#peaches & cream complexion | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forlix · 6 months

Text

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative, alternating perspectives

warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia. again, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS THAT INTERACT WITH THIS POST WILL BE BLOCKED.

warnings (cont'd.)・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack. alcohol is consumed. lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication. latter half is just kind of sad in general tbh but what do u expect from a fic based off alex turner lyrics

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

2K notes · View notes

happyhauntt · 1 month

Text

keep my hand in yours — nikolai lantsov

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: nikolai sees anya all dressed up for the first time since they were children. he doesn't handle it well.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: fluff fluff fluff, references to other oneshots in this series but can be read as standalone, fluff, pre-established relationship, i've made anyalai suffer enough and i needed to throw them a bone with a fluffy adorable oneshot so here we are. title from 'everywhere everything' by noah kahan (aka anyalai anthem tbh)

─── word count: 2.4k.

As a child, they teach you that staring at the sun for too long will make you go blind. Nikolai always was a reckless child, and Anya has certainly been the centre of his universe for so long now, he can hardly remember a time when she wasn't.

Nikolai knows he is in love with Anya Kamenev. He knows it like he knows blood is red, like he knows the feeling of a rifle in his hands and the salty sea wind on his face. He knows it like he knows his heart must still be beating, because if it had stopped, he would be dead.

And yet now, as she emerges from the dressing room, he fears that everything he'd been so sure of is false. Blood is green and the sky is pink and his heart must have stopped beating entirely, at least for a moment, this moment. He wonders if this is heaven. He wonders if this is a dream, if he died on the battlefield. He wonders how he ever got this lucky.

"You're staring, Nik." Anya's voice is flat, eerily calm, even as she smooths her hands down the front of her dress, nervously seeking nonexistent creases. Her shoulders are squared, chin held high as she meets his eyes. She's already wearing her confidence like armour. A soldier preparing for battle. This night will be spent fending off thinly-veiled barbs and passive-aggressive insults from Ravka's elite. Everyone who thinks she isn't good enough to be queen. Everyone who thinks this is a mistake.

Anya's knee gives an indignant twinge. She already knows that the heels she picked out will be giving her grief this evening, but she'd insisted on them. She didn't want to be seen as weak. Anya has been smiling through the pain for years now, and an evening spent dancing and mingling in heels won't make her old injury any worse.

She hopes.

It takes him a moment to find his words. “How can I possibly look away?” He manages a raspy, strangled murmur as his eyes trail over her figure. Any further capacity for speech fails him completely. How can he possibly form a coherent thought when she looks like that? Watching him with narrowed eyes, and that defiant tilt of her chin, and the way the neckline of her dress is high and modest, allowing him the tiniest glimpse of her collarbone.

His mouth goes dry. He feels like a parched man, condemned to wander the desert for eternity, only to stumble upon a lush green oasis. He is utterly ruined by her, and Saints, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Anya huffs, casting her eyes to the ceiling before she trudges over to the floor-length mirror, surveying her own reflection with a critical eye. She's always been pretty, that was never the issue: peaches-and-cream complexion, rosy cheeks and wavy blonde hair, she was lauded for her looks even as a little girl. That one will be a beauty, they’d whisper to her mother, who’d respond with a demure smile to mask the frightened glint in her eye.

There are scars, now, littered over her skin. Little white slashes over her collarbone, her arms, almost silvery in the candlelight. The dress Genya chose for her is emerald green satin with the hem trailing on the floor. The Lantsov emerald rests on her ring finger, while diamonds glisten at her throat and a small kokoshnik tiara rests in her hair.

She still feels pretty. That was never the problem. But her eyes are weathered now, older and wiser and yet, somehow, altogether more foolish for agreeing to this. She still looks like a soldier. She still feels like— well. She doesn't know anymore. Maybe that's the point.

Nikolai wrests himself from his stupor and joins her at the mirror. He stands behind her, rests his hands on either side of her waist. He's taller than her, even with the heels on, and he leans down so his mouth hovers near her ear.

"It turns out that I'm marrying a Saint after all." His breath is warm and so are his hands. She can feel the heat of them through her bodice.

Anya clicks her tongue, feigning irritation. When her gaze meets his in the mirror, his lips tug into a playful grin.

"You are an insufferable flirt," she says, but she leans back against him all the same, allowing herself to sink into his embrace for a few moments.

Nikolai's grip on her waist tightens. He drops featherlight kisses behind her ear and down her neck. "And yet you agreed to marry this insufferable flirt."

"This is only the engagement party," she reminds him. "There's still time to change my mind."

"And would you?"

He thinks of that a lot. The idea of losing her sends a bolt of fear through him. He'd sooner face a thousand bloodthirsty pirates with nothing but his bare hands. He'd meet the Darkling in the Fold and spend the rest of his days living as that winged monster again, and it would scare him less than losing her.

It took a long time for her to agree to marry him. He's been proposing, in some form or another, since they were seventeen years old. When she kissed him for the first time in a medik's tent, when he left for his apprenticeship and promised he'd come back for her, when they'd lain together in his cabin aboard the Volkvolny for the hundredth time and he'd known there would never be peace in his soul if she wasn't his.

But she hadn't been his. Not really.

He would risk it all for the country that abandoned her, and for a long time, that had been a crack between the two of them that could not be repaired. Like the Shadow Fold splitting his ravaged country in two, they had been at odds, stuck on separate sides of a great divide. He would always be a prince. He would always love Ravka.

She would always love him, but Ravka had lost her loyalty when she rotted in that cell.

Things are different now. He is the King, the Fold is gone, and there is hope, finally, for some real change in their country. Anya might have been betrayed by Ravka, but she loved him. She loved him. And under Nikolai's rule, things would change. Things would heal.

Anya could heal, too.

When she finally agreed to marry him, he'd wept. He’d held his breath for days and waited for the penny to drop, for another inexplicable thing to keep them apart. One of them was always leaving. And to rule over a country she'd once despised, where the nobility hated her...

He wouldn't blame her for running. He just wishes he'd be able to run with her.

His gaze is wide open, searching. Her own features soften as she looks at him, and she shakes her head slowly.

"No," she says. "I wouldn't."

He tilts her chin up and kisses her like he’s drowning, like she is the first breath of air he's ever had. His grip on her waist tightens as she sways a little, and a golden warmth slips through her strong enough to make her knees feel weak.

When she pulls herself away from him, he tries to follow her. A frustrated groan sounds low in his throat.

"Careful," Anya says with a teasing smile. "If you ruin my hair, Genya really might kill you."

She turns back to the mirror, inspecting her appearance once more before reaching up to straighten her kokoshnik. Nikolai holds her tightly from behind, both arms tangled around her middle, chest flush against her back. His chin rests lightly on her shoulder.

A tremor ripples through her and he knows, without knowing, that her knee is bothering her. He shifts himself to take more of her weight, just for a moment, and her grateful sigh is like a balm on every wound he’s ever had.

His moss-and-honey eyes lock with hers in the mirror once again. An adoring smile tugs at his mouth. "You wouldn't protect me?"

Anya laughs. "I sat for hours as she tortured me until I looked perfect. I'd help her."

"My vicious girl." He says it like a prayer. A moment of silence passes before a crease forms between his brows. "Do you remember that last birthday of yours, before we enlisted?"

Anya hums distractedly, fiddling with her sleeves. "My sixteenth, yes. My parents threw a massive ball and invited— well, more people than I've ever met in my life. They were hoping to secure a match for me, I think. Or at least start sniffing out potential suitors. Why?"

"I think I fell in love with you that night."

Anya raises an eyebrow at him. "No, you didn't."

Nikolai presses a kiss to her shoulder, just above one of those tiny silver scars. They'd barely known each other, then; childhood acquaintances turned into almost-strangers. Her parents had kept her sequestered to their estate as she grew older, to hide that she was Grisha. By her sixteenth birthday, he'd seen her perhaps three times in as many years, and whatever friendship they'd been able to muster up as youngsters had died.

But he remembers that night. Almost like it was yesterday, the memory of it dances through his mind with startling clarity. "You entered the ballroom, and you must have been nervous but you couldn't tell. You held yourself with all the grace and dignity of a queen, even then."

"A decade of governesses bullying manners into me might've had something to do with that," Anya grumbles.

"Hush," Nikolai says with a huff of laughter. "I don't think I'd ever seen anyone so beautiful. All that time growing up at court, all those noble ladies in their pretty dresses and furs, but I'd never felt this way before. It was like watching a sunrise for the first time."

Anya sniffs. "Nikolai." Her voice is a stern, if slightly wobbly, warning. "If you make me cry before we even make it out of this room, I will make sure Tamar tells her most embarrassing story about you as a toast."

"And it would be completely worth it, Nastya." His smile grows ever wider. "And then I had to watch you have the first dance with Vasily. I'd never been so jealous in my life."

His older brother might have been a swine, but Nikolai cannot help the odd fondness he has for Vasily's memory. Had he lived, Nikolai isn't sure whether that affection would still exist, but there is little point in despising a ghost. There's not much more damage they can do.

Even so, the memory of his lecherous hand lingering a little too low on Anya's hip makes him feel like a viper has curled up in his belly.

Anya gives up on fiddling with her appearance and sighs, leaning her head back to rest against Nikolai's chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat is a comfort. "My parents insisted. He was the Crown Prince, I could hardly refuse!" Anya shudders a little as she recalls his touch, the way he'd leaned in close and whispered compliments in her ear that had left her feeling slimy.

"It was torture. Pure torture." With a gentle push, he spins her in his arms until they're nose-to-nose. Anya's hands curl around his neck. Her fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I didn't know, then, what it meant. I was so alarmed by those feelings. I didn't understand what you would mean to me. But I fell in love with you that night. I'm sure of it now. One look at you and I was doomed forever."

"Oh, how charming!" Even as she teases him, Anya's heart does somersaults in her chest. "You did dance with me that night, you know. You stepped on the hem of my dress."

"I was so worried you could hear my heartbeat."

"You couldn't tell. You were your usual charming self, all suave and unbearable, flirting with all the girls." Anya smiles, all soft at the edges.

"What can I say? I was a foolish boy," he says.

Anya laughs. "Was?"

Nikolai growls low in his throat and picks her up by the waist, spinning her in a slow circle. "Alright, alright," he murmurs. "But I like to think I learned my lesson in the end."

She runs her finger along his jawline and says softly, "And I learned mine."

They might have stayed there forever, bodies pressed tight together, his gaze so intent and earnest that the world around Anya falls away. The warmth of him swallows her whole, and she thinks she wouldn't mind a forever just like this. Just the two of them, and a quiet room, and his heartbeat thudding beneath her palm.

An insistent knock on the door drags them back to reality, followed by Zoya's sharp-tongued demand that they hurry up, or they're going to be late.

Nikolai doesn't look away from Anya as he settles her gently back on the ground. His hands still linger at her waist. A slow, lazy smile pulls at his lips. "I suppose it's rude to be late to your own engagement party. Should I be concerned that your speech will flatter me terribly? Is it filled with praise and adoration about my dashing good looks and genius?"

Anya almost snorts, pulling herself out of his grip. "I'd say it's filled with my exasperation at your recklessness, your daring, your inability to keep your hands to yourself—"

"—and my dashing good looks." He reaches for her again but she dodges his outstretched hand. "Can't a man kiss his future wife?"

"That man won't make it to his wedding day if he keeps testing Zoya's patience." She shoots him a warning glance, though the effectiveness of it is ruined by the brightness of her smile. Once, not so long ago, he feared he'd never seen her shine like this again. "I promise to include your handsomeness in my vows if you get a move on."

With a chuckle, he joins her at the door, their fingers threading together. She kisses the corner of his mouth as a reward, and then the pair of them stumble out of their room and into the rest of their lives.

#* chapter update.#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov oc #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov fanfic #shadow and bone oc #shadow and bone fanfic #grishaverse #grishaverse fanfic #six of crows fanfic #* fic: gold rush.

63 notes · View notes

powerofelvis · 1 year

Text

Peach Tea in Tennessee | One

Pairing: Elvis Presley x black!reader

Word Count: 6K

Summary: Love is wasted on the young, or so they say. This isn’t the case for Elvis. He never dreamed of it happening to him, but a girl with the nude brown sunhat who sits in the park near Lauderdale Courts with the romance novel in her hand would change a lot of his thoughts about what true love truly means. This is a love story for the young and old, this is the love story that deserves to be told.

Warnings: teenaged!elvis, black bookworm!reader, smut (in later chapters), fluff, angst (lots of it), twists and turns, slow burn, a classic love story, written in the segregation/civil rights era, mention of racial slurs, happy ending???

A/N: Hey there babies, welcome to the beginning of Peach Tea in Tennessee. I wasn’t for sure if this would be a series or not, but because of my darlings, it has become a series! I’ve gotten some ideas from some of my babies and decided that this shouldn’t only be a one-shot so this is what it has come down to. This was a request from a wonderful anon who blew my mind with what she asked for. I don’t wanna keep you guys but I’m truly excited to see how this series will turn out. I hope everyone sticks around and enjoys the love story of Elvis and his little peach. 💗

masterlist.

Summers in Memphis were unusually scorching. The neighborhood kids would find themselves spending their breaks away from school by the lake or playing in the streets near a busted fire hydrant.

Elvis was no different.

Although he wasn’t necessarily popular with his peers at Humes, he still had a small circle of people he would like to think were his friends. One blistering summer day, Elvis was heading to the lake to meet with his friend, Red West. He had to beg his mother to allow him to take the car, but he knew that she would worry that something would happen to him during the route.

He started the journey there, his trusty guitar thrown over his shoulder and a song in his head. It would take him longer on foot than if he would have gotten the keys to his 1941 Lincoln, but he felt that he needed the exercise. He cursed under his breath as the blistering sun beamed down on his skin, eyes hooded as he tried to keep himself composed.

As he rounded the corner, he could make out a few of the neighborhood kids from his school who would in their spare time make jokes about his lanky form or his fashion. They would call him ‘squirrel’ or ‘mama’s boy’, but it didn’t bother him much. While he kept his eyes forward in hopes that they didn’t notice him, his eyes cut to the local park that all of the poor families of the neighborhood would frequent.

His family lived in Lauderdale Courts, the first of many housing projects that were owned by the government. The local park was a place where he and his family would often spend their time when they needed a place that was less stuffy than the two bedroom apartment that they lived in. He continued forward, his eyes lingering over the people who were out and about with their children or with their significant others.

However, there was one woman who stood out the most to him. You sat on a knitted quilt, the patterns catching his eyes with little birds and sunflowers on each piece of fabric. You had a nude brown sunhat on your head, but he could count the amount of curls on your head as your face was pushed into a book. Your cocoa brown complexion shone under the heated sun, the sundress that you wore was almost cream but it made your complexion stand out.

Although he couldn’t see your face, he knew that you were beautiful. Elvis was almost starstruck with how content you seemed, book in hand, surrounded by little eatables that he figured that you liked. While he was caught in wonder at the beautiful girl who sat in the entrance of the park, he bumped into something or someone. He didn’t want to turn away from her and from the looks of the person who stood in the way of his dream girl, he wished that he hadn’t.

“Hey Squirrel, where are you headed?” The voice caught him by surprise.

He sucked in a breath, feeling the presence of two more people behind him. It was Richard Dundy and his goons, the football stars at Humes who often were at the forefront of his teasing. His electric blues glared at the boy, sidestepping him as he only wanted to keep walking until he made it to the lake. His eyes turned back to where you were sitting only to find that you had placed the book aside as the commotion distracted you. Your eyes burned into the boy who stood in front of him, daggers in your eyes as your lips sat in a tight line.

“Why don’t you leave him alone?” His eyes widened like saucers at the sound of your voice.

He didn’t think that you would sound as beautiful as you looked; your bronze eyes watching their every move, but hadn’t once looked in his direction. Then your eyes turned to look at him and he could have sworn that his heart jumped out of his chest. He didn’t want you to get involved, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if you had gotten in trouble by defending him. Especially because you were on the different spectrum when it came to race. However, race didn’t matter to him. You were incredibly breathtaking and he would come to your rescue if he needed to.

“Nobody was talkin’ to you, little lady.” Richard spat, the hatred filling his eyes as they raked over your body.

Elvis could see red, reaching forward to grip the boy’s collar before leaning into his ear. “You don’t talk to a woman that way, I don’t care who she is.”

Richard smirked, his eyes moving from you before turning back to the boy in front of him. By the look of his wild eyes, Elvis knew that he brought unnecessary trouble to you. But, as troubles would often come and go in his life, he knew that he didn’t like the way they looked at you. He found himself wanting to protect you, even if it was from himself.

“Oh, so little mama’s boy has a darkie as a girlfriend? You never fail to disgust me every time I see you.”

That did it.

Elvis didn’t hold himself back as he reared his fist back before connecting it to Richard’s smug face. He heard you gasp, but all he could see was red. As he tussled with Richard on the ground, he could feel his goons struggling to pick him up from where he sat, fists connecting with every part of his face that he could reach. At that moment, he was pushed off but his eyes never left yours as he watched you covering your mouth at the commotion in front of you.

He was so embarrassed that he made a fool of himself in front of you. Once the situation died down, he looked in your direction once more, almost falling back down on the concrete from your beautiful smile. He couldn’t be in your presence looking the way that he did, so he gave a small smile to you before continuing on his way.

You were shocked that a guy like him would have issues with others. In your mind, you figured that he was popular, but due to the situation that happened before you, you felt pity for the boy. You could only hope that you would have the chance to express to him how grateful you were that he stood up for you.

Days went by without the sighting of the lanky, blue eyed boy who pummeled the rascal that spoke to you in such a hateful manner. You shouldn’t be surprised though, you lived in such a time where people would spit in your general direction. Not him, you hoped. However, as time went on, you would begin to believe that the situation days prior was only a fluke. When he didn’t show up in the days following the incident, you were beginning to think that it was the last time that you would see him.

What you didn’t know was that he would walk that same path past the park once you were gone, his heart hopeful to catch a glance of the beautiful girl with the bronze complexion that shimmered under the sun. He was beginning to lose hope as well when he didn’t see the beautiful quilt or the nude sunhat that sat on the crown on your head. How he wished that he wasn’t a coward, that he didn’t even know your name. He couldn’t face you after you witnessed him struggling to seem macho.

He didn’t want to approach you, with the fear that you would view him as a boy who couldn’t hold his own. That he couldn’t protect you from the dangers that you dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Elvis was conflicted; he wanted to hide himself away from you, viewing you as a goddess that deserved to be treated with the utmost respect but he also wanted to get to know you. He wanted to know what you liked and disliked, he wanted to be the man who made you smile like you always did when you were neck deep in those books of yours.

One summer afternoon, Elvis walked that same path with his guitar strapped to his back. His cerulean eyes searched the entire park for the dark-skinned beauty who had become a fixture of his daily thoughts. He was eager to see you once again, but he wasn’t willing to have his hopes shattered at the reality that maybe he had scared you away. He told his mama all about the girl who captured his attention, how you loved romance novels and little snack cakes. His cousins teased him about how he was becoming a hopeless romantic, after all, they were used to seeing him being chased by girls on the regular. You weren’t like those girls, he refused to believe that you would throw yourself all over him because of his act of chivalry.

Elvis needed to know your name. He knew that it would taste sweet on the tip of his tongue, but he had no clue where to find you. Elvis didn’t know if he would ever see you again, but he wasn’t willing to give up until he captured your beauty in his sights once more.

“Excuse me sir, I’ve seen you walk past this park every single day. Are you looking for someone by chance?” Elvis turned to see a taller woman with the same complexion as the girl who graced his dreams.

It wasn’t you, but maybe she would know where he could find the smaller framed woman that he has been searching endlessly for.

“Uh y-yes. Ya see, ‘m lookin’ for a short woman. W-with the b-beautiful b-ronzed skin that shines under the sun. She’s always readin’ a book or somethin’, n-nude sunhat?” He stammered over his words, cheeks tinted with pink.

The girl in front of him pondered over his words for some time before a knowing smile crossed her lips. Elvis didn’t miss the way her eyes lit up as if she knew exactly who he was talking about. She stepped away from him, peering at him with an unyielding gaze before she opened her mouth.

“So you’re the boy who punched that scoundrel in the face?” She asked, eliciting a nod from Elvis as he twiddled with his thumbs.

Elvis didn’t know where the girl was going with the conversation, but he didn’t press her any further. He was sure that she didn’t know the unknown woman who plagued his dreams every night, but he was surprised when her smile grew. “You’re looking for Y/N. She’s been at the park everyday, lookin’ for you. However, when she didn’t see you, she was beginning to give up so she took a break for a while. I can tell you where she lives if you want to find her?”

Elvis’ knees nearly gave out at the sound of your name. Y/N. He was right that your name was just as beautiful as you were. The girl gave him your address and he became immediately familiar with the neighborhood; after all, that’s where he would frequent with his buddies when they went looking for the hot spots to catch a glimpse of his favorite musicians. Elvis was the type to not chase his tail while trying to get a girl’s attention, but he didn’t mind making a fool of himself in order to get yours.

That same night, he sat at the dinner table with his folks happily chewing up the meatloaf that his mother had made. His mama knew that he was growing impatient with the search for the girl who caught her boy’s attention. It was then at the dinner table that she knew that something had changed, but she couldn’t put two and two together at that time.

“What’s got you so happy, baby?” Gladys placed her fork back down on the plate, catching Vernon’s attention as he sipped from his beer bottle.

“Why can’t the boy be happy, Gladys? He’s been down in the dumps since last week, maybe something good happened at school.” Vernon grunted, turning to face his son as he looked at the both of his parents.

“Nothin’ ever good happens at school, Daddy.” Elvis started, placing his fork down on the table before grabbing the glass of his mama’s famous lemonade, taking a couple of gulps before placing the glass back down on the table.

“If nothin’ ever good happens at school, son, why don’t ya tell us what’s got ya so merry then?” Vernon pressed, a smirk crossing his lips as he knew it had something to do with the short brown-skinned woman that his son wouldn’t stop yammering about.

“I finally found that girl that I was tellin’ yous about. Her name is Y/N and she lives out there by Beale Street.” Elvis grinned, his cheeks burning pink as he felt embarrassed about how jubilant he sounded when speaking your name.

“That’s great news, baby. Are you gon’ invite her over for dinner?” Gladys questioned, a soft smile crossing her lips as she took in the horrified look on her son’s face by the question she asked.

“Mama, I don’t wanna scare her away by invitin’ her to meet my parents so early when I didn’t even know her name until earlier today.” He groaned, brows furrowed as he so desperately wanted you to meet his parents.

“I’m thinkin’ about askin’ her out on a date first. She may not even be interested in me, I’m white and she’s black. That may be a problem for her.” He frowned, scratching at the back of his neck as his ears burned red.

Gladys frowned at her son’s ignorance, sending a sharp glare in his direction before turning to her husband. She knew the era that they lived in, but she could never understand how people could have an hateful perception of a dynamic of people based on the color of their skin. Back in Tupelo, Gladys remembered a kind woman who welcomed her and her son with open arms when they became the only white family to move into Shake Rag. From then on, she had come to love and cherish every human that graced the world.

The good Lord’s word always preached to love thy neighbor and in her eyes, black people weren’t an exception to the rule. She didn’t miss how Elvis was always fascinated by the tent revivals that happened in the same town of Shake Rag, listening to him become thrilled about the type of music that he wanted to make once he grew older. Although she worried about her son, she always wanted her son to be happy. A couple of grandkids didn’t hurt either.

She knew that it was a little bit early to talk to her son about her desire to see her son happily married with children of his own, to fill the void that she has always had since her beloved Jessie earned his angel wings. God knows that she and Vernon couldn’t bear having another child, the uncertainty that the same would happen to it if they pushed through. Having Elvis was enough, but she couldn’t help but to think that maybe growing old and witnessing her precious son having his own family would fill the hole that became engraved in her heart.

“I’m sure that she would be delighted to go on a date with you, son. Don’t let the segregation laws stop ya, but whatever ya do, be careful. You may not know it now, but people are evil. Ya don’t want nothin’ to happen to that beautiful girl.” Vernon spoke up, picking up the bottle of beer before taking another swig.

“Yessir.” Elvis drawled, eyeing his mother who seemed deep in thought. “Everythin’ alrite, mama?”

Gladys returned her son’s gaze, mustering up a small smile as she nodded her head. “Your father is right, baby. Keep that girl safe, Elvis. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you or to her. Whenever you’re ready, Vernon and I will welcome her with open arms.”

That gave Elvis the push that he needed to ask you on a date, pushing his chair away from the table before grabbing his coat and the keys to his Lincoln. He wasn’t going to miss this opportunity, not by a long shot. “Where are ya going, baby? It’s late.”

He turned to face his parents. Vernon wore a grin on his face, while Gladys looked confused. Elvis sucked in a breath, a toothy grin spreading across his lips. “‘m goin’ ta ask her on a date, I ain’t waitin’ any longer. Thank ya, Mama, Thank ya, Daddy.”

Elvis shut the door behind him, not giving his parents any more time to keep him at the house longer than he wanted. He climbed into his old Lincoln, pushing the keys in the ignition before speeding away from Lauderdale Courts with only one thing on his mind. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to go to sleep that night without asking you out. The words that his parents had spoken at the dinner table rang in his mind as he drove to your address, but he was filled with so much excitement that he realized that he was nearing your home.

He didn’t pull near your home in fear that he would get you into unnecessary trouble, turning the lights off of his car before getting out. He noticed that there was only one light on in the house, a smile crossing his lips as he realized that it was your room. He crept up to the proximity where he could get your attention. Elvis was filled with nervousness each step that he took to your house, careful not to step on any object that would alert the neighborhood that he was creeping around your window.

Elvis picked up a few pebbles from your flower bed, chucking a few towards your window. He sucked his teeth as a few missed your window, but he grew confident once he adjusted his aim. His eyes lingered towards your window, nerves eating up at his body as he took in your beautiful form making your way over to investigate the noise. He threw two more pebbles, smirking as you pulled your window open with a glare on your face. “Who is-?”

“It’s me.” You turned your eyes to look over the lanky boy who stood in your yard, pebbles in his hand and a lopsided smile on his lips.

It surely couldn’t be the boy who you saw at the park, you thought. Your eyes adjusted to see that it was indeed the tall, lanky boy who wrestled in front of you the week prior. Your glare faltered from your face, becoming replaced with uneasiness at the fact that he was standing in front of you. You would have remembered giving him your address, but you haven’t been able to see him for days. Why was he here now?

Surely, he must have known that you were looking all over Memphis for him. As you took in his goofy smile and his shimmering eyes, you forgot that you were standing in front of him in your nightgown. You reached over to grab your robe before tying it around your body before leaning out of the window to address the boy whose name you still didn’t know.

“What are you doin’ here? It’s late, you know?” You giggled, placing your hands on the windowsill, leaning out to see that he was bouncing his legs like he was on fire.

“I know what this looks like, darlin’. I must look like a creep standing at your house like this so late, but I’ve been lookin’ fer ya everywhere. Your friend told me where you lived so I wanted to come by to let ya know that I haven’t forgotten about ‘cha.”

Trisha must’ve told him about how you were sitting in the park everyday around the same time looking for him. You made a note to tell her off once you saw her the following day, but you pushed that task to the back of your mind before returning the boy’s gaze. “Well, can I at least have the name of the boy who is standing in my yard? You ran off so fast the other day that I didn’t get the chance to ask.”

“E-elvis, my name is Elvis.” The southern drawl caught your attention.

You’ve never met a boy with such an unusual name, but you thought that it fit him. You giggled, rocking on your feet as you smiled softly down at him. “Well, Mister Elvis. I wanted to thank you for standing up for me the other day. I’m Y/N.”

“I-I know. Y-your friend told me your name earlier today when she stopped me.” He stammered over his words, you could make out the pink tint of his cheeks as his eyes looked everywhere rather than at you.

“I'm gonna kill Trisha.” You muttered, rolling your eyes at the fact that she was the one to tell him your name.

“W-what was that, darlin’?”

“Oh nothing, so may I ask why you’re here so late?” You asked, tilting your head, your curls falling in your eyes before you nervously moved them away so you could see him fully.

“I-I was in the neighborhood a-and I-I-I wanted ta know if ya wanted to go out on a date with me? Y-ya don’t h-haveta s-say y-yes, I just felt like I w-would ask.” There he goes again stammering over his words, softly cursing under his breath as he figured he sounded like a fool stumbling in front of you like this.

He looked up at you, twiddling his thumbs as he waited for any reaction that he could get from you. The silence bothered him, putting thoughts in his head that maybe he bit off more than he could chew until finally, you opened your mouth to speak.

“I don’t see why not? When do you want to go on this said date?” You asked, your voice sounding like music to his ears.

Elvis was stunned. He didn’t think that you would agree the first time, but he was so glad that you did. He thought for only a moment before tilting his head up to look at you, his blue eyes glowing with excitement. “Are ya free Saturday? We can meet on Beale Street, if that makes ya more comfortable? I-I-I don’t have any problems with anything ya agree with.”

Your giggle reached Elvis’ ears once more, his heart fluttering in his chest as he took in your beautiful appearance. He could die happily tomorrow if all he heard last was your elegant laugh. “Saturday it is, Elvis. Now, go home! I don’t want to get caught by my parents talkin’ to a boy this late.”

“I’ll see ya Saturday, darlin’. Goodnight.” He couldn’t keep his smile at bay, grinning up at you before stepping backwards almost tripping over his feet.

He silently cursed once more, hearing your beautiful laugh grace his eardrums before waving at you as he walked away from your house. As he rounded the tall hedge of bushes that hid your house, he pumped his arm in victory. He couldn’t wait to get home and tell his parents that he would have a date. As he climbed into his car, he couldn’t keep his smile off of his face, excited for the rest of the week to pass so that he could see you once again.

He made it back home safely, the smile still prevalent on his lips as he entered the living room where his mother was sitting with his grandmother, Dodger. He sank down on the couch, still holding on to his keys and his jacket. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t realize that his mother was calling his name. “Yes, mama?”

“How did it go, baby? Did she say yes?” Gladys laughed, patting his knee.

“Mama, she’s so beautiful. I ain’t think that she would agree, but she did. Oh, mama, I can’t wait to see her again.” He spoke fast, not stopping once to catch his breath.

“Calm down, baby. I knew that she wouldn’t say no to my boy, look at you. You’re such a sweetheart, I’m sure she will find that out for herself soon.” Elvis grinned in his mother’s direction, bouncing his knee as his thoughts returned to the brown-skinned beauty whose smile lit up his world.

“I’m gonna go to bed, mama. I’ve got school in the mornin’.” He stood up from his seat, pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheek before going over to kiss his grandmother’s forehead.

As he laid in bed, he couldn’t keep the smile away as he replayed the look in your eyes as he stuttered over his words. He couldn’t help himself, you were too pretty for him to let you slip out of his fingers. He knew that Saturday was a few days away, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He knew that he had to, but that didn’t mean that he liked the idea. As sleep overtakes him, the only thing that his mind replayed was the graceful sound of your laughter.

The rest of the week went by slowly, much to the chagrin of you. You couldn’t stop thinking about the tall boy named Elvis who appeared at your home on Monday evening. Trisha picked at you, wanting to know what he talked to you about. You didn’t miss the time to also let her know that it wasn’t polite that she was the one to tell him your name or where you lived for the matter. In fact, you wanted to be the one to tell him yourself.

“Come on, Y/N, would you have actually told him where you lived even if he asked you out on a date at that stupid park?”

“That’s not important. I wanted to be the one to tell him things about me.” You retorted, tilting your hat properly on your head before turning to face her once more.

You dismissed yourself from her, giving her a tiny smile before you made your way to the familiar park that became your second home. When you first found it, you were amazed at how much you felt free. Your parents weren’t ever home, leaving you to find your purpose on your own. Books became your main source of comfort in the time of loneliness; the words popping off of the page and becoming part of your world.

You were in another world due to the romance novel that you had begun to read when the sun suddenly disappeared from your face. You tilted your head up to meet the icy blues of the boy that you had been thinking about. You thought that he looked handsome as he stood in your yard the other night, but nothing could have prepared you to see him up close and personal. Your eyes lingered on his face, a shy smile crossing your lips as you placed the novel in your hands beside you.

“Good afternoon, peach. I thought I would find ya here.”

You didn’t miss the hitching of your breath and the increase of your heartbeat at the name of endearment. You struggled to find the words to speak, but nevertheless, you pushed through. “Afternoon, Elvis. How can I help you?”

You mentally slapped yourself at how demure you sounded. You turned your face away from him for a short time before turning back to look at him. He still wore the same smile as he did when he was at your house, something that you were starting to like about him. You waited for only a short while, the silence sweet and welcoming as you stared into his blue eyes.

“Well, I know that we are supposed to go on a date soon but I wanted ta come sit with ya for a while. Y-you don’t h-haveta agree, but I just wanted to.” He stammered, your face in awe at how flustered he became when he spoke to you.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t. I brought some snacks, if you wanted to try them.”

Elvis hummed, sitting next to you on your quilt. His eyes wandered over the different snacks that you made, a small smile lingering on his lips before he turned to face you once again. You could make out the small acne lines that littered his overall clear skin, his blue eyes shining beneath the sun before he parted his lips.

“What are ya readin’ today?” He asked, pointing to the book that now laid beside you.

“The Great Sophy, it’s written by Georgette Heyer. She’s one of my favorite authors, have you heard of it?”

He shook his head, waiting for you to continue with your thoughts of the novel. You were blown away at the fact that he was so interested in learning about the books that you were reading. The boys that you would talk to before him were never interested in the same things as you were, often dismissing your love for novels because they thought it was a bit unsuitable that a girl like you would indulge in childish books about romance. Elvis seemed to welcome it and more, wanting to learn more about you the more than he was around you.

“Well, the protagonist, Sophia travels with her father during the Napoleonic war because he’s known as a diplomat. After Napoleon is exiled, she follows her father to South America where he has taken up a temporary post. She gets along with most of her cousins when they arrived, but she doesn’t get along with one: Charles Rivenhall. He finds her annoying to put it lightly.” You started, your eyes never leaving Elvis’ as he soaked in your summary.

“So Charles has a lot happening in his life. He assumed the role of the adult of his family due to his sickly mother and his gambling addict of a father. He’s also engaged to marry a woman who I think he doesn’t need to be with, Eugenia. She’s very spiteful, very tyrannical in a way. Sophia feels as if she needs to save the family, so she makes it her mission to solve the problems that are plaguing the family. According to where I am, she and Charles are supposed to fall in love with each other, although they don’t take to one another.”

“But aren’t they cousins? That’s gross.” Elvis chuckles, picking up one of the strawberry cupcakes that you baked the night before.

“I suppose that would be seen as gross in our time, but this story is written in 1816 so it wasn’t uncommon for familial romance. Although it is boorish, it’s still sweet that Sophia is willing to save his family. She doesn’t have anything to lose other than his fiance, Eugenia who has everything given to her.”

“Do you see yourself like the character Sophia? Do you relate to her?” Elvis asked, catching you off guard.

You turned back to look at him, mouth agape as you thought about the question that he had asked you. In most of the novels that you had read, you found yourself comparing the characters in the stories to your life. You could see some similarities between you and Sophia, minus the falling in love with your cousin. You would like to believe that you were independent and outgoing as she was.

“In some aspects, yes. She’s very independent, outgoing, and elegant. I don’t know about the elegance part, but I am fairly independent and outgoing. My mama often calls me Goose because she says that I’m friendly and always wanting to keep people smiling.” You giggled, placing your hand over your mouth to keep yourself from embarrassing yourself any further.

Elvis found you adorable, his cerulean hues staring into your cocoa eyes as he took in every word that you said. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be speaking to such an intelligent soul such as yourself. Although he didn't often read books, he appreciated how you found such importance in the captivating stories that you read. He wanted to sit in your presence, hearing more about the books that you would read. He wanted to be in your embrace even without talking about the stories.

He was enamored with you, wanting to be in your life as long as time allowed. He spent the rest of the afternoon learning things about you that made him like you even more. You were the only child; the child of a businessman and a nurse who were never at home until late at night, and you enjoyed everything that was made of strawberries and peaches. He found that the nickname ‘Peach’ fit you because you were fairly sweet. He adored you, often wondering how someone like you could ever be interested in a stuttering fool as himself.

Soon, the day had come to an end and Elvis needed to return home before his mother sent a search party to look for him. He didn’t want to leave your side, but it was far too dangerous for you to be out when it got dark. “Would you mind if I took ya home, peach?”

“That’s very nice of you, Elvis. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

That was all Elvis needed to hear before he helped you gather your things, leading you over to his car that sat in the front of the park. He opened your door, helping you inside before he placed your things in the backseat. On the ride over to your place, Elvis continued the conversation but this time, he allowed you to ask him questions about himself. He found himself telling you things that not even his parents knew about him, finding that being in your presence was effortless. You were so pleasant to talk to, he wanted nothing more than to continue.

As he made it to your house, he stopped in front of the driveway before clearing his throat. “I could pick ya up tomorrow for our date s-s-so ya won’t haveta walk. Does 4 o’clock work for you?”

“It does, I had a great time today. Thank you for keeping me company, Elvis. You’re such a delight, I’ll see you tomorrow.” You softly retorted, gathering your quilt and the tupperware that now was empty from Elvis eating most of your snacks.

You exited his car, waving goodbye as you made it inside of your house. The beating of your heart never ceased as you laid against the door. Elvis was surely different, so easy to talk to and so polite. You weren’t sure where he came from, but you were so conflicted about letting him in. Yes, he was sweet and very attentive to the words that you said but he was also white. You weren’t the type to think about skin color being a flaw, but it was because of the time that you were living in that you had to take that into consideration.

What would his parents think about their son courting someone of a different skin tone as him? You already knew that your parents didn’t care about a person’s race, only reminding you that it was what was on the inside that counted. Your parents would love Elvis, he was very sweet and he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. You didn’t know if his parents would respect their son’s decisions to see a black woman, let alone a woman of her status. You were also concerned about what society would think if you were seen with Elvis, making the upcoming date much more alarming.

Only time could tell where this would lead, so you decided that you would give Elvis a try and would worry about the rest at a later time.

Taglist: @lindszeppelin @loving-elvis @lovininapinkcadillac @softsatnin @austinbutlersbaby @flwrs4aust @missmaywemeetagain @steph-speaks @plasticfantasticl0ver @prayerstopresley @presleyenterprise @crash-and-cure @literally-just-elvis-fics @samfangirls @burninlovebutler @cryingabtab @elaaronpresleysgirl @woundmetender @presleysdarling @rjmartin11 @isthlsfate @rosaminny @oh-my-front-door @rainydayz101 @stitchattacks @elvisabutler @ab4eva @kaitaesupremacy @wonka-gifs @iloveaustinelvis @thatbanditqueen @precious-little-scoundrel @marriedtopresley @ccab @18lkpeters @dre6ming @dkayfixates @galaxygirl453 @coolgirl462 @rosecoloreddesire @rosepresley @presleypresley @dhimpson1 @troubleinapinksuit @venus-haze @foreverdolly @polksalademma @austinsmutler @generoustreemystic

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis 2022 #teenaged!elvis #black bookworm!reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x black!reader #black writers #black reader #daisy writes #requested

191 notes · View notes

therealadothamilton · 3 months

Text

Some quotes from one of my favorite articles:

https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/journal-of-american-studies/article/erotic-charisma-of-alexander-hamilton/BC911E604C376A4F3CCBFB6F3731B3A0

“During the long intervals between fighting, young ladies of quality often visited army headquarters to flirt and exchange patriotic sentiments with the dashing young officers. In youth and maturity Hamilton loved the ladies and they him; there was scarce a one he could not charm, and none who could not deceive him. They were susceptible to him because of his attentiveness and flirtatious pleasantries, his polished manners, his gracefulness as a dancer, his wit, and his good looks. He was, in the phrase of the time, a very pretty fellow. He had auburn hair, ‘deep blue- almost violet’ eyes, fair skin, and rosy red cheeks. His male friends called him ‘little Hammy’ or ‘the little lion’ - not because he was short, since at 5 feet 7 inches he was of average height or perhaps an inch taller, but because he was light of frame in an age of fat people. Women doubtless called him little things more intimate, and were smitten with his slender elegance and boyish appearance. As for his gullibility in dealing with women, it derived from his romantic exultation of them and from his belief that they found him irresistible.”

‘Hamilton's admirers like him for many reasons, major and minor, and most of these reasons are unknown to his detractors. “He was evidently very attractive,” wrote Henry Cabot Lodge in his 1882 biography, “and must have possessed a great charm of manners, address, and conversation.”’

‘Hamilton was a firebrand – John Adams complained of his “effervescence” – but the common characterization of him as arrogant and domineering does not do him justice. Off the political battlefield he was, his friends testify, cheerful, charming, and witty. A particularly close and longtime friend, Robert Troup (1757–1832), remembered that “his heart was noble, generous, kind, and free from hypocrisy, envy, and jealousy.” Another friend, Judge James Kent (1763–1834), praised Hamilton's personal qualities in the strongest terms: “He was blessed with a very amiable, generous, tender, and charitable disposition, and he had the most artless simplicity of any man I ever knew. It was impossible not to love as well as respect and admire him.”’

‘Hamilton's contemporaries admired his manners and his appearance. His good friend and fellow Federalist Fisher Ames (1758–1808) rhapsodized about him, particularly admiring his eyes (“of a deep azure, eminently beautiful”) and his physical deportment (“one of the most elegant of mortals” with “easy, graceful, and polished movements”). A male contemporary wrote of Hamilton, “His complexion was exceedingly fair and varying from this only by the almost feminine rosiness of his cheeks. His might be considered, as to figure and color, an uncommonly handsome face.”’

'Historians and novelists have echoed such descriptions. In the opening chapter of Founding Brothers, “The Duel,” Joseph Ellis vividly imagines Hamilton and his nemesis Aaron Burr as opposites in both coloring and temperament:

Burr had the dark and severe coloring of his Edwards ancestry, with black hair receding from the forehead and dark brown, almost black, eyes … Hamilton had a light peaches and cream complexion with violet-blue eyes and auburn-red hair, all of which came together to suggest an animated beam of light to Burr's somewhat stationary shadow. Whereas Burr's overall demeanor seemed subdued, as if the compressed energies of New England Puritanism were coiled up inside him, waiting for the opportunity to explode, Hamilton conveyed kinetic energy incessantly expressing itself in bursts of conspicuous brilliance.

In a History Channel special, Gore Vidal also remarked upon the contrast in the two men's coloring, comparing them to checkers on a game board. In his novel Burr, Vidal has Aaron Burr describe his future victim through a gay lens: “As a youth, Hamilton was physically most attractive, with red-gold hair and bright blue eyes and a small but strong body.”

HAMILTON WAS HOT

“Hamilton is the only Founder whose sexual appeal has transcended the eighteenth century,” quipped filmmaker Ric Burns at a 2004 New-York Historical Society panel entitled “Whose Hamilton?”. Testimony to Burns's observation abounds on the Internet. Here Hamilton's heterosexual appeal survives. He seems to be particularly popular among young women, such as college students and women academics (the latter is what prompted Burns's quip). One admirer writes,

Man, looking closely at a ten dollar bill, I noticed that Alexander Hamilton is pretty hot. I mean, beautiful eyes framed by bold eyebrows, great skin, a strong jawline, perfect chin, and very kissable lips. Yes, that man was quite a hottie.

On another website, a young woman confided,

I'm posting two little known portraits of one of my historical crushes and fave dead guys, Alexander Hamilton. The sensual mouth he has in these pics almost makes one want to swoon … Imagine being the lucky woman (or women in his case) to kiss that mouth. He looks so divine in blue!

In another post entitled “Alexander Hamilton Was Hot,” Angie confided to her readers,

About seven years ago I was in New York for a wedding when I walked by Alexander Hamilton's grave at Trinity Church and told my friend Jennifer that I thought Alexander Hamilton was hot … why the Alexander Hamilton story? Because I'm a gigantic dork with next to no life, tonight I'm watching Alexander Hamilton's American Experience thingie and I'm super-excited about it

This post inspired a sympathetic comment from dav (female):

From the faint memory of my American history, I'm thinking Hamilton was a pretty good guy though he and Jefferson fundamentally couldn't get along … Oh, and he was totally hot.

On her Facebook page, a student named Alex began a long discussion with the following post:

Let's face it, he was pretty freakin' sweet. He was a cynical, illegitimate son of a rich nobleman, he was raised in poverty. and he was the only founding father who wasn't technically american. not to mention, he got killed in a duel A DUEL! HE'S AWESOME! To clinch my deal: find one of the new 10$ bills. Look at his portrait: have you ever seen such a foxy founding father? I say Nay. Alexander Hamilton was HOT. HOT and a BADASS. Who's with me?

The long discussion ended with this post from a Hong Kong admirer named Crystal:

Completely and utterly in love with him. Despise Aaron Burr with passion.

History and biography are present in these encomia, but clearly Hamilton has become a celebrity. The romance of his life story increases his allure. Once historical figures become transhistorical celebrities, their popularity is enhanced, but their complexity and contradictions are diminished. We are accustomed to a kind of celebrity necrophilia in which living people fall in love with dead movie stars and entertainers. James Dean and Marilyn Monroe are icons of doomed desire. It is all the more interesting, therefore, that a historical figure whose voice, smile, and physical movements have long been extinguished and were never recorded on celluloid can continue to generate an erotic charge.

#alexander hamilton #aaron burr #hamburr #amrev

10 notes · View notes

xhanisai · 11 months

Text

Adrien just wants to see his future wife wearing his clothes

AO3

Pairing - Adrinette

Prompt - ‘Accident?’

Summary -

“Ah, I must have forgotten it on your chaise, Marinette.” He answered lightly as he made his way towards her, adoring the way his faded Ladybug-themed hoodie (which was now a pastel shade of pink) looked so good on her. “I can take it back later, after school. Or maybe once we’re all at your place again to finish off that project.” In actuality, the little shit of a feline purposely left his hoodie behind on her chaise in particular, on top of all her other clothes, hoping that her usual absentmindedness or morning rush would ensure that she picked his hoodie to wear for the day.

Who could blame him for being so happy for it to have worked?

~(x)~

He didn’t think that his super hopeful and pretty silly plan would work and there wasn’t an ounce of shame in his body at all for said plan going through quite remarkably. What started off as

‘accidentally’

leaving behind mundane, ordinary items in her room or the lounge area downstairs such as his pens, his notebook, his bag full of his fencing kit and so on has resulted in something that the possessive feline inside him can’t help but

purr

with delight. Like an absolute little shit who's got the cream.

“Hey, isn’t that Adrien’s hoodie?” Alya’s very amused voice rang through the vicinity, her hazel eyes flickering to Adrien mischievously for a split second before going back to her best friend who squinted with confusion. It took the boy everything to hide the smug, shit-eating grin that grew on his peach-pink lips, his heart pounding with unadulterated glee and the sight of his adorable Marinette becoming redder and redder by the second was like coming across the most delicious cake in the world.

And he couldn’t get enough of it.

“H-How did I manage to- huh!?” She finally made eye contact with him, her baby blues sparkly and her complexion a beautiful shade of plum blossoms. This time, he couldn’t resist letting a victorious smile slip, eating up the way his hoodie dwarfed her tiny frame in a manner that was just so cute, he had to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hands to stop himself from swooping her up into a huge hug. He can’t scare her off now after coming this far.

Who could blame him for being so happy for it to have worked?

“Hmmm- methinks that Agreste. Junior is starting to develop the same habits as Marinette, constantly forgetting things or misplacing items. I guess you’re ve-eeeery lucky that all your stuff always turns out to be at Marinette's, hmm?” Alya wasn’t even being subtle, her pretty lips wearing a cheeky smile and her sharp eyes playful, one arm hooked with Marinette’s whilst the other hooked his as they made their way to Nino. On one hand, Adrien could have brushed it off as just a coincidence, not wanting anyone to intervene with his own silly plans to get closer to Marinette. On the other?

Well, he does enjoy a bit of chaos here and there and who knows? Maybe Alya’s teasing could be enough for Marinette to finally, finally notice him and see him as more than just a friend.

“Very lucky indeed. Marinette is my lucky charm after all,” He flashed a gooey smile at the love of his life, said girl emitting a tiny squeal and averting eye contact (but he didn’t miss the way she snuggled herself into his hoodie, pressing the oversized sleeve against her mouth and looking nowhere near ready to part with the clothing).

Maybe he should leave behind his shirt tonight? On her bed? And even his passion-fruit-flavoured lip balm as a bonus? Surely they should be more than a hint to the smart designer that he's practically on his knees and dying to become her husband, right?

~(x)~

#my writing #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug and chat noir #adrinette #ml fanfics #ml fanfiction

29 notes · View notes

yalocalfanficaddict · 1 year

Text

Sick of Your Face (KiriBaku sickfic)

Katsuki awoke with his throat on fire. The pressure in his head throbbed. Nausea churned in his stomach. He sneezed so hard that small fireworks shot from his hands. The sneeze was like a gateway that broke as snot began to run down his nose. At the time, Katsuki thought it was a good idea to sniff it back up, but his throat screamed in protest, and a noise of scratchy irritation formed behind his lips.

He should probably go back to bed. The idea was tempting enough, but what type of hero would he be if a mild cold got him down?

I'll get some Tylenol and water for my throat. That'll kick it in the ass, Katsuki thought as he swung his legs out of bed.

Once he finished dressing into his uniform, Katsuki went to the bathroom facilities, where he found Kaminari and Todoroki brushing their teeth. "Oh, hey, Bafuhoe!" Kaminari mumbled around his toothbrush.

Todoroki spat into the sink in front of him and wiped his chin. "Hello, Bakugou." With no toothbrush in his mouth, it was easy for the peppermint bitch to pronounce his name correctly.

Katsuki gave a small grunt of recognition, only to regret it shortly afterward. Dammit. Why'd everything gotta hurt so much? He glared at both of them through his lashes. As if to send the message that he didn't want to talk to anybody.

"You're awfully quiet, Bakugou. Is something wrong?" Todoroki inquired as he watched Katsuki's movements through the mirror. Katsuki tried to ignore him but felt a muscle in his jaw twitch as he stepped towards the sink he claimed at the beginning of dorm life.

Kaminari spat into his sink, then rinsed it clean. "Wait a minute....yeah, you're right, dude!" Kaminari threw his head back into a laugh. "Did all your yelling and screaming catch up to ya—? Ouch!"

Iida had stepped in and had given the walking electrical outlet a smack upside his head and a stern lecture to follow. Katsuki popped open his mirror cupboard and used it to hide his tiny smirk of satisfaction. It served that little discounted crackhead, Zeus, right.

After rooting for the medicine, Katsuki closed the mirror door—clack. Twisted the faucet's handles—squeak, squeak. And waited for the perfect temperature—shaaaaw.

Katsuki wasn't one to be insecure about his looks, but his sickly complexion made him more self-conscious about it. His face was grey, except for his nose and under-eyes. His nose was more red than the spiky mop on Kirishima's head. Katsuki's under-eyes were a mix of pink from the rubbing and purple from his sleepless night. His lips were cracked and dry. And then his once ruby-sharp, fiery to the point of volcanic eyes were dulled to nothing more than a pair of sunken-in velvet and doormat ones.

All in all, he looked like shit.

He placed the recommended dosage on his tongue and cupped his hands for a makeshift cup. With each sip he took, a grimace followed. To keep the rest of him healthy, Katsuki washed his face—being careful around his nose, and brushed his teeth—making the situation worse for his throat. Katsuki didn't bother fixing his half-tucked button-up, or his hair, which was pressed down in some areas and wild in others.

When Katsuki stepped out into the common area, he sniffed to stop more snot from dripping. He didn't use the back of his hand. It was unhygienic. Also, people could've thought he was weak by using the back of his hand to stop the mucus from leaking.

"Bakubro!" an annoying voice called, causing Katsuki to snap his head up and away from the turmoil of his muddled thoughts. It was Kirishima with a wide shark-toothed smile and his hand held up in greeting.

Once Katsuki realized that the walking boulder wanted a high-five, he kept his hands in his pockets. Instead, Katsuki jerked his head in acknowledgment and stomped to the kitchen.

Ashido and Aoyama were nibbling away and some cream-cheese bagels as Katsuki pawed around at the contents in the fridge. The only soft thing for his throat was peach-flavored yogurt. Katsuki internally groaned as he snatched the item and a spoon from the nearby drawer. As he ate his light breakfast, the room began to notice his lack of...noise. If he wasn't sick, he would've been kicking and screaming about something by now.

Katsuki downed the small cup and tossed it in the trash. Stupid Tylenol...shit's not even working yet.

●•●•●•●

It wasn't odd for Bakugou to ignore Eijirou's high-fives. He never was one for physical contact, so Eijirou didn't take it personally. But what bothered him was how quiet Bakugou was. During class and training, Bakugou spoke the bare minimum. When he did, his voice was nasally and hoarse.

Eijirou figured it was more than just a sore throat from all his screaming. Bakugou's posture was more hunched. He winced whenever he sniffed. Bakugou struggled to keep his eyes open during training and wobbled after one of his explosions on occasion.

English class had finished, and Eijirou was waiting for Bakugou past the doorway. Present Mic called for Bakugou, but Eijirou was willing to wait a little longer. When the teacher's voice grew louder, Eijirou knew he shouldn't eavesdrop. But he couldn't help it. Eijirou wanted to know what was wrong with his friend.

"Bakugou, I think you need to go to Recovery Girl to get that cold of yours fixed up," Mic coaxed.

"I'm fine!" he snapped.

A fit of coughs and rough sniffles proved he was lying.

"'Kay, maybe I'm not..."—a frustrated sigh was heaved—"...the best. But I'm not hurt, so she can't help."

Mic sucked his teeth. "Well then, you need to get some rest, kid. You could make others sick and things worse for you."

Bakugou grumbled. "Fine,"

Is Bakugou sick? I need to help him recover, Eijirou thought as he stepped back into the room. "Excuse me?" Eijirou awkwardly chuckled and rubbed the nape of his neck. "I was kinda eavesdropping and—"

"What the hell?!" Bakugou yelled before his face pinched in irritation, and a fit of coughs scratched his throat. It got bad to the point where he doubled over a little.

"Sorry, but I just thought...what if I help you while you're sick? If you don't want me to, that's fine!" Eijirou quickly added when he saw Bakugou starting to fume.

"Hell no! Get lost, shitty-hair idiot."

Mic cleared his throat to refocus the group back to him. "Seems like a wonderful idea, Kirishima! Wasn't Aizawa talking about being able to rely on others?" He whipped out finger guns, one for each student. "I'll tell your teacher to cut some slack for your homework for the next couple of days."

And just like that, the teacher was gone, leaving the students alone.

Bakugou glowered and Eijirou and jammed his hands into his pockets. "Whatever. Just don't make this a big deal." Bakugou croaked as he began to leave. Eijirou promptly followed, not wanting to fail his new job.

●•●•●•●

Goddammit! He won't stop following me like a stray puppy! Katsuki yelled internally. Even though he wasn't talking, his throat was burning.

"Go get ready for bed, bro. I'll be back to bring you some supper," his new caretaker chimed. Katsuki slammed the door before Eijirou could continue blabbering and rested his head against the wood. His head pounded, and his nose started to drip again. Katsuki sniffed the snot back up. He didn't want to use another one of those damn tissues. It would be like asking for help, and he didn't need it...he didn't want it. But he felt so run down and exhausted that he couldn't put up a fight to not have help.

Katsuki changed into his favorite skill t-shirt and shorts. Even though Present Mic asked for more time for submissions, Katsuki sunk into his desk chair and began his work. Katsuki's eyelids were heavy, and his headache worsened with each equation answered. But his efforts were all for naught when his head hit the workbook's pages.

"Hey...hey, buddy," a soft voice called. He felt a warm hand gently shake his shoulder. Katsuki squeezed his eyelids before slowly peeling them open.

Katsuki felt like he was about to pass out. Which was strange because he had just woken up. "God," he rasped, "Fuck...how'd you get in?" Katsuki's throat was drier than the Sahara desert. He sat up, causing the room to spin and the corners of his vision to darken.

"You left the door unlocked and didn't open when I knocked," Kirishima admitted with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I took so long. I had to wash my hair gel out. I also made you some soup."

Katsuki felt like his nap made things worse.

Kirishima sat the bowl on the table. "C'mere," he ushered. Kirishima stretched out his hands.

Katsuki swatted them away. "Don't...don't need your stupid help," Katsuki grumbled. He stumbled out of his chair. The room spun and darkened again as an arm snaked around his waist.

"Woah there! Careful, bro. Don't need you hitting your head now!" Kirishima joked.

Looking up at him with hazy eyes, Katsuki noticed Kirishima's half-up hairstyle, still damp from the shower. And how his jawline and collarbone still glistened from the rushed hygiene check. Katsuki tried to stand up straighter, but his knees were weak. Katsuki's neck and face felt hot. Was he running a fever?

Kirishima helped Katsuki into his bed and went back to the desk. Once Kirishima placed the water and soup on the nightstand, he paced around the room. He pointed upward in a "Eureka!" movement. "Can't forget to check you for a fever."

He held the thermometer up to Katsuki's lips. "This is a little—" Kirishima popped the thermometer into Katsuki's mouth. He wanted to gag at the metallic taste. "This is a little overkill," he croaked.

"I just need some sleep. Get lost, idiot." Katsuki muttered as he pulled the thermometer out of his mouth. He placed it on his nightstand and rolled over, pulling the blankets past his chin.

Kirishima's enthusiastic smile slowly dropped. "Oh, okay. You know where my room is if you need anything, right?" Katsuki nodded, staring at the wall.

Footsteps padded out of his room. Katsuki waited until he heard the door click before and sat back up. He grabbed the glass and downed the water. Katsuki flinched at the first gulp but was thankful for how the cool water soothed his throat.

Once the water was gone, he eyed the suspicious soup. He didn't trust it. Katsuki rolled over and went to bed, too tired to do anything else.

●•●•●•●

"Hey Kiri, how's it going?" Sero asked.

Eijirou flopped onto the couch with a sigh mixed with a groan. "He didn't want to take my help. But he's going to get worse if he doesn't. He was so tired, he almost passed out, for crying out loud!"

Asui and Hagakure sat on the loveseat beside the couch Eijirou and Sero rested on. "It's that bad?" Hagakure marveled, "He never was sick before. You'd think that how much he takes care of himself, he wouldn't be sick like this."

"I mean, it's good that he's sleeping. But he can't sleep while getting food, medicine, or anything else. I just feel like I have to help him because he's done so much for me. It's like I owe him, you know? Not to mention that he relies on himself too much."

Sero gave Eijirou a comforting pat on the knee. "He can be...rough, most of the time. But keep trying 'cause he needs to accept that he needs to ask for help."

Eijirou grinned. "Thanks, guys." He stood and adjusted his pants. "I should probably go and check up on him. Let me know if anyone needs anything."

Nobody said anything as he left.

He carefully crept into Bakugou's room. Eijirou made as little to no sound as possible to not wake him. Eijirou made a face when he saw the untouched bowl of soup but was glad the water was gone. He placed a hand on Bakugou's forehead. To his surprise, he was shivering but boiling to the touch. Eijirou took his now sweaty palm and wiped it on his pant leg. Despite his almost always angry appearance, Bakugou was most at peace in his sleep. Like a baby, really.

The bed springs creaked under his weight as Eijirou grabbed the bowl of lukewarm soup. "Hey, buddy. I'm gonna need you to sit up for me, okay?" Eijirou urged as he stirred the spoon in the bowl.

Bakugou groaned. "Fuck off,"

"Listen, man, I'm here to help you. I don't care how much you fight back. You need my help to get better." Eijirou huffed. "Now sit up. You need to eat."

Bakugou reluctantly sat up as Eijirou held the spoon up to his lips. His hand was cupped underneath so none of the soup dripped onto the blankets.

"There. Was that so hard?" Eijirou asked as Bakugou took his first swallow. Bakugou gave Eijirou the finger.

Once the bowl was drained, Eijirou gave Bakugou an affectionate head rub. "Good job, man," he praised. Bakugou didn't protest except for an irritated grumble. Eijirou gathered the glass cup, bowl, and abandoned thermometer. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Bakugou rubbed his eyes as he struggled to stay awake. "Whatever, idiot."

Eijirou left the bed and paced into Bakugou's personal bathroom. He took the washcloth and ran it under the running sink water. After it soaked, Eijirou cut off the water and squeezed the cloth tight.

When Eijirou returned to the bedroom, Bakugou was still sitting up and swaying slightly. Eijirou sat back down on the edge of the bed. "Lay down. I'll try to bring your fever down while you get some sleep."

He gave an idle nod and sank back into the blankets. Eijirou scooted closer and began dabbing the cloth along Bakugou's forehead. Eijirou began to hum whatever soft tunes that came to mind. Anything that would help his ailing friend slip into a deep sleep.

"You...you tell anyone about this, and you're dead. Got that...hair for..." Bakugou trailed off as sleep slowly took him.

A soft chuckle tickled Eijirou's lips. "Sure thing, bro,"

After Bakugo's temperature went down, Eijirou left his room as quietly as possible and went to bed.

#kiribaku #fanfic #one shot #mha fluff #mha #boku no hero acedamia #sick day #sickfic #caretaker #illness #wholesome #kirishima x bakugou #katsuki #bakugo #eijiro #kirishima #bnha fanfiction

27 notes · View notes

toxophilitis · 1 year

Text

Show Me More, Mom cont

CHAPTER THREE

Alone, still resting on her bed in the same position Tony had left her in, Wendy wanted to comfort her son. She knew, once the ecstasy was over, her son felt embarrassed.

She hoped it wasn't shame.

Sitting up weakly, she closed her legs in an effort to keep that wonderful juice inside her cunt. Her nipples still thrust out, her tits still hard, but not as hard as they were only moments ago. As her cunt pulsated, it made her asshole pucker in a nice manner.

When she felt strong enough, she stood and moved toward her dresser, pulling a pair of pale blue bikini panties from a drawer, and slipping them on. She adjusted the crotch of the nylon panties about her cunt, hoping they would hold her son's come-juice inside her. Ignoring a bra, she slipped on a white t-shirt. Her tits molded against it, her nipples making two dark circles there. Next she pulled on a pair of tight designer jeans, zipping them up. Sliding her feet into a pair of low-heeled shoes, she ran a brush through her soft hair, then entered the bathroom adjoining her bedroom, where she sat at the small vanity. She washed her face, after which she applied her makeup. Wendy wore very little makeup, usually a blusher and lipstick, along with light eye shadow.

Wendy was a peaches-and-cream type of blonde, the sort of blonde associated with Southern California beauty. She was fortunate to have such a creamy complexion, a delicate skin that tanned lightly instead of burning in the sun. She still looked like an older teenager. Many people thought she was a teenager, especially when she wore her blonde hair in a pony tail. Wendy enjoyed her appearance, but she didn't particularly like being mistaken for a young girl.

Leaving her room, she found Tony watching some silly afternoon program on the color television. That alone told her he was bothered about fucking her, Tony seldom watched television, even in the evening. He preferred to work on his models.

She went to the kitchen and brewed herself a cup of coffee, then carried it to the living room, sitting next to her son on the huge couch. She leaned back and sipped her coffee, watching him from the corners of her blue eyes.

Tony had slipped on his jeans and a red t-shirt, but his feet were still bare. His hair was still damp from his earlier shower, but combed neatly now. She set her coffee cup on the table at the end of the couch and ran her hand over his neck.

"You're getting shaggy, honey," she said. "When was the last time you had your hair cut?"

"I don't remember," he mumbled.

She felt him tremble under her fingers, and began to manage his neck gently.

"What's bothering you?" she asked softly, kneading the muscles of his shoulders.

"Ah, Mom," he mumbled.

"Come on," she said softly. "Let's talk about it."

"I don't want to," he said.

"I do," she insisted, her fingers working at the tease muscles. "I think we should."

Tony remained silent, and she glanced at the front of his pants. She saw only a slight bulge where his cock and balls were. She had the urge to touch him there, to cup his cock and balls, feel them. But she was afraid that would be the wrong thing to do at the moment.

"Tony, was I good?" she asked in a whispery voice.

Tony's body jerked, but he said nothing.

"Come on," sir urged. "Was I good, darling?"

"Okay, Mom," he said.

"Oh? Just okay?" she giggled. "I thought I was pretty good. I thought I was better than just okay."

"Mom, I..." He flushed. "I don't know about good."

"You mean you don't have a pretty little girl you can compare me to?"

A shudder went through him, and he kept avoiding looking at her. He refused to give her an answer.

"A husky guy like you," she went on softly kneading his muscles. "A football player and all... I'd think you would have your pick, Tony. I've seen those pretty little girls hanging around you guys."

She slipped her arm about him, putting him to her tits. At first he was stiff, resisting. But she urged him to lay his head on her tits, and she cuddled him. Caressing up and down his arm, she leaned her cheek on the back of her son's head. She could see his lap, and her eyes stayed on the slight bulge there.

"Tony, it's okay if you haven't messed with any of those girls hanging around you guys," she said softly. "A guy doesn't have to make a pass at a girl just because she's there, you know. I understand many young studs. They think they have to make every girl they see. That isn't true, baby."

"Mom, I've never made."

She hugged him. "Shhhh, it's okay. You know, you were very good. I was just okay, but you were very, very good."

"Aw, Mom," he protested, his hot breath burning her nipple through the t-shirt. "You know what I meant."

She smiled. "Yes, baby, I know."

She shifted her shoulders, trying to bring her nipple in contact with his lips. If her son had been a virgin, that didn't bother her. It made her feel good to know she had given him his first fuck, his first piece of ass. That first time, she knew, could be a frightening experience, or it could be a wonderful experience. Knowing what to do, how to move, Wendy felt, could be the difference that first time.

She drew him tight, feeling the pressure of his check on the top swells of her tit. She shifted again, and felt one of his lips brush her nipple through the t-shirt. She watched his crotch as she managed to rub her nipple against him. She felt elated when Tony slid his arm behind her back, the other on his thigh. She purred when he gave her a small hug.

She moved, and her tit pushed at his lips.

She squeezed his arm as she felt his mouth loose on her tit, but the lump in his pants was growing.

"Oh, Mom!" Tony suddenly moaned, and closed his lips about her tit, sucking it through her t-shirt.

"Oh, baby!" she replied, pushing her tit hard at his mouth. "That feels good."

Tony sucked hard at her nipple, the t-shirt rough on his tongue. He bit gently, making his mother moan with delight. He hugged her waist, and moved his other hand toward her thigh. Wendy caught it, bringing his hand up to her other tit, closing his fingers around it. Pressing on the back of his hand, she urged him to squeeze and feel and fondle as he sucked through her t-shirt.

As Tony fondled her tit, sucking eagerly on the other, she watched his cock harden inside his jeans. She began to tingle again with the sweet sensations. She pushed his hand dawn from her tit, then brought it up under her t-shirt, placing it on her bare flesh. She groaned as he twisted at her nipple, then began to pinch and pull it.

"Here... let me..." she whispered, pulling her t-shirt to her neck, then placing his mouth back on her naked tit. "That's better, Tony. Oh, that's much better."

Tony sucked at her nipple, his tongue flicking in hot, wet circles, his hand fondling the other one. Wendy sighed in pleasure, the suction exciting her. She saw his cock swell along his thigh, inside his jeans. She gazed at the long outline with desire. Her hand burned to feel it, to touch it, squeeze it. Her cunt pulsated inside her own tight jeans. She strained her nipple to her son's mouth, and purred as he gulped as much as he could inside. The strong suction sent tremors of pleasure down her body to her cunt, making it twitch wetly.

"Tony, I want... honey, I have to..."

She shoved her hand toward his crotch. Reaching as far as she could and still giving him room to suck on her tit, she managed to feel the hardness inside his pants. She rubbed and pressed at it, making her son grunt. For a moment, he didn't respond, then lifted his hips, pushing his cock to her hand.

"Let me..." she said, tugging at his zipper. "Honey, let Mother get your pants open."

Tony shifted his hips, and she pulled at his zipper. Getting his fly open, she darted her hand into his pants, pulling his cock free. She moaned in pleasure as she saw it, standing up, jerking with hardness. The head was smooth, very swollen and the little slit at the end was dripping a slippery juice. She clutched her son's cock with a soft cry. The feel of it burned all the way up her arm. As she squeezed his cock, she felt him suck harder on her nipple. She moved her tight fist, upward, watching the juices bubble from the small silt. She pushed her fist down, arid then began to pump his cock, jacking him. She moved her fist slowly but firmly, testing the hardness. Tony moaned around her swollen nipple, his hand clutching the other tit. Wendy squirmed her ass on the cushions as her cunt bubbled in responding heat.

She wanted to take time to shove his pants down, or at least get his young balls free. But if she paused now, she was afraid her son would feel embarrassed again and stop her. She gripped his cock and pumped her fist up and down while he sucked her tit. She wanted to bring his hand down off the other, and curl his fingers into her crotch, but felt even that would make her son pull away. He held her tight about the waist with his other arm, squeezing and hugging her.

Her cunt felt so juicy inside her tight jeans. The seam of the crotch pressed upon her clit giving her a beautiful feeling. She twisted her ass against the couch, and began to pump a little faster on her son's throbbing hard-on. The head was very swollen, smooth, and she gazed at the slit, watching his juices bubble out. Her palms was slippery with the juices, sliding up and down his cock easily, from the head to the base.

"That feels so good, Tony," she purred against his head. "Suck it hard, baby! Ohhh, yes, suck my nipple as hard as you can."

Tony began to hump his hips up and down in time to her fist, his breath burning the naked flesh of her tit. He moaned softly as he sucked, his tongue twirling wetly. She loved the way his teeth nipped her nipples tenderly. She wanted very much to push her jeans and panties down, then sit on her son's cock, feel it again deep inside her greedy pussy. But still she did nothing but jack his cock, letting him suck on her nipple.

The last time she had jacked a cock off, she had been a young girl and it was in the front seat of a boy's car. All the boy had done was lean back and let her jerk him off, not touching her at all. As much fun as it was to jack on a hard cock, Wendy wanted to touch it, too.

Squeezing his cock as her fist went up and down, she hugged, her son to her naked tits.

"Ohhhh, you suck so good, darling!" she purred, encouraging her son. "I love to have my tits sucked, Tony! Your mouth is so hot and wet! Suck real hard! You won't hurt me. Hurt my tits!"

Tony moaned and squeezed her, tit very hard with his hand, trying to swallow the other. He lifted his hips, pushing his cock into her tight fist. Then, on his own, he released her tit and slipped his hand downward. As it brushed along her stomach, Wendy spread her legs. When his hand was between them, she pushed her cunt up, but Tony didn't return the pressure, not then. She twisted and pushed her crotch at his palm, yanking hard on his throbbing cock.

Then he pressed his palm at her pussy.

"Oooooh, baby!" she moaned. "Ahhhh, feel it for me! Feel Mother up, Tony! Oh, yes, rub your hand up and down! That's it... rub up and down!"

Tony rubbed hard at her crotch, feeling the heat of her cunt through the tight crotch of her jeans. The harder he rubbed, the more she squealed with pleasure.

"Tony, this will make me come," she gurgled. "Ohhhh, I love to come, baby! Rub Mother real hard right there! Rub as hard as you can, and I'll come in my panties!"

While he rubbed at her crotch, his hips were pumping to her fist, fucking at her fist as much as she was jacking him. She listened to his soft, muffled moans, and darted her hand past his cock to cup his confined balls, giving them a squeeze, then rushing her fist back to his cock. He was dripping very much, and his prick was slippery from the head to the base. Her fist slipped up and down easily, no matter how tight she held his cock. The way his prick throbbed, she knew she could have him coming almost anytime she wanted. Slowing her motions, wanting to make it last a while longer, she closed her thighs, capturing his hand between them against her cunt. She whimpered as her clit strained with hardness. She felt as if her cunt was so wet, her panties and jeans could be soaked with her juices.

"Mmmmmm, suck my tit!" she moaned. "Suck Mother's tit hard! Ahhhh, push your hand right at my cunt!" She flung her legs wide apart again, pushing her hips up. "You're so hard, Tony! Ohhhh, baby, your cock is so very hard! Make Mother come, honey! I want to come again... rub me and make me come!"

She twisted her hips as she humped her ass up and down, grinding at his hand.

"I'm so hot!" she moaned. "Mother is so very hot there! Feel it, Tony? Can you feel how hot I am through my jeans?"

Tony answered with a grunt, his lips puffing hungrily at her nipple. His cock was straining and his balls ached inside the tightness of his pants. He could feel, or thought he could, wetness in his mother's pants.

"Are you going to come, honey?" she moaned. "It feels like your cock is going to come! I can make you come with my fist... Mother can make you squirt... really squirt with my fist."

She leaned her head back on the couch, pounding on his cock almost furiously, the throbbing heat exciting her. She whipped her hips up and down, and her son rubbed very hard at her cunt. She began to moan, then whimper. She was so close to orgasm, so very close.

"Ahhh, hard, baby, hard!" she gasped. "My cunt... my pussy... oh, Tony!"

With a cry, she strained into his hand. Her cunt convulsed tightly, the orgasm shooting through her like lightning. She cried out, straining her cunt as hard as she could into her son's hand. Tony, feeling his mother's cunt in spasms through her tight jeans, had lifted his mouth from her tit, looking down at her crotch. He groaned as her fist clamped even harder around his prick as she came.

"Ohhhh, baby, baby!" Wendy sobbed, almost crazy with ecstasy. "Abhhh, it's so good... so wonderful!"

As the convulsions faded, she felt her son starting to draw away.

"Wait!" she gasped. "Stay with me."

When she shuddered to a finish, her hips slumped to the couch, her legs loose now, wide open. She still had hold of his prick, and as Tony started to pull away once more, she gripped his cock tighter.

"Your turn," she said hotly, and began to pound on his cock in a frenzy of movement.

Tony leaned back, watching his mother's hand race up and down his cock. Wendy made soft hissing sounds as she pumped hard and fast, her eyes watching the swollen head, the slit of his piss-hole.

"Ohhh, so hard, Tony!" she squealed. "Ohhhh, I want to make you come, too! Don't hold, back, baby! Let Mother see you come!"

Tony began to squirm, her fist pounding frantically on his cock.

The moans he made told her he was close. Her fist made muffled slapping sounds on his open fly.

"Now, baby!" she urged.

With a grunt, Tony came.

The creamy juice spurted from the slit of his cock, flying high, then spattering back down her fist. With a gasp of delight, Wendy jacked on his gushing cock as fast as she could, feeling the scalding wetness coat her hand. As the quick spurts slowed, she squeezed his cock at the base, drawing upward, bringing a final head of come juice to the slit. Then she ran her palm over it, enjoying the hot wetness.

A few minutes later, while Tony leaned back, his cock limp but still out of his open fly, he began to make shy giggling sounds.

"Is something funny?" Wendy asked. Her t-shirt had slipped down from her neck, but caught above her nipples.

"You said..." He glanced at her shyly. "You were saying some nasty things, Mom."

"I was?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "What things...? When?"

"While we were... you know, touching each other."

"What things?" she said again. "You know," Tony said. "Ahhhh," she smiled. "You mean cock and cunt!"

He nodded.

"Well, I was hot," she said, and stood up. "So hot, I've got to take another shower."

55 notes · View notes