into you, hands on your body once again, trying to tempt you up onto the counter. 

“Let me cook, you menace,”

“Just a few more,” Was his barter, and those few kisses passed more and more time, his lips like a high you had to chase, until only the desperate urge to breathe could pull you apart. “Gods, I love that. I love kissing you.”

“I can tell.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smirk stayed, unashamed of his newfound addiction. 

“We need to eat, you need food.”

“I have everything I need, right here.” He leaned in again, lips puckered, and you tipped your head his mouth finding the edge of your jaw, and he grunted unhappily at the action, but mouthed at your skin nonetheless.

“How about after dinner, we can go upstairs and do some self-care. I’ll show you all the fancy new creams and skincare I got. We can relax, and cuddle, and read.”

“And there will be more kisses?”

“There will most definitely be more kisses.” You promised, cupping his face and bringing him back for a final peck. 

“Then I think I can agree to those terms.” He stared, pulling back just enough to fully take you in. As the urgency in his expression died down with the promise that this affection was not a one-time deal, his face took on blissfulness instead. Running his knuckles across your cheek, his face softened even further as you leaned into his touch, cupping his hand and pressing kisses to his scarred fingers. “You… You are my moon, do you know that? You light up even the darkest parts of life for me.”

His words were like whispered oaths, something too heavy for you to fully comprehend but burned into your mind regardless, and you gave him a sweet smile back. “You are my stars, Azriel.”

“Really?”

“Every last one. Glittering and perfect in the night, full of mystery and hopes and stories. You are my favourite part of the night sky.”

Your heads rested together, dinner temporarily forgotten just for another moment or so, to bask in the revelations of the evening. 

Today, 

today changed everything for the better.