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strang3lov3 · 11 months

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Soft Dom!Joel x Fem Reader

Summary: Joel stumbles upon your dirty mag, noticing your favorite pages bear a striking resemblance to himself! Takes place in Jackson sometime after TLOU

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI SMUT!!! This is not fluffy even a little bit, kind of pervy joel, kind of sleazy too, smut, female masturbation, cunnilingus, soft dom!joel, shy reader, consensual PIV sex, humiliation kinda, joel loves a full bush, begging, joel is dominant but not like, aggressive?? let me know if I missed any

A/N: Y’all, I am very very very proud of this one! Please enjoy this depravity. And have a lovely holiday weekend <3 I am just a few shy of 1k followers, but consider this my thank you for all of your support 😸💗

Edit: we’re at 1k!!! Thank you so much holy shit!!

If you really like this story, please leave me a comment! Check out my masterlist

Javier Peña is Joel’s pornstar doppelgänger. I don’t make the rules.

After a long day, Joel was ready to relax and enjoy a bonfire with you. It’s how you spent a lot of summer nights in Jackson, you and Joel and sometimes Ellie just sitting around the fire, sharing stories and shooting the shit.

Tonight Ellie was at Dina’s having a sleepover, leaving just you and Joel together. It was nice to spend nights alone with Joel. Sometimes you’d talk about anything and everything and other nights you’d just share a comfortable silence. After everything you went through on your way to Jackson, it was nice to enjoy some peaceful nights with Joel.

Upstairs, Joel changed into some plaid pajama pants and a slim fitting t-shirt and made his way through the hall and to the top of the staircase, his heavy footsteps alerting you of his presence.

“Joel?” you shouted to him from the kitchen. You were preparing a snack in preparation for the bonfire. “Can you grab me a hair tie please?”

You were peeling apples and slicing bread to make pudgy pies for you and Joel to share. It’s one of the campfire snacks he introduced to you and Ellie. Back before the outbreak, he said, people would use canned pie filling or peanut butter and Nutella as filling for the toasted sandwiches. Now you had to get more creative, so you opted for spiced and sugared apple slices. You preferred berries, but apples were Joel’s favorite filling for dessert. You didn’t mind. He used to make these for his daughter.

“Where can I find one?” he called back.

“On my bedside table, right by the lamp,” you stepped closer to the staircase so you didn’t have to raise your voice as much. “It should just be a plain black one.”

Joel nodded and walked to your room. At your bedside table, he didn’t see any hair ties. Just some jewelry and a comic book Ellie lent you that she wanted you to read. Perhaps it was in the drawer?

Joel opened the drawer and rummaged around your belongings. There was a bottle of your favorite almond scented lotion from the local soap maker, your journal and some pencils, but no hair tie. He should have called out to you to ask if there was another spot your hair tie might be at, but curiosity got the better of him. He knew it was wrong to snoop through your personal belongings, but he couldn’t help himself.

Joel pulled the drawer out a little further and lifted your journal up. His eyes widened at what he saw. It wasn’t your hair tie, that was for damn sure.

Under your journal was an ancient porno magazine, probably from the 70s or 80s. Joel didn’t bother checking for a date. He had to know what the hell was in this old ass magazine that you were using to get yourself off. He remembered these kinds of magazines from when he was a teenager. They were often tacky and somewhat over the top compared to the explicit videos he’d watched on the internet before the outbreak, but they did the job. Who was he to judge?

Joel sat on your bed and flipped through the pages of the magazine. There were women in frilly chiffon lingerie with bushy and unkempt pussies, just the way he liked them. That was one nice thing about the outbreak, a lot of women ditched the beauty standards of the 90s and 2000s and went au naturale. Joel loved it as a young man then and he still loves it now, decades later.

The magazine nearly flipped itself open to one particular centerfold. It was a man fucking a woman from behind, her back arched and hair covering her face. They were at the edge of the bed, her fingers gripping the retro floral duvet cover. She was beautiful, but it wasn’t her who captured Joel’s attention. It was the man.

He was tall, dark, and handsome with a thick downturned mustache, not unlike Joel’s. He had dark hair and dark eyes as well. Even his nose was similar to Joels, strong and sharp with a curve. Joel couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. The pages were worn and the corners were dog eared, leading Joel to believe that these must be your favorite pages. His ego soared, as if it needed to be any bigger. He always had a feeling that you had a thing for him.

Downstairs, you were growing irritated. “What is taking so long?” you muttered to yourself. Joel was taking forever to find the hair tie you had so neatly placed next to the lamp on your bedside table. After turning off the burner of the stove, you paced through the kitchen and up the stairs.

“You are such a man, you know? You guys are terrible at looking for things. If it was a snake it would have bit you,” you grumbled out, half talking to yourself and half talking to Joel. You opened your mouth to continue speaking as you walked into your room but froze when you saw Joel on the bed, thumbing through the pages of your dirty secret.

“I found your spank bank,” Joel taunted with sarcasm, not yet looking at you. He flipped through a couple more pages before turning to face you, his intense stare meeting your flustered expression.

You were frozen in embarrassment, completely unable to speak, unable to move. Your face felt like it was on fire and you could hear your heart pound in your ears.

Joel’s low and gravelly voice filled the silence. “Didn’t mean to embarrass ya, baby. It’s okay. Human nature,” he winked at you with a crooked smile.

You quickly stepped over to him and tried tugging the magazine out of his hands, but he held on tightly. “Joel,” you pleaded as your sweaty fingers slipped off of the paper.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chided you. “This dude here kinda looks familiar, doesn’t he?” Joel looked at you with a knowing expression as humiliation filled your chest. Yeah, he looks just fucking like you. Leave me alone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Joel,” you muttered angrily. You were about to burst into flames, whether from embarrassment or anger you didn’t know. You didn’t care. How dare your body put your shame and embarrassment on display? You were giving Joel exactly the kind of sick satisfaction he absolutely did not deserve.

“Oh, baby. I think you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about. Look at how you’ve dog-eared these pages,” he used his pointer finger to trace the bent triangles at the corners of the pages. “Guy looks just like me, doesn’t he? Is that what you like so much about these pages?” his southern drawl had your stomach doing flips. “I know they’re your favorite, magazine practically opened right up to them.”

You ignored his question. “The pages were like that when I found the magazine,” you tried lying, but it was a futile attempt. This was bullshit. Joel was the one who was caught red handed, and yet you were bearing the brunt of the humiliating situation. Only Joel Miller could spin this situation to work out in his favor.

“Sure, sweetheart,” you reached for the magazine again, but Joel pulled it out of your reach. “You know baby, you didn’t have to fantasize with a dirty old magazine if you wanted to fuck me. All you had to do was ask.”

You said nothing, just glared at him. Joel wore a loathsome smirk as he wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“Wish I knew this is what you were usin’ to get yourself off at night. All those pretty noises, all this time. They were all for me, weren’t they?”

Any words you could think of got caught in your throat, it felt like dry swallowing a pill. You just looked at Joel with pleading eyes, begging him to stop making you feel like a fool. If you weren’t so embarrassed, you’d be yelling at him for rifling through your private belongings and calling him presumptuous asshole for insinuating you fantasized about him. Of course, he was entirely correct in his assumption. You were completely and utterly infatuated with him. Even when you weren’t using his doppelgänger to get yourself off, you were thinking of him all day long.

“Please,” you finally choked out, feeling tears prick your eyes. You couldn’t take any more of this torture. “Just stop.”

“Oh, sweet girl,” he spoke with a soothing tone. Joel placed a hand on your thigh and twiddled his fingers along the fabric of your pajamas. “You know I’m just gonna keep buggin’ you until you tell me what I want to hear.” Joel looked at you with his sparkling brown eyes, darkened with lust. “So what do you like about these pages, baby?”

Turning your face towards your lap, you whispered your response to his prodding question. “I like the way he’s fucking her,” If that’s all it’d take to make him stop, might as well spill your guts.

“Yeah, I do too. It’s sexy, isn’t it?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, glancing at the familiar image. Joel was 100% right. Those were certainly your favorite pages. You didn’t even need them anymore, the picture was tattooed on your brain. “I like how the man looks.” you admitted with bravery.

“I bet you do. Because he looks like me, right?”

You nodded your head shyly. You couldn’t believe yourself, giving up and letting Joel win. He’d never let you live this down. But maybe if you butter him up a little he’ll let you off easier. “You’re more handsome, though,”

“Oh, baby. Gonna make me blush,” Joel replied to you with a saccharine smile. He really did seem genuinely flattered by your comment. “This is really what you look at when you’re playing with your pussy?”

“Yeah, kind of,” you say, feeling some confidence fill your chest. “I pretend it’s you fucking me like that.”

“Is that right?”

“Mhm,”

“You’re such a good girl for me, baby. I like knowin’ you think of me like that,” he praises you for finally letting go of your embarrassment. He doesn’t only want to tease you. If this is what you fantasized about, he was gonna make your dreams come true.

Joel takes one of your hands in his own and moves it to your center, pressing your fingers against your core. You gasp at the feeling of your wetness on your pajama pants. “Think you can do somethin’ for me?”

“What?” you murmur.

“I want you to give me a show, baby. Show me how you touch yourself when you’re lookin’ at that magazine,” Apprehension fills your bones once again at his words. “Don’t be nervous, sweetheart. I just wanna see how pretty you look when you come. And after you do that, I’ll fuck you just like how he’s doin’. What do you say?”

“Just like, touch myself?” you laugh awkwardly at his request. This cannot be happening. Right?

Joel sets the magazine down and helps you to the top of the bed. He leans you against the pillows and kisses your lips for a second, and every time his tongue mingles with your own your anxiety melts away, little by little. This is all so surprising, maybe he does really want to make you feel good.

He kisses you gently and with care, using his lips to encourage you to let go again. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your jaw, your neck, and down your body before lifting up your pants and looking at you expectedly, asking permission to remove your clothing. You nod and he helps you out of your pajamas. It’s all so sudden and you feel exposed, all naked and laid out for Joel.

“You’re beautiful,” Joel says earnestly as he takes one of your wrists and guides your hand to your needy pussy, encouraging you to show him what you look like when you’re whimpering at the thought of him in the middle of the night. You don’t touch yourself yet, though. You cover your center with your hand, slightly embarrassed by the thick tuft of hair surrounding your vulva.

“I haven’t shaved in forever,” you say sheepishly. It’s kind of silly, worrying about body hair at the end of the world. But you can’t help it.

“That’s alright, sweetheart” Joel says as he reaches for the magazine and flips to one of the first pages he saw, a woman spread eagle with her full bush on display. She’s smiling and radiates confidence. “See? It’s a beautiful thing. It’s how they’re meant to be.”

You’re skeptical. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do. I love your pussy, it’s beautiful just how it is,” Joel grips your thighs and parts your legs, and your fingers gently drop to touch your dripping center. Joel reaches forward and places his hand over yours, helping you circle your clit with your middle finger. It’s slow at first and you squeeze your eyes shut, still feeling slightly awkward. Masturbating for someone else to watch is completely different from sex. You feel vulnerable, like you’re being studied under a microscope. You don’t feel that way for long, though.

Joel continues to help you circle your clit until he senses you becoming more confident, then removes his hand to watch you do your thing. Your fingers swirl around your hole as you gather your slick, then travel up again to rub your clit in those same circles he helped you create. You let out little gasps and whimpers, and it’s music to Joel’s ears. Finally, he has an image to match with the moans and other noises he hears from your room.

Usually you can get yourself off fairly quickly but with Joel in front of you, it takes a little longer. You open your eyes and peek at him. His dark and hungry eyes are focused on your center, but they flick up to your own. He smirks devilishly at you for a half second then goes back to watching your actions, almost obsessively. He is obsessed.

The sight of him pushes you closer to the edge, and he watches your pussy twitch as you finger your clit even faster. His expression changes then. He’s no longer looking at you with adoration and lust. Joel looks angry and jealous, with a furrowed brow and a scowling frown. You tilt your head slightly in confusion but before you can think Joel lunges forward and rips your hand away from your cunt, pinning it next to your torso.

“Let me taste you?” he whispers. You nod hurriedly in response. Lick me, touch me, do anything.

He presses a kiss to your clit and you gasp in surprise. “This is my pussy now,” he growls. Now that he knows what you look like touching yourself for him, he can’t just sit there and watch you anymore. Joel’s desperate, he needs to make you come. “From now on, you’re only gonna come when I say so. Do you understand?”

You mumble incoherently and Joel swats your thigh, not satisfied with your answer. “Do you understand?” he repeats, his voice dark and serious.

“Yes, Joel,”

“Good girl. You just relax now, let me take care of you,” he instructs you. Your head falls to the pillow, and you let out a soft exhale as Joel wraps his strong arms around your thighs and pulls your pussy to his face. Joel inhales your scent deeply, enjoying your aroma.

He licks a long stripe from your slick hole all the way to your clit, flattening his tongue against you. He licks every inch of you, memorizing your folds with his deft tongue. When he’s satisfied with the way he’s worked you up, he focuses on your clit, flicking it with his tongue before inserting two fingers inside of you.

“Joel,” you gasp out, hands reaching for his salt and pepper curls. Your thighs clamp around his head and he removes his hands from your body to spread them out again.

“You stay open for me now,” he commands. He plunges his fingers back inside you and curls them upward, hitting that spot that makes your knees weak and your eyes see stars. You moan loudly when Joel’s lips attach to your clit once more, this time gently sucking on the sensitive bud. He’s drunk on your taste, completely addicted to your flavor. His tongue continues dancing on your center and you pull him close to you, rutting your hips into his face. Every once in awhile you swipe his nose and he uses the opportunity to dip and twirl his tongue inside of you.

This is the best way to eat pussy, Joel’s learned. Find out what makes her tick and keep doing that, let her grind on his lips and nose. Right now, your wish is his command.

You reach down and grab his not working arm to bring it towards your breasts. Joel picks up what you’re putting down immediately and trails his hand over your breasts, pinching and twisting your pebbled nipples. That’s all it takes to have you coming in his mouth.

You cry out his name as you buck your hips into him, fighting the urge to push him away when the feeling becomes too intense.

Joel doesn’t allow you to catch your breath. He flips you on your tummy and drags you down the bed, his fingernails pressing into your skin. “You did so good for me, baby. You gonna let me fuck you now? Just like you pretend, right?” He pulls his shirt over his head and steps out of his pajama pants behind you.

“Yes, Joel, please,” you whine.

“I like hearin’ that. Keep beggin’ for me,” Joel demands as nudges your thighs apart with his knee. He teases your slit with the tip of his cock, painting his precum on your skin. He pushes the tip inside, not yet dipping all the way inside you.

“I need you,” you sob with desperation.

“Need me to what?” He knows what you need, but Joel’s gonna make you spell it out to him.

You let out a groan of frustration and back your ass into his hips. Joel chuckles at your annoyance. “Come on now. Tell me what I want to hear,” he repeats his words from earlier. “Put that pretty mouth to use.”

“I need you to fuck me,”

“There you go. Was that so hard?”

Joel wraps his hands around your hips, his fingers digging into your lower stomach and his thumbs pressed firmly into your lower back and slams his hips into you. His fingernails leave dents in your skin.

You yelp at the sudden contact, not expecting him to go so hard and fast. His thick cock stretches you out and you can feel the tip hitting you deep inside.

“Always knew this pussy would feel good,” he mumbled behind you, beginning his firm pace.

You arch your back into him, using your body to tell him what you need. You love the way he feels, so strong and holding you so tight. It really is a fantasy come to life. “Don’t stop, please,” you cry for him.

“Mmmm,” he hums. “You love this cock, don’t you?”

“Yes, Joel,”

“That’s right. It’s all for you, baby,” he continues pounding into you.

Joel stops for a second and flips you over on your back. He apologizes, “Sorry, sweetheart. I know I said I’d fuck you like them in the magazine but fuck, I gotta see you,” he says. “Can’t let you hide those tits from me anymore.”

Joel pulls your legs up and places them over his shoulders, opening you up even deeper for him. He lets out a moan at the change in position.

He admires the way you look, all of it just for him. Your half lidded eyes, mouth open and spilling out moans and obscenities with every snap of his hips. You’re completely fucked out.

You reach down to thumb your clit and he smacks your hand away. “What’d I say earlier? You come when I say. I didn’t say, did I?” he scolded you.

“N-no,” you stutter out.

Joel takes your wrists into his hand and pins them above your head. “Can’t trust you, sweetheart. Thought you were gonna be a good girl for me,” He snakes his other hand between your thighs and circles your sensitive clit with his thumb ever so lightly. Torturing you with what could be and never giving you more.

The wet squelching noises of your pussy and the slapping sound of skin hitting skin have your head spinning. Joel fucks you at a merciless pace, frenzied and desperate. He’s savoring the way you’re squirming under him, straining your wrists against his locked grip. He knows it’s agonizing, almost painful the way you’re aching for release. But he’s determined to teach you a lesson.

“Please,” you choke out. “Just make me come,”

“I don’t know that you deserve it, baby, Touchin’ yourself to that picture of my lookalike? That’s awful selfish of you,” he chided you. “Depriving me of this?”

“Joel,” you whined. You’d do whatever it took to get some release.

“Tell me how long you were needing me,” Joel panted. “Weeks? Months?”

“I don’t know. Forever,” you admitted. “I need to come now, please.”

“Forever? I wish you said somethin’ earlier, baby. You wouldn’t be in this mess,”

You didn’t know how much more you could take. Tears of frustration were streaming down your cheeks, each of his thrusts hitting deep and massaging your insides. You were right there, you just needed permission to let go.

Joel was right there with you, also struggling to hold on. He wanted nothing more than to keep fucking you without allowing you to finish, but he’d never seen something so erotic and sexy. Your body, tangled in his own, your twitching thighs and furrowed brow. And he was responsible for all of it, responsible for turning into this wreck.

“You’re takin’ me so good, sweet girl. Beggin’ and askin’ me so nice,” he whispered. “You do one last thing for me, and I’ll let you come.”

“Anything,” you gasp. Now his wish is your command.

“You focus right here. Look at me, and don’t close your eyes. Keep makin’ those pretty noises for me, just like you always do,” You’re not even consciously trying to follow his orders, you just do. You can’t break your stare from his dark and hungry gaze, his lip curled in a nefarious smirk. Breathy moans and high pitched squeals escape your mouth.

“Always knew you’d be my good girl. Alright now. Let go for me,”

That’s all you needed to reach your peak. The warm, coiling feeling in the pit of your stomach erupts, shooting electricity through your veins. Your vision goes blurry and you hear staticky ringing as you cry out for Joel. It’s all you can feel as wave after wave of pleasure rocks your body.

Joel’s thrusts are sloppy now as he chases his own orgasm. Your fluttering walls and the way you whisper his name like a prayer are all he needed to reach his peak. His hips are stuttering and his muscles jerk and tremble as he pulses inside you, painting your insides with his seed. Joel hovers above you, placing wet kisses and tonguing your salty skin. He’s addicted to the way you taste.

It only hits you now how surreal this entire evening is. Joel’s above you, collecting himself and catching his breath and you’re still pinned beneath him. Of course, you imagined fucking him many times prior to this but it was never this way. You couldn’t complain, though.

Joel interrupts your thoughts with a kiss, sweet and gentle and loving. A stark contrast to the way he fucked your body just moments before. “So apple pudgy pies, right?”

You giggle. Joel is such a typical man, wanting a snack right after sex. At least he’s not already passed out on top of you, the way other men often do. “Yes Joel, just like you asked for,”

Joel backs away from you then with a cute little fist pump, as if he’s winning a prize. “Fuck yeah,” he whispers, walking to the bathroom completely nude. He’s got such a nice and plump ass, you notice.

He comes back and wipes you off with affectionate care, being extra conscious not to irritate your sensitive skin after the rigorous fucking. He helps you into your pajamas then and kisses you on the top of the head. “I’m gonna get the fire goin’, meet me out there?”

“Sure, Joel,” you respond with a smile. “I have to finish up with the apples first, though.”

“Take your time. I’ll be out there,”

You sit up and kiss Joel one last time, the way his lips slide against yours gives you butterflies. It’s a little late to feel that way after what you just did. You go to the bathroom then go downstairs and finish prepping the apples, stirring them over the stove. Once they’re finished, you prepare the sandwiches and make your way outside to sit next to Joel.

The warm glow of the fire illuminates his skin and he looks so handsome, his features look so defined by the light and shadows. He helps you put the sandwiches in the pie irons and then places them on the grill above the fire, careful to make sure they’re not getting too much heat too quickly.

The fire begins to shrink, flames not reaching quite as high as the sandwiches need. You turn your head around you looking for some more firewood, but the sound of ripping paper interrupts your search.

It’s Joel, tearing out pages of a magazine. Your magazine, from before. You look at him with confusion.

“I told you, sweetheart. You won’t be needin’ this anymore. You come to me,” he explains with a low voice, flipping the cast iron pans. “I took good care of you, right?”

You smile shyly. “You did,”

“And I intend to keep takin’ care of your needs,” he promises.

You nod wordlessly, still smiling. A few more moments pass before Joel removes the irons from the fire and removes your pies to cool off, then slices them in half. They’re golden brown and the spicy, sweet, warm smell is sinfully delicious. The gooey apples spill from the bread slightly. Your tummy grumbles at the sight.

The dessert has cooled enough, you decide. Taking a half of one of the sandwiches in your hand, you bring it to your mouth and take a small bite, the cooked apples are like lava in your mouth. You hiss at the burn on your tongue and lips.

Joel looks at you with disapproving concern. “Tsk,” he mumbles with displeasure. “You’re terribly impatient, aren’t you?” his tone from the bedroom is back. Reaching forward to take your chin between your fingers, he swipes his thumb along your bottom lip, collecting some of the apple filling. Your eyes widen, you’re startled by his touch.

“I’ll fix you, though. Teach you some self control,” he sucks his digit into his mouth and pulls it out with a pop, humming at the sweet flavor. “Lord knows you need it.”

All you can think about is sucking his cock the same way he sucked his thumb. You wonder how the soft skin of his dick would feel on your tongue. How he would taste, how he’d look as you take him deep down your throat.

God, how you need it.

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #strang3lov3

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ma1dita · 22 days

Note

BABEEE happy birthday!! (i'm so terribly late i'm so sorry) congrats on 23💖

🐥 so i'm having thoughts right now about luke x reader and physical affection. like maybe one of them being touch starved and always craving the other person's touch and the other person noticing it and doing it more? maybe from platonic (i will go down with best friends to lovers) to romantic, i'm just on this brainrot tonight

🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥

luke castellan x reader

a/n: back from the klerb but here with a classic 4am post 🥂 but the hangxiety wont let me rest until this is out! ill edit this in the morning... or not 😗

wc: 1.1k

—

It’s hard to miss what you’ve never had.

Luke Castellan was never a touchy guy. Sure, he’ll hold a new camper’s hand during welcome tours (especially the little ones who can barely keep up with his long legs; if they’re lucky they get a piggy back ride), and he won’t shy away from a clap on the back when his strategies for capture the flag bring his team to victory (they always do, mind you), and when he feels like it, he’ll even shove Annabeth playfully to show her he adores her (but she packs a punch now that she’s older).

It never really goes past that, and he’s never had to think too hard about it—physical touch.

He’s the one who takes care of others—a part of his nature like it is for Hermes’ cabin to take in unclaimed demigods. But something changed in the months that he’s gotten closer to you. At first, he’d bite his tongue at the way you’re so open to patting his cheek when he does something funny (which he doesn’t try to make a show of, but now…), how you choose to sit so close to him during bonfires that your knees touch (the Apollo kids could be singing about the heavens falling down on them for all he cares but he zeroes in on every word that leaves your lips), and the way you’d lock your fingers with him for a pinky promise after every little thing ‘to make sure it’s real’ (Luke didn’t understand the merit of a pinky promise over whether you could have his dessert for the next week if you took over arts and crafts with the kiddie campers for him; truthfully he’d give it to you anyway). It was unusual for him to have someone comfort him, to show care without a true reason. But he didn’t realize how much more it bothered him now that you wouldn’t even look him in the eye.

Silena and some of the other Aphrodite children had asked you the very defining question of, “Do you like Luke Castellan?” and having never thought of it that way, or being able to put your feelings for him in words instead of fingers in his belt loops or in the muss of his curls—that shit was terrifying!

You spent all Saturday afternoon at the docks with them belly down under the glare of the sun’s rays as they explained to you what the five love languages are. By the end of it, sunburn wasn’t the only reason you felt hot.

“Your love language is physical touch,” one of Silena’s older half-siblings—Connelly, says like he’s explaining that the sky is blue, “And Luke’s not that type of guy! Think he’s more acts of service…”

“Ooh, or words of affirmation….” another one of them muses, but the sound of your heartbeat tunes it all out. Well shit, have you been sending him the wrong signals? Or are there even any signals you want to send him?

Nevertheless, in the matters of love or even the tiniest whisper of it—maybe there’s no one else you can trust with this stuff besides Cabin 10.

Wrong.

Absolutely wrong. Whatever the hell you’ve been convinced or whatever’s changed since last weekend—Luke just knows he hates it, and he’s angry. He’s angry at how you gasp in surprise every time you brush shoulders during archery practice when you used to let him fix your form, he’s angry at how you’ll squeeze campers’ shoulders to tell them they’re doing a good job carrying the strawberry crates—and all he gets is a mumbled ‘Thanks, Castellan’ when he stacks them up and takes your load.

Luke’s so terribly angry that Travis told him he’s been walking around like a big strawberry, face red and irritated—but not at you.

He realizes he’s also angry at the fact that he can’t protect you from the onslaught of a rain cloud—or maybe it was the fact that you’re so okay with the rain touching your skin and seeping through your orange shirt like he wishes you’d let him. He’s angry at the way the wind blows your hair into your face and your fingers brush the strands away like he wishes he can. Most of all, Luke Castellan is angry that he didn’t know how good a simple touch could be until he lost it—before he even really got to appreciate yours.

You’re sitting on the opposite end of the row in the amphitheater laughing with your friends and the furrow in his thick brow is a tell-tale sign of his discomfort. Luke doesn’t dare to remember what it’s like before you to be honest—he’d rather give up Elysium instead of having you ignore him like this. He calls your name, a tinge of both anger and desperation until you look over at him, eyelashes kissing your cheeks. The hold you have on him transcends the physical touch of your fingers but he wants, no—needs you next to him.

“C’mere! Why are you so far away?”

Luke hopes it doesn’t sound pathetic, but a crooked grin splits across his face as soon as you make your way over, sitting down and crossing your legs away from him. It’s still too far, even if he can feel your breath on his shoulder.

“Did I do something to make you angry? I…” The words escape his mouth in a jumble—quick wit from his father escaping him, though he knows not to rely on that asshole, god or not. You mutter words that almost escape him too, and he leans in, chasing your hands and putting them in his own until they’re gentle and soft in his lap.

“No, no…. I just… don’t want to push your boundaries. I know you don’t like it when I’m too touchy,” and he thinks his heart clenches a little like how you’re squeezing his hands. Luke shouldn’t feel instant gratification from a subconscious action. He wants to know you mean it with him—that’s what he can’t put into words.

“I….like it when you do.”

You notice the way his fingers tangle tighter with yours, pinkys interlocking with yours. When he lets go, Luke wraps his arm around your shoulders until you’re able to laugh in the crook of his neck. He chooses to place a kiss on the corner of your mouth when your head sways to face him at the silly tune about centaurs and then you realize that Luke loves the way you love him. You wonder if he accidentally missed meeting your lips, but then the noise in your head quiets down when he pulls you closer, lips locking tenderly, intentionally—as they were always meant to.

You both hear a giggle that sounds a lot like tinkling bells belonging to children of Aphrodite.

For once they were wrong about love.

Luke’s tongue parts through your lips and meets your own like they’re in a long awaited embrace, dancing and devouring you from the inside out but this, you— are what he can rely on. This, your touch, and how he chooses to let it consume him, never letting go.

#jo's 23rd birthday bash ⋆｡°✩#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fanfic #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #made by ma1dita ♥︎

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endlessthxxghts · 7 months

Text

What You Need

no outbreak!neighbor!joel miller x afab!reader || W/C: ≈6.3k

Summary: You come home from a horribly stressful day at University to everything in your family home a complete mess only for you to take care of. Joel helps you and gives you exactly what you need.

Warnings: SUUUPER self indulgent (sorry guys - it makes for a good plot tho, so i’m not all that sorry <3). no use of “y/n”, age gap (22/42), LATINO JOEL MILLER (idc what anyone says, he needs a warning), established relationship, no physical descriptions of reader, pet names (darlin’, sweet girl, pretty girl, princess, etc.), reader “takes care of everyone but who takes care of her” plot, more porn than plot lol, [SMUT 18+ MDNI] daddy kink, sir kink, heavy on the D/s dynamic (reader falls into subspace), cockwarming, unprotected piv (don’t be like these 2 idiots), breeding kink, cum eating, creampie, finger fucking, finger sucking (briefly), choking, hair pulling, brief thoughts about anal, overstimulation/multiple orgasms, hickeys/marking kink, squirting!, toy use, fluffy ending… i think that’s it?? (dear lord pls forgive me, for i have sinned) if i missed anything, lmk pls!

Quick lil author’s note (see bottom for extended a/n): In all honesty, I wanna dedicate this (nasty) little one shot to @javierpena-inatacvest because if it wasn’t for our interactions as of late plus reading your “It’s Never Too Late” fic, I never would’ve said fuck it and just start writing with the intention of potentially showing it to the world. Thank you for inspiring me. You’re amazing & I literally love u so so much. You deserve phenomenal head all the love in the world for everything you do <3.

MAIN MASTERLIST || ONESHOT COLLECTION

It was a long day at university today, as per usual, but something about today completely drained you.

You went to bed past midnight last night because you were busy finishing up a paper, only to get up at 7am the next morning to spend the next 13 hours juggling between classes, assignments, and studying in your “free” time. By the time you were ready to head back home, you were on your very last thread, begging to snap. You also completely spaced on nourishing your body today, the only thing running through it being water and coffee — lots of coffee.

That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that the minute you entered your family home, the entire house was an absolute mess, your pets weren’t given their food yet, and no dinner was made. And just like every other day since you grew into an acceptable height to reach the kitchen stove, you took care of it. All of it.

You were so grateful to your family for allowing you to stay at home during your undergraduate years. It makes your in-state tuition even cheaper, and you get the comfort of your own bed. You knew not many people could rely on their parents and family like this, so you don’t want to sound selfish when you think about how you really wish you had your own place right about now.

It’s been an hour and a half since you've been home, and you’re barely finishing up getting the food for your dogs when your phone dings in your back pocket.

Didn’t text me when you got home, baby. Everything okay?

It was from Joel. The neighbor directly across from you, and a quickly growing family friend of yours. Your heart both saddens at the fact that you forgot your unspoken ritual, but it swells at the way he can read you.

It all began at a small family party last year. You were 21 at the time, and for some reason you could not take your eyes off of your neighbor — who was 20 years your senior. It was always just shared glances or you bringing baked goods from your stress-baking endeavors, but at that party, there was a good period of time where your entire family went outside to the bonfire in the backyard to drink until their hearts gave out, leaving you with the dishes and a trashed house to clean. Joel noticed this, how much they relied on you. Whether it was coming over for a beer with your brothers or your father, or to fix an appliance for your older sister, they always walked all over you — when you did absolutely everything for them. So, he took matters into his own hands and went inside to help you clean up.

You insisted he didn’t need to, but you knew he wouldn’t let up. So, there, you two worked, harmoniously, straightening up your home in half the time it would normally take you by yourself. The second you completed the last task, you reached for the remote and plopped yourself on the couch, half expecting Joel to go back outside with your family. Except, he plopped himself on the couch right next to you with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen, “What are we watchin’, darlin’?”

“You know you could’ve stayed outside with everyone else, Miller,” you say as you turn your body to him with an eyebrow quirked up. He matches your expression, “Well, where’s the fun in that?”

You break into a breathy little giggle, satisfied with his comeback, and you turn on the TV. With your family completely occupied outside, it was easy for either of you to make a move. And although Joel had been planning to for the last few months before this party, you took matters into your own hands and lifted his arm closest to you, tucked yourself into his side and pulled his arm back around your body. He looked down at you, smirking at your boldness while your eyes remained fixed on the movie before you.

The next few hours of the night were filled with secret caresses and stolen kisses, and you have never felt more loved and appreciated in your life. From then on, you’ve been absolutely smitten with him, and he with you.

Instead of replying, you dial him instead. Not even a third ring goes by before he answers, “Baby.”

“Oh my god, hi, baby, I’m so sorry. I completely spaced. The minute I got home, the house was a mess, the dogs weren’t fed yet, dinner wasn’t even cooked, and I-”

“Mi amor,” he says with a deep breath, implicitly telling you to take one, “it’s okay, baby. I don’t wanna hear sorry from you. I’m sorry everythin’ is a mess, baby. Can I help? Need me to come over?”

Your rapid heart rate immediately starts to slow at how calming, ready and willing he is to give you anything you need. Your family would go absolutely insane if Joel just showed up right now with the sole intention of helping you take care of the home and yourself, but you don’t mention that. “No, baby, I promise I’m okay. I just need to relax. I need-” you pause for a moment to take another breath because you feel your body going panicky again. “I need…honestly, I just need you.”

After the shitty day you’ve had today, having to take control of every single thing, honestly all you really want, and need, right now is for your control to be taken away. You don’t want to think, you don’t want to decide, and you don’t even want to figure out your dinner even though you haven’t eaten all day.

He pauses for a moment, hearing the slight whine at your last statement. And just like that, Joel is at your rescue. “You need me, huh, babygirl?”

“Mhm, please.”

“Cross the street, darlin’, right now,” and he hangs up the phone.

You bolt out of your seat, and sprint straight to the front door, quickly locking it. You think to say something on the Ring camera, letting your family know you’ll be back, but you know they won’t even think twice at your absence. You already cleaned the house and took care of the animals they begged for but don’t care for — why else would they look for you?

Just in case they do check the cameras, however, you immediately veer to the left side of your driveway into the blind spots of your front door.

Within seconds, you’re at his door about to knock, but he’s already opening the door, whispering a soft hi followed by your name, and pulling you into a tight embrace. He pulls you away for a second, assessing your face, assessing your needs. He sees your brows pulled together, eyes glossed over, and a pout beginning to form. You don’t need soft and comforting. You need stern, dominating control. You need nothing but pure bliss, and he’s going to give that to you. But first:

“Safe words. Repeat em’.”

“Red for hard stop, yellow if I’m starting to get uncomfortable, and green to keep going.”

“That’s my girl,” he says and finally pulls you in for that rough, all-consuming kiss you’ve been craving. It’s a battle of teeth and tongue, and obviously he wins. His hands are roughly sliding down to the underside of your asscheeks, tightly pulling you into his hardening bulge. You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, but pause for a moment because he never gave you permission to. He senses that, and pulls back for just a moment. “Such a good fuckin’ girl for me. Go ‘head, baby, touch me.”

You immediately bring your arms back up to grab ahold of him but too riled up in how he’s making you feel, you don’t notice the huge grumble your empty tummy makes. He pulls both your wrists back from his neck and puts an insufferable amount of space between you two.

He says your name, filled with both concern and slight anger. “When was the last time you ate?”

Silence.

He lets go of your wrist and grabs your chin between his pointer and thumb, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I’m not askin’ again, baby.”

“Y-yesterday night,” you stumble out.

“I’m not givin’ you a heavy meal ‘cause that’ll just upset your stomach, but I am fixin’ you somethin’. Go upstairs, change into the clothes on the bed, come back down and position yourself on the ottoman, like I taught ya last week, hm?”

Too enamored by his roughly smooth voice, all you can muster up is a nod. His eyebrow barely shifts, but that’s all a warning you need. “Yes, sir.”

Padding up into his room, already feeling your insides start to float, you reach the edge of his bed to see a pair of black cheeky boxers, and a thin, fitted black tee. You quickly strip off everything you arrived here in and slip on the garments he gave you. Wasting no time, you head back down in a bee line to the ottoman.

Like I taught ya last week, hm?

His words echo in your mind as you begin to recall last week’s endeavors.

You were straddling his lap for a while now, slowly swallowing each other’s moans and making every part of each other’s body ingrained into your memories. Until suddenly he pulls back, eyes dead set with intention. “You trust me, baby?”

“Always, Joel,” you say back with as stern a voice as possible, confused as to why he’d ask such a thing. “Can I teach you somethin’, then, darlin’?”

You pull him into one more kiss before you breathily tell him yes and pull yourself off his lap to stand before him, fully at his disposal.

He stands up, and without any verbal indications, he’s grabbing onto you and molding your body onto the ottoman in a position that begins to drift you off into subspace. You don’t know if it’s the fact that you're sitting on your knees with your legs tucked under you, or if it’s the slow drag of his hands caressing your inner thighs, pulling them farther apart from each other. Or maybe it’s the way he softly places your hands, palms up, atop of your thighs. Whatever the hell it is, you absolutely fucking love it.

He feels you melting into every little touch he makes and he notes every little moment you slip further and further into your space. “Doin’ okay, my sweet girl?” he asks, voice dark and sweet.

All you can pull out of yourself is a pathetic little whine and a head nod.

“This is position number one. Remember it. We’ll learn more later, but this’ll do just fine for a while, baby.”

And with that, he kisses you ever so softly but with such a dominating, addictive energy that you feel yourself try to push up into him, and immediately he pulls away.

“Sweet girl, Imma let it slide this time, but you do not move from this position unless given permission. Ya hear?”

You return to your original position and assure him how good you’ll be, “Won’t happen again, daddy, I promise.”

His jaw clenches at the honorific; that’s your number one tell that signifies you’ve completely submitted and fallen into subspace. He had originally planned on giving you what you asked for two days ago — “Please, Joel, I need you to fuck me, hard.” — but seeing you all docile and ready for him just makes him want to absolutely praise you in the most beautiful ways possible.

So that’s what he did. For hours. An hour of bending you over the ottoman to eat your pussy like a man who had all the time in the world, an hour of fingering orgasm after orgasm out of you while his mouth switched between licking and marking your tits, and a few hours after that just slowly fucking you into his mattress, caressing and loving on every single part of your body he could reach.

Let’s just say, your family didn’t see you for the rest of that day or the next, and you did not care one fucking bit.

You shuffle onto the ottoman, your form now perfected after secretly practicing each night to increase your endurance of staying in such a position for however long Joel needed you to.

You wait for about five more minutes before he comes back with a platter of all of your favorite fruits — strawberries, mangoes, and pineapple — and sits on the cushioned seat right in front of you. He melts at how good you sit for him, immediately disregarding his original plan and wanting you as close to him as possible.

“My good, beautiful girl,” he says softly, in a way that you’re not sure if it was even meant for you to hear, but you still melt nonetheless. “Come,” he says as he pats his lap while setting the plate off to the table beside him.

You shoot up like a lightning bolt, too excited at the thought of being able to feel him again, but before you can climb up, he grabs your hips, stopping you for a second. He slides his fingers into the hem of your underwear and slowly slides them completely off of you, setting them neatly on the ottoman behind you. He slowly reaches for his belt, then slides it off, letting it fall somewhere on the ground. You stand completely still, patiently waiting for whatever he’s going to give you, although your pussy is proving anything but patient.

He undoes the button and zipper of his jeans and signals for you to come up. “Take me out, cariño.”

You climb up on his thighs, not fully straddling him to give yourself some room to tug his jeans and boxers down enough to pull him free. You pull him free with a small moan escaping your lips, wanting to dart your tongue out and lick his angry tip, but he didn’t give his permission for that. So, you begrudgingly let him go, and wait for what comes next.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he states nonchalantly as if his dick isn’t absolutely begging for you to reach out and grab it. “You’re gonna sit on my cock, keep me nice and warm. Without moving. Only until you’ve eaten all the fruit on this plate will I think about what’s gonna happen next. Got it?”

Your voice trembles, “Y-yes, sir.”

He nods his head, while bringing his hand up to your mouth, signaling for you to let your drool fall. You scoot closer and lift your hips up while he pumps himself a few times to completely cover himself in your spit. With how much your cunt is dripping, you knew his lewd act was for his benefit and his only.

The second his tip catches at your entrance, you can’t control the high-pitch whine that falls from your mouth, and he can’t stop himself from gripping your hips with a bruising force in an attempt to keep from mercilessly pounding up into you right here.

“So f-fucking full,” you breath out as you sink lower and lower, to which he nearly growls with a strained, “So fucking tight.”

You finally bottom out, and you both take a moment to breathe and settle any impulsive thoughts of forgetting the purpose of tonight’s scene. You shift a little to adjust to settle your legs more comfortably at his sides, while he leans over to bring your plate of fruit closer. Both your actions together make you hiss in desperation.

“Color, baby?”

“Green, sir, green,” you promise him.

He smiles, genuine and bright, before his face goes dark and smug again. He picks up a piece of pineapple with his fingers. “Open.”

You lean in and take the sweet fruit from his fingers, making sure to lick any residual of the pineapple’s sweet juices. This goes on until you’ve finished every last piece he cut for you. Towards the last few pieces, your pussy was absolutely drenching his cock with your slick, both your thighs and his soaked. He could feel every pulse and every flutter, and no matter how patient he usually was, something in the air tonight was testing every ounce of his strength.

He sets the plate aside and licks a mix of fruit juices and your spit clean off his fingers. You watch him, completely entranced by the way his tongue wraps around his thick fingers, and you can’t help but feel such an aching need to throw yourself at him.

So you do. And to your surprise, he allows it. You pull both his arms to wrap around your middle and you push yourself into him for a searing kiss, whimpering for him to slip you his tongue. He indulges, and you immediately begin grinding your hips down onto his cock. He growls and wraps his arms tighter around you, adding more pressure into your grind, forcing you to break the kiss to regain your breath. “Fuck, baby. Such an impatient little one, aren’t ya?” He rasps out.

Your hips move faster at his words, trying to will yourself to say something, anything, but you can’t. He notices your effort. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, baby, hm?”

And with that — with the notion that he’ll take care of you with anything you need — you completely fall. “Y- yes,” you moan out, “Da- fuck- daddy’s got me.”

Ah, there she is. Daddy’s girl. His back straightens so he’s towering over you more. He grabs your jaw tightly while you continue to pleasure yourself on his dick, forcing you to hold his stare. “Oh, sweet girl, daddy’s always gonna give ya what ya need. Promise, baby. Now be the good little girl I know you are and cum for me.”

You can feel him meet every movement of your hips, coaxing your high out of you faster than you realize. The wet, squelch your pussy makes every time you suck him in is enough to make him release his load, but he won’t. Not until you’ve came more times than ever before, not until you’re left completely fucked dumb.

He snakes his hand down to the front, reaching for your clit, using his thumb to make mind-numbing, calculated circles. Your back arches at the sensation, head thrown back, and he brings his other free hand to the back of your neck to pull you closer into him. He ravishes your neck all over, sucking and biting all your weak spots, your pulse points, only to run his tongue over it in soothing motions, getting even more worked up at the marks that’ll form tomorrow. Then, he rips your shirt right in half, letting it fall to the ground. So much for makin’ you change, he thinks. He brings his mouth lower and lower, sucking one of your nipples in between his teeth, throwing you over the edge.

Your vision goes white, your entire body goes rigid, and your pussy uncontrollably flutters around his dick as he peppers your neck and chest with more kisses while you come back down.

Your body is now soft and pliant, fully ready for whatever more Joel is going to give you. Your head is still high up in the clouds, and it will be for a while, but he always knows how to take care of you. You feel him slowly lift you off his dick and you hear him groan as he looks down.

“God fucking damn, doll, look at you all over me. Such a fuckin’ mess.”

Your face heats up immediately, “I- I’m sorry, daddy, I-”

He grabs your jaw again and pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, all teeth and tongue. He pulls away bringing your bottom lip with him until he lets go, letting it fall back into place, now wet with his spit. “Don’t fuckin’ apologize for that. You made daddy so proud, baby. So much so that you’re gonna do it again for me,” he says as he squeezes your ass cheek.

You squeak out a gasp and a breathy please. He stands up and makes his way to his bedroom with you still wrapped around him like a koala.

Immediately he throws you on the bed, and before you’re able to scramble up towards the pillows, he’s already pushing you up by the thighs and kneeling between your spread legs.

He releases one thigh for a quick second and holds his hand out, “Pillow, baby.” It takes your blissed mind one moment to register, but as soon as it does, you don’t waste a second, grabbing the pillow next to your head and eagerly handing it to him. He takes the pillow and taps your thigh twice, signaling for you to lift up. He secures the pillow under your hips then brings both his large hands back to the underside of your thighs, pushing your legs up so you’re nearly folded in half, giving him complete access to your dripping heat.

If there’s one thing about Joel Miller, it’s that he loves to make a fucking mess. You thought your first sensation would be one flat lick up your cunt, but instead you feel warmth. Wet and warm and everywhere, and finally you realize, he let his mouth fill with spit only to absolutely drench you with it. Once he’s satisfied with his mess only then does he dive into you like a man starved. Licking and pushing into your slit while the tip of his nose rubs against your clit has you climaxing in an instant, your back arching and your hips lifting as much as they can with the weight of his hands on your thighs keeping you in place.

He lets one hand slowly slide off your thigh and up your belly until he reaches one of your tits, switching between grabbing your entire breast and pinching your nipple. He continues to lick at you and circle your clit with his tongue until you’re a complete whining mess from the overstimulation. “Daddy, please,” you moan.

He lifts his head, eyes as black as ever, “I’ve got you, princess, you can take it.” He reluctantly breaks away from your cunt and kisses his way up your body, taking his time with sloppy, open mouthed kisses near your hip bone and your sternum, knowing those areas drive you crazy the most. He makes sure to bite a little extra hard in some areas on his journey up, knowing you love to admire all the marks and bruises he makes on you.

He sucks another bruise right underneath your jaw, making you push up into him more, while his hands continue to wander and grasp every part of your body that he can. Finally he reaches your mouth and gives you a sweet, long kiss to your mouth, distracting you enough that you don’t see him reach for the vibrator in the nightstand beside the bed. You feel him slide his hand back down your body, but you still don’t realize the vibrator’s presence until you feel the buzz directly on your clit.

Out of pure reaction, your hand flies to the nape of his neck and tugs sharply, all while obscenities fall pathetically from your mouth, “Oh- f-fuck, daddy, yes! J-just like that, please, please don’t stop…” The quick-paced, blinding pleasure builds so fast it cuts off your dirty mouth and reduces you down to moans and gasps and whines of daddy, daddy, daddy.

He slips two fingers into your pussy, sliding in with so much ease with how wet you are from a combination of your cream and his spit, all while he uses his other hand to push the vibrator into your bundle of nerves.

You don’t know whether it has been one minute or one hour of this, but all you know is that you’ve got sweat lining your forehead, beading down your body, and you absolutely can’t take the buzzing pleasure with the constant come-here motion with his fingers anymore, you have to let go. Although this time, it feels different than the rest of the times Joel has made you cum. This time… this time it feels like- you have to pee?

Immediately you start to panic and try to break away from his hold, unable to allow yourself to fucking pee all over him. “Daddy, wait! Please stop.. it- it feels different, like I.. I think I’m gonna pee..” you gasp, trying to articulate your thoughts while he continues his torture on your cunt.

His eyes go wide and it immediately registers for him, “Fuck, baby, don’t worry about that, just let go. Come on, daddy’s got you. You trust me?”

You hesitate for a moment, but still, you know the answer, “Y-yes, daddy.”

“Good, my princess. Cum for me, fuckin’ soak me. I told you I wanted another fuckin’ mess,” he demands and fucks you even harder with his fingers and increases the pressure of the vibrator.

You all but scream, definitely sure the neighbors can hear you, but you don’t give a fuck with the fireworks erupting behind your eyes and all throughout your body. Your body is still convulsing and you’re sure you’ve gone unconscious for a moment, but what brings you back to the Earth is the feeling of a warm, flat tongue licking you all over, cleaning you up. Then another sensation hits you: your bottom half is completely fucking drenched. You muster up all the strength you can to open your eyes and look down to see what’s going on.

You see your big, broad man licking you up so sweetly, but from his mouth down he is also absolutely soaked, down to the collar of his dark green shirt he was wearing.

Holy fuck. You fucking squirted. That was new. And with Joel’s reaction to it, you’re definitely sure that’s not gonna be the last time he pulls that out of you.

He doesn’t realize you’re up again until you’re softly calling his attention back up to you and not your pussy. He makes eye contact with you, and his eyes fucking sparkle. Yeah, there’s no way this was a one time kind of thing. He sits back up on his haunches and strips himself of his shirt. He never pulled his jeans back up from when you used him to get off in the living room, so his dick has been patiently waiting for attention since your last two orgasms.

He strips himself completely at the bottom half, too, leaving you with a perfect view of his toned chest, softer middle, and bulging arms and shoulders. Your cunt, all used and abused, fucking clenches on nothing at the naked sight of him. Of course, he fucking notices.

“Oh, my poor baby. She’s just fuckin’ beggin’ to be filled, huh?” His southern drawl always intensifies whenever he gets spurred on like this. And, fuck, if it doesn’t make you fold more than you already do.

You whine at his words and spread your legs even wider for him to see what’s rightfully his.

“Just beggin’ to get pumped full of my fuckin’ cum, huh, princess? Is that what she wants? That what my babygirl wants?”

“Please, daddy! Yes, that’s what I- what I need, daddy… need you ins- fuck- need you inside, daddy,” you ramble out, already fucked stupid but still begging for more. He situates himself on top of you, stopping your begging with a harsh kiss that leaves your already swollen lips throbbing. “Shhh, I’m gonna give you what you need, darlin’,” and he kisses you one more time as he begins to notch his tip at your entrance.

He hooks his arm underneath your knee, hiking your one leg up higher to open you completely. You feel him start to push in deeper, and neither of you can help the initial gasp of how good it feels to be consumed by one another. He leans down again to kiss you, unable to get enough of your lips on his, and you bring your hand back up to the back of his head, keeping him close to you, feeling the exact same way.

He completely bottoms out into you then, his breathing labored and you, a whimpering mess. No matter how many times you two have fucked, his sheer size always makes you feel like it’s the first time. He stays still to let you get used to the feeling again. You both lay there for a few minutes, kissing and consuming each other’s breaths and moans while he gives you rhythmic little grinds to stimulate your clit. Your pussy is sobbing at this point, enough wetness has accumulated that he’s able to slide right out until just the tip is in you and he pushes right back in, hard.

He fucks you hard, maintaining this rhythm for a while, completely consumed by the way you wrap around him so perfectly. What started off as one leg hiked up around him turned into a complete mating press, giving you the maximum sensation of his length and girth pumping in and out of you. He always gets so foul-mouthed whenever you two end up in this position, not that you’d ever complain because you love hearing that rough, sexy Southern drawl utter absolute filth that only your ears will ever get to hear.

“Fuck, darlin’, it’s like she was fuckin’ made for me. Wrapped around my cock, so fucking tight and warm. I could spend fuckin’ forever here wrapped up in your tight fuckin’ cunt,” he groans.

“All for you, daddy, always,” you respond, purposefully squeezing your pussy tight in time with your words. That drives him absolutely fucking crazy that he pulls his arm upwards in between your legs that are resting on his torso and brings his hand up to wrap around your throat. “Say it again,” he growls, “tell me who the fuck this pussy belongs to, baby.” He squeezes the sides of your neck tighter, creating an even lighter sensation in your head coupled with the submissive daze you’ve been in since you got here.

“F-fuck, d-daddy- shit,” you can’t focus on anything but the way he feels wrapped around your neck while balls deep inside of you.

“Darlin’ girl,” he warns, “don’t make me repeat myself.”

You sob out, willing your body to respond to him, willing your body to obey, “Th- this pussy belongs t- to-“ you take a breath, “to you, daddy, only you. Forever.”

He releases your throat and pulls your legs down from the mating press, wrapping them around his waist instead. He places one hand at the back of your head and the other on the headboard, then kisses you furiously before breaking away, “God damn f-fuckin’ right, princess. All fuckin’ mine to do whatever I fuckin’ want.” And with that, he’s slamming into you, his hand on the headboard in a (wasted) attempt to save the wall from the constant banging.

“Touch that pretty little clit, princess,” he breathes out, chasing his own release now with the sole intention of marking you with his seed. One hand still on his neck, the other snakes down to rub your clit in fast, messy circles, your body begging to cum for a fourth time tonight. “Daddy,” you whine out again, the honorific clearly being your only vocabulary for tonight.

“I know, honey, I know,” he coos, “Cum for me, mama, and I’ll fill you up right fuckin’ now,” he sucks on your bottom lip, “You want that, baby? To be pumped full of me?” He knows your answer, yet he still asks anyway knowing how much his words affect you.

“Please, God, yes, fill me up… I need your cum so fucking badly, I need to feel you, please,” you beg, only spurring him on more.

With both of your mouths spilling such dirty words, his lips anywhere they can reach with the combination of you playing with your clit and him pounding into you, your body enters the astral plane yet again for the fourth time tonight. Though, this time, you force your body to come back down, so you can feel his warmth spill into you.

It only takes but a few more thrusts after you climax for him to follow suit, roaring out as hot, thick ropes of cum spill into you, overflowing and dripping out of your sore cunt. He slowly pulls out, labored breathing, sits back up and just watches. Watches as your pussy clenches to keep him locked inside of you, watches as his load drips down your folds over your tight, little asshole. Another day, he thinks to himself with a smirk.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until his fingers are engrossed in the thick combination of your releases. You moan out at the sensitivity of your pussy, but Joel doesn’t care. He slips his middle and ring finger in, feeling just how much he filled you up. And before you know it, he’s pumping in and out of you yet again, his eyes completely focused on your glistening sex, hitting that spongy spot inside of you that has you fluttering for another fucking release.

“Ahh,” you hiss, not knowing whether you want him to stop or keep going. He uses his other hand to rub on your clit. Fuck. Yeah, okay, you want him to keep going. “Shit, daddy, I’m gonna cum again,” you say as you scramble to get ahold of the bedsheets.

Joel’s gaze breaks away from your cunt to look at you, he smirks like the devil, “Oh, yeah, honey? Gonna give me another one? Come on, baby, I know you have it in you,” he slips a third finger inside. You whine at the stretch. “One more mess, baby, and then I’ll take care of you, I gotcha,” he says for comfort.

You’re nearing the point where you guys usually begin to transition into aftercare, and he knows. He always knows. But he also knows that today you need a little extra push, so he gives it to you.

The thrusts of his fingers don’t come to a stop, but they exponentially slow. “Give me a color, mi amor,” he softly encourages. Even with your erratic breathing, you’re able to force out, “Oh my god, daddy, green, green, green, please go faster, just like before, please-”

He quickly leans forward and stops your blabbering with a chaste kiss and chuckles when he pulls back, “My god, I love you so much, princess.” Then his fingers pick back up to the speed you were so desperately loving before, his and your cum leaking out all over the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck, daddy, I love you so fucking much, fuck, thank you, thank you,” you cry out. A few more pumps and a few more circles to your clit and you’re cumming for the fifth (and final) time tonight. Joel groans at the way you finish on his fingers, and it’s his mouth that blabbers out this time.

“Shit, baby, yes, soak my fuckin’ fingers, let me feel you, fuck-” He’s so enthralled at the sight before him, he doesn’t hear you pleading for him to stop pushing in and out until the honorific fades, “Baby, baby, baby,” you frantically breathe.

He makes eye contact with you again and realizes how caught up he was in you. “Oh, darlin’, shit, I’m sorry, mi amor. What’s your color, baby? Fuck, I’m sorry-”

It’s you this time who forces your entire wobbly body to push up and meet him in a bruising kiss. “Stop, daddy,” you say with a lilt in your tone, signaling to Joel that you’re back from subspace. You smirk, “My color is green, cowboy, but I really need you to run me a warm bath now because I can’t move a single muscle with how you had me, baby,” and pull him in once more for another kiss.

His smugness returns and he pushes you back down on his bed, peppering your face and neck with kisses, forcing sweet out-of-breath giggles from you. “That, I can do, baby. May I join you?”

Your face completely softens, your stresses and worries from the last 24 hours completely nonexistent. “I’d be mad if you didn’t, Miller.”

The next hour and a half — or until the bath water becomes tepid — is spent with him cherishing your body, washing you with your lavender, oat milk body wash you love so much, ultimately just helping you softly come down from your oxytocin high.

You’ve never felt more loved, appreciated, or taken care of in your life. He always makes sure your come down is smooth and unnoticeable as you fall from a blissed state of mind to one of pure love and adoration. As long as you have him in your life, you truly believe you have all of what you need.

As he’s drying your body up and slipping you into one of his t-shirts, your stomach growls… loudly.

“Darlin’...”

You pull away from his grasp, jokingly rolling your eyes while smirking, “Yeah, yeah, Miller. Come on. Gotta fill me up again, don’tcha, cowboy?”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out followed by your name, “Tryna put me in an early fuckin’ grave or what?”

Author’s note - extended: Hi guys! I birthed this little one shot on a Friday night while sippin’ on a glass of whiskey and stressing about the stressful entire week I just had. This isn’t my first time writing, in general, but this is my first time writing with the intention of truly producing a story out of it.. this is also my first story I’m posting, so I’m very nervous. Even if just one other person reads this and enjoys it, that’s all that matters to me <3 I also wanna give a quick thank you to my bestie, who’s an AVID smut reader, for proofreading this. She said, and I quote, “gotta change my panties” and “she’s growling” after reading this LMAOO. So, thank you for that, bestie. I love you with my whole heart.

As with any fic, reblog and comments are very much appreciated!! All feedback is appreciated, too!!! Please do let me know how you liked this, and if there's anything specific I could work to improve, I'd love to know! I hope I did okay for my first actual attempt at smut.

Much love to everyone! <3

EDIT: As of the new year 2024, I no longer do taglists!! Follow @endlessthxxghtsnotifs and turn on the notifications to be updated when new stories come out!!

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writingsbychlo · 4 months

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KNOW YOU LIKE I DO | tom riddle

summary; love letters are tom's way of communicating. unfortunately, he's not as good with his actions.

word count; 7036

notes; another one that I said was gonna be short and it wasn’t. I think I’m physically incapable of writing short fics, actually.

Dear Tom,

Tommy.

My Tom.

Do you still have that first letter I wrote to you, back in summer? No, I suppose you don’t, that’s not very like you.

I’m drunk. Just a little bit (a lot), and I can’t take it anymore. Mattheo told me to tell you how I feel, and that is exactly what I’m going to do. He’s asleep on my bed right now, drooling into my favourite pillow waiting for me to write this.

So here it is.

I’m angry. I’m hurt. I’m confused. I’m in love. And it’s all your fault.

Staring across the crowded room, your eyes fixed back onto that of Tom Riddle. It wasn’t hard to spot him, not as he was the only man who came to a Christmas party dressed in all black and sat alone, brooding. His lips were pressed into a line, the lights bouncing off of those shiny curls, green and red splashed across his pale skin as he sipped at his drink, listening to the conversation Draco and Blaise were having, but never participating.

Your heart lurched a little in your chest, just the mere sight of him had a thousand different feelings rearing their heads, and you sighed to yourself. Shaking your head, your attention was redirected to the drinks table, pouring yourself an extra strong helping of Giggle Gin and topping it off. The urge to look back over was strong, and you steadfastly ignored it, suppressing the urge and instead, turning your back to his direction, walking towards the group of girls giggling in the opposite corner.

Taking your seat back in the comfy corner of the sofa, Pansy offered you a smile, her arm looped over Luna’s shoulders as the blonde cuddled into her side. Astoria was currently recounting the intimate details of her latest night with Draco, and you hid a smile in your cup as you tuned back into the conversation.

You lost the battle with your will, however, gaze moving directly back across the room to Tom. He had a slight smirk on his face now as he watched Draco speak, and you did not doubt that he was receiving a tale of the exact same encounter Astoria was currently telling, only from a different point of view.

Blonde cut across your vision, the perfect smile of Daphne blocking your view as she sat in front of you, severing any sights of Tom you might have had. “You know,” She started, grinning as she took a sip of your drink cheekily, before handing it back. “If you stare at him any harder, you’re gonna’ drill holes in the side of his head.”

You could only scoff, but no argument formed. Lately, all you’d been able to do was stare longingly at him across any room. You weren’t subtle, and you’d never been much good at hiding your feelings. Which seemed fitting, since you’d fallen for someone who was like a blank slate, permanently.

Tom Riddle was a harder book to read than a tablet written in a never-before-discovered language.

“He looks so… miserable, Daph.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, snorting a laugh, and turning her attention back to you. “Because Tom Riddle doesn’t go to parties, and he’s probably counting the minutes until he can leave.” She smirked a little, shuffling closer, perched on the edge of her seat as she leaned in, “At least, he didn’t go to parties. Until you, that is.”

Your cheeks flushed, a subtle hint at the running joke your friendship group had taken on. They’d all become convinced that Tom attended parties for you, ever since he’d been a willing guest for the first time at Draco’s end-of-summer bonfire bash, and spent the majority of the night talking with you. They refused to let it go.

“You should go over there and cheer him up. I bet he’d be smiling in no time if you gave him a little attention.”

That was exactly the problem. You’d been giving him a little too much attention, and now, everyone was painfully aware of your feelings for him. Except for him, maybe. Either that, or he was just very good at pretending he didn’t notice, in a chance to let you down gently. You didn’t know which option was worse. “Don’t be ridiculous, Daph.”

“No, you don’t be ridiculous! You and him are… something else.” She took your free hand in hers, squeezing tightly. All amusement melted from her face, and she gave you a serious look. The expression she wore when advising her sister on Draco, or comforting Pansy after a panic attack. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened over the summer, or are you just going to keep acting like it wasn’t some cataclysmic shift?”

“So dramatic.” You hummed to your roommate.

“Still pretending, I see.” She teases lightly, but her brows are still furrowed. She waited a few more seconds, to see if you’ll crack. All you do is hold her steady gaze, and take a sip of your drink. With a sigh, she released your hand, and leans back in her chair. “Well, whatever. We can all see it, see how you two pine for one another, and how perfect you’d be together. Just go and talk to him! He’s probably sat over there waiting for you anyway. He had that exact same kicked-puppy expression on at the summer party, until you walked in.”

“He did not…” You murmur, the very thought making you blush.

“I think that’s the first time I ever saw Tom Riddle smile. A real smile, not the smile he gets when threatening someone, or when Mattheo falls over. A good smile.”

“Now you’re just making him out like some kind of sulky villain.” You retort, and she only raises a brow at you.

“Here, take him this box, and go talk to him. The poor boy looks lost over there without you.” Reaching under her chair, Daphne produces a familiar box, wrapped neatly in black paper with dark green ribbon, and your jaw drops.

“Daphne!—” Reaching out to snatch it from her, your brows furrow. “Did you go through my things?”

“I didn’t exactly go through your things,” She grins, watching you turn over the label with his name written on neatly. “I just watched you hide it under your bed and got curious… it smells good. Is it cookies? Can I have one?”

When she reaches for the box, you slap the back of her hand, and she sticks her tongue out at you in return. “No! You cannot, you little snoop!”

“Fine! If you won’t let me have a cookie, then you have to go over there. You either give me a cookie, or you give me the satisfaction of seeing you and him smile.” Her arms crossed, her tone annoyed but her words caring, and love shone in her gaze as she stared at you. “Go on. Go over to him. Please.”

It wasn’t like you didn’t already want to, and with her encouragement, you were a weak woman to say no. Downing the rest of your drink for a little liquid courage, you hop to your feet, present clutched in your hands.

Weaving through the room, the bass notes of Mattheo’s custom-made playlist pumped through the room from the speakers, a playlist you might have slightly altered a few days ago to add a couple of songs, just to mix up his usual tastes. Your stomach was twisting nervously, but the alcohol in your veins made for a pleasant buzz as the distance between you both closed.

After almost taking a ping-pong ball to the eye, courtesy of Theo on the beer-pong table, you cleared the games and settled into the pleasant atmosphere surrounding where the boys had set themselves up for the evening by the fire. When you approached, Tom looked up, frown melting away as the crease between his brows disappeared, and he sat up a little straighter as you approached.

“Hi, doll,” He murmured, shifting his arm from the armrest of the chair, so that you could take a seat on it instead. That same arm soon wrapped around your waist, his head falling to rest on your shoulder, and your heart skipped a beat within your chest. “Where’ve you been?”

“Over there, with Daph and the girls.” You whisper in reply, balancing the box on your thighs, and pointing through the crowds to the barely visible patch of chairs and sofas you’d all been occupying. He only hummed, squeezing you a little closer.

“Stay here with me for a while?”

“Sure,” Your voice hardly worked as you spoke, emotions clogging up, and you reached for the gift in your lap. “I have this for you, anyway. I made you those cookies you like so much.”

“You did?” His head lifted, and one of those pretty smiles that made your heart stop clean in your chest was adorning his lips. “The ones with the orange peel and the dark chocolate?”

“Those very ones.” You handed it to him, and he tugged at the ribbon covering the box, fingers flipping under the seals of the paper until it fell openly neatly. Flicking open the catch on the cardboard box, the smell of freshly baked treats filled the air, and he made a rumbling noise of happiness as he plucked on up, and took a bite. As you laughed at him, he took another, pushing it between your lips with a smirk while he chewed.

He resealed the box, savouring them, as he did all things, and putting them on the table in front of himself. You held the cookie now, eating it slowly, as Draco and Blaise finally seemed to become aware of your presence.

“I have a question.” Draco started, and your gaze moved to him, brow raising as you took the final bite. “Is Astoria over there talking about me?”

The blond smirked, and you twisted, lifting your legs to sit over Tom, ankles crossing on the opposite arm. “No, no. She’s been recounting a scene from a book.”

“What?”

“Yeah. You know, the fun books. It was really, really hot.” You teased, fanning yourself, and Tom chuckled, reaching over you for his drink, and taking a sip. Instead of putting it back down, he rested the cool glass on your thigh, his free hand coming to sit on your calf, rubbing lightly as you shivered at the touch. “Why? You think you’re better than a good spicy romance?”

“I know I am!” Draco huffed, and Blaise rolled his eyes, watching you wind his best friend up with barely a few words at all. “What book is this?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know…”

“I do want to know! Tell me!” His cheeks were turning pink, all the way up to the tips of his ears. In the spirit of Christmas, you took pity on him, rolling your eyes.

“I think it was called… Astoria’s Diary.”

It took a few seconds for it to register in Draco’s mind, and the furious pink turned to an embarrassed red, and he shook his head, eyes narrowed at you. “I despise you.”

“You love me.” You fired back, and he scoffed, but the edges of his lips pulled at a smile, and he looked away to cover it. Settling back a little more, you leaned into the cushion, feeling Tom roll his head across the cushion to lean in your direction.

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you all week.” He says, voice low for only you to hear, and your head twists towards him You were close, close enough to pick out the different coloured flecks of colour in his eyes as he looked at you, and the hardly visible steaks of lighter brown that trailed naturally through his dark curls.

“Well, I’ve had detention all week, thanks to a certain someone.” You poked his chest, and he only smirked a little bit, shuffling his head a fraction closer.

“I needed you, what can I say?”

“You needed someone to keep a lookout while you snuck into the restricted section again. Why did it have to be me?” You scoffed, working to keep the smile on your face as the answer to your own question flickered through your mind. He chose you because he knew you’d drop everything and come, the voice taunted; you buried it under the song playing and the laughter in the room so you didn’t have to think about it...

“Don’t act like you didn’t have fun when we ran.” He chuckled, hand sliding up your leg again, fingers lacing with your own. The same way they had when you’d been caught, and he’d grabbed your hand, the two of you ducking and weaving between stacks, fleeing through the corridors. Laughing and out of breath, he’d clutched your hand, thumb rubbing over your knuckles just like he was doing now, staring at you with those pretty eyes.

You hadn't been caught, but you had gotten detention for skipping class to go with him, and so you’d spent all five nights of your final week in detention, writing lines. You lifted your free hand, sighing with a nod, and running it through his curls. His eyes fluttered, head tipping back to follow your hand, and a content smile took over his lips.

You loved to see him like this, to see him so carefree and happy, to see him relax at just your touch. You’d never seen him like this before. The thought that only you could do it to him sent a thrill down your spine, made your thoughts feel hazy and slow, like treacle in your mind, and your nerves tingled. So, why had he never made a move to make it anything more? You’d given him a dozen chances, a dozen more opportunities…

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you this holiday.” He broke your train of thought, eyes opening again to peer up at you, and his lips became a frown as he thought about it. “My father is going to pile on the pressure not that I’m in my graduating year. I can already feel the headache forming right between my eyes.”

“Oh..” You coo, hand slipping down from his hair to rub your thumb over his forehead, the space you know him to get stress headaches the worst, when he works too hard or gets wound up. He just chuckled, eyes sliding shut once again.

The song changed, and his body tensed underneath you for just a second, before his eyes snapped open, gaze locked on you. “This is my favourite song.”

“Is it?” You mumble, finger still tracing lightly over his skin, and he nods.

“I didn’t think Mattheo put it on the playlist. I asked him, and he very emphatically said no.”

“Maybe he changed his mind.” Your shrug doesn’t convince him, not as you both hear Mattheo question the song with a stream of curses somewhere in the distance. His lips twitched at the edges, a small smile, but he said nothing else. Instead, he leaned in, your arm going around his shoulders, rubbing softly as his head nestled onto your shoulder, a sigh on his lips.

It was perfect, just like this. If he could just open his eyes and see, he’d know how wonderful it could be. Nobody knew him like you did, he’d made sure to keep his secrets locked up tight. But over the months of exchanging letters, and candle-lit nights in the library, he’d bore so much of his soul to you.

Deep, wounded parts, that you’d tried to put back together.

Soft, tender parts that he protected so valiantly, but trusted you with.

Sweet, loving parts, that never saw the light of day, unless you were together.

It was impossible, surely, that he didn’t know. He might keep his feelings locked up tight, but you didn’t hide yours very well at all. As you sat here now, fingers weaving through his hair, lips tracing his temple as you whispered nonsense to him about your day, his head on your shoulder, that he didn’t know. Even a man like Tom Riddle couldn't miss it, right?

You just wanted to make him happy, but he didn’t feel the same.

With a heart-aching sigh, you ran your fingers through his curls one more time. Unrequited love wasn’t going to ruin your night. Unrequited love wasn’t going to ruin your Christmas. You would not be one of those girls who gave in to their feelings, and crumbled at the feet of a man who didn’t return her affections.

Sitting up some more, he grumbled at the disruption, blinking his eyes back open as he lifted his head again. “I’m… I’m going to go dance, and play some games, okay?”

“Alright,” He smiled, patting your thigh and lifting his drink away. “Have fun. I’ll probably leave soon. If I don’t see you again, just know I’ll be thinking of you over these holidays. We’ll write again.”

His words send a rush of heat to your cheeks, a tumble of nerves through your stomach, and you could only nod. One more chance, one more chance to make a move…

“Merry Christmas, Tommy,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss his cheek. A kiss that was purposefully close to the edge of his mouth, a kiss that purposefully lingered just a second too long as you pulled away slowly, giving him a chance to turn his head, to close the gap, to kiss you—

But he didn’t, he only smiled. “Merry Christmas, doll.”

So, you stand. You brush it off. You brush off the moment, and the feelings, and all the disappointment and heartbreak that came with it.

But I can’t do it anymore.

We’ve been housemates for seven years, we’ve been friends for half of those, and I’ve been in love with you for months.

But you don’t love me. Mattheo says you do, says you’re just stupid when it comes to feelings. But, even you couldn't miss how I feel about you.

So, I’m letting you go.

New Year, New Me, New Heart.

“No, your dorm is that way.” You giggle, Mattheo’s arm over your shoulder, pushing him in the direction of the boy’s dorms and pointing. “My dorm is this way!”

“No, you’re wrong!” He mutters, shaking his head dramatically. “Boys to the left,” He says, pointing right, “Girls to the right, because girls are always right!”

“Well, I won’t argue with you there.” You grin, spinning him around. “Wait, now I’m confused. Who’s dorm were we going to again?”

A few too many shots, a few more drinks than your limit at the beer-pong table, and as the last of the party was dying down, you and Mattheo were attempting to stumble back to your dorms. “Theo’s.”

“Right. But why are we going to Theo’s dorm?”

“Because he’s my friend,” Mattheo said. “And also, his bed is next to mine.” Another fit of laughter, drunken giggles melting away, and the two of you collapsed down against the wall, heads tipped back to the stone as amusement took over. When you finally caught your breaths once again, he was smiling, eyes sparkling in that unique Matty-way. Kicking his legs out before himself, he sighed. “Maybe I will just sleep here.”

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Why?” He pouted, and you searched through your foggy mind for a reason.

“Because you have to sleep in a bed.” Is what you settled on, shrugging your shoulders, even if you were getting a little bit too comfy against the stone too.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” He wiggled his brows, smirking, before burping, and you giggled again.

“No, you may not.”

“Why?” He whined, kicking one leg like a toddler in a tantrum. “You have fluffy pillows.”

“And you have sheets that haven’t been washed in months.” Your nose screwed up, and he let out a dramatic, wounded sound, like a soldier who had just been shot in a war movie.

“That was cold.” He muttered, shaking his head. “Not as cold as the frozen Earth Tom would bury my wee little body in if I spent the night at your dorm.”

You didn’t respond, the mention of his name was like a bucket of ice over your head. Not exactly sobering, but shocking.

“I’m saying he would murder me.”

“Yes, I understood.”

“You didn’t laugh.” He pouted, and you chuckled for his benefit. “No, it’s not real. Now I feel like I begged for it.”

“You did.”

“You suck.”

“You swallow.” You sighed, and he groaned once again, another argument lost. His head rolled to your shoulder, his body slumping into relaxation.

“So… what is the deal with you and my brother?” His lips twisted as he thought about it, but he looked up at you curiously, frown only deepening at the sad look on your face.

“There is no deal.” You shrug, “He doesn’t want me like that. We’re just friends.”

“Yeah,” He snorts, “And the sky isn’t blue.”

“I’m serious, Matty. I’ve given him a hundred chances. He could’ve made a move anytime. I haven’t exactly kept my feelings to myself, all you fools can see my heart dripping and bleeding on my sleeve. He knows, he just didn’t want to acknowledge it.” Your lungs burned for air at the end of your speech, and you took a deep breath, staring ahead at the chipping bricks in an attempt to avoid tears. “Why doesn’t he want me, Matty?”

“He does,” Mattheo mumbled, taking your hand in his and squeezing. “He’s just a fucking moron. But, he’s also scared. You know, you’re pretty much all he talks about? And, I never saw him smile so much as he did during the summer, when he’d receive your letters. He’d get all anxious and fidgety every day, waiting for the mail owl to arrive. He’s never going to make the first move. He’d rather suffer for all his life but have you like this, than risk losing you entirely.”

The words felt like a warming blanket and an ice-cold lake. Comforting and terrifying, sweet and burning, all at the same time.

Mattheo huffed a laugh, “Maybe you should write him a love letter.”

“Maybe I should…” You whisper, drunken thoughts taking over, and his head snapped up.

“I was joking.”

“I’m not. That’s a good idea. I should write him a letter, and tell him that I’m moving on.” You brushed your legs off as you stood, taking his hands and pulling him to his feet, determined.

“Okay, that’s not what a love letter is. That’s so far from what I said—”

“Let’s go!” You grabbed his wrist, tugging him along behind you as you made your way through the halls.

“Now? Why are we doing it now? We should be sleeping now!” His protests fell on deaf ears as you dragged him along. Throwing open the door to your room, Daphne was already asleep, still in her party dress, face down on her pillow, out cold from the night’s festivities and snoring.

Mattheo collapsed onto your bed, rolling onto his side and clutching a fluffy cushion to his chest as he curled into a ball.

“I’ll just wait here, then.” He yawned through his words, but you were too busy to care, scrambling for a pot of ink and some new parchment. Taking a seat at your desk, you stared at the paper, quill hovering, ready to write.

So, I will spend the end of this year away from you. You say we’ll write, but I don’t want to.

Only write to me, Tom, if you feel the same. If not, don’t. Let me heal, and when we come back in the New Year, I promise, nothing will change except for my heart.

We will still be friends, best friends, and we’ll never talk about it again.

I will wait for you.

Finishing the letter, you sighed at it, the ink drying and immortalising your words onto the page. Sitting before you was the sum total of what sat in your heart, and your mind. Laid out and ready to go, your hands trembled a little as you read it over, and over, to be sure.

But you had to do this, you had to give this letter to him, to alleviate the strain on your heart, to finally have some closure. Whether he felt the same or not, you’d have relief. Folding it carefully, you searched a strip of wax seal lighting the end and waiting for it to get hot, drips of Slytherin green filling into a pool that overlapped the edge of your paper. When there was enough, you stamped it carefully, sealing it shut as the wax cooled.

Taking a look behind you, you caught sight of a sleeping Mattheo, his jaw hanging open, drooling onto your favourite throw pillow, half tucked under your blankets from where he’s only bothered to cover his legs. Peeling away the wax seal, you walked over to him, shaking his shoulder, until he awoke with a huff and a groan, whining as he sat up.

“I was dreaming.”

“I wrote the letter.” You show him the proof, and he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, glancing from it, to you, and back. “You have to give it to him.”

“Now?”

“No! Not now. Tomorrow. After we get off the train.” He blinked a little more, waking up from his power nap and taking the paper from you. Flipping it over in his hands, he inspected Tom’s name across the front, no address, and raised his brows.

“Why don’t you mail it?”

“That’ll take days, and I don’t want to leave it up to chance. I need you to give it to him, tomorrow. I know you’ll be swamped with everything your father expects of you both this time of year, events and frivolities and all, but you have to. I don’t want it getting lost amongst other letters and Christmas cards, and such.” Your hands clasped together before you, blinking at him pleadingly, and hoping your puppy-dog eyes were half as good as his.

He sighed, rolling his eyes and muttering to himself as he stood.

“Please, Matty.”

“Fine. I’ll give it to him.” He caved, and you threw your arms around him, hugging him tightly.

“Tomorrow? After you get off the train?”

“Yes. I will give Tom the letter… tomorrow.”

Yours,

If you want me,

(y/n) x

Tom double-checked his bags, sighing as he zipped up the piece of luggage he’d actually have access to on the train, everything he needed to survive a six-hour train journey. A knock sounded from the door, a signature one that only Mattheo ever used, excessively long and irritating, and the door swung open a second later to reveal his brother.

Placing his carry-on down on the bed beside his own, Mattheo slumped out on his freshly-stripped bed. “You took your bags to the carriage already?”

“I got up early.”

“Surprising, I thought I’d have to drag you out of your bed this morning considering how much you drank last night.” He gave his brother a look, a single brow raised, and Mattheo just huffed.

“It’s called having fun, you should try it sometime.”

Tom only rolled his eyes, gaze scanning across the bag Mattheo had abandoned, snagging on the letter sticking out of one pocket. T— was all that was visible. It might have been a card, that someone had addressed it to ‘Theo’ instead of Mattheo, but everyone called him ‘Matt’ if they wanted a nickname, to avoid confusion with Nott.

Curiosity ate at him, and nudging the bag subtly revealed just enough more to show an ‘O’.

Definitely Tom, then. Mattheo was carrying a letter for him, and had not delivered it. Before he could pluck it from the pocket, his brother was sitting up, reaching for his bag and getting to his feet, swinging the letter out of his reach inadvertently.

“Ready to go?”

“Is that letter for me?” Tom burst instead, making another move for the bag. His suspicions were only confirmed when Mattheo shifted his body, pulling the arm carrying the bag away from him, behind his body and out of Tom’s reach. “Why do you have it? When did it arrive?”

Mattheo turned casually, looking down at it, patting it and pushing it back into the bag, deeper. Tom recognised that handwriting now, though, and the urgency swelled. “Uh… last night, I think. But I was a little drunk, so…”

“Why didn’t you give it to me?” Tom pressed, biting his tongue from yelling at his brother, and Mattheo just shrugged.

“Figured I’d give it to you on the train, or something. Or when we got home. It’s just a letter.”

“Yeah…” Tom could only hum in response, his mind spinning a little. Everyone had exchanged gifts and goodbyes last night, before the party. For exactly this reason, to avoid the morning rush to the train, to avoid the hassle in the morning. “But— I saw her last night. Why wouldn't she just give it to me then? Or mail it to me?”

The questions were ceaseless, almost making Tom dizzy as he tried to think them through, and Mattheo could only shrug, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his smile to himself.

“I don’t know, Tom. She just came to me, and asked me to give you that letter because she didn’t want it to get lost amongst other letters, or take too long, or something like that.” It was a small lie, really, fabricated from aspects of the truth.

“So, it’s important, then! It’s obviously important if she couldn't risk it getting lost, if it had to be hand-delivered! I should read it.” Just like that, Tom stepped right into Mattheo’s trap. Now all he had to do was pull the pin, and let the steel jaws snap shut. Yes, it could potentially backfire hugely, but Mattheo was looking on the positive side for this.

“We have to go, Tom. Everyone else has probably already left for the train.” Mattheo swung his bag again, making his point, and kicked Tom’s suitcase from where it sat beside the door towards him to pick up. “Let’s go.”

Tom sighed, grabbing his bags and taking a few steps after him, and didn’t even make it over the threshold of the door before he gave in. His bags dropped from his hands, and planted on his hips instead. “I’m going to read it.”

“Tom—”

“Give me the letter.” He held out his pal, and Mattheo tipped his head to the side, but pressed his lips together to hide a grin. “I’ll catch up, you go. I’ll read it and I’ll catch up, it’s only a letter, can’t take that long.”

He lunged for Mattheo's bag, snatching the crisply pressed paper from the pocket before his brother could stop him. As he turned away, he missed Mattheo’s victorious smile. “Alright, I’ll take your trunk down. Don’t be long, or you’ll miss the train.” And you’ll miss her, were Mattheo’s unspoken words, as he grabbed Tom’s suitcase and disappeared, leaving him alone.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Tom’s hand shook a little. The paper felt like it weighed a thousand tons. There was so much unspoken mystery behind it that Tom was sure whatever this letter said, it was not their usual correspondence. Not the chatty, friendly, borderline flirty letters they’d send each other when apart, this was more.

Sliding his thumb neatly under the wax seal he was so familiar with, Tom popped open the letter, unfolding it carefully and flipping it around to read.

His gaze scanned over the paper, lips flicking up at the use of the nickname he only allowed you to use, the swirl of your handwriting that he loved so much. The smile didn’t last long, however, and neither did the breath in his lungs as his chest seized. He read it.

Over and over again, he read the letter.

The minutes melted past as he absorbed what it said, until he could read the letter word for word without looking at it, tattooed into his mind now like a brand. With trembling fingers, he folded the letter back up carefully, lifting the paper to his lips as his eyes slid shut.

His heart was pounding, more so than he’d ever felt. Tom was not one for rash decisions and sudden jumps, everything was calculated and thought through and planned. But this, this was you. This is just what you did, forced him to let go of routine and be spontaneous, forced him to be carefree, to loosen the grip he had on the reigns, to show him he wouldn't fall apart at the slightest breeze.

He smiled against the letter, thoughts of you flicking through his mind.

And then a clock chimed, and he jumped violently within as he was rushed back to reality in a split second. The clock in the common room chimed loudly, echoing through the empty dorms and halls.

Rushing to his feet, Tom opened his bag, tucking the letter safely inside one of his books to preserve it, to tuck it inside the box of letters from you that was tucked under his bed at home. You doubted him, his feelings, unsure he’d kept that first letter, when in reality, he’d kept every single one.

Every letter, every note, even the silly little joke you scribbled on torn-off pieces of paper and threw at him in class, he kept them all.

Zipping his bag back up and grabbing it, he had no time to spare, racing to the chimes of the clock through the castle, to the front gates where the final carriage was leaving.

It felt too long. Too long as the horses plodded through the snow, too long as the wheel scrolled slowly, and his foot tapped agitatedly on the floor in a way he never allowed himself to do. His thumbnail was between his teeth, flicking between the frost-covered ground and his bag, wondering if it would actually be faster to run there himself.

Ahead, the train sounded its horn. The final warning for all students to begin boarding and settling in, because they’d be departing soon.

You watched as the trunks were beginning loaded onto the train, all to be collected when you arrived in London, only letting out a breath of relief as Mattheo rounded the corner, finally joining your group.

“Matty! About time, we were worried you’d miss the train.” Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he sighed, a little out of breath, and hugged you back once he dropped the two bags in his hands. Nobody followed him, and your brows furrowed, pulling back, “Where’s Tom?”

“He’s probably already on the train, sulking somewhere. He’s never late.” Theo snickered, and you rolled your eyes, smacking him across the shoulder for his joke.

“Blaise is inside holding a cabin for us, is Tom not sitting with us?” Enzo questioned, and you turned to Mattheo, waiting for answers.

“He’ll be here, trust me.”

“He’s late?” Draco asked, quickly followed by Enzo and Theo, all discussing it. Regulus stayed quiet, smoking and trying to hide it from being seen, but his expression was just as concerned as everyone else’s.

The chatter continued on, by your worry didn’t cease, checking up and down the platform as people bustled and crowded it. Saying their final goodbyes and giving out hugs, climbing on and off the train as they all wished one another Merry Christmas, and being unable to see either end was causing your anxiety to rocket higher.

The train horn blared again, and students began to board. “Mattheo, seriously, where is he—” Just like that, you saw him, the busy platform parting to let him through, the look on his face as terrifying as ever, and people moved out of his way as he made his way towards your group.

“Told you he’d be here,” Mattheo smirked, and you raised a brow.

“The hell did you say to him this morning, Matt?” Regulus questions.

“He looks mad,” Draco murmured.

“He looks like he’s plotting.” Enzo corrected.

Every step closer rose the tension as Tom finally looked up, his sights setting on you, and his jaw clenched. Brows drawn in, he did look like he was plotting, like a thousand thoughts were racing through his mind that he couldn't sort through.

“Hey, man. We thought you were gonna’ miss the—” Draco’s words cut off at your squeak, as Tom stepped closer, never stopping the movements of his body until he was cupping your cheeks, his mouth descending upon your own.

You were almost knocked backwards from the force of it, your hands gripping at his shoulders as he bent you over backwards, a kiss so intense your knees almost went weak.

It was desperate, you could barely keep up, kissing back as best you could through your shock, until it wore off enough to reciprocate. Wrapping one arm around his neck, your other slipped to his face, his own hands making their way down, to band around your waist and pull you in closer, until your bodies were flush.

His tongue licked into your mouth, a sigh escaping you as he did, and your heart pounded against your heart, the same way he was doing, felt through his jumper and layers. The boys were whistling, cheering and hooting, and if you weren’t so happy you’d have been embarrassed by the show they were making, and the attention they were no doubt drawing.

When he finally pulled back, you panted softly, his forehead resting on your own, blinking his eyes open to meet your gaze.

“Can I write to you regardless?” He mumbled, voice rough and tense with emotion, and your brows furrowed.

“Wh— What?”

He leaned in, not helping you clear your dazed mind at all as he kissed you again, and again, until you were smiling, fingers clenched so tight in his coat that your knuckles were white, just to stay upright.

You pecked his lips once more, chasing him as he pulled back, and the train horn sounded, a final warning, but you didn’t care. “You know how I feel now. You don’t have to wait for my reply. You can be assured that I will miss you dearly over these two weeks, and I am already counting the minutes until I see you again. But can I write to you, still?”

As the realisation set in, your face flamed, jaw dropping a little bit, and he wasted no opportunity, kissing you softly. “You read my letter.”

He only nodded, a gentle chuckle onto your mouth as your lips brushed. “You’d leave it to Mattheo to deliver? He’d probably lose it at a McDonalds, trying to get a Big Mac before my father saw him, on the way home.

Your laughter was sweet, a puffed-out sound as his hands smoothed up and down your back. “I’d love to get more letters from you, Tommy. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you in person, but I was scared. I thought I’d made my feelings for you obvious, and you didn’t reciprocate, so I had to write that letter. To get it out, to finalise it all.”

“I like to consider myself a smart man, you know. When it comes to you, clearly, I’m a fool. You leave me speechless, and without proper thoughts, every time. All I can think about is how pretty you are, and how much I like you, despite my best efforts not to.”

The declaration was so utterly Tom, to hate being in love even if he loved it.

“For Salazar’s sake, what have you done, Matt?” Theo cussed, and you twisted your head to look at him. “Shakespeare over here is going to be writing sonnets for the rest of the year. None of us will stand a chance with any other girls when he’s showing us up, standing under windows, yelling his love to the moon.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring their nonsense. Tom did the same, nuzzling his nose against your cheek, and leaving a kiss there.

“I’ll look forward to your letters, just as I did in the summer.” You whisper, pulling away from him as the platform clears, most students already aboard now.

“And after?” Tom questions, “May I still write you letters if I, too, find myself struggling to confess my feelings in person?”

“Oh, God,” Enzo muttered. “He’s going to be writing love letters all year. He’s making the rest of us sound like cavemen. Me, you, bed, now.” He grunted, smacking a fist in his chest. You giggled as Tom rolled his eyes.

“We should get on the train.” You whisper, taking pity on the others and untangling yourself from his arms.

Tom took his bag again, and your own. With a final kiss on your cheek, he walked away to the door of the carriage, letting the rest of you follow behind. Mattheo fell into step beside you, smirking as he bumped your hips with his own.

“So, should I tell my mother and father that they have a new daughter-in-law this holiday, or wait ‘til the next.”

His teasing made you blush again, cheeks already red in the cold, warming you under all those layers. “You’re a filthy traitor. You gave him my letter early.”

“I said I’d give it to him ‘tomorrow’. Never agreed to the after the train part.” He tutted, proud of himself. “Always pay attention to the words of a contract. My dear brother taught me that. You never have to break a promise, if you’re smart with your words.”

That sounded exactly like something your man would say, your eyes rolling to the Heavens.

Mattheo leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper as the pair of you climbed the steps. “You never have to break your heart either, if you’re smart about who you give it to.”

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle/reader #tom riddle/you #tom riddle x you #hp #christian coulson #slytherin boys

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queenimmadolla · 2 months

Text

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

Summary: Tired of seeing Eddie with other women, you reflect on how much longer you can take it.

Warnings: no mentions of y/n, fem!reader, heavy on the angst, hurt with attempts to comfort, both reader and Eddie are bad at feelings, self-deprecation, Eddie is toxic and doesn’t know why, infidelity (but not technically), no happy ending.

The house is quiet as the front door creaks open, you’re quick to slip inside—chill of the October air nipping at your back. The lights are all off and your arms curl around your exposed midsection. It was colder outside but still chilly in your home, your parents out of town on a romantic anniversary road trip.

You sigh, tossing your keys on the table to run around searching for in the morning, and make your way to your room with a quick detour at the thermostat to turn on the heat. It’s a blind fumble to reach the antique lamp, once you enter your bedroom, but you refuse to use the overhead light. It would cast your room in non-aesthetic lighting, and you’re already annoyed, pissed off and depressed enough.

An irritated breath is huffed from your lips, top lip curling as you recall the very reason for your negative attitude, hands yanking your top right over your head. It’s only when you’re in your pajamas, faced with your own reflection as you prepare to remove the makeup that had been so empowering to put on but you can now feel on your face like an unpleasant mask, that you allow the hot tears of anger and hurt to fall. You almost want to laugh at yourself, mouth curling into a bitter smile as you swipe the ponds cream all over your face. As you massage it in, making sure to focus on your eyes, the smile wavers, corners tugging down as moisture still leaks from your clenched eyelids.

You don’t have to be mean to yourself, you shouldn't. Not when the guy you’re in love with already does such a good job of it.

You purse your lips, trying to hold back sobs as you recall the images of him all over a girl you didn’t know at a party he’d convinced you to go to. You couldn’t even describe her, couldn’t remember what she looked like—all you saw was your Eddie, the guy who drove you to and picked you up from work, took you on cute dates involving picnic baskets, fields, lakes, empty lots to stargaze in, nearly empty movie auditoriums so the two of you could canoodle, your tongues tasting each other as the two lovers on screen professed their undying love.

He even bought you stuffed animals, would pretend to give them life and personalities to go with it, all to amuse you. Did arts and fucking crafts with you.

But anytime you so much as brought up the status of your relationship, he’d wave it off, claiming labels were for Petri dishes, not people.

You were his girl and that’s all that mattered.

It’s what you’d repeated in your head the first time you’d seen him playing with Bianca Anderson’s fingers while the two of them were tucked away in the corner of the hideout, after one of Corroded Coffin’s sets. And again when you’d stumbled out of Rick’s house party to see him laid out on the grass, his head in the lap of a former cheerleader from high school he used to admire, her head bowed to connect their lips and his hands in her hair.

By the time he was tugging at Tina’s hair, playfully shouldering her while they stood in front of the bonfire at another gathering, you’d stopped repeating it in your head. Not even when you watched her lead him to her car.

You lost count of how many times Eddie had made other girls his, too.

And like some pathetic worm with no backbone, you let him. Okay—it’s not like you could physically stop them, though tonight your drink had ended up all over him, maybe that put a little stutter in his plans. But there wouldn’t be a too if you just fucking stopped.

Just . . .stopped.

Stopped taking his calls, stopped answering your door for him, your window, let your co-worker take over the counter the moment he stepped in, stopped looking for his car, stopped thinking about him and that stupid fucking dimple, stopped thinking about how special you felt when he had your naked body pressed against his under the warmth of blankets, his rough fingertips tracing over your sweaty shoulder. How he’d always get so tender, pull you even closer and whisper how much you meant to him while pressing slow kisses to your face. How he never wanted to lose you, wouldn’t know what to do, couldn’t live. It was the sweetest agony.

Most of all, you wish he would stop being there in the morning, all soft breaths and fluttering lashes as he tried to be as close to you as he could, even in a deep slumber. It’s how you know he means it. He means everything he tells you. There is truth to those sweet nothings, declarations, proclamations. You know it.

And that’s why it all hurt so bad, because you know he cares about you as much as he says he does and he still always fucking hurts you, always breaks your heart, but because you know he cares, you’d just let him back in like some fucking clown.

He gets to break you over and over again and you let him because he always puts the pieces back together.

You know what people say about you—everyone knows the two of you are involved and they’d see him out and about with others. Your fumbling answers about what the two of you aren’t just make it clear to them that you’re a doormat and you can’t even deny it. Just avoid their pitiful looks thrown your way.

After washing your face, you take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror; eyes rimmed red, lashes clustering together, face etched in misery. When you can’t stand the person on the other side of the mirror any longer, you flip the light switch and leave the bathroom, pick your favorite tape to listen to, set the volume low and slip into bed.

You’d teetered with the idea of smoking a little, but that would just stave off the heartbreak. Might as well feel it in the moment while you still have the sense of mind before—

Knock, knock, knock.

A humorless chuckle escapes you, muffled into your pillow as your eyes slip shut. Sometimes by the front door, just about always by the window. You think it’s another one of his little relationship doorstops; can’t be serious with you if he uses your window to sneak into your house, it’s much too intimate to walk through your front door.

Of course, he can’t let you have a moment of peace, not even when you’re down. No, he has to fix you now. That’s how the toxic cycle goes. So, dutifully, you play your part, though this time, things have changed.

You toss the blankets off and pad over to your window but you don’t open it right away. Instead, you stare at him. Take him in.

Eddie is in different attire, shirt and jeans swapped out for one of his old club shirts and some sweats. His hair isn’t as voluminous, it’s wet. He’d had to shower to rid himself of your wine cooler. There’s no trace of the Eddie you saw at the party, this one has eyes filled with sorrow and depth, almost like he’s known nothing else. You know better.

Please, he mouths through the glass. You stare a beat longer before the latch is unlocked and he’s hastily pulling it open, clambering in ungracefully.

As you watch him gain his footing, part of you wants to taunt yourself about how you’ve let this man, so below your league and wonderful, ruin your life. He’s hot, sure, but you're hotter. That’s just the truth. You denied it a lot at the beginning of your shitty cherished relationship, felt so insecure to have a man like him paying you attention when he can have everyone. But he was no man. And he still had everyone along with you. Those pitting glances weren’t just because of what you let him put you through, it was because they knew you could do better.

For some reason, the idiot who got his shoe caught on the window sill is the one your heart wants.

God, you hate him.

Rolling your eyes, you go back to your bed, climbing back into your warm blankets. Your back is to him, yet you can still feel his hesitance, see the look on his face, how his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. His stare is intense but it doesn’t unnerve you. Not this time. You feel the bed dip as he climbs in behind you.

There’s still some distance between the two of you, you can tell he’s uncertain. Then, he scuttles forward until he’s pressed to your back, arm slipping around your middle to drag you impossibly closer.

He’s surrounding you, the scent of Eddie’s all-in-one shampoo and body wash filling your nostrils, underlying smell of the joint he’d smoked to calm his nerves before coming over, and the cheap body spray he’d soaked himself in to try and hide it.

“I didn’t fuck her,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Swear I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

You don’t say anything, just stare at the poster of Roxette pinned to your wall. His arm tightens around you and you can feel his heart hammering against your back.

“I-I couldn’t do that to you,” he continues and you huff, that bitter smile from earlier returning. Eddie goes stiff behind you, but he has nothing to worry about. You won’t kick him out, won't toss him to the curb like you should. You both know you won’t. He knows you should, knows he hurts you and he honest to god doesn’t know why. Couldn’t tell anyone to save his own life.

He just—he just fucks shit up. It’s not self-sabotage because Eddie knows he risks losing you and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t ever want to exist in a world where you don’t want him, don’t want to be with him.

But he still does it anyway. Still goes and kisses girls knowing you’re watching, does worse when you’re not.

The worst part—other than hurting you—is that he doesn’t even want them. Not really. Other than in that moment, Eddie couldn’t give a single shit about them beyond being a Good Samaritan. It’s you he wants all the time.

You’re the only constant thing he needs in his life, wants around him all the time, craves, lusts after, loves, cherishes. For the rest of his life. But Eddie hurts you, and he doesn’t know why.

That’s why he can’t be your boyfriend. Evidently, he’d be a shit one. Not that he’s doing a spectacular job being your…whatever it is he was, whatever the two of you were.

Yes, he always fucks up, but he keeps part of you safe from him by not being your boyfriend. One day, you’ll leave him.

He knows it. It scares the shit out of him and he prays to deities he doesn’t really believe in that it won’t happen, that he’ll get this shit together and make right by you, but he knows you’ll leave him. You genuinely deserve better.

“I wish I didn’t know you,” Eddie tenses once more at your voice, at your statement. It’s said with nonchalance, like you were commenting on the weather. He relaxes, heart clenching in pain as he somehow holds you even tighter.

“I know.”

“I hate that I love you. Wish I would just stop.” You shimmy around until you’re facing him, Eddie’s hold on you loosens to allow it, and when you’re settled, he pulls you close again, your nose nudging along the neckline of his shirt.

“I know.” He whispers out again, vision blurring with unshed tears. He loves you, too. Neither of you ever say it directly, just make references to it.

“I will, though. Maybe not tonight, but I won’t always love you.” It’s said with certainty. You’ll take this treatment for now, but you know you won’t forever. Despite the pathetic place you’d found yourself in tonight, again, you’re making strides. Gone was the loser who would just watch him betray you after spending the entire day making you feel like the two of you were the only ones on earth who mattered. Tonight, you’d stepped in. You were growing more self aware. Soon, you would stop answering the door. Stop answering his calls. Stop loving him.

And you’d look back and cringe, maybe laugh with your friends about how stupid and naive you’d been. You’d move on, too. Meet someone who treats you as good as Eddie does when he isn’t sucking another girl’s face. They won’t kiss or fuck anyone else, they’ll only ever know you from the moment that spark ignites. You might worry from time to time, effects from Eddie, but they’ll gently coax it out of you, build your trust up and one day you won’t worry. All you’ll know is their love.

Yeah, you’d stop loving him.

Eddie makes an indistinguishable sound, you know he’s fighting sniffles. Can hear the emotion in his voice, “I know.”

You nuzzle your face into his chest before your cheek settles there, listening to the fast paced beating coming from within it and you wonder if it’ll happen tomorrow. If you’ll wake up, see Eddie sleeping in your bed, and have your first thought be how much you want him out of it and away from you without a trace of fondness for him. You’ll just wake up and not love him anymore.

You slip a leg between his to tangle your limbs, breathing in his scent as deeply as you can when your eyelids flutter shut.

And while you spend your last moments of consciousness hoping tonight’s the last night you’ll let him hold you, Eddie spends the rest of it wide awake, and hoping. Hoping if he doesn’t fall asleep, he won’t wake up to you telling him you don’t love him. Hoping he’ll miraculously become a better person for you overnight. Hoping he won’t lose you.

Hoping you’ll always be his girl.

divider ℗ cafekitsune ♡

#Eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson x black!reader #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction

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hellishjoel · 9 months

Text

dark paradise

5.2k / pairing: dbf/neighbor!joel x f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4

summary: Your mind is flooded with the memories of your private time with Joel in his woodshed, but he hasn't reached out to you since the bonfire and it's been a week. You go next door to give him a piece of your mind.

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, smut, age gap (reader is in her early 20’s, Joel in his 40’s), dbf/neighbor!joel, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, pet names, praise, Joel being a horrible communicator and texter

A/N: I edited this 12+ times and kept changing stuff, so therefore there’s probably mistakes. There’s your one and only warning lol. I’m so excited you guys are eating up the first part (off to the races), I hope the next parts to come keep ya’ll entertained ;)

“Joel-” You clenched your eyes closed. “Outside? Are you serious?” Your scolded whispers were useless. Now that Joel knew you had these needs, he wasn’t going to let you be underserved. He perched one of your legs over his shoulder, the other spread to the side and held open by the warm palm of his hand. You could feel his hot breath on your inner thighs, your walls fluttering as he came closer and closer to your core with each kiss to the exposed skin. “On the tailgate, Joel?” You whimpered, a flash of concern passing over your face. “I know how much you love the truck, baby.” Son of a bitch.

Time seemed to slow after your interaction with Joel in his woodshed. The days following the bonfire were filled with excitement but quickly followed by dread and anxiety. It had been a week.

No text, no calls, no anything.

It wasn’t that serious. It was just Joel. Besides, you had a vibrator to fill the void until he finally decided to reach out to you. Whenever that may be.

Days one and two were the most riveting. Every time you thought of Joel, your heart raced a little faster. You didn’t have a long list of sexual endeavors, so this was still noteworthy. Giving head to your hot forty-year-old neighbor. You wondered what else would come from it. More importantly, when.

Days three and four felt routine and mundane. After picking around your breakfast and staring out the window to Joel’s empty driveway, you would wander to your back porch to read a book on the dock.

You were lucky to catch glimpses of Sarah. Her summer was busy with her friends from school and working a part-time job to afford having fun the summer before her senior year. If she was free, you guys would jump in the lake, sit on the dock together, tell stories, and catch up on everything that was happening in each other’s lives. Well, not everything.

Days five and six were torture. Your vibrator had died from its excessive use, and your fingers weren’t cutting it. You wanted Joel, you needed Joel. You hated to admit it, especially since he hadn’t paid a singular ounce of attention to you since the bonfire last Saturday. Even worse, after deciding to watch Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron with your family during a movie night, you started thinking even the horse was kind of attractive.

Day seven started with your room covered in a pale blue light. You didn’t know what time it was. You weren’t sure how much you slept, but you knew it was very little. This ache was pestering your insides, spreading a rot like an old tree log. Your mind couldn’t fade away from the way Joel felt inside your mouth, the way he filled your throat, and you breathed through the choke. Or the way he finished on your face and your tongue.

Your well-painted memory of it all was already beginning to fade. The details weren’t as crisp, you wanted to remember every detail and hold on to it for as long as possible.

That’s what you were trying to imagine at this ungodly early morning hour. The birds weren’t even chirping outside yet. Your fan slowly circled, trying to cool you off from the sticky Texas heat. You wished your windows weren’t jammed closed.

You heard a thud outside, your body alert as you swiftly sat up and peeked out the window.

Despite it being a Saturday, you watched a tired and slow Joel walk out to his old pickup truck and toss a brown bag lunch inside. Where was he off to so early?

He was wearing his chunky worn-in work boots, splattered with drops of white paint stained into the leather by the steel toe. They were heavy with each step he took on his rickety wooden deck. His faded dark blue jeans sat snug on his hips with his wallet stuffed in the back pocket. His dark hair dashed with silver grays was still damp from his morning shower.

You watched behind foggy glass as he patted down his jeans and mumbled something, swiftly turning on his heel and lightly jogging up his steps before disappearing inside again.

Seeing him after a week of silence bubbled up a hint of anger and annoyance in you. It annoyed you that he looked so good.

Your feet found their way onto cold hardwood before you could waste another second. You would give him a piece of your mind in fuzzy slippers and an oversized rusty-orange Texas Longhorns t-shirt that was so draped over you that it covered your black sleep shorts.

You tiredly navigated your way out of your room quietly, not to wake your parents down the hall. You crossed your arms and hugged them to your body, the early morning chill hitting you once you were outside. You crossed your driveway to his truck, slowing once you reached his perched-down tailgate. Joel had resurged from his house with his truck keys in hand, his steps slowing once you two shared eye contact.

You’d be standing here all day if you expected Joel to speak first.

“Hey.”

He gave you a small nod, his eyes dropping to the shirt that reached the tops of your thighs before they managed their way back up to your face. “Mornin’.”

He closed the gap between his porch steps and his tailgate, setting down his toolbelt and box in the bed. He looked rigid, tight in the shoulders and chest. His close proximity made you step a few paces back, the length of the tailgate separating you from Joel.

You were afraid that if he stood too close, he might feel how badly you wanted him by radiation alone. Especially now, fresh out of the shower, half-wet curls plastered to his forehead, still smelling a little musky with his body wash.

You finally let out an aggravated sigh, hip landing against the tailgate with your arms still crossed.

“So… where are you going this early on a Saturday?” Your face still held a slightly pinched expression though you tried to ask a casual question.

Your curiosity made the left side of his mouth tick up in a lopsided little smirk.

“You wanna tell me the real reason you came over here?” Joel’s tactics were ruthless. It made you feel small, young. But you weren’t, not anymore.

You took in a sharp breath through your nose, eyes on his as your head fell to the side. Finally, the ticking time bomb inside you was counting down. All of your pent-up sexual frustration would be launched at this lumberjack of a man.

“You haven’t texted me.”

“Christ,” he muttered, annoyance passing over his face. “Sun’s not even up yet.”

“Joel.” You pushed.

“Haven’t texted you in a few years.” He said lamely.

“I know, the last thing I have from you is asking me what you think my dad would like for a birthday present.”

“I value your input.” His teasing didn’t make you any less angry. Joel could tell. “I don’t text anyone much besides Sarah. ‘ts the only way I can get ahold of her. Don’t even remember I own a phone half the time.”

“I know.” Your arms crossed tighter around your body. “But I have… needs.” Your voice awkwardly teetered as you evaded his eye contact.

“Needs? Do ya, now?” Joel’s accent came out swinging, his signature smirky-smile working in combination with his cocked up eyebrow. But your face held evidence of your disappointment.

There’s a gentle lull. He should have texted you, and you shouldn’t be here telling him that. He knows. Or maybe you shouldn’t expect so much from a guy like Joel. No wedding ring, brooding, a bull with horns, Joel. Wouldn’t know it was his birthday without Sarah reminding him, Joel. Wouldn’t leave the house if he didn’t have to, Joel. Wouldn’t think to text his horny neighbor next door, Joel.

“Didn’t text me either, sweetheart.” He points out, making your head snap up with wide doe eyes. Shit. He was right.

You didn’t text him, either. You were just sort of expecting it out of him. You hoped he would lead the way, be the guide, reach out wanting more. But that wasn’t Joel. Were you both playing this devilish waiting game? You felt a little silly, your insides wrapping in knots as he surveyed you.

“Well I-”

“You what?”

He was the one grilling into you now. The sun began cresting over the water, bleaching your surroundings in a pale orange. The sun’s glare caused Joel’s eyes to squint slightly to block it out.

You rolled your head to the side and wiggled around as you tried to stand still against his tailgate. Your frustrations were evident as you rubbed your crossed legs together.

This wasn’t the same girl who took a leap of faith in his woodshed, who crossed the boundary between nothing to something, and set you and Joel up for a thrilling summer. You just wanted him to tell you that he wanted it too. To fuck around and do something different. Make this summer worth a damn.

“I didn’t know if you wanted more.” You finally muster up, your voice smaller than you intended, shifty eyes looking over his.

Your statement made him scoff, having to look away from you with a wicked smile. The orange luminescence of the sun warmed his otherwise cold face. He was amused, maybe even a little offended by your statement.

“‘Course I want more.” He strained before pausing, his voice lowering as he took another step closer. “Look at you. Wearin’ my shirt.” He said before he towered over you, making the first point of contact as his hand reached for your hip and pulled you in closer, his fist clutching the worn-in orange t-shirt.

You blinked a few times before looking down where he fisted the material. Shit. He was right again.

Joel had given this to you the last summer you were in Danbury. You and Sarah took a late-night dip in the lake, and she wanted you to sleep over and watch a movie in the basement. You were too lazy to walk back home and change, so Joel gave you a towel and his Longhorns t-shirt.

You easily could have snagged a shirt from Sarah’s closet, but Joel caught you sneaking into his house and dripping water everywhere.

“Just take this. Go dry off. Get warmed up.” A statement laced with annoyance and precaution for his floors, but also attentive care.

It was probably supposed to be just for the night, but you stole it.

You remember that evening vividly. It was the first time you fantasized about Joel. Because the shirt wrapped you up and smelled of his musk and deodorant. It brought on a certain warm fuzziness in your tummy. The shirt had been incorporated so much in your wardrobe these last two years or so, you had forgotten its origin. But it was Joel’s.

And now you were standing here in front of him, his shirt draped over your body like an oversized blanket, showing the curves of your tits. He was fantasizing about you too. Fucking you while wearing his shirt.

There was an undeniable tension that now settled between the two of you, one you surely couldn’t satisfy in his driveway. But that didn’t mean Joel didn’t feel the same way.

His hold on your hip tightened, your lips parting in surprise as his other hand came to your waist and hoisted you up onto the tailgate of his truck.

He was hot, possessive of your body wrapped in his shirt.

“Does it look like I don’t want you?” Joel’s voice was husky, lust filled. You liked getting this sort of reaction out of him. His question caused an ache in you, white heat pooling in the base of your stomach.

Your neediness for him returned. Addicted to his touch, you felt a rush of adrenaline pulse through your body. Joel parted your legs with his body by standing between them, your little fists gripping his large biceps as you tried to regain your bearings. He was so big and burly, wide set shoulders, and a toned chest. You wanted to see him shirtless, examine his body when your time together wasn’t so limited.

“Joel,” his name dripped off your lips with desperation, sweet like honey. He knew how you said his name when you wanted him. It brought back vivid memories of you kneeling in front of him in his woodshed.

Comfort brought you back, knowing it was safe to lean in and start kissing his stubbled neck. You didn’t want to kiss his lips, it still felt too intimate. Joel picked up on your hesitations and silently obeyed.

Once you got to the base of his neck by the collar of his shirt, he let out a surprisingly loud grunt that he tried to jam down into silence but had failed. It caught you off guard, the ways he displayed his pleasure.

You moved back in, eager to duplicate the noise as you paid special attention to his sweet spot. You suckled and glided your teeth over the pinpoint before he forced himself away.

“Keep it below the collar, sweetheart.” His twangy southern drawl was drenched in pleasure.

You smirked as you tugged at the collar gently with your teeth, letting it go and seeing it snap back into place around his tan neck.

His lips found the crook of your jawline, his lips brushing your earlobe as he took it between his teeth and gently nibbled. The sensation struck a nerve down your center, a weak whine echoing against the collar of his shirt as you tried to stay quiet.

The air had warmed up with the sun’s presence, the birds starting to chirp. Your parents could wake up any minute now, being the early risers they were.

You pulled away to gauge his reaction. Joel was looking between you and the horizon carefully. He was debating. You both had so little time.

“Your parents.” He pointed out, his voice ridged with pain as he planted his body between yours, his large palms splayed on your lower back and upper thigh with his fingers ghosting your sleep shorts.

“Work.” You reminded, lightly tugging on the sleeve of his shirt, fingers delicately brushing over the faded Miller Contracting logo on his breast pocket.

You’re compelled to tell him that you need him. Because you do. You need him terribly.

There was a silence, a deliberation of the masses. Stop while you’re ahead, at least you and Joel realized you were on the same page about wanting more. You could let him go, you should let him go. Meet up another time when it was less risky.

“You’re not pulling away.” Your whisper broke his thoughts. Your long lashes fluttered, and your eyes were filled with an eagerness only Joel could satisfy.

He rolled his head around, jaw tight before shaking his head.

“Well, you have needs.” His words were filled with grit, promise. Be quick.

Your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, feeling the planes of his back under your small palms. Both of Joel’s big hands moved under your t-shirt, your lips parting at the feeling of his calloused and rough hands traversing your soft body. He liked how soft you were, you could tell by the way he was delicately exploring you with his lips plastered on your neck.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whisper, grinding your hips against his desperately while one of your hands wound into the damp curls at the base of his neck. He could use a haircut soon, the longer strands winding around your fingers.

His body loomed so much over you that you were arching your spine, your legs desperately wrapping loose around his waist until he had sufficiently guided you onto your back.

Suddenly his presence lifted. You didn’t realize you were seeing stars until he pulled away. He had way too much of an effect on you.

“Don’t have time to fuck you right, pretty girl.” His words made you puff out a desperate sigh.

“But-”

“But you have needs.” He finished for you, your head feverishly nodding. The truck bed had odd ribs, half your back raised up an inch while your other half was on a little slant. It was uncomfortable to lay your head down on. Once Joel was tugging down your sleep shorts, you were quick to forget the discomfort.

A heavy breath left you as Joel tossed your shorts over his tool belt in the truck bed beside you, feeling him pull your body closer to the edge of the truck bed with your legs pried open for him.

Your eyes widened as he sunk to the ground, jaw dropping as your eyes looked to the sky. Holy shit.

“Joel-” You clenched your eyes closed. “Outside? Are you serious?” Your scolded whispers were useless. Now that Joel knew you had these needs, he wasn’t going to let you be underserved.

He perched one of your legs over his shoulder, the other spread to the side and held open by the warm palm of his hand. You could feel his hot breath on your inner thighs, your walls fluttering as he came closer and closer to your core with each kiss to the exposed skin.

“On the tailgate, Joel?” You whimpered, a flash of concern passing over your face.

“I know how much you love the truck, baby.” Son of a bitch.

You wished every second with him right now wasn’t fleeting. You wished he could take his time. But the both of you were so wound up anyway, you were happy just to have him be a guest between your legs.

Joel’s beard stubble tickled your thighs, his warm lips leaving a wet trail to your cotton underwear. Your hands needed to stay busy, one planting itself against one of the ribs of the truck bed and the other fisting his toolbelt that adorned a Carhartt patch.

Joel’s mouth was absent for a moment. He was admiring you. Admiring you with your legs spread for him in his Longhorns shirt that was several sizes too big on you. Heat chased through your body, a sly little smirk on your lips.

“Time is of the essence, Joel.”

He didn’t say anything back. He was staring at the wet spot that had formed through the material of your panties. He hummed, cocky satisfaction filling him to the brim.

Joel placed an excruciatingly soft kiss over your covered mound that had you writhing under him eagerly. His palm planted your thigh down again, feeling you quiver under his hold.

You swallowed a lump down your throat as he pulled your underwear to the side, out of his fucking way. He was seeing you for the first time. It made your chest heave with shakier breaths.

You were glistening for him, wet and gleaming in the sunshine that was starting to dance across the lake and over the truck. Panic flooded your core. He was taking his damn time. You needed him now.

“Joel-” you warned again, but it was too late.

His nose nuzzled against your clit as he flattened his tongue and licked up your center, tasting you properly. Your head dug into the truck bed, a loose moan leaving your parted lips as you closed your eyes and experienced a sweet paradise. His tongue flooded you with his saliva, Joel’s taste buds in galore as he tried you for the first time.

You wondered if he thought about you tasting you like this before. The thought as well as his head between your legs left you humming in appreciation.

Your free hand found its purpose, nestling your fingers into Joel’s hair while his head made gentle nods against your core. His jaw was slack, mouth lodged open as he consumed your sex in its entirety. He didn’t leave one centimeter of you unmarked. He commandeered the landscape like it was his territory, his possession.

Puffs of his name left your mouth, you couldn’t help but be vocal when he made you feel this good.

Joel’s tongue moved now with purpose, precision. He lapped at your entrance, tongue dipping in to feel your tight walls before moving back up and around your swollen clit. He was discovering you, what made you tick, what made you burn with passion and lust.

You held back moans of his name, bringing Joel’s shirt you wore up into your mouth by the collar to bite down onto. Your muffles were concealed by the material for now.

You ground your hips lightly into his face, finding a rhythm you liked. He lets you. He wants you to feel good.

Thumps of your heart pounded against your chest, Joel’s tongue still working perfect circles and swipes at your clit. He pulled away just for a moment to wet his fingers, you watch through hooded eyes. His amber ones flick to yours. Can I?

You nod your head, a silent and desperate yes.

He pursed his lips, face pierced with concentration as he pushed his middle finger into you, your walls welcoming the intrusion with a flood of arousal to allow him deeper. You took in a shaky gasp as he filled you to the knuckle.

“Fuckk-” you said a little too loud, your eyes widening as you covered your mouth and got a well-deserved glare from Joel.

“Can’t hold yourself together, can ya, pretty girl?” His voice was as rough as gravel.

You couldn’t even answer him back, the threads that held together your integrity were slowly plucking loose.

You whimpered like crazy, the shirt swallowing as much of the noise as it could, but the rhythm of his finger and his mouth returning to your clit was sending electric currents through your entire body. You were short-circuiting with Joel’s tongue and fingers playing with your pussy.

Joel’s mouth was warm, the taste of you a new hunger for him. You could hear his jeans scuff against the ground. He was trying to hold himself steady. The realization made you throw your head back, losing the shirt as a vice as you gripped his strands tighter between your knuckles.

“Fuck, Joel--, ohmygod-” you whimpered quietly. The slurping of your cunt was louder than your words. The noise felt so loud in your pounding ear drums, you were worried it would wake the neighbors. The neighbors being your parents and Joel’s daughter.

You were close, even with just one of his fingers inside of you, you were close. You

weren’t sure if it was because of your pent-up sexual tension, your vibrator dying, or your fingers not doing you justice. Maybe it was the fact that it was Joel Miller, but you were holding onto a very thin rope on the verge of snapping.

You pulled your shirt up, releasing his toolbelt as your hand fondled your tits. You could feel him smirk against your thighs as you pinched at your hardened round nipples.

“Such a pretty girl.. Taste so fuckin’ good too.” His words reverberate against your core, the vibrations tickling your clit and making you whine his name. His compliment caused a certain warmth in your chest.

Your head lulled from side to side. He wasn’t letting you know peace once he added a second finger. You had to take a moment to adjust but Joel could feel it, he knew exactly what to do and when. He was so seasoned, experienced, he’d be the first guy to make you cum like this.

Your thigh against his head clenched tighter around his shoulder, keeping him in close against your core as he continued to work his tongue in figure eights around your clit. The soothing circles were creating a harmonious rhythm, your stomach felt like it was going to fall through a trapdoor. You weren’t going to last much longer.

Then he tried something new.

A loud gasp left your lips, your body scraping its way to sit up on your elbows as you watched him nibble and suckle at your clit. Your elbow had nicked his exposed flathead screwdriver in the process, a hiss seething from your mouth. It didn’t matter now. All your mind could focus on was Joel and his hellish tongue.

The suckling at your clit unlocked something undiscovered, your lips parting in fascination before your head fell back and landed on the tops of your shoulders as you looked to the heavens with blurry vision.

A lazy smirk was plastered on your face as he held you in place. You weren’t going anywhere.

Heated pants left your mouth, unable to breathe with the new sensation. The sucking was a distinct sensation, one you liked. You could feel his teeth just lightly grazing your sensitive bud. It made your thighs twitch, and your walls flutter around his still pumping fingers.

Joel’s digits moved gently with their thrust, a gasp of his name flooding the air as he curled them deep, massaging your spongy walls.

You were breathless. You could barely muster up anything besides his name weakly on your lips. You tried to tell him, but it was already too late.

“J-Joel I’m-- I’m cominggg, shit,” you moaned out a little too loud. The whole valley around you echoed, or so it seemed. Joel’s protective grip tightened, your hips convulsing as you came over his tongue. He fucking loved it. He held you there and took you for everything you were worth.

You dropped to your back once more, his fingers still working a slow rhythm that he was insistent on not breaking until your walls stopped fluttering around his knuckles. You were still trying to come down to Earth when he licked you clean, your body twitching every time he flicked his tongue against your throbbing clit on purpose. Fucking asshole.

Your hold on his hair loosens. You can’t help but make a face at the sight of him. Wild curly locks, mouth and chin covered in your slick, slightly flushed cheeks. He looked just as fucked as you did. He looked submissive on his knees, his eyes gleaming as he looked to you.

You watch with obsession as he mindlessly pops his two fingers past his lips, licking them clean of your slick. Such a compliment.

He guided your leg off his shoulder and put your underwear back in its place.

You leaned up on your elbows, still seeing stars. Joel stood up from the ground and brushed any residual dirt and dust off his jeans. He brought his hand up and toyed with his jaw, meaty fingers adding pressure into the masseter muscle as he worked to relieve the tension that had built while going down on you with such dedication.

You weakly sat up, the slotted ribs of his truck bed making indents in the flesh of your arms and thighs. Brands of your filth. Your big shirt fell back into place, your legs swinging lightly as they hung off the truck bed. You glanced at the back of your arm, seeing the scrape from his tools. You’d be fine.

Once you turned straight to face Joel once more, you noticed he was fighting back a little smile about something, his hands on his hips and his knee cocked out.

“What?” You ask, trying to scoot further down the tailgate.

“Nothin’.” He said gruffly, taking you by your hips and lifting you with ease like a ragdoll back onto the ground. His eyes stayed on the floor, your curious gaze following his down to your fluffy slippers.

“Oh.” You muster up, clicking the toes together.

“They’re uh… cute.” He tried to compliment, still with a teasing smirk on his face.

“Shut up. They’re slippers.” You griped, your hand coming up to wipe away the glisten on his chin. He took over, pinching the collar of his shirt between his fingers and bringing it up to wipe away what was left of you. It was oddly attractive.

He reached past his toolbox and belt, handing over your black sleep shorts after feeling over the material for a moment with a swipe of his thumb.

You muster up a thanks, looping one foot in and then the other before you adjusted the band around your waist, the orange t-shirt falling back into place at your thighs.

You couldn’t help but look around, the serenity of the early morning hours would only last so long on the lake. People liked to walk their dogs and jog, you didn’t want anyone reporting gossip.

You turned back to Joel and assessed him. The Texas sun was already making both of your skin swelter, despite it being just past sunrise.

You took in a sharp breath to say something, pursing your lips to keep them shut. Joel looked at you expectantly.

“What?”

You shook your head and shrugged, holding your hands behind your back as you teetered on your feet.

A stern expression passed over his face. “What?” He pressed harder.

You tried to smother a laugh. “Your hair, Joel.”

With an annoyed sigh, Joel amused trying to tousle his curls into place with the assistance of his truck’s driver-side mirror, grumbling a few curse words in response before leaving it be.

You admire him, how handsome he looks so effortlessly. You suddenly became glaringly aware of how you looked right now. No makeup, baggy clothes, could use a shower. Fuck.

“I gotta get goin’, already late.” Joel said as he returned to the tailgate, lifting it with ease and slamming it into place with a few sharp snaps. “I’ll see you. And I’ll message you.”

A small smile ticked at one half of your mouth, nodding. It was a promise. “Please call it texting, Joel.”

He furrowed his brows as he looked over your face. “What difference does it make?”

You snickered and shrugged. “How old you sound.”

Cue the classic Joel Miller eye roll. “Fine. Textin’.”

“How can you be working on a Saturday? That feels illegal.”

This mustered up a short little chortle from Joel. “It’s not technically working, that’s why.”

Your head curiously tilted to the side. “What do you mean?”

Joel shrugged, avoiding your eye contact as he looked past his truck and to the lake.

This was what you had to deal with. Trying to get information out of Joel was an investigative effort, one you didn’t have the energy to dig into at the moment. You finally felt tired after your week of restlessness.

You waved each other off, your face electric as you turned away from Joel and snuck back inside without a peep. As soon as you lay back in bed, feeling your heart thumping after your meet-up with Joel, you heard the door to your parent’s room crack open, and your father’s obnoxious morning yawn followed accordingly. Couldn’t have cut it any closer.

Finally, you felt sleep caressing the edges of your mind. Not a beat after your head hit the pillow, you felt your phone vibrate beside you. With hazy eyes, you turned it over in your palm and squinted at the brightness.

joel miller Anything I can do to get in your good graces again?

You instantly smiled, lazy fingers typing a response.

how about a movie night?

He took a moment to respond. You could see him thinking it over in your mind’s eye.

joel miller Fine.

Your face lit up as you quickly took advantage of him owing you one.

and I can pick the movie?

You could practically feel Joel’s eye roll from a mile away.

joel miller Jesus. Fine. Tomorrow night.

Tomorrow was perfect. Sarah said she would be on a camping trip and your parents would be visiting old school friends in a neighboring town for drinks and dinner.

tomorrow night it is, mr. miller

joel miller Whatever you say sweetheart.

---

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gucciwins · 5 months

Text

birthday blues

Y/N doesn't celebrate her birthday. Harry wants to change that.

Word count: 9381

A/N: it's my birthday! and I thought you deserved something nice. I feel sometimes birthday can be very up and down. somehow tears come by every year. I always wanted to write a birthday story and what better day to post it than on my birthday.

warnings: mentions of a parent death

happy reading!

365 days

That’s how long it took the sun to rotate the earth. That was also how many days it took for Y/N to turn a year older.

Birthdays are meant to be celebrated with family and friends. Where they shower someone with gifts cake but mostly love. It’s something Y/N hasn’t felt since she was young. Her mother made sure Y/N was reminded that the sun shined bright for her. She made all her dreams come true until she couldn’t. Y/N lost her mother, Isla, to cancer. She fought a long battle, but it seemed losing her mother meant losing her father as he lost the love of his life. Her older brother, already close to eighteen, understood loss but didn’t realize how grief could change a person because as soon as Caleb turned eighteen, he was gone. Only calling during the holidays but never coming home.

Y/N saw how others were celebrated on their birthdays as she grew up, from being invited to birthday parties to the grand gifts they would receive, primarily knowing that her friends had someone show up for them. That never happened for Y/N.

She moved away from home for university, and there was no argument from her father. She began her life where she hoped to create a family of her own, and with time, she had. Y/N never believed in having a large group of friends, but wherever she went, she made a friend along the way.

Aurora is Y/N’s best friend. She met her at a book club, their local bookstore hosts. Y/N complimented her fiery red hair; Aurora took one hard look at Y/N and claimed they would be best friends. Y/N brushed her off instead asking her out for coffee, and well, it seemed Aurora was right. She always is Y/N had come to learn.

With Aurora in her life came new friends; she was invited to dinner parties, coffee days, and to join in on mundane errand days. Y/N had never felt so invited and loved by her friends, but she made sure to give it right back. When it was Suki’s birthday, Y/N knew she wanted an ice skating day with all their friends but could never convince everyone to go; well, Y/N turned on the charm, and off they went. At Edward’s graduation party, she brought his favorite cake from the bakery across town. For Tina, she found a vintage sweater she had been searching for since she was seventeen and learned who Vivienne Westwood was. Y/N was the friend who went above and beyond for everyone because she knew they deserved it.

Year after year, they would ask Y/N to celebrate her birthday or accomplishments, but Y/N always promised them she didn’t like celebrating her birthday. After two years, her friends decided not to fight it and respected her wishes. She’d start her day the same way each year: head to Heart Coffee to buy a croissant and an oat milk vanilla latte. She’d head to the park, where she’d sit by the lake, seeing all the people run by. Then she’d cook herself a small meal and stay home to watch her favorite show (Parks and Rec). It’s a simple plan, one she liked and her friends respected. Her friends would get her gifts, sometimes books, kitchen supplies, or even the sweater she had been eyeing and saving up for, but that’s as much as she allowed to be celebrated.

Then Harry came into her life.

Aurora was having a bonfire to celebrate the start of Summer. Y/N loved the beach, searching for shells, and mostly, being in the water. Y/N had offered to help set up because she wanted to maximize her time in the water. Her mum always told her she was born a mermaid in another life for how much she loved water. Y/N spent her time in the water, and once she felt the sun begin to set (Aurora yelled for her to come in), she took a final dive and dashed to her car to change into warmer clothes. As she was closing her car’s trunk, Y/N bumped into someone. She quickly apologized, knowing she was in a hurry to return to her friends because she was hungry.

“My fault,” a strong voice responded.

It sent chills down her back. She looked up to meet his eyes and found mossy green eyes staring at her. “Sorry,” she apologized again. “I’ve got to go.” Y/N pointed behind her to signify she had people waiting for her, and before he could stop her, she ran off.

Y/N tried to brush away his pretty face, but her brain seemed frozen. She’d never seen someone so pretty. He had curls peeking out behind his hood, and his long eyelashes were something she’d forever be jealous of while she’d dream of what his pink lips might taste like. Y/N, with a drink in her hand, allowed herself to escape to her thoughts.

“Babes, you’ve got a pretty tan going,” Aurora commented as Y/N set her bag down.

Y/N felt her face warm, knowing tomorrow she’d be more burnt than she liked, but being in the water was worth it.

“So the mermaid has legs,” Frannie teases Y/N as she sits in the sand.

“So it seems. Got any gummy worms?” Y/N plays along, knowing her friend would understand the significance of the candy from one of their favorite movies.

There was a lot of chatter going around. She patted Frannie’s thigh, telling her she was getting another drink, but before she could do that, Tobias, Aurora’s boyfriend of two years, called for her.

“Y/NNNNN!” She giggled because it was clear he was a few drinks in. “My sweet baby, I want to introduce you to my friends. We’re in a band.”

“Were.” A man with an Irish accent answers.

“Shush, Niall. Y/N loves musicians.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, “only if they play the piano,” she corrects.

She turned to look at the people Tobias wanted to introduce her to, and she took a deep breath when she recognized the guy with the gray hood, a smirk on his face.

“Right, whatever. My good mates from left to right are Niall, Sarah, Devon, and Harry. Mitch is off getting drinks. He’s the dude with really long hair. You’ll see him,” Tobias assures her. “Now, this is my best mate Y/N.” Y/N giggles. “Don’t tell Aurora, she’ll fight anyone who calls Y/N her, and I quote “bestie.””

Y/N hums in agreement. “It’s lovely to meet you all.” She shakes their hand in greeting. She saved Harry for last. Y/N tries to hide she’s looking at his long fingers, but when she looks at Harry, he’s staring at her with a wide smile.

“Piano hands.”

Y/N feels her face flush because he’s referring to the comment she made a few minutes ago. She takes a step back and excuses herself. “Off to get a drink. It was lovely to meet you all.”

Harry steps forward as if to follow her, but Tobias stops him with a shake of his head. Always protective. She looks over her shoulder and finds Harry already staring at her. She laughs to herself. Maybe she’ll get the courage to talk to him after two more drinks.

One drink later, Y/N was watching the waves crash in when she heard someone coming closer. She thought it was Aurora who was escaping the loud music for a moment, so she patted the seat next to her, but to her surprise, it was Harry.

“Hi,” she greeted softly.

“Hi, Y/N.” Harry smiled at her. “You’re hard to get alone.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “That’s Mum and Dad for you.”

“They’re protective of everyone like that?” He asks.

“Yes, but more so me.”

“Is it because you’re too sweet?” Harry asks curiously.

“Or to mean,” she counters.

Harry laughs, “I doubt that.”

Y/N turns her body to look at him, squinting her eyes suspiciously. “You don’t know me.”

He shrugs, “I don’t, but you shook my hand when we met. Don’t think that’s happened in such an informal setting.”

Shit.

Y/N lets his words sink in. So it was weird to shake hands, but her mum always taught her to be polite, and she'd shake their hand if she couldn’t be a hugger. Were handshakes weird? Did that mean Harry thought she was strange? Well, there goes her chance with him.

“Y/N, Sweets? Where’d you go?” Harry calls for her attention, seeing her lost in her head. “I’m that boring, huh?”

She’s quick to shake her head. “Sorry. That was so rude of me.”

“Only teasing.”

“Don’t like the party?” Y/N gestured behind them, knowing that was much better than sitting with her.

Harry scoots his hand closer to hers, only an inch apart the slightest movement, and they’d be touching. “I meant it when I said you’re hard to get alone. Aurora asked me fifty different questions, and one was about my car insurance.”

Aurora was odd, but she always had her best interests in mind.

“Think she’s scared I might get taken away from her.”

“She did say something about 60/40.”

Y/N lets her head fall into her lap, “that’s embarrassing.”

“Take it everyone’s sweet on you, Sweets.”

Y/N feels herself melt at the moniker. Harry is too charming for her, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want a chance.

“Are you?”

Harry takes it in stride. “Definitely.”

“Hmm…”

Harry takes her silence as rejection. “Take it, it’s not mutual?”

“I’m afraid you never asked me a question.” She feigns innocence.

Harry grins, “would you like to go on a date with me?” Y/N stays silent. “How’s that for a question?”

Y/N stands up, brushes away the sand, and offers her hand to Harry. He takes it, careful to not pull her off balance. “Yes.”

She walks back to her friends, leaving behind a stunned Harry.

“Did you say yes?” He yells, hurrying to catch up.

“I did.”

“Why?”

Y/N laughs, confused. “Was I supposed to say no?”

“Tobias assured me you would say no, so I thought no harm in trying.”

Y/N steps close to Harry, removing any space they head between each other. “Listen here, Harry. As much as I love Tobias, he doesn’t speak for me. So, if you ever have a question for me, just ask.”

Harry nods.

“Good. Now I’d love a s’more, care to join me?”

Harry, enamored by Y/N, is quick to agree.

He spent the remainder of the night glued to Y/N’s side. He couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to know everything about her, from her birthday to her favorite number. She asked him about the pets he had growing up and who his three favorite female artists were. Y/N told Harry his answer could change her response to their upcoming date. Harry named Stevie Nicks, Kacey Musgraves, and Megan Thee Stallion. Y/N told him she approved. He sighed in relief, telling her that his heart was close to beating out of his chest.

Harry’s friends began to pack up to leave, but he noticed Y/N didn’t, so he stayed put Y/N tucked against his side and said it was time for him to go, sensing all the looking Harry’s friends were directing at him and he was ignoring.

“Don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’ve got my friends, Harry. I was fine before you and will be fine once you leave.”

Harry frowned, “fine isn’t good enough.”

“You’re a tough cookie.”

Harry makes no move to get up.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

He perks up, “I’m listening.”

“You text me when you make it home.” Harry nods eagerly. “I’ll text you when I make it home. If you’re awake, I’ll let you call me to wish me goodnight.”

“I’ll be awake,” he promises.

Y/N doesn’t know how true that is, but it does get him to finally follow his tired friends to their car. She watches him walk away when Aurora comes up behind, resting her head on Y/N’s shoulder.

“Tobias bet me $50 bucks he could keep Harry away from you.”

“What did you do, Rora?”

“I offered him a blowie if he let you be,” Aurora laughed, “I saw the sparkle in your eye. Don’t love him more than me is all I ask.”

Y/N giggles, “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good. I told him 60/40, but 70/30 is a better deal for me.”

Y/N felt like throwing up. She changed her outfit three times, restyled her hair twice, and messed up her eyeliner for the first time in months. Her date with Harry was tonight, and while she had a massive crush on him, her nerves were getting the better of her.

Before she could change her outfit another time, her phone rang, notifying her of a knock on her door. The security camera she had installed was a significant help. She pulled up the app on her phone and saw Harry wearing a black knitted sweater with two swans kissing. A bouquet of flowers in his hand. He kept pacing the front door, and Y/N felt settled, knowing he was nervous, too.

First dates can be awkward, and small talk is boring, but as soon as she opens the front door, Y/N knows it’s different. Harry shows her a bright smile, telling her how beautiful she looks. Y/N lets Harry open her car door; for dinner, Harry decides to take her to his favorite Italian restaurant. It’s ten minutes from the beach. It’s a family-owned establishment where all the dishes are made from scratch. Harry promised Mama D’s offers a pink sauce that’s to die for. Y/N let Harry order for her, and she was not sorry; the food was delicious. She knew she would return, but that wasn’t the best part. No, it was spending time with Harry.

She learned how smart he was. He is constantly reading a new book, whether poetry or history books; he always has his hand on something new. Y/N proudly told him she loved her romance books, that she had only recently begun to get into fantasy, but that her favorite series growing up was “The Hunger Games.” She went on a slight tangent explaining what the books meant to her and how, from time to time, she would pick it up to read it all over again. When she realized she had probably said too much, Y/N felt her face burning and wouldn’t dare to meet Harry’s stare.

“Sorry,” she apologized.

Harry shakes his head, “no, don’t do that.”

“What?” Y/N asks confused.

“Apologize for what you’re passionate about. It’s a part of you; don’t make it seem insignificant,” his words settled deep in her heart. “I could write you a ten-page essay on why The Notebook is one of the best romance movies to exist.”

“With citations included?” Y/N teased, easing the tension she was holding.

“Well, of course,” Harry plays into her banter.

It’s clear by the end of the date that Y/N is head over heels for Harry, and the feeling is mutual. Harry sat across from Y/N at the start of the meal, but after their dinner and a glass of wine, he slipped into the seat next to her. He played with her fingers that rested on the table, his entire body turned to her, giving her his undivided attention. Y/N and Harry stayed at the restaurant until they closed. Their waiter, Devin, told them he didn’t want to rush them, but they did need to clean up the outside patio. Harry knew it was time to go but didn’t want the night to end.

“Fancy a walk?” Harry asked Y/N as they stood by the car, pointing toward the beach where she could hear the waves crashing on the shore.

“Lead the way.”

Harry reached for Y/N’s hand, but Y/N was the one to intertwine their fingers, keeping a tight grip on him. Harry gave her a squeeze to assure her he liked it. The moon shone down on them as they walked towards the calm waves. They walked in silence; there was no need to fill the void with talk. Simply being together was enough for them.

He was aware this was a first date. Yet, Harry knew what he was feeling was something he would never experience again, entirely because of Y/N.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Sweets.”

“Can I confess something to you?”

Harry stops walking, hearing the tremble in her voice. “Hey, of course you can. Anything you want.”

“Well,” she takes a deep breath. “When we met, I thought you might be a little cocky because you have this larger-than-life personality, but truthfully, you're the sweetest person I have ever met.”

Harry feels his cheeks turn red. He did not see this coming. “Sweets, you mean that?”

“I do. You make me feel safe and cared for. I-I know we don’t know each other too well, but I would like to keep seeing you if you’re interested,” she whispers the final word as if all her confidence was sucked away.

“Y/N, look at me.” She lifts her gaze to meet his. Y/N can see how bright his eyes are with the moon's light. “I would love to keep going on dates with you. You called me sweet, but Y/N, you’re the kindest, smartest, most beautiful person I have met in all my years of life. I’d love to keep spending time with you even if it was simply to go grocery shopping.”

“Good,” she whispers. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“Come one, Sweets. The night is still young.”

Harry and Y/N spent the remainder of the night sitting on the cold sand, telling each other everything they could think of because while neither would say it out loud, they knew they had met their soulmate.

Y/N loved playing dress-up. She loved exploring her fashion, knowing she’d get suitable and horrible outfits, but each one would be a story for her to tell. Y/N loved going to flea markets on the weekends and went to her favorite thrift store every time the kind worker shot her a text, there was a large donation that came in. Her mother once took her to an estate sale, and Y/N got to see pieces of someone else’s story. Y/N loved visiting the homes but also because she got to find some of the most insane items. Y/N had found a vintage baby pink Chanel sweater and a never-worn pearl necklace. It was her most precious piece of jewelry.

When Harry learned that Y/N loved going to vintage and second-hand stores, he planned a date night to take her to all the hidden spots his mother had shown him. It had been a few weeks of dates, Y/N and Harry being exclusive, enjoying their time together. Harry had planned a few dates, but so had Y/N. With final exams looming close, he wanted to make sure that Y/N knew that spending time with her was his priority, so he wanted to take her to one of her favorite activities.

Harry had specific tastes, loving to wear vintage shirts, sometimes paying too much for one he couldn’t live without. Harry loved being able to share this passion with Y/N but mostly enjoyed spending time with her. He understood they both had schoolwork and needed to make time to study, but Y/N was great at making time to see him, so he decided he could do the same. She stopped by for breakfast after her morning pilates class. Harry would send her flowers to arrive at her office. It was a simple gesture, but Y/N appreciated it each time.

“Did you know Dee can’t stand Prim?” Y/N tells Harry as she looks through the rack of skirts, trying to find a velvet skirt.

Harry frowned. “Prim the cat?”

“Mhmm…the very one. Says she’s demonic or something,” Y/N shrugs.

“Prim is the sweetest little baby. Always curl up in your lap for a nap.”

Y/N looks back at him with a big smile, recalling the memory of them over at Sasha’s house for game night. Harry sat to her right as they watched Frannie and Brandon try to beat their score in charades when the small black cat came right over to her with a tiny meow and settled in her lap. Y/N ran her hand through Prim’s black coat, coxing her right to sleep. Harry made sure to capture photos for her. Even made it his new lock screen.

“Yeah, told Dee she probably needs to bring Prim a snack to befriend her.”

Y/N pulled out a black skirt; she looked it over, trying to decide if she wanted it, when Harry spotted something over her shoulder. It was a maroon velvet skirt with a split on the leg, and he knew it was exactly what she was looking for.

“How about this?”

She turned around to see Harry holding up a skirt. It looked in perfect condition, not a tear in sight. “What if it doesn’t fit?”

“We can always alter it. I’m amazing with a sewing machine,” Harry shares.

Y/N grabs it from him, adding it to the pile of clothes she’s already holding in one arm. “Fine, I’ve been convinced.” She giggles, knowing she would have taken it no matter what because Harry was the one who found it for her.

“Did you find that knitted cardigan here?” Y/N asks him, exiting the shop, the bag of clothes in Harry’s hand as he uses his other hand to hold hers.

“No, my Nan made it.”

Y/N’s eyes gleam in excitement. “That’s amazing. Did she teach you?”

Harry laughs. “No, I'm really bad with needles. Nan says I’ve got too big of hands.”

Y/N lifts their intertwined hands, looking down at his black nail polish contrasting her red. “I think you’ve got perfect hands.”

Harry kisses her temple. “Thank you, sweets. Are you up for a coffee?”

“And a croissant?” She asks excitedly.

“Well, of course. Only the best for you.” Harry pulls her close and leads them to a coffee shop up the street.

Harry knows he’s never been happier. He’s glad to have Y/N in his life.

Y/N had spent the summer falling in love. Harry had been the perfect gentleman. She had never met someone as kind as him, and when he asked her to be his girlfriend, there was only one clear answer.

Yes.

She held back from screaming it. Her excitement was hard to hide, but thankfully, so was Harry’s. They spent that night back at Y/N’s apartment kissing. Harry had the sweetest lips, and Y/N always wanted more after one taste. He brought warmth into her life, which she would always be thankful for.

Now, in Autumn, she spent her time with her studying, going on dates, and sharing lots of kisses. Y/N got to meet Harry’s family: his mother, who has a big love for cats; his older sister, who’s a lawyer and the best baker to ever exist; and his step-father, who is heaven-sent. Y/N shared she was nervous to meet them all because of how much Harry talked about them, but he assured her they’d love her.

They settled on brunch together, which went as well as Harry expected. Y/N shared what she was studying, where she was from, and how sweet Harry was raised. His mother, Elise, was over the moon with her kind words. When Y/N excused herself to the restroom, his mum could not stop gushing about how perfect Y/N was for him. His sister, Aaliyah, was more challenging to win over. She seemed to think she could read everyone perfectly. It was her job as a lawyer, but sometimes Harry wanted her to simply be his sister. Y/N spent the breakfast sharing stories asking about Harry growing up. His stepfather shared his favorite memories of Harry growing up. How Aaliyah tried to always sell Harry away or ship him off in a box. It never worked, but she tried so hard.

It took a slight turn when the conversation shifted to Y/N’s family. “Has Harry met your family?” Aaliyah asked.

Y/N felt her hands begin to sweat, and as if he could sense her nerves, Harry reached down and intertwined her hand with his, letting them rest on her lap.

“No, uh, he hasn’t.”

Aaliyah frowned, “Now that doesn’t seem right. Are you ashamed of him?”

Y/N jumps back as if she had just been slapped. She knew his sister cared for him, but being accused of being ashamed of Harry was not something she ever wanted to happen. Y/N took a deep breath and decided to share the deepest parts of herself with Harry’s family, something she did not like to talk about and only mentioned to Harry, never giving him the whole story.

“My mum Isla passed away when I was ten. She was my hero and my biggest supporter. It’s not something you ever really heal from; grief lessens, but you’ll always miss them.” Y/N wanted to look away. The look of pity on their face was not something she wanted. “My—my dad loved my mum. He always said she was his other half, and well…when he lost her, it’s like we lost him too. My older brother is eight years older than me. So when my mum passed away, he was getting ready to leave for university. Once he left, he never came back. He calls on the occasional holiday but loves life in America.” Y/N is surprised she’s not crying yet but pushes on. “It’s hard living in a house when you’re the one who essentially raised yourself. Dad worked, came home and mourned, then went back to work. An endless cycle. I had family members try to help him, but they knew it would be better if I left.” Y/N could feel her hands shaking and her knee continuously bouncing, but she did it; she made it through her story. “Sorry if that was an overshare.” Y/N excuses herself, needing a minute.

She walks out front, and that’s when her tears fall.

“For fucks sake,” she groans, knowing tear stains are hard to hide.

“Y/N,” Harry calls for her softly. “Are you okay?”

Harry. Her sweet angel. Y/N’s sure her mum put him on her path because her love for him is something she’s never felt before, but it makes her feel whole. Y/N lets herself collapse in his arms, no longer caring about her tears.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “They must think I’m a mess.”

“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that.”

“It’s true,” she defends.

Harry lifts her head to have him look at her. “You don’t have to be perfect or have to have your life together. You just need to remember you’re not alone. You’ve got so many people that l–adore you.”

Y/N takes a moment to let it all sink in. Harry’s right. She’s simply overwhelmed and thankful to have him here.

“Is your family upset with me?”

“Not at all, baby,” he assures her. “I think Mum was reprimanding Aaliyah, actually.”

Y/N laughs at his excitement, “let's go back.”

“Are you sure?” He checks one final time.

“Mhm. Do you think your mum will share photos of you?”

“Only one way to find out,” Y/N let him lead the way as she felt her heart calm down, knowing she was in safe hands.

Y/N could not be prouder of Harry. He had passed all his exams with flying colors (Y/N did, too), all while getting promoted at work. It was a campus job that paid decently. He did it for the scholarship offered but had come to love his role in helping other students. Y/N had done well, too, but that didn’t matter to her, not when she wanted to celebrate Harry. She planned a special night out for him with all of their friends. Harry loved a good party, and she wanted to give him precisely that. She had told him to prepare for the night, claiming it was a surprise.

Harry didn’t think much, knowing her surprise ranged from a bouquet of flowers to getting dessert and the occasional new clothing she found for him. He didn't know what to expect tonight because when she showed up at his apartment in a little black dress, he was close to pulling her into his apartment and not letting her go. As good as that dress looked on Y/N, he knew it would look better on his bedroom floor. Harry noticed Y/N’s excitement and knew he couldn’t keep her locked up, but it did not stop him from pushing her up against the wall and happily messing up her lipstick.

Once he noticed it was getting hard to control himself when he pulled away. “Look beautiful, sweets.”

Y/N giggled, pressing a kiss to his stained lips. “Thank you.”

“Should we head out?” Harry asked, grabbing his coat and helping Y/N slip hers on.

“Mhm…”

The car ride was short, driving close to the university. He noticed they were outside the bar they come to for karaoke some nights. He loves belting out an Adele song from time to time. Y/N hurried out the door, her excitement unable to be contained. Y/N waited at the door for him, her hand outstretched for him to take. He kissed her wrist and gestured for her to go on.

Walking in, everything looked normal. People were sitting around at the tables, not a seat in sight at the bar. Y/N offered Grady, their favorite bartender, a wave. The crowd parted for Y/N as if she were an angel walking by. He was always mesmerized by how her presence caught the attention of everyone around her.

Y/N led them to the back room, which was reserved for large parties. Harry was confused; she had said the surprise was for him, but it didn’t make sense when there was nothing to celebrate. His birthday wasn’t until February, and she knew that. Made a clear point to add it to her calendar as Harry Styles’ Birthday with a yellow heart next to it. A simple gesture that made his heart skip a beat. When they entered the room, Harry noticed all their friends gathered around. Mitch was laughing with Niall while Sarah approached them with three drinks in hand. She quickly passed Harry a vodka cranberry while Y/N got Sprite.

“Your girl sure knows how to throw a party,” Sarah raises her glass in a cheer.

“I-I.” Harry has no words.

Sarah laughs. “Did you really not know? I thought she would have told you. Y/N was so excited she thought she might burst,” she teased.

Y/N smiles, leaning her head on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s for everyone,” Y/N reminds her.

Sarah clicks her tongue. “You said, and I quote, ‘Harry aced every exam. He had the highest grade in each class. It deserves to be celebrated.’ Or am I wrong?”

Y/N feels her face heat up because Sarah’s words are true. She said it because it was true. He deserves all his accomplishments to be celebrated, from acing an exam to turning in an exam. Uni isn’t always fun; if she can make good days for him, she feels like she did something good for someone she loves.

Harry excuses them, pulling them to the corner of the room. A few people try to get his attention, but he’s on a mission to get his girl alone. Harry corners her, his emerald eyes locked with her soft eyes. “You’re an angel,” he whispers. “What did I do to deserve you?”

Y/N has no answer because she feels the same way. “I feel the same way.”

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” he gestures around them.

She nods, “I wanted to. You deserve to be celebrated.”

Harry can no longer hold back. He connects his lips with hers. His hands settle on her waist while Y/N fists the front of his shirt. The passion was burning him; he craved the feeling. Y/N was lost in the feeling that she had forgotten they were in a room with their friends. She jumps back when she hears a loud holler and a yell of Harry’s name. Y/N lets her head fall on his chest, her cheeks burning while Harry tries to coax her to look at him.

“Y/N, love. You’re amazing.”

A large smile splits on her face; before Harry can kiss it away, Y/N holds his hand and pulls him to the dance floor, their drinks long forgotten.

“Let’s celebrate, baby!” Y/N shouts, laughing as Harry twirls her into him. Her laugh rings loud, and Harry knows she’s the best thing to ever happen to him. As Y/N dances in front of him, one thought rings loud in his head.

He is completely and utterly in love with Y/N.

Y/N didn’t enjoy her birthday, but it didn’t mean she didn’t celebrate her friend's special day. Frannie loved spending time with her friends, so with the help from Aurora, they planned a dinner party at Aurora’s shared apartment. They set up two long folding tables with chairs and pushed the couches back for extra space. Y/N decorated the apartment with streamers, balloons, and banners with the help of Harry, who got on the ladder for her when she couldn’t reach something.

The dinner was set for 5pm. Thankfully, Frannie’s birthday landed on a Saturday, so everyone will be free from uni for the week. Y/N had place cards made for everyone. Harry even had a little heart next to his name. He would be sitting right next to Y/N, with Mitch to his left. They were his two favorite people because while he was good at having Y/N’s attention, it seemed when she was in a large group of people, she always became the life of the party.

At 4:30, everyone began to arrive one by one. Aurora was set to get there at 5 with Frannie. They had told Frannie it would only be dinner with the three of them, but she was in for a big surprise. The door opened at 5:01, and everyone screamed, “Surprise!”

Frannie dropped the flowers she was holding in shock.

“You did this!” Frannie pointed at Y/N, who was leaning against Harry’s chest.

Y/N brushes her off, “it was all of us.”

Harry knew she didn’t like all the attention, yet Y/N always went out of her way to show everyone how much she loved and appreciated them. It made him wonder how her friends would celebrate Y/N this year. He knows he tried but sometimes never can’t measure up. He loves buying her flowers, always treats her to coffee, and gives her kisses tenfold because he knows it makes her smile.

He sees Frannie, gives her a tight hug, then settles down at the head of the table. Harry likes how easy conversation falls around him. He talks about a new album that recently came out with Mitch. Y/N jumps in, saying the closing song is her favorite. Sarah shared how the campus job is giving her 40 percent off on all merchandise, so send her a list of what they want.

Y/N rests her hand on Harry’s thigh as she slips into conversation with Aurora and Brandon, talking about the lab Aurora did earlier in the week. Y/N jumps in every few minutes to show she’s listening. Harry selfishly wants to pull her away, wanting her attention back on him.

Harry traces random shapes on her hand, letting Mitch talk his ear off as he picks at Y/N’s chipped nails. He makes a mental note of painting them for her tomorrow.

“I love you, Harry,” she whispers in his ear. A soft kiss is placed on his cheek as she goes to pull away. Harry reaches out and sets her in his lap, not caring that all their friends are watching.

“Say it again,” he begs in a husky voice.

“You've heard me say it before,” she giggled, thinking about their midnight walk when Harry confessed under the stars how he had fallen in love with her. Y/N kissed him, not needing him to beg her to say she loved him. She’d say it over and over again for as long as he asked. “I love you” had become his favorite phrase.

Y/N sits in his lap for a while; Harry knows she’s tired and close to falling asleep as he feels her settle deeper in his lap. She jolts up when Aurora asks for help with the main dish. Y/N kisses his lips, promising to be back quickly. Being at the apartment all day getting everything ready took a toll on her, and he knew that after eating, she would want to sleep for a long time, but Y/N would not leave because she would see it as rude. Harry composes an idea as dinner continues.

The meal is enjoyed, and he has the perfect idea when dessert is passed around. He feigns a yawn, making sure Y/N is watching him. He apologizes, giving her a brief kiss.

“Do you wanna go, H?” Y/N asks. “I know we’ve been here all day.”

He shakes his head, “no, you can stay.”

Y/N frowns, not liking that option at all. Harry has been staying over lately, and she’s gotten used to him in her bed. She debates on what to do because she knows cleaning up will be a bitch and would hate to leave it all to Aurora. Sarah notices her mood change and asks her what’s wrong.

“You alright?”

“Ready to call it a night, but worried about the mess,” Y/N looks around mentally, trying to see what she can throw out and save.

Sarah waves her off, “go home, babes.”

“But–”

“Nope. We’ve got this. You set up, we take down,” Sarah tells her like it’s obvious.

Y/N reaches forward, tugging her friend in for a hug. “You’re the best.”

Y/N begins to make her rounds, bidding goodnight, sharing her fair of I love you before landing at Harry’s side, her hand in his. Harry quietly thanks Sarah and walks out with his tired girlfriend. She sinks against him as they walk down the steps leading them to the street where they parked

“Remind me to never set up a party,” she groans as she throws herself into the passenger seat. Harry bites back a laugh instead, leans in, and helps Y/N buckle up. She gives him a tired grin. “You’re the best.”

“Do you want me to set up a bath for when I get you home?”

Y/N perks up. “Does that mean we’re going to yours?”

Harry has the bigger bathtub, so he knows what she’s asking. If he’ll be joining her. “Text Mitch to stay with Sarah.”

“Oh, are we using the citrus one?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Y/N sighs against her seat. “Oh, how I love you, Harry.”

Harry’s heart fills with warmth. This love is everything he’s ever wanted in life.

Y/N loved her friends. She loved seeing them smile, helping them out, and, most of all, celebrating them. All her friends took care of her, but Y/N always seemed to go above and beyond for each of them. It was something her Mumma taught her. “Give graciously because it will come back to you.” She likes to think it’s come back in ways she never imagined.

Brandon had always been an excellent friend to Y/N. He had her back when she failed her first exam. He held her hand when she got lost at the pumpkin patch the year prior. Y/N was thankful for everything he did, from helping her set up her first tattoo appointment to taking her to the mechanic and ensuring she wasn’t being ripped off. He was a good friend, and she wanted to celebrate this new opportunity that had opened up for him. He had started a new job in IT a few months back, and Y/N knew how much he enjoyed it. It was better than biology, but soon, his job offered him pay for his education under a different major: IT Security Protection. It was the easiest, yes, but the only problem was that he’d have to go to a college in the States. This was a celebration and an early goodbye because he wasn’t set to leave until the New Year.

This time, the event was at a club. Everyone was ready to let loose after a hard week, and the celebration was a perfect opportunity. Harry promised Y/N he’d watch after them, only limiting himself to two drinks and ordering them an Uber home when it was time to go. Except for the fact that Y/N was making sure her friends were enjoying themselves. It seemed Samantha got into some drama with Frannie, and they’ve been butting heads. Harry knows Y/N is a great mediator, but he wants Y/N to be able to go out without worrying about fixing problems. His girlfriend is heaven-sent, but he wants her friends to be there for her like she is for them.

Harry hoped they would prove it on the most important day for Y/N.

Harry takes note of all the grand gifts and events Y/N goes on to plan for her friends. It’s something he knows Y/N loves doing, but what does she get in return? Harry knows her birthday is soon and wonders what her friends have planned.

A few friends gathered to go out for drinks. Harry had not left his seat beside Y/N except to buy their drinks. Y/N leans in, kissing the corner of his mouth, promising she’d be gone a second, needing to use the restroom. Harry made sure she made it safely before getting everyone’s attention.

“What are you planning for Y/N’s birthday in a few weeks?” Harry asks, popping Y/N’s cherry from her Shirley Temple in his mouth. Y/N stated she hated them but always ordered extra because she knew Harry would eat them.

Aurora frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Her birthday. December 3rd. How do you want to celebrate? Was thinking of renting out the backroom of her favorite restaurant, inviting some friends, drinks all night, and cake. You know we’ve got to take care of her sweet tooth.”

“She doesn’t celebrate her birthday,” Frannie tells him.

Harry frowns; that doesn’t make sense. Y/N had told him all about how she celebrated with her mum when she was growing up. How her Mum would wake her up to breakfast in bed and slip in next to her, telling Y/N her favorite memories from when Y/N was an infant to her current age. It filled him with so much happiness that she got to experience it. That she had that much love in her life, and while he knows she has lost it in some way, it will always be with her. Frannie’s words ring over and over in his head.

Y/N never mentioned not being a fan of her birthday.

“What ya mean?” Harry needs a clear answer.

“She refuses to celebrate her birthday with us. It’s been like this since I met her, Harry,” Aurora tells him, but he’s not so convinced.

“Have you asked her? She’s got fond memories of her birthday, and if we let her stop celebrating, this day will mean nothing to her. Y/N makes all of you feel special every chance she gets, from celebrating graduations to the newest tattoos. You mean the world to her, but what does she mean to you?”

Harry is getting heated, so he excuses himself. He was going to find Y/N and hoped to convince her to let him take her home. He’s too frustrated to keep sitting at a table of their friends who refuse to do something kind for Y/N simply because she said she didn’t want to celebrate once a few years ago.

“H, honey? You okay?” Y/N asks, concerned when she finds him leaning against the wall beside the restroom.

“Got a headache, Sweets. Wanted to see if you wanted to stay, and I’ll suck it up to keep you company.”

Y/N is quick to disagree. “No, no. We’ll go back to yours. Let me take care of you.”

Harry loves his girl. She deserves the universe; if he can try to give it to her each day, he knows she will always feel loved.

Harry woke up bright early, under purple covers. Y/N curled up into his chest, almost her entire face hiding under the covers. He hated moving, knowing she might wake up with any wrong move, but he managed to settle her and went outside. He did his morning routine quickly, then headed to the kitchen, where he made sure he had everything for French toast, her absolute favorite meal last night.

While cooking the French toast, he ordered her iced vanilla oat milk latte to be delivered. He hated delivery fees, but today was a special occasion, and he would do anything to make her day memorable.

As he placed the French toast on a plate, Harry noticed the front door camera and hurried over before the person could knock. Harry received the drinks with a giant smile, giving the guy a ten-dollar bill in thanks. He found the tray Y/N told him she likes to use under the sink. He put the French toast and a cup of water on the tray. Grabbing the flowers, he rushed out to get up the street from Lady Silvie and her coffee.

He saw her beginning to stir, her hands moving around as if searching for him. His heart tightened in his chest at how much he loved her. Softly, he began to sing “Happy Birthday.” Y/N, in confusion, froze before shooting upright. Harry walked closer to the edge of the bed until he knelt on the corner, placing the tray over her lap.

Y/N’s eyes were filled with tears at the sweet gesture her boyfriend did for her. She mentioned her birthday in passing, hoping he wouldn’t remember, but her dear Harry remembers everything she has ever told him. She had told him stories of how she celebrated with her mum growing up, the only person Y/N has confided in since moving here. Not that she didn’t trust her other friends but because he was patient with her and broke down every single wall she had. Y/N had never felt she could truly be herself with anyone, and thenHarry came into her life. He helped her begin to love every part of herself.

“Happy Birthday, Sweet Y/N!”

Her tears break free.

She can’t even get a word out because her tears keep coming. Every birthday after her mum passed, she dreaded waking up. Most of the time, she slept the day away or treated it as any other day, but today, she woke up with a full heart as she woke up to her boyfriend singing. It’s something Y/N will always hold close to her heart.

Harry is her best friend, the other person who knows her inside out. With a single look he knows what she’s saying.

He crawled onto the bed, carefully moving the tray to avoid spilling anything, and pulled Y/N into his lap. It’s one of his favorite positions to be in.

“Happy tears?”

Y/N nods.

“I have a nice day planned for us. Are you up for it?” He asks softly, his hand rubbing circles in her back.

“You do?” She asks, surprised.

Harry chuckles, “of course, it’s my favorite person’s birthday.”

Y/N’s smile is bright. She lets Harry wipe away her tears and then gives him a chaste kiss. “I’m very lucky to have you in my life.”

They eat breakfast with Y/N in Harry’s lap as she feeds him bites of her fruit. It was very domestic and everything he looks forward to with his future with Y/N. Harry cleans breakfast, asking Y/N to meet him in the living room. She comes out, hair brushed and wearing his hoodie. He has a few gifts sitting on her coffee table.

Y/N jumps on the couch as she waits for Harry to give her the go-ahead with the presents. She opened her gifts and found items ranging from silk scrunchies to glitter bath bombs. Y/N thanks Harry with a kiss after each present. Harry hands her an envelope, promising it’s the last one. Y/N looks at him suspiciously but opens it slowly. It’s a piece of paper, and she can’t believe her eyes when she unfolds it.

She reads it again and again.

“Is this real?” Y/N inquires.

Harry laughs, “very much so.”

“You got us tickets to SZA,” she says slowly, as if she’s waiting for Harry to tell her it’s not real.

“It’s our favorite album. I-I thought it would be special. Something to look forward to,” he promised.

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Harry spends the rest of the morning showing Y/N how much he loves her.

After spending a lovely morning in bed, Harry convinced Y/N to get ready and took her to her favorite bookstore, where he helped her pick a few books from her “tbr,” of course paying for her. They took a stroll by the lake before deciding it was too cold. Then Y/N decided it was time for an early lunch, and they ate tacos from Y/N’s favorite restaurant.

It was a perfect day.

One that helps one final surprise for her.

Harry had requested that she put on her favorite dress and get ready. There was somewhere he wanted to take her.

Outside the restaurant, Y/N asked Harry what they were doing as she saw a full parking lot and a familiar car, but her gaze didn’t linger long as Harry captured her attention.

“Do you trust me?” Harry asked.

“With all my heart,” she answered without hesitation.

“Then follow me. No questions.” She took his outstretched hand and let him lead the way. Harry told the Hostess the name of his reservation and was told to go down the hall to the right.

Harry felt his heart pounding as they neared the door that would lead them to all of Y/N’s friends, who were ready to surprise her with a party. Something in him stopped a few steps away. Y/N frowned because something was wrong. Harry seemed like he was going to throw up.

“H, what’s wrong?”

Harry lets go of her hand and brings them to rest on her cheek, needing her sweet eyes on him. “I-I-I love you, Sweets. I love you so much. Behind that door are all your friends, ready to celebrate your birthday with you. Selfishly, I want to steal you away, but they’re excited to spend this day with you. If it’s too much and I crossed a line,” his voice cracked. “I apologize. So if you don’t want that, we can go right now.”

“You planned this,” she whispered.

Harry sighs, “yes, they told me not to, but you shower everyone with your love, and you deserve the same, if not more.”

Y/N feels her throat close up and knows she’s going to cry as soon as Harry leads them to the party.

She steps closer to him, with no space between them. Harry looks at her with so much love she knows he’s honestly her other half. Y/N pulls him down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him with everything she has. Y/N spills everything in the kiss. All her love wrapped in a kiss for Harry. He gives her back the same energy; both lost in the taste of each other don’t pull apart until they’re fighting for a breath. Y/N laughs against his mouth. “I love you. I love you so much.”

Harry kisses her again. “I love you, Sweets.”

“Let’s go in.”

He leads the way, knocking on the door three times, telling her that was the code for her arrival. Harry lets her in, and that’s when her friend's screams ring in her ears. Everyone Y/N considers a friend is here. The room has balloons and streamers around. There’s a cake that looks so yummy and a table full of presents all for her. Her friends stare at her with smiles. Y/N is so overwhelmed she doesn’t even know who to approach first. Aurora chooses for her, pulling her in for a tight hug.

”Happy Birthday, bestie!” Y/N laughs as Rora twirls her around. Rora pulls her back in, wiping away a tear rolling down her cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t try harder.”

Y/N shakes her head, “no, no.”

Rora brushes her off. “You’ve been there for me since I met you. I’m sorry I didn’t always do the same.”

Y/N appreciates her friend’s apology, but she was partly to blame. She never fully let anyone in, afraid they’d leave her just like everyone else, but Harry showed her that wasn’t the way to live.

“You’ve got a good one,” Aurora told Y/N, pointing at Harry, who was talking with Mitch and Brandon. As if he could feel his eyes on her, he turned around, sending her a dimpled smile.

“You okay?” He mouthed.

“Perfect.” She replied. She blew him a kiss and continued around the room, talking to her friends.

As the night continued, Harry ensured Y/N always had a drink in hand, whether a vodka cranberry, or water. He ate dinner with her and helped her cut the cake when she asked for his help. All the cameras were on her, and she had gotten overwhelmed. Harry slipped his hand on top of hers, and together, they cut Y/N’s slice of cake.

No one had left yet, but Y/N needed a breather, so she stepped onto the patio overlooking a beautiful lit-up forest. Y/N heard silent footsteps behind her. She turned around to find Harry with his coat in his hands.

“Don’t want you to get sick, my love.”

Y/N smiles, stepping close to him and letting him help her put it on. She was staring at Harry with so much adoration. She couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have him in her life. Y/N leaned in close. The music flowing out of the room had her wrapping her arms around his waist. His hands settled on her waist as he held her tight, that familiar feeling that if he didn’t hold tight enough, she might disappear.

Harry leaned his forehead against hers, letting each other fall in love all over again.

“This was the best birthday,” she whispered as they swayed to the music in the distance.

Harry lifted his hand, brushing a strand of hair back. “Just wait until next year,” he promised.

Y/N looked forward to it.

send me a message!!!! I want to hear all your thoughts

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles x y/n #harry styles stories #harry story #harry styles smut #harry fluff #harry angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic rec #fine line #love on tour

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reidintoit · 1 year

Text

cruel summer - j.m.

pairing: jj maybank x reader

summary: thigh riding supremacy

warnings: smut, language

an: more than happy to provide a part two :’))

wc: 1.4k

You were desperate. Completely and utterly desperate. And that was putting it lightly.

For the past hour or so, you had been sitting around the bonfire with the rest of the group on your boyfriend’s lap. While this usually isn’t a problem, tonight, JJ wouldn’t stop moving.

Each time his leg bounced up and down, you felt the stitching of your jean shorts brush against your core. At one point, you did your best to readjust but were immediately sliding back down as his leg continued to bounce relentlessly.

At first, you tried not to pay much attention to it, believing it was just JJ being restless. Which was probably true, but it quickly turned into something more.

“Ow!” Sarah exclaimed, jumping up from her chair and smacking her leg. “Fuckin’ mosquitos, I’m going inside!”

You hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation going on around you or the fact that it had gotten significantly darker out.

“I second that. These fuckers suck.” Kiara agreed, getting up to follow Sarah’s lead back into the house.

You glanced down at your legs, examining for any possible bites. You weren’t itchy, but even if you were, you weren’t confident that you’d have noticed. In fact, you had no clue what anyone had been talking about for the past hour.

“You guys coming?” John B asked, breaking the silence while throwing the last piece of firewood into the pit.

You looked back at JJ, who shook his head in response to John B without breaking eye contact with you.

As John B walked away, you started to get hot. Maybe it was the fire burning a bit higher or the fact JJ hadn’t stopped looking at you. Either way, you needed to get the hell out of dodge.

“I should.. probably go inside too. Bugs, yeah?” You struggled to form a proper sentence as you stood up.

“Y/N, wait.” JJ demanded, reaching out to grab your wrist, “Sit on me.”

“JJ, I have been sitting on you for the past-”

“No, I mean, take off your shorts and sit on me.. please?” He repeats himself.

You look down at JJ, who seemed to be completely serious about wanting this.

“J.. what about the others? They’re right inside.” You pleaded.

JJ glanced over at the Chateau, hearing nothing but Lizzo blasting from the speakers, then back at you. “I don’t believe they will hear a thing, darlin.”

You bite your lower lip, taking one last glance around before slowly unbuttoning your shorts. You allow them to fall onto the ground, stepping out and slipping your fingers on the sides of your bathing suit bottoms.

It’s obvious JJ noticed how ruined your bottoms are after rubbing against him for the past hour. The once pastel pink bottoms have a very prominent dark spot.

Suddenly, you feel your boyfriend’s fingers grazing the dark spot between your legs, getting a feel for just how wet you’ve been. “God damn..who’s got you like this?”

Instead of answering, you place your hands on JJ’s shoulders, sitting down on his thigh, and damn near gasping at the sudden contact.

JJ wastes no time slipping his fingers under your bottoms and pulling them to the side. “You’re soaked, baby,” he whispered, pushing his leg up into your bare pussy without warning and hearing a sharp moan escape your lips.

“You’re gonna ride my thigh until you cum, think you can handle that?” All you could do was nod in response at this point, feeling his hands fall to your sides.

“Words Y/N.” he demands.

“Yes, yes. Please.”

That was all JJ needed before gripping your sides and pulling your hips forward, encouraging you to move. You needed no further guidance, finding a pace that you knew was going to get you off quickly.

“JJ..” you whined softly.

He looked so incredibly hot like this. Watching you unravel on top of him had him painfully hard. He didn’t care about himself at this moment, just wanting to witness you use him.

“Such a slut, hm? Riding me out here..” he praised.

You whimpered in response, his words sending a flutter into your chest. The knot in your stomach tightened. You could feel your boyfriend’s intense stare as you fucked yourself on his thigh. You couldn’t focus on anything but how you felt. How slutty you felt at this moment. Sitting in your boyfriend's yard in your bathing suit top, grinding against his leg.

You rolled your hips against him, whining at the feeling of your clit against his thigh. Your pussy getting wetter and wetter with each roll of your hips. Your grip on JJ’s shirt tightened as you rocked against him, panting and incoherently mumbling.

You didn’t notice as he tore his eyes away from your face and down at his thigh. It was glistening from your arousal.

Your pace increased as you got closer, using your free hand to grip JJ’s arm.

“J - I - Please..” you whimpered, struggling to remain coherent as your hips grinded into him.

“Doing so well. Come for me, Y/N.”

You shake your head, “I- fuck, baby, baby,” not being able to finish that thought before waves of heat rush over you.

You practically collapse, burying your face into JJ’s shoulder as you ride out your orgasm. There was less friction as your cum coated his thigh, making each roll of your hips messier and slippery.

“JJ, JJ, mmph-“ You cry out as his leg suddenly bounces up into your clit.

“What baby? What’s wrong?” JJ asks, grinning from ear to ear. He’s incredibly proud of making you fall apart without touching you.

“Again… please?”

JJ leans back into his chair, hands making their way back to your thighs, gripping into your skin. You felt your face get hot as he continued to admire you.

“You want to get yourself off on me again?” You nod in response, leaning toward pressing your lips against his. A desperate attempt to get what you want. “Once more. Then you can fuck me.”

JJ looks past you, noticing no change in the volume of music from earlier. Whatever fun the pogues we’re having inside didn’t come close to this.

JJ’s grip on your thighs slowly moves up to your hips, “60 seconds,” he says as he leans forward to kiss you, “Go.”

You waste no time going back to the pace from before, failing to break the kiss. Your cum on his thigh was the perfect substitute for lube.

You feel JJ kiss you, taking in your bottom lip and gently biting as you whine into his mouth. Your eyes remain sewn shut as your head is up in the clouds. You weren’t going to last long again.

“15..” he reminded you.

It took one last roll as JJ jumped his leg into you for you to cum. Your head rolled back as you came, crying out without a worry of getting caught out here.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! JJ, fuck me.”

#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank smut #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank one shot #obx #obx x reader #obx imagine #outer banks x reader #outer banks smut #jj obx #jj maybank blurb

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herlondonboy · 2 months

Text

i bet on losing dogs, clarisse la rue

summary: based on this request. you’re in love with clarisse, but she’s in love with another.

warnings: unrequited love, ruegard, angst, no happy ending, swear word.

wc: 1.4k

clarisse was a drug. it didn’t matter what drug she was, though, you just knew you were addicted. you didn’t really know why she decided you were to be her friend. her group was small. a few siblings of hers, chris rodriguez, silena beauregard, and you.

you were nothing special, just an unclaimed camper that was good with your hands. if she had to guess, clarisse would have put you in the hephaestus cabin. you were one of the best blacksmiths and she was sure if you wanted to, you could make something far better than chameleon armour.

though you disagreed, you’d never say anything to clarisse. the thought of upsetting her or making her angry at you was always there. even when you tried not to care.

clarisse first picked you up a month after you arrived at camp half blood. she spotted you working away with an anvil and some metal. she asked you what you were working on and if it was important. when you said no, clarisse smiled then told you to make her a new dagger. did she ask nicely? no. did you make it anyway? yes.

clarisse had the kind of eyes that you could drown in. deep and brown, warm. you could never say no to those eyes. no matter how sharp their glare was.

she had the kind of eyes you could fall in love with.

you realised you were in love with clarisse not very long ago. about three weeks to be exact. you were sitting next to her during the bonfire. she was staring at silena, who had been whisked away by charles beckendorf. he wasn’t bad looking, but he definitely wasn’t your type. besides, you’d spent so much time with the hephaestus kids that charles felt like a big brother to you.

you could tell clarisse was upset at the fact that silena had left. if you weren’t so blind, you would have been able to piece together why. nevertheless, you watched her side profile as it was illuminated by the fire. you watched her jaw clenched and loosen. you soaked it all in.

how you were so close that her thigh brushed up against yours, how softly she was breathing. and you realised, you were in love.

now, normally when you realise you’re in love with your friend, you would distance yourself so they never found out until they crush wore off and you could be normal again.

that wasn’t going to work with clarisse. instead, you just refused to look at her. even when she was speaking. sure, it was rude, but you didn’t care. you weren’t going to ruin your friendship over a silly little crush.

there was one part of you, though, that thought maybe your wildest dreams would come true. that clarisse would confess to you. you allowed yourself to think this because you felt her eyes on you. ever since the campfire.

they followed you. every step you took, every walk you went on, until she finally caught you alone.

clarisse didn’t like talking about feelings. she didn’t understand them very well.

‘why would you feel sick to your stomach looking at or thinking of someone you love?’ she had asked one time.

you chuckled and shook your head. ‘you feel sick to your stomach because you don’t know if they love you too. you feel that way because you need to know, but won’t ever say anything.’

“y/n!” you heard, making you flinch and turn.

you felt ill. her crooked smile, how her hair bounced as she ran.

“clarisse,” you responded softly, already thinking of all the ways you could escape this conversation.

“i need your help.”

you looked around. “another dagger? i can’t do it today, but to-“

clarisse cut you off. you forced yourself to look at her face. you noticed how rosey her cheeks were.

“can you forge a ring?” she asked. you’ve never seen her so timid. so small.

you nod slowly.

the girl opposite you grins. “great. i-i made a sketch. can you make it as close as possible to it?” she shoved it in your hand and you opened the paper.

it was just like any other ring, only…

you wanted to throw up. you should’ve known.

“‘c heart s,’” you read aloud.

the red tint on clarisse’s face deepened.

she nodded slowly. “i think i really like silena,” you voiced your worse fears. “i want to tell her before charles does. at least then if she rejects me it’s just because she doesn’t like me, not because of some guy.”

“oh,” you said.

you wondered if she could hear your heart cracking inside your chest.

“i’m going to do it during the bonfire next week for chris’s birthday.”

you nodded, forcing a smile that you were sure looked more like a grimace. “i’ll get right on this then.”

“thank you,” clarisse smiled. gods, her fucking smile. “you’re a life saver, y/n.”

the way your name rolled off her tongue like it was made for her.

and just as quickly as she came, she left.

pushing the paper down into your pockets, you pushed a bit of steel into the fire.

chris’s party was tonight. you don’t feel well enough to go. well, that’s a lie. you’re not sick in the way that means you’re going to throw up, you’re sick because the person you love loves someone else.

the thought of it brought tears to your eyes. it was embarrassing. you’d allowed yourself to fall so deeply in love with someone that could never love you.

a sob wracked through your body as you lied, staring at the wall. gods, you loved her so much.

you were so in love with clarisse la rue.

the door to the hermes cabin creaked open you were still crying. then you saw her. she was blurry, but it was her.

you don’t know how much longer you can hold it in for.

“are you okay?” she asked. she was always soft with you. soft with you. not with chris, not with silena, not with her siblings. just you.

you shook your head as you sat up in bed, shoulders shaking as your tried to be quiet.

“are you sick?”

you just cried. clarisse didn’t know what to do, so she leaned forward and hugged you.

gods, you hadn’t touched her in so long. her skin was soft, just like how your remembered it to be.

“i love you,” you choked out. you were sure if she heard it because nothing changed. then you heard a timid ‘what?’

you cried harder thinking about how she was was just hours away from confessing to silena. “i’m in love with you,” you forced out. “but you’re going to confess to silena and i’ve probably just gone and ruined our friendship. but i thought… i thought i had a chance until you asked me to make a ring for you.” clarisse just looked at you as you wiped your tears. “it’s like betting on a losing dog. it was stupid. i’m stupid.”

clarisse shook her head softly. “i didn’t know,” she murmured. “if i had known…”

“you should go,” you murmured. “wouldn’t want to lose to charles beckendorf,” you joked, clarisse just looked at you. “i’m fine. seriously. go.”

when she realised you wouldn’t take no for an answer, she left and went to the party. your tears stained on her shirt collar.

you decided not to go to chris’s party. even if he was your friend. you just couldn’t be there when clarisse took silena away from the party. you couldn’t be there when clarisse gave silena the ring you made.

hours passed before chiron called quits on the party. instead of just returning to their own cabins, some decided a small after party in the aphrodite cabin sounded like fun.

“hey,” you turned to see clarisse with a weak smile.

you smiled at her, though it pained you to do so.

“i didn’t do it.”

it took you a minute to figure out what ‘it’ was but when you did, you frowned. “why not?”

“y/n, you’re my best friend. why would i go into a relationship knowing it was killing you?”

you shrugged.

“i can wait. until your crush is over.”

that hurt. she didn’t want to hurt you, but the only way she could refrain from hurting you was by liking you back. and she’s never like you back.

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse my beloved #clarisse x reader #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x you #clarisse pjo #please reblog #elijah writes

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

riptide | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it." His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won His touch is featherlight. But his eyes– His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

(it's like holding a lit cigarette to your pulse.)

part ii of in undertow

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; gendered reader; f!reader; female anatomy; near death experiences, MAJOR spoilers for the game (seriously, if you haven’t played it are saving it for later, or you haven’t finished, maybe don’t read this yet); PINING; cigarettes after sex was listened to on repreat during the making of this; also, i had “THAT’LL DO!” and “AHUEVO” on a loop, y’all. blame that.

notes: whenever someone asks what “doing the most” means, feel free to point them to this. it’s 16K. fullstop. it was only supposed to be smut. this ended up more plot than porn. but i so wanted the pining; the ambiguity, the danger, the drama. (i mean, this has none of that, but i wanted it.)

i told my very Welsh dad i was in love with an English man, and he said how could you do this to me? and that is pretty much all you need to know about Welsh culture.

Porthmadog hasn't changed much at all since you last washed up on the sandy shores, one hand gripping the strap of your off-duty duffle bag, and the other clenched around your passport. Wound tight. Ready to flee. A constant state of fight or flight.

The air is heady with the scent of the sea. Algae. Seaweed. Salt. Your lungs burn with the thickness of it. The sulphur sits in your throat, sticking to your larynx. It clicks when you swallow, refusing to budge. It curls behind your teeth when you suck the air in through parted, salt-chapped lips; the taste lingers in that strange microcosm of being both achingly nostalgic, and woefully foreign in the same breath.

The streets, too, live there: a realm of vague memories flashing by as your feet tap against the cobblestone. Boots heavy with exhaustion, and jet lag.

You're not ready to face it. Not yet.

Head bowed, you stare at the quasi-familiar cracks on the sandstone, and wonder how everyone else is fairing right now. An hour after takeoff. Soap would have been dropped off, wouldn't he? Safe and sound in Edinburgh.

You're both luckier than your American counterparts—the ones who have a full nine hours left to go.

Bouncing from the Middle East to Europe is a blink.

Europe to America is a whole ocean.

You and Soap played rock, paper, scissors for who got to depart first. In the end, you won. Wales was closer, anyway.

You left them behind with a heaviness that settled in your pericardium, compunction dipping in the valley of your pinched brow.

A strange feeling leaks from the fissures.

Ghost didn't depart.

They didn't stop in England at all. Right to Wales, right to Scotland. America. Mexico.

You try not to think about your prickly Lieutenant, but he flashes behind your eyelids, anyway. A bonfire in the dead of night. Tendrils of smoke drifting into the midnight blue aether. You're too close to the crackling flame. The heat scorches your skin.

He, too, sits heavy in your chest. A spooled cluster of questions bereft of answers. An unknown chasm gaping below. What it all means–

You woke up when the interior lights of the jet flickered on a few rows ahead, the jaundiced glow rousing you from your slumber. Your temple rested on something warm. Firm, sturdy. You blinked into existence, the ghost of a breath on your lips; a passing dream now left behind to rot. A world, forever unattainable, dissolving into nothing. Sand on your fingertips.

The world knits back into the cold clutch of reality: you're on a plane, and–

And you find yourself staring at tightly woven black thread. A balaclava.

Your eyes dart up.

The pad in his hands bathes him in iridescent light. It casts shadows on his face, in the pocks of his mask, and illuminates the white of the artificial bones. The paint used is tinged blue, brushed with cyan where it meets the black.

His lidded eyes crest low as he stares at the screen—a profile open on a man named Zyani stares back. Your eyes don't linger too long, pulled, instead, to the man you're leaning against. The coal under his eyes is smudged, nearly eroded away in the inner corners. You wonder if he rubbed them earlier, eyes gritty and heavy, but refusing to close. He won't sleep on the plane. He never does.

You don't usually, either.

Why didn't he wake you? Why did he let you stay?

There is no time for discussion—not on a jet that reeks of testosterone with ears everywhere. It will have to wait; shelved for another time when Gaz isn't snoring a few pews away, and Soap hasn't been glancing at you in intervals since you sat down.

Bonnie… you can almost hear him say. What are you doin'?

You can hear the steady breaths he takes, the sound swells through you.

It's the first time you've seen him so relaxed since–

Where are you going? Loose-limbed, one hand still wrapped around his softening cock, the other settles on the bend where your thigh meets the crease of your hip, fingers ghosting over the knob of your bone. His eyes are half moons. I didn't say I was finished with you yet, pet.

You shudder, a quiet breath leaving your lips. It draws his attention. His shoulder tenses under you. His head tilts just enough for him to slide his gaze from the screen balanced on his thick thighs to your open stare.

His eyes are liquid. Honeyed words over smouldering charcoal. "Alright?"

Your lungs quiver with your inhale. Outside of the acrid smell of ammunition, ozone, and gunfire, he carries something musky in his scent. Driftwood. Salt—sweat, blood, the sea. It's potent. You breathe him in again, lids lowering. You hold his scent there, nestled in the gummy webbing of your lungs, dripping down your throat.

Your eyes feel gritty when they slip shut. Anchors pull them down. You nod your head, slow and languid, murmuring your assent in a barely coherent mumble. The drag of his rough fatigues under your cheek, the straps of his tactical vest grinding into your cheekbone. And then—awareness. It startles you back into reality. Your eyes pop open, meeting the black pools above.

You wish you could chisel open his head, and read whatever it is that might be lingering in those unfathomable depths. His expression is shuddered, hidden by the thick of his mask. Eyes lidded and heavy and narrowed right on you.

Intense focus.

Sometimes, the others talk about Ghost like he's a berserker. A wild, untamed beast let loose in the shadows. Even the vilest people pale when they see him—his larger-than-life frame lingering in the background—and it's fear that dances in the cut of their brow, in their shaking glare.

You heard stories, of course.

Those always paled in comparison to seeing him on the field.

You got it, then, why no one mocked him. Why even the worst of the worst never bothered with leading him around by the nose.

He asked a question, and they answered.

For a long while, you thought it was his heigh. His size. Immense power. Expert precision.

But no. It's just him. Those eyes. His presence.

He doesn't just receive attention, he commands it.

You should move. You're awake, now. There is no reason for such intimacy with your Lieutenant, for a man more distant and unreachable than the sea.

You should.

But you don't.

He's warm milk under your chin. Heat bleeds into your skin from the firm bracket of his body. Ghost smells good—sweat and timbre—and feels even better. You could sleep again like this. Lashes fan down, sleep digs into the back of your eyes. You force them open.

Your fingers are tucked into the crook of his arm, pressed tight to his chest; there's a note of domesticity in the way he breathes with you, a palpable weight that falls on you like a thick quilt. His muscles jump. Body tense.

Eyes on you. Always.

But then they're gone. A flutter. They cut out to the pews, and you follow his gaze. Price wades closer.

The bubble pops. You're clinging to your Lieutenant like it's a luxury you're allowed.

Like it's something commonplace.

There is distance in his eyes when they flicker to you. The molasses hardened into something once again unreachable. A wall now sits between you.

(Maybe, that conversation will never come, after all.)

You should have known better than to let yourself want.

The air is crisp when you draw it in. The chill hurts your teeth.

You slip your fingers out from the wedge of his arm and ribs, already mourning the loss of him under your flesh—ticking muscles coiled tight; velvet draped iron. Ghost says nothing when you move, but his gaze is heavy on you when you fold yourself back into your seat. Proper, now. Lieutenant and soldier. You press yourself as far away from him as you can until your arms dig into the plastic around the window, and sit straight—as if you weren't sleeping on his shoulder.

As if he didn't let you.

He looks away when Price takes the bench on the opposite side, offers a nod.

Price echoes it. Flashes a tight smile your way.

Then his eyes linger. Not on you. Not on Ghost. He rests his pensive gaze on the sliver of space between the two of you. Where Ghost's bulky arm takes several inches of space up on your own seat, flesh glued together, parting only at the elbows. He's too big to get away from. Takes up all the space—

(—in your lungs, in your head, in your—)

Price, mercifully, isn't the type of man to pry. His brows buoy on his head, a fleeting glance sent in Ghost's direction, and then he's all business. Astute leader. Battle-ready even on a sleepy jet.

He clears his throat. "Where are you headed?"

It's for you.

Gaz is going to America with the men you'd picked up for this mission. His offer for you to join was swiftly rejected. The invitations from the Mexican operatives, notably Alverez, to come and enjoy the coast were also rejected.

"Is Soap going home?" You ask, hands fisting into balls on your lap.

Price's smile is wan. "He is. Not joining Gaz on his American adventure."

"Misadventure, more like." Ghost's dry tone makes your toes curl.

You can still hear the way he growled out pet.

You huff. "I'm…"

There is nowhere for you to go.

—Well. Nowhere else.

(Your knees ache, chafed and raw. Pebbles dig into your skin.)

"Wales," you murmur. You hear the ruffle of fabric when Ghost dips his head to look at you. "Whatever is easier. I'll take a taxi."

"Right," Price nods. "Get some rest while you're home."

It sounds like a dismissal.

Baleen lines fill your periphery when you turn your head. Your gaze sticks to the crease where his chin meets his neck. You can't bring yourself to look up.

"Better go fight it out with Soap."

He doesn't stop you when you stand, when you squeeze past him, thighs brushing his knees.

He says nothing at all when you depart.

(Don't think about it. Don't get your hopes up—)

The town is silent save your heavy steps on the cobblestone. In the distance, the roar of the ocean crashes along the beige shore.

Something inside of you begins to crumble.

(Too late.)

The woman by the apartment block greets you warmly, but the words are a strange amalgam of vowels and consonants that do not belong together. Her accent sounds English. The words make no sense to you.

Your bewilderment must show on your face. Her smile dips, a touch of laughter paints her words when she says, in English:

Sorry, dove. I thought you were Welsh.

It feels a little bit like a slap to the wrist. Naughty child… mind your manners, and speak your tongue.

"I'm not…," you murmur, chastised despite having done nothing wrong.

Wales isn't where you came from. Here is not the place of your birth. It's a paradoxical realm: a land where you were taken to as a child, and told welcome home; all memories erased of the other times they said the exact same thing. A taboo, now. Faux pas. A fresh start (for the nth time). Welcome home.

It's the place you stayed the longest, though. Your developing years from a child to a teenager, to a spiteful preadolescent with too much to prove, and an ocean to live up to.

(You wonder if the pavement is still stained red.)

You know Welsh. Have spoken it for years. You came, fresh-faced and chubby-cheeked, and the ladies cooed while they taught you the words.

But it's buried. They are covered in dust; a forgotten relic. You remember pieces of the greeting, but your lips are no longer used to forming them. Your tongue is too heavy, too foreign.

You say nothing at all, trailing off into a stifling silence.

"Right," her brows knot, rheumy eyes regard you warily. "Do you need a hotel—?"

"I live here."

You bend down, peeling the pristine welcome mat back, and fish out the key you keep tucked away. Years of training echo in the background; a firm voice rings out, one that sounds suspiciously like Ghost's, barking out how that's trouble. You'll come home to a world of hurt if you keep doin' that, soldier.

(You already do.)

You pull your duffle bag up when it slips, and nod at the bemused woman.

It's not much of a homecoming.

It never is.

The flat you own is barren. A bed that feels too comfortable at night for you to ever truly relax on is shoved into the bedroom, a wardrobe with civilian clothes, a shoe rack in the foyer. A kitchen that's always empty.

You mostly sleep on the worn, old couch where the springs dig into your shoulder blades, and remind you of that night you spent in Sierra Leone, belly full of yabeh. Ghost a hair's length away from you. His gloved hand brushing yours.

The duffle bag falls to the tiles with a heavy thud. Your passport will go in the safe along with all of your other belongings—clearance badge, certificates, your guns—until the call comes in for your next mission.

You hope it's soon. That Shepherd and Laswell trudge up some calamity that will take you far away from this place. A long-haul mission. The kind where you go deep into the trenches, and when you surface, it feels like an aeon has passed.

It's too quiet at night.

Your home reeks of dust. Disuse.

You settle on the couch, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling, and pretend you can't feel his shoulder under your head even now.

A world away, and you still think of him.

(Always, always.)

Shepherd calls you weeks later. A secret mission with the Shadow Company, he tells you. When you ask about the others, his voice is tight.

Just you, soldier. Just you.

Breaking up the Task Force isn't unheard of. Ghost does so many secretive missions on his own that meeting people he worked with in the past on a group venture isn't at all a rarity anymore. Price is the same. Soap, sometimes, too.

There isn't much else to do.

(You held your phone in your hand each night for those weeks, finger hovering over the CALL button. Two letters— Lt— on the contact screen. His profile picture is a dune of sand.

It never rang. You never called.)

You give your affirmative, and go to the coordinates where his operatives will be waiting for you.

"Show me what you got," he says, a challenge in his voice.

Your grin is sharp. "Always, Actual."

Phillip Graves meets you with a wide grin on his face. The American flag on his fatigues sticks out against the green. So used to the British flag, you can't stop your eyes from sliding down to it, drawn like a beacon.

(Maybe, in a bygone era, it, too, might have been home.)

"Welcome aboard, soldier." His eyes flash in the setting sun. Eager. Heavy. You echo it in your own smile. "Let's get these son'of'a'bitches."

You're back at the bottom.

The Shadow Operatives stare at you when they think you aren't looking. Low murmurs fill the jet— princess, chick, girl— and you gazed, pointedly, out the window.

Your hands itch; the phantom scabs prickle.

It makes you miss 141 more than you thought possible. Gaz, Price, Soap, Ghost. They flicker in your mind, and you wonder what they'd do in this situation.

How would they prove themselves to everyone around them?

(Answer: they wouldn't.)

The only one who isn't pushing you in a box is Graves.

"Heard great things about you," his smile crests over his lips. Eyes hungry. Ready for battle. "Can't wait to see what you can do."

He worked with Ghost a month ago. You find this out when he mentions it offhand. Secret mission with your Lieutenant. Is he always that much of an asshole—?

Actual is in your ear, stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

But it's Ghost you think of.

(Always, always.)

"He's not an asshole," you say, shrugging. "Just a man who cares too much."

Almost immediately, you want to swallow the words back down. Stupid. Stupid. You force yourself to remain still, nonchalant.

(How presumptuous of you to think you know him.)

Military likes to gossip. It'll come back to him somehow. The little rookie who stuck up for him. Who said he cared.

Graves' eyes flicker. "That right?"

You blush. English is gone. The only language in your throat is Welsh.

(Graves' guffaw echoes in the jet.)

Graves purses his lips, rolling them from side to side, as you sift through the documents in front of you. He's been pacing the room for the last ten minutes while you meticulously translate each paper in your grasp. Agitation bleeds through the usual warmth in his countenance.

It's tense. A slaughter.

His compatriots flank all of the exits; sounds of gunfire resound through the compound.

The infiltration was easy.

This—

This is not.

"So…," he drawls, the thick accent is warm, but his voice is constricted; pinched. "Heard you were the best at sniffing things out. What do you think?"

"It's not—," you pause, eyes skimming the page, squinting at it.

"What?"

His tone is sharp. Icy. The usual warmth dissipates into a palpable tension; a tight unease.

The shift is strange. Focus on the mission.

"It's not just Konni in this. They're being backed."

"That so?"

You suck in a deep breath. "We should leave. Tell Actual what's going on–"

"Yeah," he intones, crouching down in front of you. His eyes are placid. "We'll do just that."

It all happens so fast. A clichè, really, but a fitting one.

Head turned out the window of the cargo van, deadly missiles being dragged behind. Your mind is full, racing. Nothing makes sense.

You wish Ghost was here. Price. Soap. They're the ones you use to bounce ideas off of: this is what is happening, this is the missing equation, and this is what I think.

Good, bonnie. Now, tell us something we don't know.

And what if the equation is wrong?

Crafty, soldier. How do we prove it?

And then the world shatters.

Konni Operates. A gun to your head. Graves yelling in the distance; spitting curses, threats. Actual in your ear— you'll die here, soldier.

Chaos. Death presses cold metal to your forehead, snapped words in rapid-fire Russian, too fast for you to pick up.

The only ones that leak through are oozing glee. I'm going to blow your head off.

A dead-end. You think of Gaz—the closest to you in age, passing jokes back and forth; playing Never Have I Ever when the missions lull, the others looking on with amusement.

Kids these days, they scoff.

Have you seen this video? He asks, dropping into the vacant seat beside you. Ghost looks up. It's a club in London.

Soap huffing when you ask if he wants to come. Too old for that, bonnie.

You kids have fun, Price says, lips twitching. A rare show of amusement from the man. But I'll have to pass.

What if we went to a pub instead, you geezer? You chuckle.

Geezer? He nudges Ghost to his left, eyes dry. You've been rubbing off on the kids.

You meet his stare over the plastic table. Smile turns shy. Wanna come with us, Lt?

He holds it. Halfmoon. Eclipse. Liquid black. Negative, soldier.

You try not to let the sting of rejection show. It's stupid. Stupid—

Nice one, kid.

Y'did good, bonnie.

Let's show these old boys what us kids can do, yeah?

Their voices echo in your mind. One rings louder than the others. A sharp bark. Gravel shattering. Move, soldier!

You're a dutiful soldier. You never disobey a command from your superior officer. From him.

White-hot pain splits across your temple. The world turns static. You're falling down, down, down—

Waves lap at your body, tugging you out to sea. The briny water fills your throat.

Stay alert, soldier. The General. Voices.

"Well, shit." Graves. He sounds distant. Far away.

You think of Sierra Leone. Your first mission.

Hiding in a concrete house with no windows, no doors, no cover. Gunfire booming across the landscape, cloaked in the pitch black darkness of night. Flickers of yellow-red light pop in the distance.

You don't breathe. Don't make a sound. Your hands tremble around your rifle. Eyes wavering.

Warmth against your back. You startle. A gloved hand over your mouth. The brush of a balaclava against your neck.

"Easy, soldier. They'll see you if you jump."

They'll see you—

"They dead?" A boot knocks against your calf.

You go limp.

"Yeah," Graves. Companion. Comrade. Be careful who you trust, soldier. All you have right now is yourself. Trust your gut; you're on your own.

Copper on your tongue. You let it pool between your teeth, keeping it held in the space between your lips. It tastes of pennies. You try not to choke.

Sir… you whisper the words against his tactical vest. Feel the shift of his body when he looks at you from over his shoulder. Let's get yabeh after this.

We're not on holiday, soldier.

Really? Feels like one.

You need to get out more.

Yeah… maybe…

C'mon, now. Stay with me, pet.

Always… sir. Always…

You drag him to someplace you'd heard of through your new friends–best yabeh in all of Salone; gotta try the Jollof, too, Sesay insists–and he fits in like a sore thumb.

You both stand out, really. Foreigners in the middle of a place visited only by locals. Him in his denim trousers, and short-sleeved shirt, tactical vest fixed on his chest; his mask stays on. A ball cap low over his brow. He exudes danger. The rippling musculature of a tiger. The stealth of a panther.

You—nondescript and tiny beside him.

There is something to be said about seeing your new Lieutenant in denim. In the custom facemask instead of the full balaclava.

With the baleen lines missing over his chin and neck, he almost feels too exposed to you. Too vulnerable. Too open.

You can't stop fixing your gaze on the scant flesh, uncovered, above the collar of his shirt. His arms, bulky, and big, fold over his massive chest.

He barely fits inside the small booth.

Your eyes dance. Amusement. A roseate veil shudders over you—a novice, a rookie—and high off of the success of a mission.

"Sesay says this is the best place in town."

"Sesay says a lot of things, don't he?"

You blink, fingers tapping against the worn wood of the table. It's hot in Sierra Leone. A wet swelter that brands your skin with white-hot intensity. It's different from the dryness of the Sahara.

Somehow, his tone is drier than the arid desert you crawled out of. Drier than the burning heat of the massive sun.

"That he does…," you agree, floundering.

Was this a mistake? Maybe you shouldn't have come here. What were you thinking? Dragging your superior out for dinner. You flush. It's barely discernable from the blistering sunburn over the bridge of your nose. Unfamiliar with the intense sun that scorches the land.

You're drowning, now. Wallowing in this limbo of uncertainty. Maybe you should have just come later with Sesay and Abdul. They asked you when you pestered for directions, but you met Ghost's stare from over their shoulders, and hadn't heard a thing of what they were saying once you met him in the middle.

He's a whole head taller than everyone he meets. Massive. The locals' baulk at him: this huge, terrifying being with a skull on his face, cutting through the throng of people like a tank.

There was so much going on once you started the mission. After the Intel was gathered, and the forces were ready, those long nights spent inside a tent that was barely big enough for yourself let alone the behemoth bulk of your Lieutenant came to an end. It was abrupt. Sudden.

It was just you and him.

And then it was a sea of people.

You'd spent the better part of a year pouring over documents in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Scorpions and sand, and him.

The tent was deadly during the day; balmy with a humidity fit for the Amazon. At night, any complaints you might have had about the heat turned into regrets. It was freezing. You could see white clouds of condensation when you breathed out.

You'd lie next to each other. Grains of sand is the only thing keeping you apart. He was warm—bonfire hot.

You'll be frustrated, mad. That's normal when you spend so much time with a stranger. You might argue, bicker. But just focus on the mission. This is a test of camaraderie as much as it is endurance.

It wasn't like that at all. It was—

Seamless.

His ebb and flow were easy to adjust to. Maybe, it was the fact that you were a neophyte that made it so. Too afraid to let the bundle of frustration rear when this was your first mission. Your first test.

But—

It wasn't quite like that. You found that you enjoyed his company. His barbed insults spoken in a flat, serious tone often flew over the heads of the men you had to work with, but you grew accustomed to them. Enjoyed them, even. He was—

An enigma. A year later, and you know nothing about Simon Riley, and as much as he'll allow about Ghost. There is distance still, but;

It wanes. It cracks. Fills with the sharpness of his sarcasm, the stoic dedication to his mission; the grains of sand that stick to his sweat-slicked forehead. The deep hue of red from the mask he refuses to take off.

You'll suffocate, you quip, eyes glued to the paper in front of you.

Don't worry about me.

That's a silly thing to say…

It ain't. You shouldn't.

Mindless, stupid: well, I do.

Silence. Brutal and stifling. Then: focus on the mission, Rookie. Not on me.

You'd hummed noncommittally. It slipped into the back of your head, eyes fixed on the numbers in front of you.

But it wells, now. When Sesay asks if you want to go with him for dinner, when he tells you how to get there, and what to order.

Not on me.

Your eyes haven't left his. He holds your stare.

The chossy wobbles, cracks. Your hand on his arm. C'mon, boss, let's eat. It stays there while you lead him through winding valleys. The heat of his arm—bare, veins ticking under your palm, too burly for you to wrap your whole hand around the thick of him—bleeds into you. You, cold-blooded, leach the warmth from his flesh.

And now—

He doesn't eat when dinner is brought out. Doesn't take his mask off.

You watch him through the steam that wafts off the Jollof rice, his eyes roaming around the room like clockwork, looking for something that might strike. Hyper-vigilant. Wary. Cold. Distant.

A puzzle not meant to be put together, but your fingers itch with the urge to try.

Why did he come, you wonder. Why didn't he say no?

As if hearing your thoughts, his eyes are on yours. Tendrils of translucent white fog the air between you. His brow pinches. Lids crest.

It punches the air from your lungs. There is a phantom heat in your palm. Your hands shake around the fufu in your grasp, tightening around the tacky food until it bulges between your fingers.

The syphoned heat begins to simmer in your belly.

It bubbles over, blustering through your insides when his head pulls close, chin over the table, and says:

You did good, rookie. Might make a soldier of you, yet.

You bow your head. "Cachu hwch."

"English, soldier."

You shake your head. "N-nothing, sir… burnt my tongue."

You wake up in an empty hospital room. It was early August when you left for Al Mazrah. The calendar on your wall says it's now late September.

The space in between is a blur. Left in the mud. Graves was taken. Was he okay–

You don't remember anything after the point of passing out in the mud, and waking up—sick from infection, burning from a fever—and finding yourself strapped down on a jet. Medics surround you.

You'll be okay, you'll be fine–

You'd passed out again. The world slipping away until you felt the heat on your shoulder blades. The scent of yabeh thick in your nose.

You move, sluggish and heavy, on the rough hospital bed, fingers gripping the sheets below.

You still feel the grit of sand against your arm.

Heat in your belly.

(Cachu hwch, indeed.)

Shepherd calls you a day later on the phone in your private room. Your prison. The men outside say you're not allowed to leave. It's dangerous.

"Did good out there, rookie."

"Thanks, Actual," you murmur, hands clenched around the receiver. "Couldn't have done it without your help. Without you."

You want to ask about Graves. About your team.

You remember the rapid Russian spat in your ear. And this one? You bite your tongue, body pickling with unease.

"Rest up, now. My boys will be keeping an eye on you. They'll keep you safe."

You are discharged at the end of October.

Hands pressed against the still-healing scar on your temple. They peeled the bandage off yesterday.

The infection made it worse. It wasn't healing with the sickness you had. You're lucky some local boys found you in the mud when they did. You would have died.

Laswell finds you outside. Hand against her throat, eyes wide.

She looks like she's seen a ghost.

You certainly feel like one.

The ride to your safehouse is punctuated by a game of catch-up. She tells you about the mission they went on, the one you were exempt from.

The phone calls from Soap, Gaz make sense now. Straight to voicemail.

Hey, you skimpin' out on us, yeah? Skippin' duty? Not like you at all. Kinda worried, y'know? Text me somethin'. You know I don't like callin'. Anyway… we're keepin' it together, yeah? But kinda freakin' out. Uhh… anyway—

Not like you to miss one, bonnie. Call me when you can, aye? Want to make sure you're okay.

Price calls nine times. Leaves no voicemail.

A single text from Ghost. Wheels up at 16:00. Expect to see you there.

You didn't get your phone back until today. These were sent at the end of October.

The clock on your screen reads 2nd November.

"No one knew…," you murmur, hands clenched around the metal. "Why didn't Shepherd—"

"Shepherd said you were sent on recon. Said something happened. He didn't tell the others—just me and Price. Didn't want to distract them from the job."

"When did you find out?"

"That you were alive?" Her lips thinned, skin paling. "Yesterday."

"Where are they now?"

"That's confidential."

A scoff. "Sure. Now, off the record…"

"Mexico."

Something doesn't feel right at all. It sits like an anvil in your stomach.

"Laswell…"

"Get some rest," she says, even. Her eyes are glossy when she stares at you. "We'll keep you updated. I'm sure everyone will be relieved to know you're alive."

Your phone rings two days later.

The screen flashes. Lt.

Your hands tremble when you answer it.

"It was Shepherd," he admits.

Your head swims with the admission. Shepherd. Did good out there, rookie. Now, stay good. Stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

"Is he–?"

"No," he grouses, the word a sliver short of being a growl. "He's alive. Graves is dead."

It hits you in the sternum—a punch unlike any other you'd received. Air knocked from your lungs, chest throbbing in agony, you sink down into your bed, fingers gripping the sheets until your knuckles bleach white.

This shouldn't have happened.

This is what you do. It's your purpose. It's your job. Your role. You were selected by Shepherd, by Laswell, Price for that, for your ability to gather information, to weed out the moles, the rats. To sniff them out, and puncture holes in their ship until they sank to the bottom, secrets leaking out.

The words roll out of your mouth before you stop them.

"I should have been there."

The tremulous quiver makes you wince. Weakness. You're not weak. You're not—

Ghost won't see it as such, you know this; he doesn't really react to the harsh emotions of others. He carries an unwavering focus, rapt attention to the overarching mission, the end goal; pragmatic, astute on the battlefield, he doesn't flinch.

It's a toss-up if he'll ever respond. If he does, it's usually with a dry, biting dismissal. Sarcasm with him often rides the line of being too sincere, and too flat. It's not just murky, but opaque. He'll say something—equal parts scathing and wise: it's already done, no sense dwelling on what you can't change. Do better next time.

The bite in his words hurt; it was enough to make even the most impassive man irritated by the blunt, almost cruel tinge to his tone.

But it's later when the message will unravel itself. When you're lying alone in your cot, picking over the things he said, and why he said them, and then—

Oh.

Do better next time.

Right.

A soft sound. The rush of air being inhaled through clenched teeth.

Then: "I'm glad you weren't."

Silence. Your heart thunders. I'm glad you weren't.

It could mean a lot of things. A lot of bad things, but:

He thought you were either dead, or missing, or just—gone. You get it:

The last job didn't kill you—the evidence stacks in your head; one conclusion drawn:

It should have. It was meant to.

Your brush with death was a footnote. Nothing at all in the grand scheme of things.

They wanted you dead. They failed.

Soap called you last night, voice tight. You good, bonnie?

Getting there, you joked. Actual had my back. Graves, too. I'm alive because of them.

You choke.

"You alright?"

It's on the tip of your tongue to say yeah. The usual response. Practised. Easy. Distant. But you think of his words, and your ears ring with the deep husk of his voice. He was honest with you. Open. And that's—

Your words are a rush, dipped in vulnerability. "I don't want to be alone right now."

Too much. Too honest.

Too open.

You flinch. Heart thudding in your throat.

Ghost makes you feel like an exposed wire. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Raw.

He says your name—a low, brassy rasp that tickles the back of your neck. It's rare for him to call you by your given name. It's much too intimate. Too—

Well. It's just too much. You want to lean into it, to drape yourself in the rich utterance. Have it whispered into your ear late at night, while he fucks into you the same way he bucked into his hand.

And in the morning when he first wakes. When he rolls over, body folding over your own. Lips against the shell of your ear. A husky rasp; the word dragged over gravel.

You want it, want him, in ways that are unattainable.

Domestic.

You gasp. "I–um. Thanks," you fumble over your words, head roaring with the realisation that there is more than just attraction in the way your heart flutters in your chest; the downy soft wings of a small bird ruffling its fresh plumage. "I'll… talk later."

Your name is barked through the phone when you pull it away. It's cut off before he can finish.

They video call you from some pub.

The sight of them together—Gaz, Soap, Price, Laswell, Ghost—makes you smile.

"Christ, bonnie." Soap's eyes are fixed on the line near your temple. Scabbed. Plum colour. Healing, but not yet there. An inch over, and you'd have been—

You flinch, shrugging. "Could be worse–"

"What happened?" It's a command. You try not to tremble at the bark in Ghost's tone. Perhaps Laswell didn't tell them everything.

His eyes are wide, the whites cresting over the puddles of black. You can't match his stare. You drop, darting to the clock in the corner.

It's Laswell who tells them about the mission with the Shadow Company. Graves. Shepherd.

"...Fuckin', aye." Gaz murmurs. He echoes Ghost's question. "What happened? No one told us anything. We thought— and then Shepherd said you were out for the mission. Not that—that you'd been— "

It falls silent. They don't know about the mission's end aside from Shepherd's lies. Laswell knows. She was the first face you saw in the hospital.

Let's talk…

"We were ambushed," you start, shrugging again. Blasé. Nonchalant. You pretend you can't feel the intensity of Ghost's stare through the screen. "I… they were going to shoot me. I got away. Got a scratch—," a scoff from Soap, a murmur of more than a scratch, aye; you ignore it. "They thought I was dead, so they left me there…"

There is more to it. Graves. The whispers in your head. Them, in your final moments. Agents outside your hospital door. Two inches from death. A day away from rotting.

You swallow it down. It doesn't matter. It happened and now it's over.

"Bonnie…," there is something raw in Soap's voice. It pricks your pericardium.

Left for dead. Abandoned by everyone around you. The ones you trusted the most. Your own team didn't even look. Had no time to mourn, no time to worry.

You know what they must see; the lines they must be drawing. How they, themselves, currently feel, and what they would do if it were them instead of you. It—

It hurts.

"I'd have joined you at the pub," you murmur, voice a shaky worble, before he can say anything else. "But–," you lift your head, eyes downcast. A facsimile of a smile flickers. You wonder if it hits the mark. "Maybe next time."

Price nods in your periphery. "Listen—"

"I'll be ready for Makarov," you interrupt. "I'm… I gotta go, though. Am I — can I be dismissed?"

"...Yeah, yeah you can."

You hang up without another word.

In the silence of your flat—in a land more foreign to you than the Sahara—you break.

Your night dissolves into a series of firsts in quick succession:

A knock on your door. No one knows that you live here. No one but Laswell when she dropped you off. The rheumy-eyed lady with knobby knuckles who mutters at you in warm Welsh. Words you pretend you can't understand.

Shepherd, too, because he needed a location to put down on paper. A place to find you if they couldn't get a hold of you.

You think it might be him—back for vengeance—and you hold your pistol in your hands, back pressed flat against the wall. One hand drops the brass doorknob.

"Who is it?"

A beat.

"It's me." A thick baritone—enough, you think, pulse racing, to rattle the door with his voice alone. "It's Simon."

Simon. Not Ghost—

Right. Off-duty, now. Until you get a lead on Makarov.

Your Lieutenant knocking on your door at—gritty eyes flicker to the stovetop in the kitchen—quarter to five in the evening is another first. Almost paradoxical, really.

Gun shoved into the holster, you turn to face the wood. Through the little window above, covered by a paper-thin curtain, you can see the dark shape of him, unmoving, as he stands on your porch.

There are a number of reasons why he'd be here, but only one makes you yearn.

You pull the door open, and the sight of him makes you dizzy. Hypoxia. Seasickness. Homesick.

He's dressed as casually as Simon is capable of. Black hoodie, wet on the hood from the snow that falls in clumps outside. A black beanie on his head. Skull mask flat against the bridge of his nose. Denim. Black boots.

The coal around his eyes is smudged. A nebula of pale skin through a black oasis.

"What—?"

"Shepherd." Right. He could have called. Got the Intel from Laswell. His words leave no room for argument when he lets out an amalgam of a snarl, a growl; it's ground to dust when he says: "we need to talk."

"Not—," you don't want him to see the emptiness inside. The vacancy. Militaristically barren. Lonely. "Not here…"

Shepherd was here, too. Not him, specifically—maybe. You don't know for certain. But his agents, definitely. Polluting the inside.

It's a flimsy excuse. You hear the threadbare conviction in your tone.

"Shepherd was here," you say, and then wince. "Not now, I mean—"

The words die on your tongue. Ghost— Simon —is smart. Of course he wouldn't think Shepherd was here now. He'd fled. Went into hiding. You shift on your feet.

He can read you like no one else.

(You wonder if anyone at all can read him.)

You flounder. "I don't want…not here…"

"Where do you want to go?"

Somewhere stiflingly hot. "Anywhere."

Simon doesn't press. He never does. His head rolls, tips toward the street. "C'mon, then. Get your stuff."

He reads it on your face, in the things you don't say. It reminds you of Sierra Leone— eat, rookie, you haven't all day; get some sleep, you're dead on your feet; I'll take the first watch— and the memory clots behind your ribs.

"Okay," you murmur.

You feel his gaze on your back when you turn around. The door is left open. He doesn't follow.

There is a chill in the air when you step outside, bundled up in a knit sweater that does little to stem the frigid sea breeze from cutting through the cracks in the threaded cable.

It's a cold night in Porthmadog.

Snow falls in clumps from the indigo-smeared sky, sticking to the cobblestone under your feet.

Simon says nothing as you walk out of the apartment block. He stays close to you, so close you could inch your elbow out and touch him. The heat from his body is a beacon. You're at war with yourself, struggling not to get pulled into his current, and swept out to sea.

Despite the closeness, there is a distance in the way he paces. Eyes roaming under the hood, taking in the lights strewn overhead, lingering on the alcoves where someone might hide.

Having him here feels a little surreal. Porthmadog is off-limits to everyone—it's a place where you come to rot.

His presence shatters the sense that it doesn't really exist outside of those long nights when you stare up at the ceiling, and want. A metaphysical realm that laps at the cracks inside of you, eroding the thick veneer you cobbled together over the years until it withers away, and you have to patch it up when you get called in for another assignment.

Intact soldier. Whole. Nile.

It's a place, now. Real. Tangible.

Seeing Simon—Ghost, Lt—walk beside you down Lombard Street, footfalls echoing through the winding road, makes something churn in your guts. It sits inside, and feels a little like finality.

How could you possibly come back to a place you pretend doesn't exist? A place that is just en-route to wherever else you have to go?

A place you come to because you have nowhere else.

You can't come back here now that the streets are tainted with the nitroglycerin scent of Simon. A bonfire on the beach. The burning logs doused in kerosene. The miasma will suffocate you.

It clots inside of your lungs, sticking to the gummy lining when you breathe him in.

He smells of bourbon. Cigarettes. Carries the scent of everyone else with him—Gaz's cologne: thick vetiver; the sickly sweet tang of Price's cigars; thick metallic: ozone and gasoline that Soap wears after a mission—and you greedily take it in.

You let it sit, red-hot barbed wire, against your chest.

Your eyes slip. Illegal. Wrong. They find him, always. Bathed in the streetlight above; flushed yellow. It casts shadows on him, and makes his eyes look lighter.

A peaking shoal in the middle of the midnight blue ocean.

He's dangerous. Makes your fingers prickle with want; with the urge to touch.

Makes you greedy.

Stupid.

Despite not knowing the area, Simon cuts through the supine street like he's familiar with it already. Maybe, he is. He must have looked at the map on his phone before he got here, eyes locked on the space, the landscape. Mentally cataloguing each hiding spot.

You follow him—a stranger in your own home—and cross your arms over your chest when the thick chatter carries from inside the shops along the street. Heavy Welsh. Warm milk and honey.

Salt in your wounds.

You don't belong here.

The familiar green of the carpet and flooring shop nearly makes you trip, but you steady yourself. Ball your hands into fists by your side, and drop your gaze to the cracked ground below.

You can feel the moment his gaze shifts, sliding over to you. It bores into your temple; abrasive, and grating.

Goosebumps erupt over your flesh. You blame it all on the cold—the stutter in your chest, the ache in your lungs, the shiver dancing down your spine. The frigid weather. The icy breeze.

Another shiver rolls through you, different this time, when you catch sight of the park.

Your chin hits the pavement. Palms sliding through jagged gravel. Knees splitting.

Your blood puddles on the grey rocks.

They crack you open. Nothing spills from the gaping hole.

"You with me?"

You blink. The reverie shakes, shudders. The little girl with her chin on the ground warbles.

Simon stands there, his back to the streetlights. His presence makes the image distort, and bend to fit him inside. It doesn't belong.

"What's a'matter with you?"

You flinch at his voice, and peer up at him from under clumpy, wet lashes, heavy with melting snow.

The words are harsh, but his tone is—

He steps forward, a few paces ahead. You didn't realise you stopped.

He doesn't come to a halt until there is barely an arm's length of space between you, and seeing him this close to you, his face concealed, blank and empty, has that strange feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach again.

His lashes are blond. It surprises you. You'd always imagined he had black hair. Black hair, black eyes.

It's blonde.

You don't know why it matters, why you can't stop staring at the soft wisps around his lids. They flutter shut, fanning across the smudged ink skin under his eyes. The tips are blond. The bottoms are ash. They're nice, you note, a flavour of that same something blistering through you.

His lids slide open, the corner tightening as his gaze sharpens, focusing on you. "Y'alright?" He asks again, waiting for an answer.

You swallow, and it tastes of sand. Gritty, and painful when it slips down your throat. Your voice is a rasp, a shiver above a whisper, when you say, "yeah. "

His eyes tighten again, deeper this time. Something flashes in those polychrome depths. Under the hat, his brow pulls taut together.

The indent makes your fingers itch, the urge to reach out, to soothe it, is nearly overwhelming.

"You lyin' to me?" He grumbles, an edge to his voice you can't place.

"No," you mutter, the words dragged out of you by force. "Just a —a headache."

He has a look in his eyes that makes you think he knows, somehow. That he can chisel inside your head, and rummage through all the secrets you try to keep.

Your neck aches from having to tip your chin back so much to even look at him, the 90-degree angle making you feel dizzy. The opposite of vertigo where you sometimes look up at the unending sky yawning overhead and feel that tendril of fear curling around you, admixing the awe, until you feel the urge to dig your fingers into the ground, and hold on. You can't fall up, but in those moments, it almost feels like you might.

Ghost gives you that same feeling.

His chin dips low, eyes lidded and heavy. You could almost mistake it for bland disinterest had his jaws not been working, gnashing together in a wordless tick. He says nothing. You watch the bones move. The fabric teeth snap.

All his focus is centred on the blood-red gash near your temple. The black sutures keeping the split skin together.

Ghost makes a sound, and you almost mistake it for a growl. Inhumane. Animal. It's pulled from his throat, but bitten off by his teeth before it can take shape.

You blink up at him, wide and owlish, when he reaches for you.

His hand is warm even through the glove. The rough fabric grazes your skin when he brushes your hair away with his knuckle. His eyes are fixed on your forehead, hardened, all militaristic concentration as he looks you over.

"It's—it's fine…"

"It ain't."

Gritty sandpaper. Harsh, abrading.

It's hushed, though.

Speaking above a whisper feels taboo. This whole thing does, honestly. Illicit, wrong. Ghost shouldn't be lasering his glare on your forehead, searching for a reason to do something about the anger that now brims in those dark depths. His knuckles on your skin feel sacrilegious. Touching you is exempt. Illegal. Off-limits.

But he does it, anyway. Strips the barriers pitched in front of you both like tissue paper, and holds his four knuckles to your temple, his thumb brushing a hair beneath the irritated skin. Gentle. Soft.

You didn't think these hands knew how to do something so delicate. That they were made, instead, to break. To crush. To ruin.

He might, yet: the pad of his finger feels like a brand when it ghosts over the soft curve of your forehead, soothing the phantom hurt, and you think you might just shatter if he doesn't stop touching you like this. Gingerly. Calming. A balm over your aching flesh.

You'd gotten so used to the pain, the constant throb in your head, that this respite from it feels like bliss. Nirvana wrapped in leather.

His touch is magnetic. It pulls a sound from deep within your chest, something desperate and wanting, and you can't snap your jaws shut quick enough before it's loose in the atmosphere, and cresting over him.

Ghost's gentle prods go still. With his thumb pressed into a place that makes liquid heat spume in your vein, you can feel it tremble when your tongue snakes out, gliding over your lower lip.

Your head swims. Phosphenes dance across the back of your lids, and you struggle to remember when you shut your eyes in the first place.

They flutter open.

His stare is fixed on your lips in a total eclipse, honed in on the slow roll of your blood-red tongue as it peeks out from the warm cavern of your mouth. The wet trail left behind is swallowed by his gaze. It flickers up, catching the bloom of heat under your cheeks. The darkened flush makes him rumble; the soft rattle of an engine purring. A frisson passes over his expression, lashes fluttering.

He's close. Closer than he was before. You can feel the molten heat bleeding into your skin with his proximity. Taste the gunpowder, the ash, and the ichor that clings to him; he smells of war when you breathe him in. Gasoline. Copper. A livewire scent that makes your lungs itch.

Dangerous. Powerful. Deadly.

Every synapse in your head misfires, sending off warning signs and sirens to run from the man that reeks of gun oil, and fire; napalm-scented demise with blood-soaked hands meant to ruin. But it only makes you lean in closer until the acrid burn of him corrodes your throat.

His body is warm, and the heat is stifling.

You're drunk off the fumes he exudes; reckless and wanting, and in the slurried molasses of your mind, you wonder if this is what it feels like for a gazelle to stand so close to a lion.

Something cold pools at the base of your spine, making you shiver. A warning—distant, ancient—but the calls of your ancestors are dimmed under the bulk of his shadow. The heavy iron in his gaze rests over you, and you imagine that his body pressed into yours would carry the same heft.

He's somehow bigger up close, you think. Wide shoulders, thick arms, a broad chest and waist; muscular thighs, firm calves.

He's not Adonis, but you imagine he feels just like marble all the same.

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

We. He says we, now. It's new. You shudder in his hold.

"I'm here," you whisper the words, afraid of breaking this strange spell between you. It feels like everything else around you has melted away until only you and he exists on this lonely street that makes you ache.

"You are…" he rasps; a low hush. Maybe he, too, is afraid of shattering it. "You did good, soldier."

His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won.

His touch is featherlight. But his eyes–

His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

A million thoughts run through your head, ones that taste like kerosene, and cauterise inside you like a cigarette to your skin. The heat blooms again, but it's not enough—all you can think of is how you wished you had more of him.

(You wonder if you run your tongue along his skin, kiss that acrid mouth, if he'd taste of napalm.)

Chiselled open, exposed to the air. Ghost takes a deep breath, holding the fumes of your burning need in his lungs. When he exhales, you can taste the smoke in the air.

His hand drops, fingers sliding down the curve of your face until he meets the plush softness where your chin and cheek meet. The hand he keeps on you is firm.

His eyes bore into yours. He wants your attention. Demands it. Then, he holds it steady until your mouth drops in a series of short, gasping breaths.

Your voice is featherlight when you say his name. His real one. Simon. It simmers in the air between you, and the scent of it almost makes his eyes snap shut, shoulders coiling. Tensed. Wanting. His muscles flex, bunching together in tight knots. Clench. Release. Clench.

It's only when you hear his haggard breath through the nylon, do you realise he's holding himself back from you.

Your belly flutters at the rumble roiling out of his throat.

Another command falls, deeper, darker, and your spine nearly snaps with how quickly you straighten up when he utters two words.

"Later, pet."

It's a promise. A demand. An out.

His mind made up, decisive and sure, he's now shoving the choice in your hands. Leaving the decision with you for safekeeping.

Like before, there is only ever one choice. As if you had any other answer for him.

When you nod, firm and eager, his chest shudders. "Fuckin' Christ–" it's a snarl, full of tension. Excitement.

His hand slides away from your face, and presses into the base of your spine, settling heavily over the curve of your ass. There is pressure, an urgency.

"C'mon," he rasps, jerking his chin to the end of the park. "Parked over here."

He keeps his hand on you, heavy and hot. A possessive branding as he leads you away from this place.

When you pass, your eyes drop to the pavement.

The gravel is clean. Your blood is nowhere to be found.

Your muscles go lax. You get pulled into his current, shoulder brushing over his chest.

Simon tightens his hold, and pulls you closer.

(Dragging you out to open water until you can't see the shoreline anymore.)

He leads you to a black jeep with tinted windows, and grounds out that it's rental when you press the heel of your palm into your mouth, futilely trying to hide a smile.

"It's nice," you quip, light and airy. "Very you."

"Just get your ass inside already," he says, pulling the door open for you. "Got a drive ahead of us."

His hand settles on your waist when you step up on the first rung, heavy. Firm. You want to lean into him. Have him pressed up against you like this for an eternity.

"Where are we going?" You breathe, shivering from the molten look in his eye. The heat in his chest.

He tugs you back into him, chin grazing the space between your neck and shoulder. His voice is white-hot in your ear. "My safe house."

Your eyes flutter. Heat blooms. "Simon—" his name is a whimper on your lips.

His fingers dig into your hips. "Fuckin' hell, pretty thing. You keep saying my name like that, and we won't make it to Southport."

There is no lie in the words that are forced out of his throat; inhumane, a growl. You don't want him here —in this town where you moulder.

Your fingers trail over his wrist. The coarse hair on his arms tickles your skin.

"Get me out of here."

His eyes sharpen. "Gladly."

Two hours and a half hours from Porthmadog to Southport.

A lot of time for him to reconsider. For that coldness he wears like a shield, that unbreakable distance, to pitch itself in front of him once more, locking you out. Perhaps, it'll be for good. Maybe—

Your hands ball into fists. Knuckles dig into the plush seat.

You know what you want. Know what you've wanted since before you stupidly opened your mouth— keeping my seat warm— and he saw it through.

But what about him? There was no time on the jet for a grand discussion, not when everyone was on top of each other already; not when Soap kept glancing at you, brow drawn tight, as if to ask really, bonnie?

Memories of Sierra Leone have you in a chokehold. Your purgatory, your limbo, your afterlife; when you were dying, it was all of him. Of the desert. Of the town that felt so warm, so inviting. The people baulked at his size but still ushered you over, offering snacks, and treats.

So tiny beside him, a woman laughs. You need to eat more. Your man should make you fat and happy.

You blushed. He's not—

Yes, yes… A wink. A coy grin. He watches from the dirt path as she presses bundled cassava into your hands. He says nothing at all. Your man. You like the sound of it more than you should.

You know what you want. What you've wanted.

It puddles inside of you. Droplets leaking through the fissures that have been splintering for years, now.

A man stands in front of you. Promise me, you'll get him.

You: young, naïve, nodded. I promise.

Ghost pulled you aside. He yells—quite often, in fact—but he's ice cold when he says, we don't make promises, rookie. Deadly. Your heart is in your throat when you apologise.

And then the scent of fire. A mission in Mesaieed left you and Gaz trapped. Helpless. Smoke clogging your lungs. Gaz wheezing under the intense blase; the noxious fumes billowing from the smoulder.

His voice in your ear. We'll get you out of there, rookie. Hang tight.

That a promise? You gasp, gagging from the black cloud drenching your lungs. Close to death, and cracking jokes. Confident. Assured. Nile crocodile lurking below the surface.

He isn't there to see your hands shake. You're thankful for it. Stupid, stupid—you want nothing more to impress your Lieutenant. Match him wit-for-wit. Vile joke for vile joke.

It surprises you when his voice filters through the line, one word slurred into your ear: yes.

Are you a man who keeps his promises?

Always. That's why I never make them. Close to a fiery death, and his voice crackles again. Why wasn't Jesus born in Liverpool?

Gaz coughed. Fuck's sake… Lemme die in peace.

Why, Lt?

There are no wise men or virgins.

Funny. I like that one.

Knew you would. Cover your heads.

The window above shattered. They saved you—just like they said they would.

(You realised then that Ghost cared for you, for all his subordinates, more than he let on.)

And now—

There is no turning back. Later, he said. He promised. A man who keeps his promises.

You think, then, of the look on his face under the streetlamp. Snowfall trickles between you. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes when he said:

"Thought we—fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

The words get lodged in his throat. They're ripped out with a harshness that bludgeons through you.

You turn to him, taking in his profile as he leans back in the seat, looking out the windshield.

As if he feels your stare, his eyes cut from the window, and find yours. He holds it until you taste smoke in your throat, until your lip trembles. Then it sinks low to your lap. One hand peels off of the steering wheel.

It feels like an anvil when it rests on your thigh.

"Almost there," it's a strangled rasp. A promise.

You nod. Your smile feels flushed when it pulls on your lips. Sunkissed. Warm. Expectant.

Your hand unfurls, fingers aching from the strain of your grip, and you curl them over his wrist. His pulse thuds under your thumb. You stroke it, and wonder what he would say if he knew yours beat the same.

The safehouse in Southport is not at all what you were expecting.

The winding road he drives on leads to a small, modest cabin on the outskirts of the town. Perched away from the rest of civilisation, it sits on its own island. Cut-off from the mainland.

The distance is something that makes a smile pull on your lips. So fittingly him —your lone wolf leader who only just learned the word we —but the sight of the house makes something gnarl inside of your chest. It's quaint.

Somehow, you'd expected a flat in the heart of the city. London, perhaps. Somewhere close to the airport, to the UK base used when you needed the closest weapons cache or jet.

The little abode in the middle of a farm doesn't mesh with the image you'd drawn of your prickly Lieutenant. It's too—

Wholesome.

"It's temporary," he grouses when he catches your teeth sink into your palm, a wide grin splitting across your face. "I haven't been back here in a long time."

"Is it yours?" You ask, turning to him. The jeep hums, idling. Neither of you makes any move to get out.

His fingers drum on the wheel. "Grew up here."

"I thought you were from East London."

"No. Moved there, then back here." He offers.

You nod. You get it.

"It's nice." You say instead, and it really is. A sprawling farmland with rolling hills in the distance where you know the sun hits in the morning. Where it'll bathe the boscage in ochre. "Peaceful."

"I'd have taken you to London," he grinds the words out from between his molars. "But it's too far."

Too far. Roughly four hours.

You've been sitting for nearly three. You shudder, eyes lidded when you turn to him.

A slow roll of your tongue has his arms flexing, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are stained white. Bleached.

"Maybe next time."

A promise. A question.

The vein in his forearm throbs. "C'mon, let's go."

You barely have enough time to pace a few feet into the foyer before it starts. You turn to look at him from over your shoulder—taking in the chimney, the chaise, the distinct lack of anything personal outside of a safe, a lighter on top of the fireplace—and he's suddenly there. Boots off. Hands curled into fists by his side. Head dipped down, and eyes more dangerous than you'd ever seen them.

That thrill pools—a warning. Run, run.

He stalks toward you, eyes burning coal. "Are you hungry?"

"No," you shake your head, swallowing thickly.

A step back. A step forward. They spark when you run.

"Thirsty?"

"N—no…"

Two steps bring him closer to you. Your back presses flush to the wall next to the fireplace, and he moulds over you like a liquid shadow. Dark, imposing. He's massive. You can't see anything but him.

Simon rests his forearm against the wall over your head, bending it at the elbow to bring him closer to you. The rough graze of his mask over your cheek has you panting.

His hand is a brand on your thigh. It slips down, fingers crooking in the fold of your knee, wrenching it up his hip. You gasp, hands grasping the bulk of his biceps when he drags your centre flush over the growing bulge in his pants.

Your head swims when he growls in your ear. "Is there anything you need to do before I drag you to my bed?" You shake your head slightly, pulse humming in your chest. "Because once I'm inside this pretty cunt, nothing at all will get me out. Understood?"

Your brain short circuits. A complete whiteout.

"A—affirmative." You choke, somehow coherent despite the absolute mess in your head. "Sir."

He rumbles. His chest pushes into yours; the sound reverberating through your bones. "Good girl."

He turned his back to you after he let you inside a modest bedroom, pulling the black sweater over his head. His back exposed—rippling muscles, etches of black from the tattoos—all pale skin wrapped in thick sinew. The sound you make has his shoulders coiling tight.

"Fuck, pet… I haven't even touched you, yet."

He turns, the mask slightly lopsided, and his beanie missing. His hair without the full balaclava sends a shock to your system. The newness of discovering something; elation bleeds in. His hair is ashen brown. Lighter than chocolate, darker than caramel.

You want to sink your fingers into the thick of it.

Thighs pressed tight together, your greedy eyes take him in. The way his hair—moussed from the hat—falls over his forehead; not cropped to the grain like Soap, and barely centimetres longer than Price.

He gazes at you. Waiting, maybe.

Your hands fall to your pants, eager to rid yourself of every barrier between your skin and his. You want him on you— in you. It itches like a sickness. Burns like a fever.

Your trousers fall. Fingers looped into the hem of your panties. He stops you, then, with his words.

"I took the mask off for the team."

You falter, bent down to push the panties the rest of the way off, and blink up at him.

The first thought, of course, is that Gaz saw his face before you. Gaz. The rookie rivalry (playful, carrying the flavour of siblings vying for their approval) makes you burn.

You swallow the jealousy on your tongue. "Oh…"

He waits, still.

"You don't have to…" you want to see him. He's a mosaic; an incomplete piece. You have two halves but the middle is murky. You try to fit them in your head, but the image doesn't line up.

"Lay back," he ordered, hands dropping to his belt buckle.

The image of him tugging the leather, veins rippling under the black ink of his burly forearms, feels unholy. It douses you with a want so palpable, your belly quivers with need.

You don't need foreplay, you think. Not when the sight of him pulling off a belt already has you melting. Has your pussy throbbing, your thighs slick.

"Damn, Lieutenant…" you mewl, dropping down on the bed, knees pressed taut together to stem the ache. "How are you so—"

"Simon," he rasps. The belt hangs in his hands. You wonder if he'd tie you up one day with it. Leave you quivering below him, completely at his mercy.

Or, would he let you use it on him? Let you bind this behemoth to the bed for your pleasure.

Your toes curl. The thoughts alone are enough to get you off, you think.

But it's the sight of him, then, standing over you, trousers hanging low on his hips, kept in place only by the thick thigh he slots between your knees, that really makes you shudder.

"Lay back," he orders again, hand dropping—white-hot, rough—to your shaking knee. His chin lowers, eyes staring at your pussy. "I want to taste you again, pet."

Fuck. Fuck —

He lowers to his knees, still somehow taller than you, and gazes at you between your bent legs. Dark eyes flashing. Goosebumps prickle along your flesh as he trails his gaze down the length of your body, settling, once again, on your cunt.

He looks as if he's going to devour you. Eyes wide, whites full, when he pries your legs apart, spreading your cunt for him once more. He hadn't seen you bare like this—beneath him for his own pleasure—and you feel the ghost of his breath on your sex when he leans in close, breathing in deeply.

"Bloody- fuckin' -hell, pet—" it sounds like a curse when he says it. A choked snarl. "So wet for me, and I haven't even touched you."

His hands are on the outside of your thighs, rough skin grazing the sensitive flesh as he trails them down to the soft flesh beneath your knee. With his thumbs hooked in the bend, pressing sharply into the cartilage, he wrenches them apart, opening you wider for him until your pussy is bared to him completely.

The groan he makes edges on the equinox of being absolutely filthy and wrecked when he drinks you in.

"Missed this pretty little cunt." His masked cheek rests on your knee, head cocked as he stares down at you. When he tips his chin, gazing at you, his eyes are blacker than midnight. A pool of ink. Desire brims.

He hooks your thighs over his broad shoulders, finger looping in the gap between his mask and the skin beside his nose.

You don't have a chance to see it. Fucking tease —

He dips his head before he tugs it down, and you feel the molten heat of his tongue slipping between your folds.

Your head falls back on the pillow, toes curling as that greedy mouth devours you once more. The stubble around his chin prickles the skin of your thighs. His grip is so tight, you already see blooms of blue pooling beneath the tips of his fingers.

The first time wasn't a flute. Simon presses his mouth to your cunt like he can't get enough; lips sealing over your throbbing clit, tongue lapping at you in even, thick strokes that make you see white behind your eyelids. It's good, so good —

He's going to ruin you.

"Simon—"

You remember those filthy groans rumbling against your slit, and your hand lifts, reaching down to tangle in his locks. A tug—sharp, pointed—makes him pant into your pussy, makes his fingers tighten until you can feel capillaries bursting under his firm hold. Until his short nails make indents in your flesh.

"Yeah, pet," his voice is molten rock; you throb, aching, from the sound alone. "Just like that…"

His mouth is on you again, devouring you whole.

You lift your head, staring down at the black eyes that bore into you, the thick locks of hair spilling out between your fingers, and you break.

You fall back with a groan, arching your cunt into his eager mouth, desperate for more. More of that liquid bliss that spools in your core, that has you leaking a puddle under his chin.

His hands shift, sliding down the meat of your thighs until they wriggle under your ass. Your flesh spills between his fingers when he grips you tight, lifting your hips, your cunt, to him.

Simon helps you buck against him, lets you cant your hips into his face, nearly smothering him with the sopping heat of your centre. When you're mewling, panting, with your head tossed back, and rapture in a quiver of his name spilling from your lips, he shifts.

His hold changes, and one hand falls back. His lips seal around your aching clit as a finger—long, thick—presses against your entrance. His tongue laves over you when he slowly presses it inside, crooking it to stroke against your fluttering walls.

The choked sob that leaves your throat is a mangled wreck of pleasure, of want.

"More," you mewl, but the plea barely has a chance to pass your lips before he's dragging his finger out until only the tip keeps you open. "Please, sir—"

He thrusts it into the last knuckle, groaning against you at the slick, wet sound that it makes. "Fuck, pet. Always so wet for me, aren't you?"

"Always," you gasp, fingers gripping his hair tight. "Simon, I need more—"

He pulls his finger out; another joins it when you whimper. The stretch feels good. Heat blooms in your belly. You won't last long. Your thighs quiver with each roll of his fingers pushing in as deep as they will go; with each stroke of his tongue over your clit.

You're going to cum—

"Simon—"

The coil snaps, pussy clenching on the thick fingers wedged inside of you, hips canting into his eager mouth as he rides you through the spasming pleasuring that ripples through your abdomen.

"That's it… that's a good girl," he slurs against you.

It's almost too much when he forces another finger into your throbbing cunt. You keen at the stretch, at the too-full feeling of him splitting your walls.

"Simon, I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You're taking me so well already."

His voice is liquid sex; the wrecked sound of him makes your toes curl, and your spine arch. You want him inside of you. You want to know if he'd make those same grunts of pleasure with your pussy wrapped around him.

High of the sudden burst of endorphins, you look down at him—sloppy with your wetness, his face hidden by your cunt—and you tug his hair until he meets your blown-out gaze.

"Fuck me," you try to demand, but the word comes out as a shaky plea.

"Too tight, pet," he rumbles. "Gotta get you ready for me."

Three fingers buried to the last knuckle, and he says it still isn't enough.

You'd think him cocky had you not the pleasure of seeing him hard and aching already. Big, fat cock leaking between the seal of his palm. You shiver, head dropping to the pillow.

It's all you can do but take whatever he gives you—long, thick fingers stretching you out, brushing the gummy walls inside that flutter when his mouth seals over your clit. It feels like an eternity since he pulled you inside the room.

A tug of your hand makes him groan. You meet his stare, pleading. Breathless. It's too much—

And not enough.

"I don't care," you slur, drunk and stupid on the way his hot mouth glues to your cunt. "I wanna feel you inside of me for days, sir—"

"Fuck!"

It's a harsh snarl that makes you whimper. The sound ripped from his chest, and rubbed raw as it was scraped out. His forehead is pressed to your mound, breathing you in once more.

His head lifts.

It's dark in the room. You can't really make out the entirety of his features—the familiar long nose, the cut of his jaw. His lips. It's bathed in black, in shadows, but through the glimmer of the washed-out moon that spills inside, you can see the distinct wetness gleaming on his mouth, his chin.

You whimper, eyes burning with tears of desperation. When he speaks, it's shredded rocks. Gravel. Low and dark.

"You're gonna feel me for weeks, pet."

It's a dangerous precipice. His voice alone shatters your resolve, and seeing those full, pink lips form the words that will ruin you, it's overwhelming. Your cunt throbs, walls shuddering in pleasure ripped through your being.

He feels it against his fingers; it makes his eyes flutter. His tongue sweeps out. Eye hooded, half-mast as they take you in.

He sits back, hands slipping to the crease of your knees. His chin dips.

"Hold 'em open for me, pet."

You gasp, belly knotting tight from the command that drips from his drenched, wicked, mouth. Your hand reluctantly falls from the soft locks to do as you're told. The warmth of his skin brushes over your fingers when you take his place, keeping your legs bent, spread, for him. You're on display. Open, wanting.

His hand, now free, reaches for the bundle of fabric pooled at the base of his neck. The mask is fixed into place again—a needless action, you think, pouting. Gaz saw his face in better lighting.

(You hope he had the wherewithal to take a picture for you.)

But there is something to be said about how illicit he looks, mouth now concealed from your view until just his eyes are visible. The coal is rubbed off, shadows along the crease, the corner of his nose, under his eyes, but it feels dangerous like this.

With the mask on, he's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. Fearsome. Men cower from him. His name alone scorches the earth, and makes the underbelly tremble.

And he's going to be inside of you. Claiming you, taking you. It's a cigarette thrown on a sea of gasoline. Your skin, fervid, begins to blister.

When you look up, it's ink-blot eyes in a sea of white. Red tendrils in the corners; rivers of ichor.

If he keeps looking at you like that, like you're a feast for him, you might go a little crazy, a little delirious.

Simon stares for a moment longer, hand dipping below the bed to grasp himself in his hand. A grunt at the touch, a flutter of his lashes, and then he moves. Coiled muscle; rippling flesh. He looms above you like a Cimmerian god—drenched in tenebrose, mask soaked from your slick—his haunting eyes gazing at you like you're an offering meant to be savoured.

His thighs—thicker than the tree trunks in the distance—slot beneath yours, and the sheer width of them makes you dizzy. The bulk is bigger than your head. Simon must notice the way you're drooling over them, knuckles white as you stare, open and hungry, wanting, as he takes a small amount of mercy on you. He shifts until the bulk of it is pressed taut to your core.

Your back arches, legs trembling. Fuck—

You want to ride his thighs. Want him to perch you on his massive lap, and have those molten eyes fixed on you as you use him to get yourself off.

You could do it, you think, mind blanking out; that soporific pleasure slurring all logic from taking root until a gossamer spools inside, filled with want. With greed.

"Wanna ride you…" you slur, wrecked on the notion alone. "Your thighs. They're so big, Simon, fuck— you're so big—"

"I like that idea, pet," he rasps, thigh notching closer to your throbbing cunt, smearing slick all over the coarse hair that covers his flesh. "Wanna see you desperate for it."

"I am…" you whine, breathless. "I want you so bad, I can't stand it…"

His hands fall, bracketing his burly arms beside your head until the absurd heft of him fills your vision. The muscles in his core pull taut; veins in his arms pulse.

He told you to keep your legs spread, but your fingers itch with the need to touch him. To feel him against your palm.

His cock hangs, daunting and thick, between his legs, head brushing your belly. Prespend smears over your skin; warm, tacky. You want a taste—

When you tell him as much, chin tipped backwards to whisper the words into his neck, he shudders above you. His cock twitches, spits more prespend on you. You want him to cum on your face, you gasp, words liquid, slurred. You're not entirely sure they're in English. You don't think you have the capacity to think beyond want, want, want—

"Yeah?" He rasps, elbow bending as he drops to his forearm. It brings his chest flush to yours. The dark smattering of hair rubs against your nipples. His face is a constellation: white jowls, black eyes. The look alone makes you smoulder. "Don't worry about me, pet."

You're shaking your head, but the protests die on your tongue when his hips slip between your thighs, prying you further apart. Completely spread beneath the bulk of his body, you crumble.

He knocks your hands away, a low murmur of his approval slipping past those sinful lips for listening to him, as if there was ever a choice, and he notches your knees against his hips, pressing himself closer to your core.

Finally free, your hands spring down to grab him, gripping his bicep in a vice just to feel the way it jumps under your fingers, and the other flat against his heated chest. His pulse thunders against your palm.

"Gonna give it to you, now."

You wanted it— ached for it—but as he feeds his thick cock into your pussy, you wonder if maybe you'd been a little overconfident before. That, perhaps, he was right.

It's swallowed down, smothered with a whimper. His stupidly fat cock will not break you.

"That's it, pet," he slurs, mask pressed tight to your ear. "Take it… C'mon, now."

He pulls back, widening your thighs, and then pushing them up until you're nearly folding in half beneath him. The movement jostles his cock, and it nudges something inside of you that makes you spasm around him.

"Fuckin' hell…" he groans, sinking in deeper. His eyes are fixed on the spot where he stretches you taut. Skin raw; cunt pushed to the mettle. "Almost there… look'it your pretty cunt take my cock…"

The air is punched from your lungs when he pushes in deeper, when the blunt head batters up behind your belly button. He knocks against your cervix, and the deep ache has tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

"Go on, pretty thing," he husks in your ear, words drenched in pleasure. Your fingers dig into the bulk of his body, crescent moons embedded into his skin.

He bludgeons into something inside of you that has you see stars—galaxies burst behind your eyelids, and heat, supernova hot, burns low in your belly. It burns at the place where his cocks ruts into you so deeply that you can feel him in your sternum, almost taste him in your throat. It liquefies your body. You melt into a conduit under him; a receptacle that leaches pleasure from the stretch of his cock inside you.

Your body slackens. There is a give; something breaks. And he's suddenly deeper than you knew existed, than you ever thought possible. You feel him almost knocking against the cap of your womb. Each persistent jerk has your pussy clenching around him, milking him, trying to get him deeper.

As if that was possible. As if there was any room left inside of you for him to claim.

You're stuffed to the brim; overflowing with him. You can't take anymore.

You sob brokenly when his hips pull back until only the mushroom head of his cock splits your aching, raw cunt open. The seam of you flutters around him, as if begging to be filled again.

He grunts, a hoarse, low noise dredged from the depths of his chest when he shifts, his cock spearing back into you.

It nearly makes you scream. Your nails rake over his flesh, desperate to find purchase amid a crumbly chossy that threatens to send you plummeting down a precipice, hurtling you toward an unknown abyss.

"Easy, now," he commands, the bark of his voice bitten between clenched teeth. "You're gonna make me cum before I've gotten my fill of this cunt, pet."

"Want it," you slur, babbling on the liquid bliss roaring through your veins. "Want you to fill me up, Simon."

A snarl of your name is the only warning you get before his cock is battering against your gummy walls, blunt head jarring into that little place inside of you that has phosphenes filling your vision, has your lungs aching with hypoxia. Head dizzy, chest shuddering with each breath. You can't get enough of it. Of the heady scent of him, the sun-drenched heat.

Simon is normally so controlled, constrained, and you find yourself fracturing into pieces as his ironclad resolve seems to shatter with each squeeze of your cunt. It's a dizzying feeling to reduce your cold-hearted Lieutenant into a rutting beast, spoiling himself with each tight clench of your soft insides against his thick, hard cock.

Your eyes open, wet lashes flutter and stick to the crease of your eyelid, and you find the way his brow is pinched tight together as he burrows himself deep within you, until the taste of salt is heavy on your tongue, absolutely breathtaking. It's enough to get you hooked. Enough to make such an utter mess of you, that you don't know how you'll recover from this.

It's an intense feeling having him seated so deeply within you. Edging deliriously along that equinox of unfathomable bliss, and the sharp, distinct too much—too full quiver of pain. It's a pinch within your guts, a deep throb that follows the unending plume of pleasure so blistering as it batters into you, that you almost find yourself getting swept away by the sheer thrill of it all. Mindless, driven stupid by the way he takes, the way he ruins.

(You don't ever want him to stop.)

It's one thing to have his mouth on you, but another thing entirely to see how he breaks when he's inside of you. It's addicting. A powerful high that renders everything else static.

Pleasure, red-hot and dizzily intense, lacerates through your core, spooling at the base of your spine. It fills your limbs with molten bliss until nothing remains except the way he pounds inside of you, filling you over and over again with every inch he has to offer. You think you might just go insane if you don't have him. If you don't get to feel the delicious drag of his cockhead rubbing against your pulsating walls.

Your hands slide over his skin. The muscles clenching under the pads of your fingers as you drag them up, over his arm, his biceps, his broad shoulders.

The bulk of his back makes your fingers itch. You sink them into the corded muscles, clinging to him as Simon drags you to that hazy place where euphoria clots inside of your veins, and the heat you syphoned from him bubbles, frothing over.

It's pulled taut—an elastic band that stretches well past the breaking point, and makes your fingers sting when it snaps. You convulse beneath him, sobbing out barely coherent words that sound like a quivering war cry of his name, of how good he feels, and how you're mad with the taste of him nestled so deeply within you.

Your nails digging into his skin, his name on your lips like a gospel, the molten clench of you around—it all congeals together until he's snarling in your ear, a raspy grunt that makes your toes curl, that has you seeing nirvana once more. It's your name—somewhere in the mess of his growl, his groan—that is pulled out from him, and pierces you deep, makes your core tremble at the ragged sound of it, broken and hoarse.

He throbs like a heartbeat, cock pulsing as he sputters out a thick pool of cum. It's almost too much; your pussy is overstuffed, forced to take both the heaviness of his cock, and molten spume that fills you to the brim. It leaks out from around the plug of him, pushed to the base until not even an inch remains, and you feel it gathering under you.

You want a taste of it. It swells inside, fills you deep, and you wonder if he'd let you lick it off of him.

You murmur it into his drenched chest, more slurred words that only vaguely sound English. Maybe it's the tone of your voice—ruined and raw, and drunk of the taste of him—that punctures through, but it hits the mark. Simon buries his head into your neck with another gravelled rasp of your name that sticks to his throat, breaking over the vowels. His softening cock twitches within you.

Words, or sentiment, whispered into the crackling atmosphere that smells of sex and kerosene, and goes straight to his groin.

"Cheeky little—," he starts, a husking grumble, but you squeeze your sore, aching sex around him, fluttering like a soft heartbeat, and it dies with a groan.

The victory doesn't last long. Your raw, abused cunt aches from overstimulation, a throbbing sting from your tender flesh making you wince. You're too keyed up. A ragdoll against the shoreline, caught in the current that batters your body until you feel like one massive contusion.

Fucking Simon feels like surviving a war. It feels like clawing your way out of the trenches, tasting the heavy, gunmetal tang of acrid artillery fire in the air, and standing victorious. Brutalised, dazed, and numb from the beating, but full of the banquet of victory.

He keeps you under him, still buried to the hilt, and pants into your neck. Flushed with exertion, his chest red and drenched in sweat, you slip your hands through the mess of him, and find purchase where the knob of his spine protrudes from his flesh.

Simon's head rises. His eyes—quivering, glossy ink—lidded and sleepy with pleasure, and that tangible post-sex haze that permeates the air, find yours.

Sweat drips down his forehead, over his brow, his temple. It's swallowed by the fabric of his mask, lopsided on his cheeks. Red peaks over the black horizon. A deep flush the same bloodied hue as his chest.

(You wonder if it tastes like ichor.)

His eyes shudder, body trembling from the ripple of it.

"Fuck me, pet…"

You tip your heavy, mushy head back, and grin. Big, and wide. The smile of elation. Of success. "I already did."

He huffs, heavy and full, through his nose. "Bloody hell—" in response to your tease, he grinds his cock against your aching walls.

Your breath is sucked in through clenched teeth; a breathy, high-pitched whimper.

"Mae hi wedi cachi arna i…"

"English, pet."

Your ankles try to link at the base of his spine, body drawn like a bow. "Your cock ruined me."

His eyes are rapacious, tainted with the fervour of conquest.

"It was meant to." The smoke in his timbre makes your toes curl. Your lungs smoulder with the heat of it.

Simon has you seeing nirvana again, and again before the light outside crests through the thin curtains.

He rolls you under him, ankles hooked on his shoulders, and makes you watch as his cock spears deep inside of your well-fucked cunt.

Eyes on us, soldier. Don't you dare look away.

On your knees, head nearly smothered by the pillow, he covers you with the entirety of his bulk until everything around you is pitch black with the shadow he casts. He looms over you, chest pressed against your back, and fucks you slow, and deep. The position almost has you blacking out from the depths he reaches like this, and the burn of the stretch as your pussy pulls taut against his cock.

You can take it. This pretty cunt was made for my cock, pet.

Your favourite is being lowered onto him. Chests pressed together. You bury your hand in his damp hair, your face in his neck, and sink your teeth into the column of his throat until the salt of his skin nearly drowns you.

Fuckin' hell…

(In response, his hand brands the cheeks of your ass with the perfect impression of his massive palms.)

He lays back with you barely lucid, aching, sprawled on top of him, and runs his hands down your spine, husking in your ear about how good you've been for him, how pretty you look blissed out from his cock.

His words are mercury in your head.

"...wanna be good for you, Simon," you murmur into his collarbones.

He shudders under you.

His chest is slick with sweat when you rest your head on it, pulse thudding under your palm. His arm around your waist is an anchor, locking you tight to his side.

You'd woken up to the sun bleeding through the window, the room thick with the balmy swelter of sex. Ashes in your throat, salt on your tongue. Simon's heat burrows into your marrow.

There is a lot to be said, you think. Words that you were too cowardly to admit when in the soft, dazed atmosphere of the plane.

Only one thing buoys to the forefront. The only things you'd been clutching at this whole time. Life on the line, and all you could think of was the dunes outside of your tent. The searing heat on your back.

(Not on me.)

(Always, always.)

"...Since Sierra Leone," you confess into his flesh, mouth pressed against the side of his pectoral. His ashen chest hair tickles your nose.

Simon tenses under you. The soft strokes of his fingers–bare, warm–on your hip still.

You wonder if you misread things. If you made a mistake. Your mouth parts on his flesh. The briny taste of his skin is sharp on your tongue.

You won't apologise. The words are there, the confession lingering in the air like opaque tendrils of smoke. It's in his hands now. This little thing that flutters within your chest, tucked away for safekeeping since he turned to you, eyes dark and narrow, and said you did good, rookie.

His fingers coil over you, tightening against your flesh.

"Everything…" he rasps. Everything. It's pulled out of him; rolled over barbed wire.

Confused, you raise your head, brows knitting together. Everything—

A total eclipse. The ocean in the dead of night. Endless, unfathomable pools of black. The current threatens to drag you under to those depths that shudder in front of you.

The words die on your tongue, ashes in the back of your throat.

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? So, what do you have to lose, soldier?

A smile splits across your face; a sun dawning over the beige spalls that seem to never end.

It tastes of the sea when you press your lips to his. You feel sand under your fingers, his pulse on your palm.

—Price calls it, has known since Mesaieed. He'd bet on Gaz, maybe even Soap. It never crosses his mind to think of Simon.

—But thinking about it now, it was obvious from the start.

("Sierra Leone. Wanna take Gaz with you–"

"No. I'll take the rookie.")

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic #simon riley #Simon Ghost Riley #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod mw2 spoilers #cod spoilers #simon riley cod

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cranberryjuice-posts · 1 month

Note

POOKIE IM BCK W ANOTHER REQUEST

OK SO ITS A AHORT ONE ITS A PERSEPHONE!FEM!REDER AND LIKE ITS AUTUSM OR FALL WHAYEVER YOU CALL OT (WHICH OS WHEN PERSEPHONE GOES DOWN IN THE UNDERWORLD BYW) AND THE DEMETER KIDS START GETTINF THAT SEASONAL DEPRESSION THING (I READ ONE HC ABOUT WHERE THEY BECOME VERY SAD AND DEMOTIVATED DURING THE WINTER BC OF THEIR MOTHER BEINF SAD TOO) SO THE READER TIRES TO LIKE WATER PLANTS AND FLOWERS AND SUCH FOR AS LONG AS RHEY CAN CAUSE FHEY FEEL HALF RESPONSIBLE FOR THE PLANT GROWTH

- ILY POOKIE YAKE CARE OF YOURAELF🫶🫶‼️‼️‼️‼️

- the four seasons -

Pairings - Clarisse La Rue x Fem! Persephone! Reader

Synopsis - its winter and you want to help make the Demeter kids feel better about themselves

An - My AO3 fic is almost done 😻 I only have 6 more chapters to write.

Winter was one of the Harder seasons at camp. Not because of the weather, it was normally sunny and warm because of the special border but because the crops were heavily effected.

Growing slower and with lesser produce was an effect from Demeter’s depression with her daughter gone to the underworld. Her children were also effected with this, their moods down for the worse and many not even bothering leaving their cabins.

You were effected to. Your hair became duller and your eyes a darker color of gold. Spending nights awake and an odd craving of pomegranate also arises.

Laying with clarisse in her cabin as the rain outside helped water the fields you both just talked about upcoming events all while cuddling. You slowly ate pomegranate seeds, occasionally passing one to clarisse.

After a while the strong girl noticed your downer than normal mood. “What’s up, your never this quiet and when you are either your pissed at me or your sad”

You didn’t care for her attempt at a joke but it was fine. “I feel bad” you muttered holding your head up some.

“For what?” She asked trying to bring you some comfort.

“It’s winter and like normal my mom is in the underworld with hades and so forth and so forth and the Demeter kids really like having me around during this time, but I just wish there was something I could do for them to help make not just them but Demeter herself feel better”

It was an idea Of course. With the nature kids happier the crops would also show a good result from it. Though trying to bring all dozen and a half kids to a better mood was harder said then done.

Clarisse let out a soft sigh thinking about what to say. “I was thinking maybe like holding a small party of festival or something fun for the entire camp” You sat up stretching some. “If you came to ask Chiron with me maybe he’d say yes but I’d also need your cabins help to”

“Sounds like a plan. Only question though what makes you think the Demeter kids will come out of their cabin for this” she asked, reaching up and playing with a strand of your hair wrapping it around her finger.

“I’ll force them out, they all favor me mainly because of who my mom is” you shrugged. “So it shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Whatever you say” she gave you a reassuring smile before sitting up and giving you a subtle kiss.

••

Chiron agreed Of course, finding your idea to be beneficial to everyone. It was honestly a surprise though when the Athena, Dionysius, and Aphrodite cabin offered to help to.

With the entire camp helping you set up things went easier. The statues around camp were adorned with flowers and honorary wooden statues made with grain, roses, florals and more for Demeter and Persephone were made as well.

A large bonfire was created and multiple decorations put up. The saytrs and nymphs helped make a wide spread of deserts and finger foods as well as bringing a more lively feel to the night. It warmed your heart just how much these kids and creatures cared about the well being of not only the Demeter children but also the camp just as much as you.

Convincing the cabin four kids to come out was easy. They all wore pajamas and their hair messy and a few even had blankets around them.

Katie gardener the cabin counselor walked forward confused. Taking the opportunity you met her half way. “We made a festival of sorts. It’s to celebrate winter and our mothers. I figured that maybe this would help cheer some of your moods… we even got the cloven council to agree to play music” the last part made you giggle some.

At first the Ginger girls face was unreadable. Up until she started to cry. Quickly comforting her the other Demeter children followed suit, letting their tears out which you knew they shared with their mother you to started to cry some.

As Katie pulled away she thanked you. Walking with her towards the fire the party had officially started. Each kid seemed to of gotten a random burst of energy, their hair became brighter same as their skin and the other campers around you noticed the growing grass and plants near by.

Though it wasn’t much it was clear the goddesses appreciated your party in their honor.

Once the wooden statues were burned at peak of the night, the festival came to an end. Everyone happily returned to their cabins and you walked with clarisse towards hers, decided to secretly spend the night with her.

In her bed again You smiled over at her. “Thank you Claire..”

“It was Nothing” she smiled gently, only a smile reserved for you. “All it took was getting silena to agree to the idea and everyone else agreed quickly”

The notion made you giggle. “Guess my thanks should go to silena”

“I guess it should”

You closed the small gap giving her a sweet kiss. She was to good for you. Pulling away and cuddling into the crook of her neck you happily fell asleep in your girlfriend arms.

The following morning, the amount of strawberries, grain, and other vegetation that had grown not only overwhelmed everyone but could of set the entire camp well off for the next three winters. Not only that but for the following week you and the Demeter children all seemed to have a glowing effect over your bodies. Showing the appreciation from the gods.

#lesbian #wlw #clarisse la rue #clarisse pjo #clarisse x reader #percy jackson fanfiction #clarisse larue #clarisse my beloved #percy jackson show #pjo fandom #clarisse x female reader #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x you

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photmath · 10 months

Text

Another Round? | Trent Alexander-Arnold

Pairing: Trent Alexander-Arnold x Female Reader

Summary: One conversation about your sexual desires leads you bent sideways with the last person you expected.

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: SUGGESTIVE CONTENT (18+), minors DNI, partying, mention of fwb content

Note: Kind of a bit rushed and ahhh, I may end up doing some edits later.

You weren’t supposed to be in this position: head resting on his bare chest while his arm skimmed your waist. It all happened too fast. You knew the saying, “one thing leads to another,” but you never expected to find yourself a victim to those words. You thought it was a fluke, that if you ever found yourself in that position you would resist it.

But here you were nonetheless. Having slept with the man no one—least of all, you—expected.

“I’m so glad you could make it!” Brie screamed, drawing you in for a hug. She was hosting a last-minute party as the summer holiday was slowly coming to a break. Her and your close friends were invited to come to her beach house for the weekend, although you weren’t entirely sure how long you were planning on staying.

It was the first time most of you were together after university had let out. Although many of you were close enough for shared vacations and had been on some together already, it was hard to get the entire friend group together, dates often overlapping with other events.

You gave Brie a smile while scoping out the set up. Brie’s family owned a private area of the beach, the sand and water only a few steps off of her backyard deck. She had already laid logs in a circle around the soon-to-be bonfire.

Hearing raucous, you turn towards the noise and see a car pulling in. Brie chuckles, “That must be Jude and Trent.”

You didn’t share many classes with either of them, but they were in the friend group, always loud and present. Jude was the newest addition, a teammate of Trent’s that he would drag to parties. Jude was much younger than the rest of you all, you often joked about his age while he would just roll his eyes.

Trent on the other hand, was much more private. He could be rowdy with the group sometimes but also very reserved to himself. The two of you were never super close like he was with others. Only friends with two entirely different lifestyles who made small talk. Trent lived for parties and football while you would be locked up in the studio working on a new canvas. The only parties you went to were the ones Brie and the others hosted.

“Hey!” Jude yells, gaining your attention. You expected to see Trent coming out of the driver’s side but it’s Jude.

You beam, “Long time no see, strangers.”

Trent wears dark, circled shades so you can’t make out if he’s looking at you when he looks in your direction. A small smile tugs to his lips as the gold necklace around his neck shines above his black button-up. Jude, on the other hand, wore bright red swimming trunks and a black tank that hugged him tight.

“Nice to see you again,” he pulls you close to him briefly, then turns around and tosses Trent the car keys.

Breaking the ice, you force out a chuckle in Trent’s direction as he gives you a one-armed hug, “You let him drive?”

“He needed the practice,” Trent shrugs, his arm sliding off of your shoulders once you remove yours from his waist. “He may not have a license, but I don’t have a car right now.”

You furrow your brows, suddenly confused, “Where’s yours?”

“I sold it.”

“But you promised you would let me drive it!” you exclaim. It was true, he had a Lamborghini that he was ‘borrowing’ from his uncle, but then later admitted it was his car. He had let a couple of his friends drive it and once it was supposed to be your turn, he said it was getting too late and that he should head home.

Trent only smiles, “You can drive the next car.”

“Is it a Lambo?”

“No,” he says, walking towards the house.

You let out a small sound of defeat, not at all that entirely upset, but you would’ve loved to be behind the wheel of that car. Following Trent silently, you get a whiff of his cologne. The smell intoxicates your senses and somehow also relieves the tension in your shoulders. Once you two make it further into the kitchen of the house, Jude comes by and slings his arm over you, handing you an alcoholic can.

“Oh I’m not drinking tonight,” you refuse, laughing as he takes a gulp. You raise a brow, “Aren’t you too young?”

He rolls his eyes, “You know I’m not.” He tucks the other can into his armpit, taking another gulp, “I’m planning on getting fucked up.”

“So you’re staying the night?”

He nods, “Mm-hmm, just tonight. I can’t stay tomorrow night—family stuff.”

“You’re taking Trent back then?”

He shrugs, “Don’t know. He wants to stay all three days, but I told him I can’t take him home so we’ll see.”

“Okay, try not to get wasted before the party starts,” you smirk, pulling away from him. Jude gives you a boyish grin as you walk away to help out Brie. Trent leans against the kitchen island, peeking through the tins of food. He catches you walking past, sending you a soft smile. His shades now abandoned, hanging against the buttons of his shirt.

---

As more and more people arrived—university and childhood friends alike—the looser you became. You were still sipping on a soda as you swayed to the music, you all moving closer to the beach. Not everyone was expected to stay the night, and the ones that were, seemed to be the most buzzed. Jude had to be hauled out of the beach multiple times and be kept under the supervision of you all.

You had lost track of Trent, in all honesty, not even looking for him but once you noticed he was missing, you were curious. He had never crossed your mind before, but now that he wasn’t in your line of sight, suddenly you were—what? Making sure he hadn’t left? Hadn’t taken off without telling you his goodbyes?

Usually, if he were to leave the room, you weren’t immediately thinking of him like you were now.

The beach was only lit from the bonfire and the lights that showcased through the windows of the house. The deck and pool were also illuminated as you walked towards the house. You wanted a new soda anyway.

As you mingled with a couple of friends on your way there, you spotted Trent on the edge of the deck near the ice chests. Of course. You make your way towards him, tossing the empty can into a bin and then giving him a timid smile once he turns your way.

“Have you seen Jude?” he asks, bending down to open the cooler for you. You pick another drink and then stand up, cracking it open.

“Last I saw him, he was puking by the fire.”

Trent shakes his head with disapproval, “That kid.”

“What? Are you on babysitting duty?”

He chuckles, “No. I have his keys anyway.”

You watch as he swings his soda in his hand, staring around at the crowd. He seemed a mixture of uninterested and very nonchalant as he looked all around you. You give him a meek smile although he doesn’t catch it, “Are you going to go by the bonfire?”

“No.”

You nod slowly, pointing towards it, “Well I’m going to go.”

“Have fun,” he voices aloof.

Asshole.

That was the kind of Trent you were more used to. Few words towards you. Either lively or withering, never in between. Feeling embarrassed for evening caring, you pull out your phone and text someone you swore to let go of months ago, but you needed an outlet for a few minutes.

A couple of hours pass as you find yourself in the pool with Brie and Jude, his eyes are brimmed red while he sings loudly in your ear. He keeps swaying side to side, making water slap against your cheek.

“Jude,” you scold.

“Sorry, love,” he slurs, giggling and then turning towards Brie to serenade her.

You laugh, scrolling through Brie’s phone to queue the next song. Your own phone is in your other hand, dangerously filled with water droplets. It buzzes and you squint to make out the blurry text:

Sorry, not making it tonight.

You groan, Jude suddenly turning towards you but you are quick to lock your phone. You hand Brie back her phone, “Think I’m going to go take a walk.”

“Okay, stay close to the house.”

“Will do,” you smile, wading through the water to get to the other end. You dry yourself with a towel and then slide your cover up back on before rolling your eyes as you reread the text message. Making your way to the boardwalk, you don’t notice Trent leaning against the wooden frame until he’s a step in front of you.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you grumble. You walk past him, slipping your phone into your pocket. The bottom of his shoes scrape against the wood as he follows you.

“Who texted?”

“No one.”

Trent chuckles, “You seem upset.”

“I’m not,” you grit your teeth. The boardwalk led up to the small lot reserved for cars, your own car being one of them. You hadn’t necessarily meant to walk towards them, but you were suddenly thankful that you had left your car keys in the pocket of your cover up.

“Are you leaving?”

“No.”

“But your car is—”

“I’m not leaving, Trent.” Trent’s skin glows dimly from the fire off in the distance although the both of you are too far to be seen from the house and beach. You lean against your car door and fold your arms, “I needed some space.”

The muscles of his arms grow as he folds them, shifting his weight to one leg. A smirk crawls onto his face as he swipes his bottom lip with his thumb, “Ah, I know what you were up to.”

You roll your eyes, still somewhat annoyed that he was still here pestering you—especially after you had left him alone when he was practically begging for silence earlier. “What was I up to then?”

“You were on your way to see someone.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were,” he repeats. “You’re disappointed because they said no.”

You want to roll your eyes but don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right because that’s exactly what you did. They were supposed to be at the party anyway, but didn’t feel like making the hour-long drive towards the beach at the last minute. As if the drive was so long anyway.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Since you seem to know the answer to your question, why ask then?” you ask in vexation. Trent was loving it, pleased to have pressed your buttons and guess correctly, though it was never a competition in his eyes.

The smirk he wears slowly fades as a moment of silence passes. He makes a noise with his lips before he speaks, “I don’t know…was wondering what they had that wasn’t already here.”

You shake your head, “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“What conversation?”

“You’re doing a lot right now,” you wave him off, grabbing a hold of the keys in your pocket and unlocking the car.

“Oh come on,” he deflates. “I’m kidding around, I’m sorry.” Opening the door, you hop in while he steps forward, “Wait—I really didn’t mean it, Y/N.”

You chew on your bottom lip as he keeps the door pried open, his hand wrapped on top of it. He’s staring down at you, waiting for your response.

“Get in the damn car then.”

“Are you serious?” he hesitates.

“If you ask me another question, Trent, I seriously think I’m going to lose it,” you warn. He only lets out a snort, shutting your door and walking around to the other end. His black shirt flaps open as he walks across the front, him sporting the same blank tank as Jude underneath.

He hops into the passenger seat, flashing you a nervous look as you turn on your car, “Don’t kill me now.”

“You willingly drove with Jude,” you retorted, letting out a smile to lose some of the tension you were having. You didn’t want the entire drive to be uncomfortable for the both of you. You start the car and then pull out, Trent looking around eagerly. “Do you want ice cream?”

He makes a face, “Not really…”

“Well that sucks,” you look at him and he turns towards you. His eyes are quick as they scan the features of your face, subtle but noticeable. “I was only asking nicely because I want ice cream.”

Trent lets out a strained laugh, “Uh—I guess I can do ice cream if you’re paying.”

“Woah, I never said that.”

“But you asked!”

“To take your order, not to pay.”

“It’ll only be a few.”

“Fine,” you concede, waving him off. He chuckles, settling in his seat as you come to the street. You don’t need directions to make it to the beachside stores that were ten minutes away from the house, having always picked up ice cream from the parlor late at night.

Parking the car, you turn it off and hop out, Trent immediately by your side as he looks around the stores. “They never sleep, hmm?”

You shake your head, “Not with the abundance of drunk tourists.”

“I’ve always driven past here but never stopped.”

“We can walk around if you’d like, I don’t mind.”

“Sure,” he smiles, pulling the door handle of the parlor and letting you walk in first. You beam at the worker, immediately ordering a two-scoop ice cream cone while Trent orders pralines and cream in a cone. He ends up paying for the cones, making a deal with you because you put up with him teasing you.

As the two of you walk down the boardwalk, you point at items you find interesting or what he finds ludicrous. He stops at a bench that looks on towards the moon and dark horizon of the water and sits down, “So just to calm down my curiosity, are you ever going to tell me what made you upset? I know it’s not my business but I am curious.”

You sit down next to him, muttering, “You were right.”

Trent’s eyebrows shoot up as he stares at you, his jaw gaping wide, “No way.”

“Yes,” you nod, finally biting onto the waffle cone.

“You were going to leave the party to hook up with someone?”

You nod again, cheeks burning slightly while you were acknowledging your escapades with Trent of all people. Neither of you had ever exchanged these kinds of intimate details despite knowing that the both of you were having sex with other people around the university. For Trent especially, it wasn’t uncommon for your friends to tease him about a fresh, new hickey on him at times.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmurs. “That I was right about that.”

“Don’t act surprised as if you wouldn’t do it yourself.”

“I would probably do it with someone at the party, not drive to them,” he exasperates. “I would never drive.”

“I know, that’s why the girl always has to drive and it’s annoying,” you lean up against the bench, folding one of your legs on top of the other. “Then you guys think we’re the desperate ones, but the truth is you all are lazy.”

He shakes his head, “No no, not entirely true. I’ve driven to them before, but I mean there were a bunch of people at the party, Y/N! Why couldn’t you have just had sex with someone there?”

You shrug, you hadn’t thought of it. You had a small fear of getting caught, but then you also wondered where exactly you would have sex with someone at. It didn’t help that you knew almost everyone at that party in some kind of way, so it wasn’t the first idea you thought of.

“How far was the drive?” he grills.

“Still with the questions, Trent,” you tease. “A little under an hour.”

“Oh my!” he exclaims. “You were going to drive all the way over there for what?”

“It’s just easier when you already know the person,” you defend. “Have you never had casual sex?”

“I have,” he turns your way, “I’m just shocked, I can’t lie.”

You have heard this story before. No one ever expected you to be having sex with men regularly, making it seem like you had so many partners when you didn’t.

You try to bite your tongue but fail, “And then that’s another thing. Everyone sees me as some innocent girl who has no idea what she’s doing when I do. It’s like they’re intrigued with corrupting me and trying to ‘break me,’ and then when they figure out that I do know what I’m doing, they get all butt hurt.”

Trent’s eyes grow wide, the cone almost slipping out of his grip as he listens to you.

“Men have the worst egos, getting so upset that they don’t last long, so I can never have my way, and always have to let them be in control,” you rant. “They’re so fragile! I mean it’s not a bad thing you can’t last for a couple of minutes if the other person knows what they’re doing—it’s the reaction you guys have afterward.”

Trent puts his hand up in the air to slow you down, “Wait, is this about the guy you were going to meet up with?”

You groan, “Him and others.”

“Then why were you going to go back if you know what to expect?” Although there’s a decent amount of space between the two of you, Trent still outstretches his arm on top of the bench as he angles his body towards yours. “Because you know him?”

“That, and I mean sometimes he lets me have his way.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

You give him an all-knowing look and he shrugs. You sputter out an awkward laugh, “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

Trent was all for it, enjoying the gossip from an outsider point of you. He chuckles, “I won’t tell anyone. Come on, now tell me what absolutely kills girls having sex with us.”

“You better not, Trent, this is only now slightly embarrassing.”

He raises his arms up, “You have my word.”

It was unwise to trust him so quickly but you did it anyway. You sigh, “He would never let me get on top, it’d always be him doing the work, and then the second I wanted to take control he wasn’t having it.”

Trent frowns, “He never wanted you to get on top?”

“A couple of times, but then he would be pulling me off.”

“Let me guess, he lasted only two seconds?”

You facepalm, groaning, “Yes!”

Trent lets out a loud laugh, “Oh god.”

“It’s happened to me before, almost as if they like the idea of me doing the work until it actually happens,” you complain. “Then other little pet peeves of course—when they come first and just leave you hanging there, but that’s a common one that girls complain about.”

Trent nods, his face scrunched up, “I’ve heard that before—not about me though.”

You roll your eyes, “Whatever, I’m sure she has faked it before.”

Trent blows out a whisk of air, shaking his head adamantly, “No, no, let’s finish talking about you before we start with me.”

You laugh. Trent had long gone finished his cone while listening to you, but you never really had the chance to eat yours while ranting. Trent notices the subtle frown beginning to form on your face, “I can buy you another after this, or when I tell you my stories.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hmm,” you debate, reconsidering as a kind smile forms on his face. Well, since he asked so nicely. “Let me think about it.”

“You want me to toss it for you?”

“Sure, thank you, Trent.” You hand him the melted mess of the cone wrapped inside the napkin. He had always been thoughtful, attentive to his friends and certain facial expressions that he was a master at reading. Especially when you all were out in public, he protected the group and made sure everyone made it home safely.

He comes back to the bench, sitting a little closer than before and turns towards you. “Go on,” he smirks.

“Sometimes when men talk too much mid-act,” you go on.

Trent snorts, “Not a fan?”

You shrug, “Sometimes. I just wish men could read the room better, that there’s a time and place for it and sometimes we aren’t feeling it. But nooo, they keep on doing their thing, disregarding the other entirely.”

Trent can’t help but to watch your face contort as you talk, enamored by the way you weren’t embarrassed to share this with him. “Maybe you have had bad partners. You haven’t found the right person. Do you want a relationship at all with them?”

“Not him,” you cringe, earning a laugh from Trent.

“Are you looking for a relationship?”

You shrug, “If it happens, it happens.”

“So, just sex?”

“Not with every guy I see.”

He scoffs, “Obviously, I’m not judging here.”

“I only want to try out different things, is that too hard to ask for?” you sigh. You wished you had some kind of shame sounding like a horny teenager but you were fed up. It had been months since you had more-than-decent sex, one in which you didn’t feel obliged to follow their lead. You didn’t mind when they took control, but you didn’t want the same thing over and over again. Now, you were comfortable admitting what you did and didn’t want.

Trent snickers, “I mean personally, I don’t mind when they take the lead. Yeah, I like doing my own thing but—” he shrugs “—it’s not the end of the world. Do I come faster when she’s on top? Sometimes, yes, but that just means another round and some more foreplay.”

You almost hated the way the little light in your brain suddenly piqued with interest when he first mentioned that he didn’t mind giving up the lead. You couldn’t see Trent that way. He wasn’t someone who you ever considered sleeping with, especially when the two of you had never bonded like the others. He wasn’t someone you hung out regularly with, and so the two of you suddenly being closer would raise some suspicions. And goodness, why were you thinking this deeply about him?

It was never going to happen.

You nod, trying to remember Trent’s words, “Foreplay. Always important.”

“And aftercare.”

You stifle a laugh, “That too.”

Trent takes a moment before his next response, letting the sound of the waves lapping over each other fill the silence. Trent lets out an airy sigh, “Do you still want your ice cream? I reckon it’s getting quite late.”

“No, thank you for the offer though,” you smile. He stands up, holding his hand out for you to take. You grab a hold of it, impressed with the warmth and then let it go as the two of you make it back to the car. It was a much lighter walk, perhaps because of the two of you sharing a few more-than-personal details between each other.

He bumps into your shoulder, whispering, “Wait, so does this mean you rarely gave this man head?”

You laugh, “I mean, unless we weren’t planning on having sex afterward, then yes. Once he came, he was done for the day.”

Trent gawks, holding in his laughter, “Oh man. And you still wanted to drive to him!”

“Shut up,” you push him away. “He was my only option.”

Trent sputters out a laugh, “I mean, I wouldn’t say only option.”

And you knew the look he gave you, it was almost universal. The suggestive eyes accompanied with a small smirk. The two of you didn’t exchange another word as you got to the car, but the feeling was mutual and thick. The profound silence didn’t help either. You avoided his gaze like a hawk the entire drive, hoping that the party would still be at its peak when you arrived.

But it only took one look as you turned off the car at the lot, the party still in full effect. It was a quick glance in his direction, but Trent was already looking at you through a hooded gaze. If you held no composure, you would have jumped on him in a second.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

“What?” he asks lowly, voice full of sultry. He takes off his seatbelt and does nothing else.

“I knew this was going to happen.”

Trent looks around in the car, his hand raising, “Nothing is happening.”

“I knew that as soon as I started talking about sex you would see it as an invitation. I’m not having sex with you.”

He shakes his head, “I never said that. I didn’t think of that either.”

“Then fix your face.”

“It’s fixed.”

You raise a brow while staring at him. The both of you were having a standoff, seeing who would fold first. You could lie and say you didn’t want this, but Trent’s cologne, his exposed chest, his hands—they were all drawing you in. They’d been drawing you in since the night started, only now were you finally realizing it.

Trent’s lips curl up, “I wasn’t trying to have sex with you. Get your head out of the gutter.”

“Oh shut up,” you retort.

“You talked about guys having bad egos,” he smiles, his teeth flashing in your direction. He was teasing now, enjoying the way you had suddenly gone quiet.

“I stand by it.”

His low laugh echoes throughout the car, and the sound of you unclicking your seatbelt is even louder. Trent’s gaze follows the seatbelt sliding back into its spot. He wasn’t going to make the first move, you knew that.

Groaning, you hide your smile with your hand, “Agh, you’re such an ass.”

His sneer only widens as he looks down at his own thighs. Your car was tall enough for you to hop on top of him hypothetically, but did you really want to have sex with him in the parking lot? Somehow, the idea of the two of you getting caught only intrigued you more.

“There’s more space in the back,” you suggest. “If—you know—something were to…”

Trent leans in slowly, his fingertips grazing across your jaw, stopping at your chin, “Ah, I thought you wanted to be in control, are you getting shy, love?”

Your face was the warmest it had been the entire night, not even when you were standing directly in front of the bonfire were you this hot. His delicate fingers press against your cheek and chin, teasing you the entire time.

You gulp, your breath hitching as his hand falls towards your neck, “Trent—”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Get in the backseat.” His fingers trail upward again as you feel his exhale land on your face.

“And?”

“I don’t know if I can go on top.”

He smirks, eyes snapping right back to yours, “Why is that?”

“I—”

“You got shy?”

“A little,” you roll your eyes. Trent only chuckles, caressing your cheek with his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he assures. “Do you want to do this or not?”

Glancing down at his lips, you nod, “Yes.”

“I’m all yours then.”

Trent waited until you initiated the kiss. He didn’t want to smash his lips onto yours until you at least made the slightest of movements. And that’s what it was: teeth clashed, mouths hungrily attacked the other, while your hands searched for any ounce of skin they could find. Trent’s touch was still a bit hesitant, but once he felt how much you pushed against him, no longer did he restrain himself.

He palmed your breast, eliciting a gasp as the other hand of his removed your cover up.

“Backseats?” he groaned, feeling the growing tightness of his shorts. He only wanted to pull you on top of him, and finally let you have your way with him like you craved.

“Mm-hmm,” you moan. You detached from him and immediately the both of you jumped out of the front seats and went into the back. Because of all the talking you had done previously, the windows were foggy. And as the night continued, it would get more humid and hot.

Trent met you in the middle, gripping onto your jaw to deeply kiss you. The car was too dark to make out his neck and below, so you had to trace against the ridges of his abs through his shirt in order to find his bulge. He groaned as you made contact, buckling his hips into your palms.

That was all you needed for you to change your mind. You peeled out of his grip while his head fell against the headrest as you squeezed him through his trunks.

His hands were lost in your hair as you tugged his shorts down, he expressed a loud moan once you drew him into your mouth. Even as you continued, he wasn’t quieting down, letting you do whatever you wanted. A small light from the fire landed on his cheek, and it made watching him more serene as he contorted with each suck and brush of your tongue.

“Fuck, I won’t last this round, but I will the next one,” he pants.

You chuckle, feeling his hands go stiff beside you and his hips jolt. His stomach deflates as he spills right into your mouth, watching you try to catch every speckle of him.

As more clothes were discarded throughout the night, he made sure to kiss you in every spot he could, taking his time until he got you to hold him in a whimpering mess. Going back and forth between gentle and rough, increasing his thrusts whenever he knew you were close. He let you ride him for the last round, you bubbling with eagerness once you finally had his thighs underneath yours. Trent’s lips were attached to the skin of your collarbone throughout, his palms kneaded and squeezed the flesh of your butt.

He kept his word and lasted for those two rounds, just now finally pulling out to come in between you two. The car was sticky, the windows dripping with condensation as he pulled you closer to him. Your panting chest rested against his bruised shoulders—love marks and crescent-shaped indents from your nails that nearly drew blood littered his body. Your chest was nearly the same mosaic as his.

Trent planted gentle kisses on your chest and neck, his hands soothing along your thighs and waist. He rested his head against the headrest breathing heavily, you sitting on top of him with a lousy smirk.

That had topped all of your previous sex sessions, Trent was so in tune with what caused a reaction out of you versus what didn’t. He didn’t waste time in trying to find one, only moving on to a different area to kiss, tease, or suck.

“That was really good,” Trent praises.

“Are you surprised?”

“I’m impressed.”

You laugh, kissing his cheek, “I guess you can say I’ve had some practice.”

“Why not practice on me from now on?” he asks.

You narrow your eyes, a smirk forming as your hands rest on the nape of his sweaty neck. Neither of you had dared to move, still needing to somehow clean the mess that ran down the both of you. “What do you mean?”

“We have sex together.”

“Exclusively?”

“Yes.”

Your cheeks flushed, “Are you being serious?”

“Yes. If you’d like.”

You gape, Trent sending a teasing smile as he stared back at your shock. You weren’t opposed, not when your legs were still numb and feeling the aftershocks of what had transpired. “Friends with benefits?”

He nods, holding out his pinky finger, “Friends with benefits.”

“Don’t fall in love with me,” you tease.

“Going to be hard when you have me in a mess like that,” he chuckles, puckering out his lips for a kiss. You give him a peck and then rub your hands against his shoulders. You moving your thighs make the both of you groan at the throbbing feeling.

“Round four?” you joke, but once you look up at him, his eyes already gleam with a darkened haze.

Jokes were on you.

---

Returning to the beach house wasn’t as difficult as you thought it would be, although you did lose your cover up in the process. It was sacrificed to wipe off the mess of you two since you didn’t have a spare towel in the car. Trent’s shirt was black, so you definitely didn’t want that to be stained.

Your legs felt like jello as you made your way to the upstairs, every muscle was sore. Trent was some meters behind, lagging behind and trying to blend in. Your room was the farthest out of everyone’s, per Brie’s request since you were her best friend.

Sneaking Trent inside to the room seemed to be the challenging part. Glancing down from the upstairs balcony, you could see Jude immediately attach to him, asking him where he had gone. Trent shrugs and makes up a lie of grabbing his bag from the car, handing Jude his bag as well.

Once Trent makes it to the bedroom, the two of you share a shower. There isn’t another round of sex, just the two of you giggling with some afterthought shock. His grip never fell from you as the two of you slept that night.

The most unlikely pair.

So when you are the one offering to take Trent back home, everyone looks your way.

“He’s out of your way though.”

“Are you sure?”

You shrug, “It’s fine, I don’t mind it. I know you guys want to get home and all, so yeah it’s okay.”

Perhaps you were trying to convince them a little too much, but they backed down soon after. Trent sent you an appreciative smile from the other end of the kitchen.

Brie wraps her arm around you, “Thank you for doing that.”

What commenced afterward still surprises you. Trent and you continued sneaking around throughout the summer. It was easy hiding it from your friends when they weren’t around, but it was difficult once your university classes started. Study sessions in the library were full of stolen glances, making excuses to leave early only for Trent to follow you afterward.

Anytime the two of you found yourselves sitting next to one another, his hands would be teasing your thigh. You did the same to stir a reaction from him, but he was better at being stoic. Stolen blowjobs, fingering, kissing, and quick sex sessions were common in between hang outs, but it was not only that.

Being with him switched from strictly sex and friendship to something much more than the two of you had yet to acknowledge. There were dates, days he had taken care of you because you felt sick, days you called him over because you wanted cuddles.

He often showed up to your apartment to ask about your day, wanting to spend time with you between his classes and training. You even showed more interest in going to football games that Brie had questioned you about because you seldomly did prior.

It was hard trying to keep the deal to not fall in love with him when he had made many advances. He was still very attentive to you and your concerns.

So when you finally told him about your feelings, you were nervous, expecting him to tease you about losing first but he was taken aback.

“I was getting worried,” he admitted, “I knew I had already fallen and I was waiting for you to let me down easy.” You were wearing his hoodie, a hoodie that you often slept in on the days he didn’t spend the night at your apartment. He was holding you in his lap, eyes full of admiration, “I think I fell in love with you the day at the boardwalk. I know we were only talking about sex, but something about hearing you talk to me without a care of judgment, it made me see you differently. Made me want to hold you and never let you go. You trusted me.”

You wiped the few tears that had fallen and he kissed your tear-stained cheeks when you told him you loved him. That night, making love to him felt so much more meaningful, more exposing than ever before. He had seen all the sides of you the past six months and never dared to run.

Despite officially now being in a relationship, the two of you still kept it lowkey without intending to do so. The two of you had been so used to sneaking glances and small smiles from far, and subtle head nods to signal the want of leaving, that it was difficult transitioning out of.

Still, one day it was going to come to the limelight, you just hadn’t expected it to be on your birthday.

“Oh my god!” Brie screeches. “You’re fucking Trent, aren’t you?”

You choke on the water you had previously chugged, coughing abruptly. Four of your other friends, plus Jude and Trent, stare at you and Brie in the kitchen. They’re only some strides away, lounging on the living room couches. Brie was not at all quiet.

“There’s no way,” one of them comments.

Your cheeks are burning as you resist the urge to look over at Trent to gauge his reaction. They all seemed to be stunned in silence. You wipe your mouth, “What?”

Brie clamps her hand over her mouth and pulls you from your wrist into your own bedroom. Once she shuts the door, she apologizes, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to expose the two of you in front of everyone. I couldn’t hold in my shock.”

“It’s okay,” you reason. It was going to come out anyway. “We weren’t trying to hide it.”

She raises her brows, “Not trying to? We never heard a peep, especially me.”

“We weren’t trying to hide it anymore,” you say sheepishly. “How did you find out?”

“I saw a text from you on his phone the other day when we were studying,” she explains. “I didn’t think much of it and didn’t mean to look, but then…I kind of started to notice the way the two of you would look at each other. It was clear something happened and erm, the both of you came to the table with a hickey when it wasn’t there before you both left one day.”

You snort, “I’m really bad at covering those, aren’t I?”

Brie lets out a nervous laugh, “But Trent? How can that be?”

You shrug, “Your summer party, it works wonders.”

“Aww,” she gushes. “He’s a great guy too. I’m glad the two of you finally got closer together. I knew that the two of you would have clicked!”

Brie musters out a laugh as the two of you hug and leave the room to meet the others. Jude and Trent’s figures fall through the door, having had their ears pressed up to the door to listen. You roll your eyes, sending Trent a smirk before standing to the balls of your feet and pulling him in for a kiss.

As the others gawk, you wave them off. Trent’s arms are firm around your waist, not daring to let go. He loved every second of this.

------

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