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bopbopstyles · 4 years

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BEHIND THE BAR

RATING: R/smut (sex, heavy alcohol use, lots of cursing, heavy banter)

WORD COUNT: 17.3k (she long and you may need to read on desktop)

CATEGORIES: bartender!y/n, fratboy!harry

a/n: the long awaited bartender!y/n fic has ARRIVED! thank you to my fabulous anons who dreamt up bartender!y/n and made me fall so in love with her and fratboy!harry’s dynamic that i had to write her. she is tattooed, sassy, and full of spunk and i ADORE her. if you need more of her and harry, check out the inspo tag which has all the discourse. concepts for these two are ALWAYS open. s/o to @harrystylescherry, @stellarboystyles, @harrysclementines, @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading and @bfharry for providing harry’s dad joke 😘

“Cheers, Birthday Princess,” you told him, and then you bumped your glass against his, before tipping it back. Harry slammed the glass down on the counter and shook his head as the alcohol coursed through his veins.

Then, he leaned forward on the bar, resting his elbows on the alcohol-covered surface. You tried to keep it clean, but there was no way to keep up with it all. “How about a birthday kiss, Madam Bartender?”

“In your dreams,” you answered, realizing what you had said only after the words left your mouth.

Harry smirked, a dimple poking out. “We’ve already talked about dreams, Y/N. You know you’re already in them, so no need to beg for it.”

Y/N is a bartender and Harry’s obsessed with her

pls reblog and share with your friends 💕

In hindsight, perhaps taking a job as a bartender at the campus bar as a freshman wasn’t your smartest idea. You had to spend most of your weekend nights behind the bar trying to hear orders from slurring frat boys ordering the cheapest beer on tap and got shit tips because apparently your classmates didn’t care about tipping their bartenders. But at the same time, it was a great way to always drink for free and make friends, both with the other bartenders and with students who frequented the bar, as well as the neighborhood regulars earlier in the evening.

The thing you loved most about it, though, was the power you held behind the bar. It was your space, space where you made the rules and could throw out any person who messed with you. Which, as a stunningly gorgeous 21-year-old girl serving alcohol at a popular bar, happened plenty. You and Mike, the bouncer who usually shared shifts with you, had a hand signal that you could give him whenever someone was causing problems, and he would happily come to the bar and throw out whatever obnoxious man was giving you trouble. You frequently considered that Mike actually enjoyed throwing people out of the bar.

It was a Saturday night, the busiest night of the week and nearing one AM. The bar was packed, bodies pushing past one another to get to the bar, girls drumming their fingers on the fake wood counter. Tendrils of your long black hair stuck to the back of your neck, the result of constantly being on the move from the moment the rush hit until the bar closed. A cropped black tank top stuck to your skin, the sliver of skin between the hem of the shirt and the top of your black skinny jeans not enough to keep your body cool. Your ponytail swung back and forth as you moved, winding around Matt, the other bartender tonight, with ease. The two of you usually shared shifts, both being students and having the same availability. Generally, he was a good guy, taking the drunk guys so you didn’t have to deal with them and always making sure people didn’t give you trouble. The one downside to Matt, though, was his frat brothers. They appeared every shift without fail, bringing with them chaos and an inordinate amount of drink orders. They loved to annoy you, asking you the contents of every fancy drink they could think of and asking about your love life.

Tonight, it seemed, was no different.

You noticed the minute they entered the bar, a collection of t-shirts, a couple of jerseys you despised, and a button down shirt or two, all of them talking and yelling at each other. “Matt, your fan club is here!” You called down the bar, and Matt laughed as he grabbed the vodka off the wall to make a drink for two girls that were staring at him with wide eyes.

You grabbed two shot glasses and the handle of tequila from where you’d left it below the bar. “Salt and limes?” You asked the girls who had ordered the shots. They were most definitely not twenty-one, but then again, serving underage college students was how the bar made any business. The girls nodded, and so after you had poured the shots, you grabbed the salt shaker and two cut limes, pressing the limes into the rim of the glasses and pushing all the items across the bar. One of the girls handed you her card and you heard the words “Keep it open!” over Taste by Tyga and Offset that was blaring in the bar. It was your playlist, one that you’d perfectly curated for the bar with input from the other bartenders, and you were pretty proud of it.

After swiping the girl’s card and adding it to the stack of open tabs, you whirled back around to take the next customer. The sight of his brown curly mop and gleaming green eyes made you sigh—it was Harry. He, frankly, was a bit obsessed with you, but he was Matt’s little so you let it slide. Also, Harry’s attention didn’t make your skin crawl, instead it made your belly clench and witty comebacks fall easily from your mouth. The two of you had settled into a consistently flirtatious banter and you didn’t mind it, frankly. Sometimes, it was the highlight of your night.

The first time you ever met Harry, you noticed him long before he finally spoke to you. He was sitting at a booth not too long after your shift started, so it wasn’t super busy yet. He had caught your eye because he wouldn’t stop staring at you and he had a weird bandana wrapped up in his hair. (Or was it even a bandana? Maybe a scarf? You couldn’t be sure.) It wasn’t the creepy kind of stare that made you call the bouncer over, but the kind that made you blush against your every attempt not to. When Matt came in, a bit late as usual, Harry beelined to the bar, sitting down in front of him.

“Y/N, this is Harry,” Matt had said, grabbing the bottle of Jack from the wall and pouring some in a glass, then adding Coke to it before pushing the glass towards Harry. “He’s my little.”

You leaned onto the bar, the surface still dry since it wasn’t packed yet. “I was waiting for you to say hi. Saw you staring for the past fifteen minutes.”

The blush that rose to Harry’s cheeks made you smile at him, and Matt chuckled. “Staring isn’t nice, H.”

“Wasn’t staring,” Harry mumbled. “Just watching you make drinks.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Have you never seen a bartender before?”

“No, fuck,” he said to himself and you internally grinned at making him a bit embarrassed. He was easy to mess with, especially now that you had confirmed that he had, in fact, been watching you. “You’re just good at it.”

You looked to Matt. “He thinks I make good drinks,” you informed your co-worker. “What do you think, Harry? Am I better than your big?”

Harry could tell he had dug himself into a hole, his eyes sweeping between you and Matt. “I—I don’t know—maybe?” Matt’s eyes widened and Harry stumbled over his words, trying to correct course. “No, no, Matt’s better. Matt is definitely better.”

You leaned forward a bit more, inching closer to Harry. “Thought you said I was good at it?”

You could feel his eyes drift to where your cleavage was exposed from the deep-v of your black t-shirt. “You are.”

“So which one of us is better?”

“You.”

Matt groaned and you moved away, a triumphant grin on your face. “Not fair,” Matt said. “Harry’s got a crush on you, of course he’d say you’re better!”

Harry choked on his drink and you raised your eyebrows at him. “A crush, huh?”

“Shit,” Matt said. “I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

You bumped your hip against his. “It’s ok, Matty boy. I figured that out when he wouldn’t stop staring at me.”

Harry blushed and you moved away, tending to the other customers at the bar.

That night had begun the back-and-forth between you and Harry, a playful dynamic of flirtation and jokes that usually left you triumphant and Harry blushing at the bar. He kept showing up early and Matt would tell you things like “Oh, he’s just coming by to drop off my charger” or “He just wants to chat.” All of them were excuses for Harry to be in the bar with just you, Matt, and a couple of customers, him having your relatively undivided attention. He’d tell you terrible jokes and ask you questions about your classes or family, most of which you ignored. You never asked him questions back, just let him talk and you listened, although you pretended like you didn’t, because you didn’t want to encourage him.

The truth was, though, you didn’t mind him. You kind of looked forward to those conversations. When he got really drunk he was a bit more annoying, repeating your name until you finally paid attention to him, only for him to say nothing except “You’re cute” or something along those lines. He entertained you, at least, and that was more than could be said for most of the patrons.

Tonight, it seemed, was no different than usual. “Y/N!” He said, shoving himself between two people who had managed to snag one of the green vinyl covered bar stools. His hair was messy, perhaps a bit sweaty, and he was swearing a black t-shirt, a silver chain tucked under his shirt. You could immediately tell he was decently drunk already, based on the glassy expression in his eyes and the grin on his face. “Want to hear a joke?”

You wiped off the bar with the towel over your shoulder before answering him. “Sure.”

“What did the therapist say when a naked man wrapped in cling film went into their office?”

“I don’t know,” you answered, resting your hands on the bar and looking at him dead on. “What did they say?”

Harry was grinning at you, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Clearly I can see your nuts.”

You groaned and Harry just guffawed. “Harry, that was horrible.”

“You just have no sense of humor.”

“Says the guy making jokes like that,” you shot back. “Now, what do you want?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet. “Five fireball shots.”

You had to take a second before replying because the thought of a fireball shot makes you want to vomit. The combination of the cinnamon flavor and the burn it sent down your throat was one you hated, but it seemed Harry enjoyed it. “Really, Harry? Fireball?”

“What? It’s good!”

You shook your head, but grabbed shot glasses, laying them out in a line on the bar. “You’re insane.” You turned, grabbed the bottle of Fireball, and then returned to him.

“Make it six,” he said, slashing you a smirk.

“If it’s for me I am not drinking it.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun,” you told him, cocking your hip. “And I have good taste in alcohol.”

“Y/N, please,” he begged, pouting slightly for you.

Sometimes he was such a child, you thought as you gave in, grabbing another shot glass. “Fine,” you told him. “But this is the only time.” He grinned at you, and you just poured the shots, drawing a line down the glasses with the alcohol.

He snagged one of the shot glasses and you took one at the end. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his shot, and you did the same, knocking the glasses together enough for a clink to ring out.

You tipped the shot back, letting the burn of the cinnamon whiskey fall down your throat. You swallowed, dropped the shot glass to the counter, and looked to Harry. He was grinning, his empty shot glass on the bar. “Satisfied?”

“Very.” Then he picked up the shots, holding them together in his two massive hands, his rings clinking against the glass. You watched him walk away, his shirt disappearing into the throng of people, and then your attention was caught by another patron, asking you for a Long Island iced tea that made you laugh once you had turned away from them.

The night passed with many empty bottles of vodka and gin, the drinks of choice for all the girls who came up to the bar, and you nearly ran out of Budweiser, since it was on tap and the cheapest beer. You were bopping your head along with your playlist, Piece Of Your Heart by MEDUZA ringing through the speakers. The electronic music was supposed to help keep your energy up, but it was three AM and you were beginning to tire, the whiskey and coke you made yourself doing little to keep you going.

People were starting to filter out of the bar, groups heading to get a late night snack or head home. You were thankful for it—if you could start cleaning before official close you would be happy, perhaps being able to get home sooner.

“Can I get another whiskey coke?” You turned and Harry was sitting in a barstool at the bar, right in front of you.

You nodded, grabbing a glass and the handle of whiskey. “Where’d all your friends go?”

“They left.” He drummed his fingers against the wood, the light of the bar catching on the silver of his rings. You were a bit fascinated by them, if you were being honest. Why he wore them, where they came from, what they meant. The same questions rang in your head in reference to the tattoos that littered his arms and peeked out from under his shirt.

“You didn’t go with?” You pushed his drink towards him and returned the jack to its spot on the wall.

He shook his head, taking a sip of the drink you made him. “I was going to wait for Matt.”

You raised your eyebrows and then nodded towards where Matt was leaning over the bar, talking to some girl whose drink had long since been emptied. “I think he’s already got someone waiting for him.”

Harry looked to where Matt was and then shrugged, before turning his gaze back to you. “Guess I’ll just hang out with you, then.”

“Oh really?” You took some empty glasses off the bar where people had left them and dropped them into the bucket under the bar to be taken back to get cleaned.

“You’re more interesting than him anyway.”

You laughed, grabbing an empty shot glass and putting it in the bucket. “And why is that?”

“You’re hot.” He didn’t even pause before he replied.

He licked across his bottom lip after he said it and you couldn’t help but watch the action. It wasn’t like you didn’t know Harry thought you were attractive—you did. It was just that he had never outright told you, or been quite this forward. Usually he was skating around the topic and now that he wasn’t you didn’t quite know what to say. So you said the first thing that popped into your head. “Have you been behind a bar?”

“Only at the house.”

“Your frat house does not count as a bar.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It is not a bar, Harry.”

“Fine. Then no, I haven’t.”

You took a step away from him and waved your hand at the space. “Would you like to?”

This time, it was him raising his eyebrows at you. “What am I going to be doing?”

“I’ll teach you to make drinks.”

“I know how to make drinks,” he scoffed.

“Jungle juice doesn’t count.”

He huffed and then pushed away from the bar, standing to his full height. “You’re being mean,” he stated, but walked to the end of the bar and came around the side anyways. “It feels so different from back here.”

You turned, one hand on the bar and the other on your hip. “What do you mean?”

“Dunno. Feel…powerful, I guess.”

You nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. “So, Mr. Bartender, what do you want to make first?”

Harry considered his options, looking around the bar and taking in the options in front of him. He looked a bit overwhelmed, if you were honest. You glanced around, checking on how busy it was, and you were thankful that it was pretty much empty, so no one would probably be bothering you and Harry. “I’ve always wanted to make an Old Fashioned.”

“Can do,” you answered, grabbing the proper glass from the shelf, and a bottle of your favorite bourbon, setting both on the counter in front of you. “Do you know what’s in one?” He shook his head, a slight blush on his cheeks, and you smiled to yourself. He could be so goddamned cute sometimes. “It’s whiskey, bitters, and a bit of sugar. Do you know how to muddle?” He shook his head again, and you nodded, grabbing the rest of the supplies you would need.

You spread it out in front of you, popping a sugar cube in the old fashioned glass. “So this is the bitters we’re going to use,” you informed him, passing him the bottle of Angostura bitters. “Put two dashes of that in the glass over the sugar.”

“What the fuck is a ‘dash’?”

“A bit,” you told him. “Just do it.”

He did as you asked, tapping bitters into the glass. “Is that enough?”

You nodded, and then grabbed the soda gun and pressed the button for water, adding a bit to the glass. Then, you passed him the muddler, which got very little use at this bar. In fact, you hadn’t made an Old Fashioned in ages—it wasn’t exactly the drink of choice for most college-aged people. “Now, you’re going to muddle this—like mix them together, crushing the sugar.”

“Why does mixology have the weirdest terms?” He said under his breath and you snorted. He did as you said, listening to your instructions, crushing the sugar and mixing it with the bitters in the glass, the sugar dissolving in the glass.

“Good. Now you add the ice.”

You pulled back the top of the cooler that held the ice, and Harry grinned as he picked up some with the scooper and filled the glass with it. “Always wanted to do that.”

“And now you have.” You shut the top of the cooler and passed him the bourbon and a jigger. “An ounce and a half of bourbon,” you informed him.

He reached over and took the bottle and jigger, and his close proximity made you inhale. You could smell cologne, a bit of sweat from the party he was at earlier, and a trace of smoke as he moved. The scent had your spine straightening, your mind just as muddled as the contents of the glass. How did he smell so good? He was a college boy. Who gave him the right to be so goddamned attractive and smell this delicious? His long hair, the length not quite reaching his shoulders but close, swung slightly in your face as he pulled away, the tips of his curls brushing against your cheek. He was so close that if he turned his head, your lips would meet.

You tried not to think about that.

But he lingered close to you as he poured the bourbon in the jigger, your sides nearly touching, just half a step away from one another. If the music hadn’t been playing, you probably would’ve been able to hear him breathe and he could’ve heard your breath hitch when his bicep flexed as he held the bourbon. Your eyes trailed over the tattoos on his arms, dancing over the ship and the rose at his elbow, all the way down to the anchor at his wrist.

“Now you’re the one watching me.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, where he was looking at you, smirking. “Pour the shot in, Harry.”

He looked back to the jigger he was holding, and tipped it into the glass, the amber liquid dropping through the glass. You handed him the stirrer and he twirled it in the glass, before setting it back down on the bar. The sound of his rings hitting the glass sounded in your ears as he grasped the drink, bringing it to his lips.

His eyes were on yours as he tipped it back slightly, letting the alcohol pass between his lips. You tried not to focus on his Adam’s apple bobbing as he sipped. When he lowered the glass, his tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip, and it made you tug your own into your mouth softly. Then you asked, “How is it?”

With his gaze trained on your mouth, he answered, “Delicious.”

“Y/N!” Your head bounced up to see Mike darting his head inside. “Time for close.”

You looked up at the clock on the wall and realized he was right—more time had passed than you realized. “Shit—yeah, sorry Mike. Matt,” you called down the bar to your co-worker who was very caught up in his flirtation. “Will you kick all of these people out for me?”

“Even me?” Harry asked and you roll your eyes at him.

“You can stay,” you told him and he gave you a smile, taking another sip of his drink. “As long as you help me clean up.”

While Matt kicked the remaining stragglers out, making sure the ones that are too drunk get in an Uber, you and Harry cleaned up. He helped you flip chairs on top of tables and pick up the glasses littered across surfaces, even in the bathroom. You filled the bin with the glasses and took them into the kitchen, filling the industrial dishwasher to the brim. He even took a rag and wiped down the tables, singing along to the Tame Impala you’d turned on and finishing off his Old Fashioned. You put the bitters away and the remnants of the drink he had made, and toss some lime rinds into the trash, wiping off the last bit of the bar.

“I’m going to head out,” Matt called to you from the door. He’s got his arm wrapped around the girl’s shoulders, a wide smile on both of their faces. “You good, H?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to walk Y/N home.”

This was news to you. “I drove,” you replied.

“Then can I snag a ride?” He asked, and you shrugged. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Also, the idea of making him walk didn’t sound like a good idea, even though the frat house wasn’t too far from the bar.

“Sure.” You grabbed your purse and leather jacket from where you’d stashed them under the bar, and pulled them on. “C’mon, let’s go.”

You waved goodbye to Mike, who was left to lock up, and walked around back to where your car was parked. It was a must have for you, not wanting to walk home at four in the morning after a long night of working. Plus, you never drank much while you worked—all you had had was that disgusting Fireball shot earlier in the night and a whiskey coke throughout the evening. Harry followed behind you, his hands in his pockets as he walked, the faint light from the street lamp illuminating the sidewalk leading to the parking lot.

“It’s dark,” he said when you turned into the lot.

You unlocked your car and turned to look at him. “It’s four AM. Of course it’s dark.”

He moved towards the car, pulling open the passenger side door. “No, I just mean that it’s dark for you to be walking to your car alone.”

“Oh.” You tossed your purse into the backseat and slid into the driver’s side, flipping on the ignition. “Matt or Mike walk me to my car most nights.”

His long legs ended up a bit cramped in the passenger seat of your car and it made the corner of your mouth turn up. “Good,” is all he said before pulling on the seatbelt and clicking it. You reversed out of the spot, your phone automatically connecting to the Bluetooth as you flipped on your turn signal. “That’s the wrong way.”

You turned and looked at him. “Don’t you live at the house?”

He shook his head though. “No, I’ve got an apartment with some brothers on the West side of campus. Take a left here.”

You absorb this information and switch the turn signal. “Why don’t you live there? I thought most people did.”

“I like the privacy, I guess. When you live with all your brothers, they tend to know every bit of your business.” He was looking out the front windshield and you did the same, eyes on the dark streets in front of you. Being this close to him in the car had your body temperature spiking a bit, although you wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone. Harry was just the boy who flirted with you every chance he got and was Matt’s little. He was just someone to entertain you on slow nights or when you were stressed. Right?

“Take a left at the light,” he said, breaking you out of your trance. You flicked on your turn signal and eased into the turn lane, swinging your car onto a side street. “I’m having a birthday party next weekend at the house if you want to come,” he suddenly said.

Your eyes bounced to Harry, who wasn’t looking at you, his palms resting on his knees. You could sense the tension in his body—was he nervous? Did you make him nervous? “Is it your 21st?”

He quirked a smile at that. “How’d you know?”

“Well, you’re a junior. I just assumed.” Matt also might’ve mentioned it once or twice, but you didn’t tell Harry that.

A blush crept across his cheeks. “I—uh—it’s on Saturday at nine. We’re hitting the bars after, but the thing at the house is just going to be brothers and drinks and some music. Pretty low-key, I think.”

“I’ve got work,” you told him. “But I’ll try and stop by before my shift. I’m not supposed to be there until ten.”

He nodded quickly and you tried not to think about the fact that Matt was never going to let you live this down. What were you even doing, saying yes to Harry? You weren’t even interested in him. He was just a boy to flirt with, someone who told you bad jokes and ordered Fireball shots. “It’s right up here,” he said, pointing to a house off to the right.

You slowed the car in front of a one-story bungalow, a couple of cars in the driveway and lawn chairs on the front lawn. “You live in a house?”

“Somehow it was actually cheaper,” he explained, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Plus, kind of nice not having people complaining about the noise.”

The area was definitely still on campus, but you didn’t know anyone who lived over here. “Are your neighbors all students too?”

He nodded. “Some other brothers have a place a couple houses down, there’s a house of Pi Phis over there. But yeah, it’s all students. On game days it’s a fucking mess.”

You put the car in park, and turned off the ignition. “I can imagine.” Harry didn’t make any moves to get out of the car, just sitting there staring at the dashboard of your old Toyota, his hands fidgeting on his thighs. “Harry?”

“Fuck,” he exhaled, catching his bottom lip in his teeth. “I...” Then he glanced over at you, and under the dim streetlamp you could see the expression in his eyes. It’s one you knew well. It’s the look he gave you when you wore your favorite lace bodysuit that was conservative enough to wear out, or when you gave him just as flirtatious of a comeback as the one he served you.

Then, all of a sudden he was moving towards you, his hand curving around the back of your neck and pulling you towards him. It was awkward, the seatbelt holding back your shoulder, but it didn’t stop you from leaning towards him, meeting him halfway. His lips tasted like bourbon and bitters, a trace of Fireball when you nibbled on his bottom lip that was just tucked between his teeth. He was sweet with an edge of fire, and when he tilted his chin slightly to change the angle, rotating his head just enough to kiss you deeper, you knew you were fucked.

For so long, you had been trying to keep him at a distance. Just let him exist as a flirtation, nothing more than that. You’d ignored the thoughts that blazed through your mind when you were drunk with your friends and saw him at a party, his lips on some girl, and you wondered what they would taste like on yours. Now that he was kissing you and you knew what they tasted like, there was no way you would be able to forget.

Especially the way his fingers threaded through your hair, his rings cool against your warm scalp. How he tugged on your lip with his teeth and you let out a soft whine, pulling him closer by the neck of his shirt. The fact that it was nearing four thirty in the morning and you were in your car making out, your seatbelt still on, didn’t seem to matter. The exhaustion that had been all-consuming earlier was gone, your body rushing with adrenaline from the feeling of his mouth tucked against yours, his hands on your skin and the way his lips searched for yours when you pulled away for air.

“I should go home,” you said, breathing heavily as you moved back into your seat.

Harry was looking at you intensely, his lips slick from your saliva, his cheeks flushed from kissing you. His hands still lingered on your neck and hip, and you weren’t ready for him to let go. However, you needed sleep, otherwise the rest of the day was not going to be pretty. You had a paper due on Tuesday you had to write and if that didn’t happen this afternoon after you slept you were fucked. “Yeah,” he finally answered, pulling away. “It’s late.” He shuffled in the seat, turning to push open the door. “Get home safe, okay?”

You nodded, and with one lingering look at you, Harry slid out of the car and shut the door behind him. Under the dim lights you watched him walk to his front door, pulling open the screen door and unlocking it. Once he was inside, you finally turned back on your car and put it in drive, peeling away from the curb without a glance back.

On Tuesday, you were knee-deep in edits for your paper when your phone screen lit up with a text. Despite the fact that you told yourself you would be ignoring any notifications that flashed across your screen, you were intrigued by this message because it was from a number you didn’t recognize. So you leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair you were sitting in (chosen to make sure you stayed awake) and grabbed your phone.

The sight of the message made you choke on air.

Hey, Y/N, this is Harry. Matt gave me your number, I hope that’s ok?

That was it. The whole message. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that? “Fuck,” you muttered to yourself, because now you couldn’t ignore it. You had your read receipts on, something you turned on one time when you were breaking up with an ex and wanted him to know that you were ignoring his messages on purpose, and never turned off. So now Harry knew you had read his message.

So you typed back, hey! what’s up?

The typing dots appeared and you had the sudden urge to throw your phone halfway across the room as you waited for his reply. But you didn’t, because Harry’s text popped through before you could take any actions to make it seem as though you weren’t staring at your phone waiting for his text.

Just wanted to say thanks for the ride home on Saturday. Then, in a separate message, Also, the invite for my birthday party still stands, but no pressure.

You nibbled on the edge of your thumb nail, your other thumb poised over the screen as you considered what to reply. You decided on coy. i'll see how it goes :) you wrote out, and then thumbs up reacted to his thank you text.

Looking forward to it is what he replied with, and that felt like the end of the conversation, so you locked your phone, turned it on Do Not Disturb, and tried to re-focus on the paper open on your computer screen.

It took everything in your body not to check your phone a couple more times, just to see if he’d kept the conversation going. You had no idea what to say to him—he was the one who texted you in the first place. It seemed like his job to keep the conversation going, not yours. So you let the conversation linger, not even saving his number in your phone.

When Saturday rolled around, you considered for a long time whether or not you were going to go to Harry’s birthday party. Matt had texted you too, combining the text with a notice that he wasn’t working that night and Lucy was covering his shift, which meant you were going to be doing all the heavy lifting. Lucy was a freshman, new to bartending, and most definitely was hired so she would be ready to replace you when you graduated next year. The fact that Matt texted you told you that Harry must really want you to come, even if it was just for a bit.

So you turned on your getting ready playlist and grabbed your favorite bodysuit—it was long sleeved and high necked with a mesh leopard print, meaning that when you wore your black bralette underneath it, it would show through. It was enough to get eyes on you (you could neither confirm nor deny if you specifically meant Harry’s eyes), but not too much that you felt completely exposed, thanks to the long sleeves. You grabbed your black jeans, even though in an ideal world you would’ve chosen your leather skirt instead, but the last thing you wanted was alcohol stuck to your legs all night or some asshole seeing up your skirt when you bent over for ice.

You kept your makeup simple, but in line with the outfit—a light smokey eye, eyeliner, and a tinge of a deep red to your lips. Rhea, your roommate, let you use her dry shampoo, so you sprayed it at your roots, giving your day-old hair some revival. With a pair of gold hoops and a pep talk, you were ready, your phone and wallet slipped into the pocket of your trusty leather jacket.

You had never been to a frat house when you couldn’t hear the music pounding from outside. But as you walked up the grassy front lawn to the KDR house, it seemed quiet—all the lights on, even. You rapped on the door twice, running your hand through your hair as you waited for the door to open. When it did, a guy was standing there who you were pretty sure you recognized from the bar—he was close with Matt and Harry, you thought.

“You’re the bartender, Y/N!” He said, pointing at you with his index finger, lifting it from the red solo cup he held in his hand.

“I am,” you replied. “Harry and Matt invited me.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, and you tried not to read into that too much. “Come on in, I’m Caleb, Harry’s little.” And that, you realized, was why he was always hanging out with Harry and Matt. You followed Caleb down the hall, which had composite photos on the wall going back to the 70s and 80s. It was weird being inside the house with all the lights on, because you could actually see everything for the first time. You saw what was usually a coat room and discovered it was actually a study of sorts, bookshelves with textbooks and random course books lining the shelves and a couple of old leather chairs in the corner that you usually stashed your jacket on.

He turned into the long living room and kitchen, which was where most of the parties happened in their house, and you were met by a pong table and a collection of boys, many of whom you recognized from the bar. Your eyes scanned over the group, and you found that you were, unsurprisingly, one of four girls in attendance. The others were next to brothers, an arm slung around their shoulders. You found Matt and Harry easily in the crowd, Matt saying something to Harry with his palm pressed to Harry’s chest, his other hand gripping a can of Natty Light. How he could drink such watered down piss while being a bartender you didn’t know and you quickly decided you would be ragging on him for it the next time you worked together.

“Bartender girl!” One of the guys called out, and that made Harry and Matt’s heads immediately swivel towards where you were standing. The discomfort that had been lingering was suddenly there in full force. You hated being the center of attention, something most people never expected since you thrived at the bar. The key part of being a bartender, though, was you had the bar between you and the patrons. It was a safety net, something that gave you power and confidence. Without it, though, you felt naked in a situation like this.

The sight of a tiara on Harry’s head, though, immediately made you feel more at ease. The words Birthday Princess were printed on the tiara in bright pink writing, and the sight of it resting in Harry’s hair brought a smile to your face.

Matt immediately broke into a grin and widened his arms, which you rolled your eyes at. “Y/N! You made it!”

You walked over to him, having nothing else to do, but didn’t give him a hug. “Barely. I can’t stay long—I’m supposed to be there at 10 so Lucy doesn’t kill someone with her heavy handed pouring.”

He chuckled, and then gave Harry a clap on the back. “I’m going to go check on the beer. Have fun, H.”

It left you and Harry alone—or as alone as you could be in a crowded room. Your eyes roamed his body, the black silky shirt drawing in your eyes, white stitching that spelled out his last name on the chest, the way it was unbuttoned low. It was the first time you’d been able to see his tattoos—the edges of what seemed to be wings on his collarbones that you wanted to see the rest of, and a silver chain with a cross hanging on it lying on his chest. You could feel his eyes on you too, and steeled yourself under his gaze, trying to remain confident as you stood in front of him.

“Nice tiara,” you said, breaking the silence.

He blushed, reflexively reaching up to touch it. “I was hoping you didn’t notice.”

“It’s literally a bright pink tiara on your head, Harry, how could I not notice?”

“Matt and Caleb made me wear it. My other little, Tyler, bought it and insisted.”

“Can’t let the family down?” You said, the corners of his lips lifting.

“Guess not.” A silence fell between you again and you busied yourself by investigating the space you were in. The worn couches on the wall, a massive dining table with alcohol covering it, dishes in the sink and a stack of red solo cups on the counter. It seemed like exactly what you would expect from a fraternity house, even if there wasn’t a party going on. Finally, he cleared his throat and thickly asked you, “Want to play pong?”

You blinked, not expecting the question, but shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’ll drink any you don’t want to,” he said.

“Why? Think I’m not any good?”

“No—I just—you drove, right?” He was stumbling over his words and it made you give him a small smile. You decided to be a bit of a tease, and brushed your fingers over the stitches on his shirt, just to mess with his brain a bit.

“I did,” you answered. “But I don’t think I’ll be drinking too much.”

His eyes widened a tad and you watched as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Let’s see your skills, then,” he finally said and you followed him over the table, where they were setting up for another round. He set down his cup on the side of the table and you fiddled with the cups, making the lines straighter. “Ready?” He asked you, his body shifting closer to yours. There was just a hair of space between your hips and you sucked in a breath before nodding.

You hadn’t thought this through, you quickly realized, because pong meant that there was barely any space between the two of you, and he kept brushing against your back and arm as he moved around. When he passed you the ball his fingers touched yours and your eyes would flit to his, only to find his green irises looking right back. The scent of his cologne and the alcohol on his breath wrapped around you when he laughed close to your ear, the contact of his skin on yours when he gave you a high five and lightly gripped your hand for just a beat too long sent shivers down your spine. When he picked up a cup to drink from it, you watched as his lips—the ones you had kissed exactly a week ago—wrapped around the rim and the beer slid down his throat. You were actively trying not to think about kissing down the column of his neck as you looked back to your cups on the other side of the table.

“Can I get gentlemen’s?” You asked and next to you, Harry nodded, agreeing with your decision to re-rack. The guys playing you quickly reshuffled your cups and you dropped the beer-covered ball into a cup of water to your right. When you picked up the ball and rolled it between your fingers, you decided to tease Harry a bit more, because it was your favorite pastime. You offered the ball to him, clasped between your thumb and forefinger, and looked him dead in the eyes. “Blow on it for good luck?”

His eyes widened, but then a cocky grin drifted across his cheeks. He leaned in and blew softly on the white pong ball, his pupils dark and focused on yours. Then, at a volume only you could hear, he whispered, “Sure you don’t want me to blow something else?”

Rather than give him the satisfaction of knowing he had your pulse stuttering, you licked your lips and replied with, “Let’s see if you’re so cocky when I’m on my knees.” You turned back to the cups and with ease, you threw the ball as it sank into a cup. You peeked a glance up at Harry, only to find him already staring at you, blinking in rapid succession. “Your turn, Styles.” You grabbed the other ball and pressed it to the stitching on his chest and his lips quirked up, snatching the ball from your grasp.

“Kiss for good luck?” Your eyebrows lifted at his words and he was smiling at you, a cocky gaze fixed on you.

“In your dreams,” you answered with an eye roll.

“Oh, baby, you’re already in them,” he whispered as he tossed the ball. It hit the rim of your one remaining cup before falling in perfectly.

His words rang loudly in your ears as Harry raised his arms above his head in success, ignoring the words he just had said to you. You, however, couldn’t say the same. They were running through your head on a loop. He dreamt about you? You wanted to know more, wanted to know every bit of his dreams, what they looked like and what you did in them.

At the sound of your name you blinked, pushing yourself out of your daydreams. “Yeah?”

It was Harry, his palm resting on your lower back and burning the skin with his touch. “It’s almost ten.”

“Fuck,” you breathed out, pulling your phone from your jacket. “I—shit I have to go. Sorry.”

He shook his head. “S’fine. I’ll walk you to the door.”

You waved goodbye to your opponents and some of the other boys you had been introduced to. Harry’s hand left your body as you both walked, and you couldn’t help but be disappointed. “Happy Birthday, by the way,” you said as you turned into the hallway, the chatter of the boys over the music fading a bit.

Harry dug his hands into his pockets and smiled at you. “Thank you. And thanks for coming. It—it was nice, having you here.”

The softness in his tone was in direct conflict with the banter at the pong table, but you didn’t mind. You kind of liked that the two of you had this duality, the ability to go each direction. “I had fun.” You pulled your car keys out of your pocket and turned the knob on the door. “I’ll have a birthday Fireball shot waiting with your name on it, Birthday Princess.”

That made his smile turn into a grin, his dimples popping out as you stepped across the threshold and onto the front porch. “Looking forward to it, love.”

As you walked away, you tried not to let his term of endearment fill your every thought, but it was hard, especially when you looked back and he was standing in the doorway, watching you walk to your car. You exhaled and opened the driver’s side door, realizing that you had dug yourself into quite the mess with this boy.

You had been watching the door out of the corner of your eye all night, waiting for Harry and all of his friends to arrive. Lucy had noticed and pestered you about it, but you hadn’t given in. You didn’t feel like the entire bar staff knowing your personal business—Matt was plenty. You busied yourself by serving patrons, making an absurd number of vodka tonics (which you despised, but you had found freshman girls preferred them to gin, for some reason) and opening bottle after bottle of beer.

You were humming along to Broken Clocks by SZA when the door opened and your name was called over the bar, Matt’s voice booming in the space. “Y/N, I need a shot for the birthday boy!” Harry was standing next to him, Matt’s arm thrown over his shoulder, a grin on his face.

You turned and quickly queued In Da Club by 50 Cent, before grabbing the bottle of Fireball off the shelf. When you turned back to the bar, Harry was standing in front of you, the Birthday Princess tiara unfortunately absent. “Where’s your crown, Birthday Princess?” You asked, pouring the dark liquid into a shot glass for him.

“It’s a tiara, Y/N,” he corrected, snatching the shot. “And Caleb accidentally broke it.” You could tell by the twinkle in his eyes and the color in his cheeks that he was more than a few drinks in, no doubt doing shots with the rest of the party before hitting the bars.

“Good to know,” you answered, and just because he was so goddamned cute, you grabbed another shot glass and poured yourself a shot of Fireball.

“Takin’ a shot with me?”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Harry was about to say something when the music changed and he let out a cheer, Matt and Caleb and another boy, who you assumed was Tyler, pounded on the bar on either side of him. Then, they began to sing and you could help but guffaw.

“Go, go, go, go go, go, go, shawty/It's your birthday/We gon' party like it's yo birthday/We gon' sip Bacardi like it's your birthday/And you know we don't give a fuck/It's not your birthday!” They sang, and you couldn’t help but join in at the end.

“Shots, shots, shots!” Matt cheered, and Harry lifted his shot glass, raising his eyebrow at you.

“In your dreams,” you answered, realizing what you had said only after the words left your mouth.

Harry smirked, a dimple poking out. “We’ve already talked about dreams, Y/N. You know you’re already in them, so no need to beg for it.”

You rolled your eyes at him and pushed lightly on his cheek, a pout settling onto his lips. “Shut up, Styles.”

“Meanie,” he said, moving back to rest normally against the bar. “You have to be nice to the birthday boy, didn’t you hear?”

“Not if he’s a prick,” you informed him, resting your hands on the lip of the bar and locking your elbows, leaning slightly forward. “Now, do you guys want anything else, or are you just going to annoy me all night?”

“Four whiskey cokes,” Matt told you. “And make ‘em strong.”

Throughout the night, their group achieved higher and higher levels of drunkenness. They started singing a Cheetah Girls song in their corner booth, much to your enjoyment, and Matt got on the table, something Mike only allowed because he was an employee, and made the entire bar sing Harry Birthday to Harry. When Mamma Mia came on, Tyler—who you were increasingly discovering was pure chaos in a body, perhaps even more chaotic than Harry and Matt combined—tried to start a conga line through the bar. Not only was he stopped by Mike, but also by the sheer number of people packed into the space.

Meanwhile, you were left behind the bar, fielding drink requests and racking up students’ credit cards with drinks they probably would forget ordering in the morning. You even had one Beer Baptism, an exciting element of the night, when some hockey player informed you he has drank every beer on tap, meaning he had achieved his Beer Baptism status. Harry and Matt lost their shit in the corner when you announced it and rang the bell over the bar, before grabbing two full pints of the hockey player’s requested beer of choice—Budweiser, for some fucking reason—and poured it over his head.

After three, the bar had started to empty out, but the four musketeers in the corner were still going strong. Harry kept coming up to you and asking for a shot of this or such and such drink, and even requested to make an Old Fashioned behind the bar again. You told him he was too drunk to make it right, but next time he could. Every time he came up he offered some sexual innuendo or bad joke, a lingering touch on your hand when you passed him his drink, or a wink that left u scowling at him. He even unbuttoned his shirt a few more buttons so by the time it was just him and his lineage in the corner, it was barely even on him. The whole idea of “No shoes, no shirt, no service” was quickly becoming a possible line you could use, especially when he kicked his feet up on the table and Caleb was trying to grab at his boots and pull them off, much to your amusement.

At 3:45, there were no patrons left except for the booth full of boys, so you had Lucy start cleaning up while you grabbed a beer—your first drink of the night other than the shot you did with Harry—and walked over to the boys. Harry was on the end, since he kept on coming and going from the booth, his knees spread wide and one arm slung over the back of the seat. At the sight of you approaching, he straightened up and set his drink down on the table.

“Hey,” he said, drawing out the Y as you slid in next to him, his arm falling easily around your shoulders.

“Hello,” you answered, nudging his knee with yours. “You’re man spreading all over my booth, Styles.”

Tyler snorted and Harry shifted, pulling his knees in closer together. “Didn’t know it was your booth.”

“I work here, you know.”

“I noticed,” he answered, tongue running over his lip as he looked at you. “I like this top you’ve got on.”

You sipped on your beer before replying, “It’s a bodysuit, actually.”

“So I’ve got a genuine question,” Matt said, leaning in towards you from across the table. “How do you pee with that on?”

“It’s got snaps on the crotch.” For some reason Tyler and Caleb blush at the word crotch and it makes you smile internally. “Can be a bitch to take on and off, though.”

“Huh.” Matt leaned his cheek on his palm. “I never fully understood the appeal.”

“Well,” you said, placing your beer on the table. “They tuck into pants and skirts so there’s smooth lines. But also it kind of feels like you’re wearing lingerie.”

That had all the boys blushing, including Harry, who said, “So that’s like lingerie to you?”

You glanced down at the lace long-sleeved bodysuit you wore and shrugged. “Guess so.”

“I always thought lingerie involved less material, not full on sleeves.”

You mulled this over, and decided to push his buttons a bit more. “So is a babydoll not considered lingerie to you?”

His eyebrows scrunched up and if you were being honest, the expression was positively adorable. You wondered if it was the face he gave when he couldn’t figure out a math problem or was looking at IKEA instructions. “The fuck’s a babydoll?”

“Other than a pet name?” You threw back and Harry quirked a smile. “It’s like a…sexy nightgown, I guess you could say.”

“Sexy nightgown.” Harry stated, mulling over the thought in his head, and you watched as he brushed a hand through his hair, considering the concept. “And that would have more material than what you’re wearing right now?”

You shrugged and took another sip of your beer. “Arguably.”

“Then yeah, I guess that’s still considered lingerie. A sexy nightgown, huh?” He blew out a breath of air and looked to the boys across the booth from you. “Damn, the girls I’ve been seeing have been holding out on me.”

The boys laughed, but you wanted Harry’s attention back on you. Maybe it was the close proximity of his body or the smell of his cologne that overwhelmed your senses, or the way you could see the butterfly tattoo on his abdomen and the low rise of his incredibly tight skinny jeans, but you wanted him. Badly.

So you reached down and placed a hand on his thigh, high enough to make his breath catch but not too high where you were actually touching him. Just close enough to make him consider the prospect. “You’ve been picking the wrong girls, then,” you said, the words low in your chest and Harry’s eyes were on you in an instant. Immediately there was movement on the other side of the booth, Tyler, Caleb and Matt sliding out one by one. “Leaving, boys?”

Matt nodded. “H?”

Harry’s eyes hadn’t left your face and the weight of his gaze had your heart pumping a mile a minute. “I think I’m going to stay.”

His fingers moved from the booth seat next to him to cover your hand that rested on his thigh, slowly inching it up his pant leg. “I’ll take him home,” you said, glancing back to Matt. “I’ll let you know when he’s home, okay?”

Matt gave Harry another look, and then nodded, obviously trusting you to take care of his friend. “Let me know if you need anything.” With that, he turned away, waving to Lucy and giving Mike a slap on the back on his way out.

Your attention turned back to Harry, who had somehow slid closer to you on the seat. “What was all that talk about lingerie, hmm?” He asked, the hand that rested next to your shoulder moving to rub the top of your arm, heat surging through your veins at his touch. “You always chew me out for sayin’ shit to you, and then you go and say that. In front of my friends, no less.”

You drummed your fingers on his inner thigh and caught the way he swallowed thickly at the feeling. “I wanted to see what you’d say, I guess.”

“And?”

“I now know you’ve never seen a babydoll. Or nearly enough lingerie.”

He sucked in a breath and then leaned his head down, his lips brushing against your earlobe. “Is that your way of asking me if I’d like to see your collection?”

Your heartbeat was thudding in your ears as he grazed your hair with his nose, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. He had your insides moving in circles like they were on a merry-go-round, consumed in nothing but him. Slowly, you lifted your leg closest to his so it hooked over his knee, tugging yourself closer to him. “Perhaps.”

Under the low lights of the bar, the green of his eyes twinkled at you, your coyness making him grab at your knee, kneading his thumb into your skin over your jeans. “You told Matt you’d take me home.”

“I did.”

“What’s the likelihood we could change the destination on that ride home?”

Your hand moved from his thigh to his torso, skittering over his shirt and tucking against his exposed skin, his butterfly tattoo flexing under your touch. “I could be convinced. What did you have in mind?”

“Your place,” he said, hand squeezing your knee tightly when you scratched his skin softly. “Fuck, Y/N.”

“You’re drunk,” you told him simply.

With a combination of tenderness and need that had you desperate for him, he nudged your temple with his nose and said, “I won’t be in the morning.”

“Is that right?” The feeling of his breath in your ear made you grab at his side, pulling at his skin with your hand, wanting just to feel him in some way. You were sober and yet he had you feeling drunk, drunk on need and desire. “Then come on, Birthday Princess.”

The wood of your front door slammed against your back the second you shut the door behind you, Harry’s body pinning you to the door. His hands tugged on your hips and your hands were in his hair and the sounds falling from your mouth were positively sinful. The way he pulled on your bottom lip and sucked on it, making you press up into his body, hands tugging at his shirt, how his hands fell to your ass and squeezed, you squeaking into his mouth. How he lifted one of your legs and hooked it around his hips, allowing your centers to meet, and he shakily exhaled. It was consuming, kissing Harry, trying to keep track of what he was doing and then finally giving up and just losing yourself in him, in the way he touched you and made your entire body erupt in flames.

“Jump,” he said, pulling at your other thigh and you did so immediately, not even wasting a beat before hooking your ankles around his hips and letting him grind into you.

You let out a wanton moan at the feeling of the friction from your jeans meeting and rubbing into you, and from the way his breath caught, you knew he was just as affected as you were. His necklace swung on its chain as he pulled away and sucked a line of kisses down your neck, just as you had thought about doing to him earlier. When he prodded at your pulse point with his teeth and then licked over the spot you tugged on his hair, his name a broken whimper on your lips.

Hands met skin, both of you needing more and more. You pushed at his shirt, the predominantly unbuttoned garment falling easily from his shoulders and pooling at his elbows. The fresh skin served as an opportunity, and you took it, bending your head and licking across his collarbones, his head tipping back at the feeling. You sucked a mark onto the protruding bone, right over the wing of one of his swallows, and blew on it when you were done, Harry hissing above you.

From the way his fingers were digging into your jeans and you were panting in his hold, you knew that if you didn’t slow things down they were going to get out of hand—and quickly. So you lightly pushed at his shoulders, his gaze bouncing up to your eyes. “We should stop,” you mumbled, sucking in air finally. “Just—just sleep for now. Yeah?”

“‘m feeling more sober now,” he said, diving back into your neck, but you pulled on his hair, hauling him away.

“I had to literally help you walk to my car.”

He pouted at you. “That was a weak moment.”

But you shook your head at him, having none of it. “I want you at full capacity,” you told him, and his jaw dropped slightly, just enough to part his lips and you to press a finger into the space. His teeth tugged on your nail and finger pad, eyes on yours. “Want you fully sober so I can see what I’ve been waiting for.” Then you dropped your finger from his lips and ran it along his jawline, watching his eyes try to take in every one of your motions. “Plus, I want you to be able to remember my lingerie collection when I model it for you.”

When Harry groaned, it was deep and unrestrained, a demand from the most feral part of him. His head dropped to your chest and you pushed through his locks, his panting breath on your skin through your bodysuit. “I’m not gonna be able to sleep with that image running through my head.”

You rested your hands on his shoulders and pressed down on them so you could unhook your ankles and drop to the floor. “I think you’ll manage. Now, c’mon, let’s get ready for bed.”

His fingers threaded through yours as you pulled him through your apartment, thankful Rhea was spending the night at her boyfriend’s so she wouldn’t be awoken from the giggles that left your mouth when Harry tripped over your shoes and the corner of your bookcase in the living room. You led him to your bedroom and left the door open, walking over to your dresser, kicking off your booties on your way. “Are you going to take this off?” His fingers graced over the top of your shoulder and you inhaled sharply.

“Yes.” You unhooked your hoop earrings and dropped them into your jewelry box. “Is that a problem?”

“Slightly,” he answered, fingers trailing down your arm. “I was hoping to do that myself.”

You turned around so he was facing you, eyes blown out in desire and cheeks flushed from the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed that night. “Then do it.”

His tongue darted out quickly, licking the center of his lips, and then he smiled at you, a boyish look of delight. “Is this my birthday gift?” Fingers brushed the top of your jeans and you nodded. “Goddamn, aren’t I lucky.” He popped the button and drew your zipper down, eyes fluttering to yours to make sure you were okay as he moved his hands to your hips, pushing the material down. “Holy fuck,” he suddenly breathed out and you glanced down.

The tattoo on your left hip had caught his attention, his palm resting just above where it started, his eyes trained on the ink on your skin. “What? You’ve got plenty of them.”

A chuckle left his mouth, and then he just shook his head. “You keep on surprising me.” His fingers crept down your skin, brushing against the chrysanthemums that covered from where your bodysuit sat on the rise of your hips to a bit down your thigh. “Does it mean anything?”

You nodded slowly. “It was my grandmother’s favorite flower.”

He must have noticed your word choice, because he quietly said, “I’m sorry,” before bending down and kissing over your tattoo. You inhaled sharply and watched as he tugged your jeans the rest of the way down your legs. Once you’d stepped out of them, he rose back to full height. “Can I take this thing off?” He asked, pulling softly on the hem of your bodysuit.

“Yes.”

“Snaps, hmm?” He ducked his head and you widened your legs enough for him to be able to tuck his hand between your legs. The pads of his fingers brushed over your clit and you couldn’t help the whimper that felt from your lips, the sound of it making Harry smile. “I can feel you.” He pressed lightly to your center through the two layers of material and you gripped the dresser you were leaning against.

You hadn’t been this wet, this in need of someone in such an all consuming way, in ages. Most people would have probably been embarrassed, but you just nodded, affirming his statement. Yes, you were wet, and yes it was all for him.

In a flourish, he gripped your bodysuit where the snaps laid and pulled, the sound of the fastenings coming undone cascading through your silent room. “Convenient,” he muttered to himself. Then, his hands pushed the mesh fabric up, revealing your black lace thong and the stretch of your bare stomach. “You know,” he said, squeezing at the curve of your torso, “I quite liked this thing. All that mesh. Could see your bra all night and it drove me fucking crazy just having to watch and not be able to touch you.”

When he pushed it above your breasts, revealing your lacy bralette, you lifted your arms and let him pull it over your head, the fabric falling to the ground. “Well, now you can,” you informed him.

The gaze he fixed you made your skin tingle. Without another beat, his hands were on your breasts, fingers brushing across your skin and then dipping into the material. With your breasts exposed, he whispered your name, forgotten on his tongue when he leaned in and fastened his lips to your nipple, the skin hardening immediately from the wetness on his tongue.

Curses left your mouth in a string, hands tugging on his hair as he prodded at your skin. He didn’t linger there though, seeming to be too focused on the greater task, because he lifted his head from your chest after a minute or so. And then his hands were at your back, unhooking your bralette and pulling it from your body, revealing your nearly fully naked body to him. His thumbs brushed over the solar system tattooed on your ribcage and you shuddered at the feeling.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbled, eyes taking you in. “Good god.”

The heat that rushed to your cheeks you couldn’t stop, so instead you distracted yourself with teasing him. “Take your shirt off.” His eyebrows raised, but he followed your directions, unbuttoning the final button and pulling the material off of his shoulders. As he was about to drop it to the ground you stopped him, taking the fabric in your hands. He watched in fascination as you pulled it over your shoulders, buttoned the middle two buttons, and then looked up at him. The shirt covered most of your ass, the tops of your thighs and your tattoo exposed.

“Like my shirt, huh?”

You nodded, and then decided it was your turn to touch his skin. Your hands criss-crossed across his exposed chest, brushing across the marks you had left and down, tracing his nipples until they pebbled, and then down to the laurels on his pelvis, barely peeking out from the top of his jeans. Then, you popped the button on his jeans, and when he didn’t stop you, you pushed them down his legs, struggling a bit with how tight they were, but succeeding finally. He was left in nothing but his briefs, a lion tattoo on his thigh exposed to your eyes and some small ink on his knees you thought was cute. You wondered how drunk he was when he did it, but decided not to ask.

“What happened to getting ready for bed?” He asked, hands running up and down your arms.

“We’re dressed for bed, aren’t we?” You turned around though, and led him out of your room and down the hall to where the bathroom was. “Go ahead—I’m going to get us some water. Use anything you want, except my toothbrush. There’s spares under the sink.”

You left him to his own devices and made your way through your apartment, grabbing two glasses and filling them with water, tucking a bottle of ibuprofen under your arm. He would need it in the morning. After leaving them on your bedside table, you headed for the bathroom where the door was open, Harry brushing his teeth at the sink. You slid in next to him and he moved to the side, allowing you to grab your face wash and splash water on your face, swiping the liquid in circles over your skin. After your moisturizer and eye cream, you started brushing your teeth, trying not to focus on how Harry was just leaning against the wall watching you.

“You good over there?” You asked, spitting into the sink and rinsing off your toothbrush before dropping it into the jar on the sink that held them.

He nodded. “This is going to sound weird,” he said, “but I feel…comfortable with you. Like this kind of shit,” he gestured to the bathroom, “I’ve never done this.”

“Brushed your teeth?”

“No,” he grumbled, grabbing for your hips. “I don’t usually get ready for bed when I spend the night with girls.”

You tried not to read into that statement, to wonder if you were some normal hookup or something more. Instead, you leaned in and pecked his lips, before tugging him out of the bathroom and towards your room. “Water’s on the table,” you told him, shutting the door behind you as you stepped inside. “And some ibuprofen, if you want it.”

He walked over to the opposite side of the bed and gulped down the water, tossing some of the medicine on his tongue and finishing off the water. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” you answered, and then pulled back the covers on your bed. You settled in between the sheets, and watched as Harry slid in beside you, obviously trying to gauge what you wanted. Once he was comfortable, you shuffled towards him, and without thinking too much into it, you rested your head on his chest. He immediately brought his arm around your body, holding you close to him. “Night,” you mumbled.

“Night, Y/N.” His voice was gravelly from exhaustion and alcohol, and you shut your eyes, falling asleep to the rise and fall of his chest.

You blinked, eyelids heavy from exhaustion, as you woke up. Sunlight was streaming in your curtains, which despite being blackout curtains, could do little to hold back at the sun in the morning. As you gathered your senses, you realized that the other side of your bed was empty. Picking up your head, you took inventory of the room—Harry’s boots on the floor, your clothes haphazardly tossed in your laundry basket, your phone charging on your bedside table and a full water glass sitting there.

You had finished yours last night, if you remembered correctly. But you shrugged and grabbed the water, chugging it as you unplugged your phone and checked the time. It was noon, which was the normal time you woke up after a shift, meaning you’d had somewhere between seven and eight hours of sleep. You could’ve slept for hours, but what was more urgent than a couple more hours of sleep was where Harry had run off to. Slowly you pulled yourself up, Harry’s shirt still adorning your body, and walked out of your room and into the hallway, where the smell of coffee hit your nose immediately.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Harry said when you walked into the open plan kitchen and living room. He was sitting at the bar that divided the room in half, a cup of coffee in his hand and a bottle of Pedialyte on the counter next to him. “I’m glad you found the water. I was getting pretty close to waking you up.”

“Thanks for that,” you said, raising the glass to him. You meandered past him into the kitchen, where you grabbed a coffee cup—this one was from a National Park you’d visited the summer before with your family—and filled it with coffee. “How long have you been up?”

“Two hours,” he answered. “I have a hard time sleeping after a big night out.”

“Pedialyte?” You asked, nodding to the bottle on the counter.

He grimaced and set down his cup. “Yeah. I went out and got it while you were asleep.”

Sun was streaming in the white curtains in the living room, casting the whole apartment in a bright mid-day glow. Harry was in just his jeans, no shirt, and you couldn’t help but wonder what he had worn out. “Did you wear that out?”

He glanced down at himself. “Yeah. Stole one of your big sweatshirts, too.”

“Did you now?” You shifted away from the counter, rounding the counter so you stood in front of him. “Which one?”

Green eyes followed your hand as it landed on his knee, moving it away from the other one to create space. When you took a step forward, you could hear his breath hitch and gave him a coy smile, your free hand sliding up his thigh. “Your green one. Said Obsession on it, or something—it was the only one that fit me.”

You chuckled softly. “It’s my ex’s.”

He huffed. “S’mine, now.”

“Is it now?” You asked, setting your cup on the counter next to Harry’s. “Planning on taking over for him?”

“As an ex?”

You shook your head, hands drifting up his torso. “As the guy who gets to wear my clothes.” You tried not to think about what those words meant, what you were asking him, because your mind was too wrapped up in him to even be thinking about your intent.

“Happily.” His hands finally landed on your waist, ring-clad fingers pressing into the skin covered by his shirt. “You know, you look good in this.” Fingers slipped under the material of his shirt, the white Styles on the chest stretching over your breast as you breathed.

“It’s black,” you told him, trying to keep your breathing even. “Everyone would look in it.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, kneading your sides. “Dunno about that.”

Both your hands and Harry’s explored each other’s skin, taking inventory of every rise and fall, roll of skin, the places that made each other gasp just a bit. It felt good, being this intimate with someone just like this, nothing but one another’s hands. “Then what’s so special about me wearing it?”

Palms cupped your breasts, squeezing delicately, his full forearms tucked underneath the fabric of his shirt. “That you’re the one in it,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave. “You, wearing my shirt, my last name on your chest.” He blew out a breath and you tweaked one of his nipples in reply. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re a dream.”

“How about we move this to my bedroom,” you said, slipping your hands up to his shoulders. “And I finally show you my lingerie collection?” You didn’t have to ask him twice. He was standing, your hand in his, and pulling you in the direction of your room immediately, a giggle leaving your lips at the sudden movement. “Somebody’s eager.”

“You’ve been talking about this lingerie for like twelve hours, love,” he said, shutting your door behind you. “I fuckin’ dreamed about it.”

You pulled out of his grasp and he fell down to your bed, where the sheets were twisted from sleep. His messy long hair and shirtless torso drew in your gaze, the way he leaned against your pillows, watching you. “Did you now?” You turned to your dresser and pulled out your top drawer, where your lingerie lived. “Close your eyes,” you told him, peeking back at where he laid.

Once he followed your instructions, grumbling about missing out on half the show, you pulled out your first item—a dark blue babydoll, lace appliqué covering the skirt and a bow nestled between the molded cups, a matching g-string that you slid over your hips. You fluffed your hair, suddenly wishing you had had the forethought to wash your face before you took on this endeavor.

“Open,” you told Harry, and turned in his direction.

“Holy fuck,” he said in one breath, sitting up immediately, as if a jolt of electricity had ripped through his body. “Is this a babydoll?”

“Good memory,” you replied, leaning against your dresser. You didn’t know what to do with your body other than just stand there and let his eyes trail over you. “Thoughts?”

“How would you feel about never wearing clothes again?” He asked, gnawing at his lip. “Just that.”

You blushed, and picked at the hem of it. “I think I might get cold.”

“I’ll give you a jacket.”

“How kind.” You turned around and when he whined, you turned just your head to him. “There’s more sets to show you, you know. Close those eyes, mister.” He did as you asked and you pulled off the lingerie, lovingly folding it back into your dresser. Your fingers ran over the lace in front of you, trying to decide which one of your, admittedly many, sets you wanted to show him next. Finally, you settled on a pink lace set that was essentially see-through. You’d never worn it before—it was one of your newer purchases, one you’d chosen after a successful test grade.

You pulled up the panties and hooked the bra behind your back, sliding the straps up your arms until they settled comfortably on the dip of your shoulders. Then, you turned and at the sight of Harry sitting there, patiently waiting, you decided to reward him a bit. You walked towards him, and when you reached his form, you settled your hands on his shoulders. The touch made his eyes flutter open, and the second he saw your body his eyes widened. “Wow,” was all he could say as he studied the material covering your skin.

“What do you think?” The more his eyes lingered on you, the more you loved how you burned under his gaze.

He licked his lips and reached out, thumbing across the top of the lace thong you wore. “How is this one even better?”

You tilted your head to the side and pressed closer to him, his palms falling down your sides as you stepped between his knees. “You’re the first person to see this one.”

“Really?” He seemed like a kid in a candy store after being told he could buy whatever he wanted. “I’m honored.” You pulled away from his grasp and he groaned, snatching your hips back between his hands. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got more to show you,” you informed him, pulling his hands off of you. “Patience, Styles.”

“Baby,” he rasped, the pet name falling from his mouth with ease, and you wondered if you would ever forget how it sounded. “I don’t know if I can survive much more.”

Your eyes fell to his pants, where you could see his hard-on, the outline of his dick straining against the tight denim. “Somebody’s desperate.”

“Tease,” he shot back. “I’m serious, though. I’ll let you finish later.”

You considered his proposal, but ended up pulling away. “One more. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

He groaned, but nodded, shutting his eyes obediently as you moved away from him. At your dresser, you found the set you were looking for, a dark green set. The bra was a balconette cut, lace appliqué covering the cups and running up the straps. You pulled on the suspender belt that matched, the straps dangling down your legs as you put on the thong next. Then, you grabbed a pair of black stockings and clipped them to the bottom of the suspenders. You fluffed your hair a bit and then turned back around.

“Open,” you instructed and when Harry’s eyes opened the moan that left his mouth ran down your spine like fire.

“Fuck.” The word was all he could say, his jaw literally dropping at the sight of you standing there. “Come here.” You didn’t move, though, wanting to hear him beg for you. This set had your confidence soaring through the roof, the combination of the material on your skin and Harry’s gaze making you want to see what you could make him do for you. “Please,” he finally said, shifting towards you.

So you walked over to him, slowly, keeping your shoulders back so the bra strained across your chest. When you reached him you placed a hand on his bare chest, pressing him slightly back so he rested on his hands, eyes staring up at you as you rested a knee on either side of his thighs, sitting down on his lap. “Worth the wait?”

His hands immediately moved, settling on your hips, sliding over the green lace. “You’re going to kill me,” he rasped, words rough in his throat. The sight of his pupils blown out in desire, chest rising and falling under your palm as he took in your body in this set made you grasp the back of his neck and pull his lips towards yours.

The two of you met in a blaze of fire, need flowing between you as he tugged you closer, your center brushing over the denim of his jeans. When you whimpered he suckled on your lip and you pulled at the roots of his hair, needing to hear him groan into your mouth. You wanted to hear every one of his sounds, to take inventory of him and store it away for later when he wasn’t right there in front of you. Lips met and parted, slotting together with ease as you both surged towards one another, begging for more.

His hands were covering every inch of you, pulling and grabbing and scratching at your skin, somehow bringing you closer and closer to him. When you began to rock against his jeans he let out a hiss, pulling your hips down onto his even more. Then his head dipped, nudging up your chin as he found your neck, nibbling and biting at your skin before licking along his marks, leaving you a whining mess in his lap. You were cradling his head, not wanting it to end, just to make him continue and continue and continue.

Now that you had him, you realized how long you had been waiting for this, even if you pretended like you weren’t. You had wanted him since the first time he made a bad joke and told you you looked beautiful, when he responded with a quick remark, countering your sass with plenty of his own. He met you tit for tat, ebbing and flowing with you like waves on a beach.

Your fingers wound around his cross necklace and tugged, just enough to get his lips to leave your skin and look up at you. “Tryin’ to get my attention?” He teased, squeezing at your waist, tight enough that he would probably leave marks but you didn’t mind. In fact, you looked forward to inspecting each inch of your body and seeing what he had left behind.

“Your jeans,” you mumbled. “I want them off.”

He chuckled lightly. “Now who’s the desperate one?”

“Shut up,” you said and he just smiled at you, his dimples poking out.

“Go on, then.” He watched as you slid back on his thighs and popped the button on his jeans, before getting up so you could pull them all the way off. Once they were on the ground, you moved towards him, but he stopped you. “Lay down for me, love,” he said, eyes trailing down your body as you stood in front of him.

You didn’t bother with sass, just falling to the twisted sheets and looking at him as he crawled towards you. His fingers found the clips of your suspenders, and you nodded at him, giving him silent permission to begin to undress you. When he released the stockings and began to pull them down, he kissed every inch of your revealed skin, creating a line down your calf that had your breath coming out in pants. “Harry,” you said, the last syllable of his name trailing off as he did the same thing to your other leg.

“Yes?” He asked, eyes popping up to you. His hair was a mess from your hands and you loved it—the sight of him with wide eyes and puffy dark pink lips, color in his cheeks and marks on his chest from your nails. When you didn’t respond, unable to even create words as he slipped his hands up your body and tugged down the suspender belt that sat at your waist, he said, “You’re going to have to speak up if you’ve got something to say, baby.”

That pet name. It was going to be the death of you and you had no idea why. Maybe because of the emotions swirling in your chest as you looked down at him, the way you wanted to simultaneously lie in his arms for hours and jump his bones, but also just hold his hand and hear him talk to you. Perhaps it was the fact that no one had ever called you that like he did, with desire and passion laced in the word, a tenderness and an edge to it that made you weak in the knees. “I need you,” you finally uttered.

“Do you now,” he responded, leaning forward on his knees so he hovered over you. “Can you be more specific?” Impatient, you grabbed his hand and pressed his fingers to your center, where you had soaked through your thong long ago. A low groan fell from his chest at the feeling of your wetness, and he peeked up at you from where he was touching you. “You’re soaked through,” he said in awe, brushing against your center and making your back arch up. “Fuck, Y/N. Is this for me? Did I get you like this?”

“Yes,” you drawled, pushing down onto his finger. Your mind was spinning, eyes fluttering shut and just losing yourself in the feeling of finally having contact where you needed him most. “Please,” you begged finally, rocking against him with your hips, chasing more.

Harry moved without pause, pulling your underwear down your legs and running his finger between your folds. The feeling of his touch on your warm flesh had you squirming, his name mixed in with curses as he rubbed softly in a circle. “That feel good?” He asked and you could feel his eyes traveling over your body even though your eyes were squeezed shut from the feeling. When he brushed his index finger against your hole which was dripping for him, you gasped, hips jutting down against him so the tip of his finger brushed inside of you. “God, you’re so wet,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

Then, he dipped a finger inside of you and you cried out, desperate and needy for him, unable to contain the sounds falling your lips as he built up a momentum, curling his finger inside of you and hitting your sweet spot. “Another,” you said, eyes finally opening so you could see him.

And the sight didn’t disappoint. His eyes were on your center, watching his finger move in and out of you, and you could see the outline of his bulge in his briefs, a small wet spot where his tip was. The fact that he was leaking while fingering you somehow just added to your pleasure. He added a second finger and pressed them deep inside of you, the cool metal of his rings brushing against your entrance and making you buck up against his fingers. You were squirming on the bed, unable to stay still because he was building an orgasm inside of you like no one else ever had. You could feel your belly tightening and your high was rising, sweat beads forming at the back of your neck.

When he rubbed on your front wall you let out a helpless cry. He had found the spot that made you go insane and you could tell he was happy, a smile stretching across his face. “I’m close,” you panted.

“What do you need?” His words were low and they just made you want him more.

“Your mouth.” The words were broken, but he seemed to understand because he shifted immediately, falling to his stomach between your legs and pulling you towards him. He decided to go harder, because he slammed his fingers into you at a brutal pace and matched it by licking at your nub, sucking and pulling at the sensitive skin. His tongue was sin against your skin, circling your clit and making you cry out. You dug your fingers into his hair and tugged at the strands, his name tumbling from your lips in a beg and a whine and a prayer all in one.

It didn’t take long before you were coming, the feeling rushing up without you even realizing, your back arching and hips bucking against his fingers and mouth. He lapped at you through it, eyes open and watching your orgasm, the shudder that left your mouth and how you fell into the mattress when you came down. When he pulled his fingers from you, you hissed, and he just kissed your pelvic bone, before sitting back on his heels and dipping his fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digits that were covered in your juices.

“Get over here,” you demanded, hooking your foot around his hips and pulling him towards you.

He clamored over you, his lips finding yours once again, and you sighed into the kiss, pulling his mouth closer to you. You needed him like you had never needed anyone else, a feeling that took over your body and ran your mind. When his head dipped and he tugged on your earlobe you whined. “Can I have you,” he asked into your skin. “Please? I waited and I just…fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”

“Yes,” you told him, hands falling to his waist and pushing down his briefs. “Condoms are in my bedside table.”

His head bounced up at that and he reached over, wrenching open the drawer and searching blindly for a packet. When his fingers found one he moved back over you, the foil falling next to your head. Then, he pushed his briefs the rest of the way down his legs, letting the material fall to the floor with the rest of your clothes. Next was your bra, his hands moving to your back and deftly unhooking it, pulling the lace from your skin. “Beautiful,” he hummed, nestling his face between your breasts.

You chuckled, brushing his hair back. “I swear, boys and boobs,” you said.

“Hey,” he replied, picking up his head. “Don’t make me out to be some horny teenager.”

“Aren’t you?” You teased, picking up the condom between your fingers.

“No.” He took the packet and ripped it open with his teeth. “I’m twenty-one, baby.” Then, he rolled the condom down his length and you watched, absorbing his fully naked body for the first time. The cut of the muscles under his skin, the way his tattoos stretched across his torso, the full length of him that you decided you wanted in your mouth after.

He brushed his tip against your slit and you whined unabashedly, rocking towards him. “H,” you mumbled, “please.” That was all he needed, because without another pause he was pressing into you, bottoming out in one go. You let out an unrestrained moan, grappling at his shoulders as he sunk onto his elbows, his face hovering above yours. As he pulled out and pushed back in, a groan from his lips filling the space between you, you watched his face. The way his eyebrows pulled together and he bent his head, resting his forehead against your collarbone as he found his rhythm.

Once he did, it was heaven. His sweaty skin meeting yours as he drove into you at a brutal pace, but one that felt fucking incredible. Your ankles hooked around his hips and held him close inside of you, and you tugged on his necklace to pull his lips to yours, needing the softness of his tongue inside your mouth again. Your hands twisted in his hair, yanking on his strands when he pushed in particularly hard, and he groaned. He liked his hair being pulled, you discovered, and you decided to keep at it, threading your hands through his locks and pulling whenever he hit that spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Like that,” you rasped when he latched his lips to your neck, most definitely leaving a mark on your skin. “Yes, H, just like that. Fuck, you’re so deep.” Your words were a mess, just a stream of consciousness, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he slammed into you harder and pulled your leg higher, tugging it so that your foot rested over his shoulder and your hamstrings stretched. And when he pushed back in, you scrambled at his back, drawing harsh lines down his skin at the feeling of him reaching a new depth.

“Feel so good,” he mumbled, words broken as they spilled from his lips. “Y/N, god, so good.” His hands fisted in the sheets and you dug your nails into his shoulders when he swiveled his hips slightly, brushing every inch of you. When you squeezed him, his head tipped back, exposing his neck and you leaned up, ignoring the burn in your hamstring, and licked up his throat. He rasped your name as you pulled at the skin at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, making a mark of your own for him to enjoy later.

You fell back down and slipped your leg from its spot on his shoulder, and pulled him close to you, wanting to kiss him again. His lips seemed to be your new obsession, wanting nothing more than to be touching them constantly. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it, slotting your lips between his and kissing you fiercely as he pistoned in and out of you.

There were going to be bruises on your inner thighs, you were sure of it. You would be feeling the impact of his hips on your thighs for days, every time you sat down the muscles would ache and you would remember this—him moving in and out of you and panting in your ear, mumbling about how good you felt around him, how gorgeous you were, how much he loved fucking you. The prospect of feeling him for days was one you looked forward to.

When he gave a particularly deep thrust you moved up on the sheets, grabbing hold of his neck to hold yourself steady, and he moaned. You peeked down at him and as he moved back in, you asked, “Did you like that?”

“Yeah,” he replied, a broken confirmation. “Again, please.”

You’d never really done this before, so you decided to be careful with him, just a bit of pressure using your fingers. With four fingers on one side of his neck and your thumb on the other, halfway down his neck, you pressed down on his skin when he drove back into you and his eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. The heel of your palm rested on the hollow of his neck as your fingers squeezed on either side of his neck, watching in rapture as he fucked into you harder and leaned into your touch. Slowly, you loosened and then tightened your grip, changing it up to make sure he was getting enough air.

“Is that good?” You asked, trying to focus as he drove harshly into you, the sound of his hips slapping your skin filling the room. He bobbed his head and pressed into your palm, so you squeezed your fingers again, wanting to give him what he asked for.

“I’m close,” he said, voice husky.

“Me too,” you answered, kicking your heels higher around his waist and pressing up into him so he reached even deeper inside of you. You could feel that same high building inside of you, an intensity waiting on the brink as he pressed into you, your fingers pressing into his throat again and again.

Then he pulled away slightly, rising up so his arms were fully extended and you couldn’t quite choke him anymore, so your hand fell to his bicep, squeezing at his skin as he somehow moved both faster and deeper inside of you. His hands dug into the sheets and he drove in and out of you at a pace unmatched, your head falling back to the mattress. You were panting, eyes glued to the sight of his necklace swinging back and forth as he moved, the tension in his muscles and the sheen of sweat covering his skin. He was utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.

You couldn’t take it anymore, and reached down between you two, rubbing your fingers over your clit because you were just seconds from the edge and you needed it. Harry’s eyes took in the sight in awe, and his jaw dropped slightly, a curse ripping through his throat as you clenched around him and threw back your head, a deep moan falling through the air. You were squirming underneath him, Harry’s hands having to hold onto your torso to keep you steady as he thrusted into you, finishing himself off as you came, tightening around him. His name left your lips in a beg and he picked up your hand, bringing it back to his throat.

With a tight squeeze, your fingers wrapped around his throat like before, he bucked into you once more and then was practically growling as he emptied himself into the condom, body shaking against you. You unwrapped your hand from his neck and ran your fingers through his hair, before pulling him down to your chest, wanting him close as he pulled out of you. “Holy shit,” he mumbled into your shoulder, and you laughed softly.

“You ever had someone choke you before?” You asked, brushing your fingers up and down his spine as he settled.

“No,” he said, his lips puckering against your throat, light kisses to your skin. “Kind of liked it, though.”

“Kind of?” You squeezed his butt cheek in jest, and he squeaked against you, making you fully laugh, body rumbling against him. “You literally picked up my hand and put it there.”

He tucked his face deeper into your neck and you could tell he was embarrassed. “Okay fine, I really liked it.”

You hummed and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I did too. It was my first time doing that.”

“Yeah?” He picked up his head and propped it up on his palm, looking at you. “Was it okay?”

Pushing back the hair from his forehead, you nodded. “I thought it was really hot.”

A smile quirked up on his lips. “You mean you think I’m really hot.”

You whacked his shoulder and he feigned pain, jaw dropping slightly. “Stop fishing for compliments.” He rolled his eyes at you, but moved off of your body, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling off the condom, tying the end and tossing it in the trash. Red marks covered his back from your nails and you ran your hand over them, watching as he shivered from the sensitivity. “If anyone sees your back they’re going to think you got fucking mauled by a bear.”

He turned his head and raised his eyebrow at you. “A bear, huh? I thought it was just this really hot girl.”

“Good to know you think I’m hot too.” He laughed and turned fully around, crawling back into bed with you.

The sheets were sweaty but you didn’t mind, you just wanted to be close to him. He laid down on his back and pulled you in, your leg draping over his and your breasts pushing up against his side. Your head rested on his shoulder and you let out a breath, relaxing into his hold.

After you’d been lying there for a few minutes, he cleared his throat and you looked up at him. “You know,” he said, “I don’t know if this was obvious, but I really like you.”

His ring-clad fingers trailed up your back, drawing circles against your skin. You considered his words, rolling them over in your head, and considered your own feelings. Where did you stand? You knew you liked him based on how you felt around him, this just constant desire to have his hands on you. The way you could joke around with him and the banter between you made you feel at ease, a kind of comfort with him that you hadn’t found with anyone else. He was gorgeous and kind and a bit of an idiot, but you found it endearing. You also, admittedly, loved how obsessed he was with you. “I like you too,” you replied, turning your head so you could fully look at him, your chin resting on his chest.

He looked down at you, sliding his forearm under his head. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, kissing the skin nearest to you. “Really like you, even.”

“Well thank god,” he said, pinching your skin slightly. “It would’ve been really awkward if you didn’t.”

“Why is that?”

He smiled at you. “I might’ve introduced myself as your boyfriend to your doorman.”

You rolled your eyes at him and pushed up, moving so you could hover over him fully, hands on either side of his head. “Does this mean I have to go to all of your formals and shit with you?”

“Obviously,” he replied, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. “And my drinks at 260 are going to be free.” You huffed at his request for you to make all his drinks at the bar you worked at to be free, but Harry was having none of it. “Come on, baby, I’ll come to every one of your shifts.”

“Fine,” you answered, sliding your knees up his sides so you could sit squarely over the laurels on his pelvis. “But you have to bring me a snack.”

“Oh,” he said, quirking up his lips in a smirk, “baby I’m a full meal.” You swatted at his chest and he laughed, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, before tugging you back into him. You fell into him with ease, unable to hold up any walls to him anymore. Somehow, he had busted through each one of them and you didn’t want to rebuild them. Having him wrapped up in your heart was perfectly fine with you, you thought to yourself when he kissed the top of your head and asked if you wanted pancakes.

Yeah, you decided, you could get used to this.

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honestlyfrance · 3 years

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SAMBUCKY BOOKMARKS

it’s fic yeah friday over at @fuckyeahsambucky so i wanna do a lil something something for the fandom :) check out my #fic rec tag for more!

enjoy the more than 50 fics listed here :) be careful of the tags!

I Am Trying to Break Your Heart by Lunar_Pull

Today is the day that Steve received an invitation to the love of his life’s wedding.

Philopatry by Areiton

"I want to be safe," he says. "But I'm not." "Then why come here? Why put me at risk?" Something flickers in his eyes, little boy lost and utterly cold, and it makes Sam want to give the dude a hug and also pull his sidearm. "I have no reason to hurt you," Winter says. "I don't want to hurt you," Bucky adds, earnestly.

farmhouse by Tazmaster

"You know, I think I'd want a farmhouse."

"A what?" Sam turns to look at him, slightly annoyed. This was the first thing Bucky has said in the past hour and a half they've been cramped in this god forsaken car. He had a knack for impulsively voicing his dumb thoughts at the worst times, but whenever you wanted to know what was actually going on in that head of his, he'd never say.

They were staking out the front gate of a large mansion, very much not a farmhouse. It was mind numbingly boring, being stuck in a beetle with absolutely nothing else to do than stare at the gaudy gates of some rich asshole.

"A farmhouse," Bucky repeats nonchalantly, "If we ever get out of this business, or you know, live long enough to retire maybe--- I want a farmhouse. With a lot of animals."

---

Bucky keeps talking about a farmhouse and it drives Sam crazy, that is until he finally asks why.

Employee Discount by bopeep for queenmab_scherzo

Sam Wilson doesn't love working in a store that makes him wear vanity-sized polos and breathe in clouds of men's cologne like the worst kind of GQ aromatherapy, but the view from his cash register across the mall to the Hot Topic and the sullen Dark Prince of Wallet Chains he loves to hate may just beat the minimum wage blues.

In warm water, swimming down by targaryen_melodrama

“Why are you hiding?””Tired.”Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So you decided to swim.”“So I decided to be alone.”Bucky’s quiet for a moment. “I can go, if you want.”It’s the last thing Sam wants.

I figured out what the slashes mean by Teaismycoffee

Sam, Steve and Bucky are all living together in a safe house. Bucky and Sam discover fan fiction written about them. Steve doesn't approve. Sam and Bucky are really into secretly reading fan fiction together, or maybe it isn't the fan fiction part they are really into.

Chicken Soup for the Soul by bioloyg

“S’not my bed time,” Sam says as he buries his face in Bucky’s upper arm. Bucky laughs. “Tough. You’re sick.” Sam lets out a loan groan and says, “But my bed is cold. I was so warm, why’d you move me?” “Because your neck would’ve hated you if I didn’t.” He tries not to be so amused by how fussy Sam is when he’s both sick and half-asleep. It’s cute. ~ A fic wherein Bucky takes care of a sick Sam.

two nights in L.A. by CapnWinghead

Bucky kindly volunteered Sam to be a groomsman for Scott’s upcoming wedding. Of course, that meant Sam and Bucky had to go to the bachelor party.

at the end of the war (what's mine is yours) by notcaycepollard

They don't talk about it: that's how it works.

I'd Like That by honestlydarkprincess

Sam has been up for over 24 hours and has been dreaming about his Coffee Caramel Fudge non-dairy ice cream since about the 18-hour mark. When he gets to the store, there's only one carton of it left and, unfortunately for the guy innocently holding said carton, Sam's not leaving without it.

Or, the one where Sam is sleep deprived, yells at a cute guy, and gets both ice cream and a phone number out of it.

Ready, Set, Date! by bioloyg

Bucky wants to sleep, Natasha wants to find him a date for Steve's wedding (so he'll leave her alone), and Sam is the best thing about this whole speed dating disaster. But, Sam's not in the speed date rotations - he's at a different table weathering through dates just like Bucky is. ~ "Three dates in, Bucky decides he has made one of the worst decisions in all of his life by coming here. His first date had been an attractive enough man by the name of Greg. He introduces himself as “The Big G,” to which Sam laughs at in the middle of introducing himself to his own date. Greg likes to talk about cars a lot, which is fine. Bucky also likes cars. The only problem is that Greg’s love for cars borders on… erotic."

We'll rise up free and easy by Sarsaparilla, woofgender

Steve and Natasha are away on a mission when Sam receives intel about the Winter Soldier’s location. When he follows the lead, Sam finds something unexpected—but despite his initial impression, it’s certainly not all bad. (Post-CATWS, not AOU- or CACW-compliant.)

__________ "'Jesus Christ,' Sam said, 'Are you planning on fighting an entire army?'

Barnes looked up from examining the sights of a sniper rifle. '...no,' he said, a little guiltily, and adjusted one of the--five? Six? guns he’d already strapped to himself."

love is in the air (i smell coffee) by Flora_K, hermionesmydawg

Sam Wilson - graduate student, part-time barista, part-time salesman, and full-time father - doesn't have time to sleep, much less date. At least, that's what he tells himself.

Up at Night by bioloyg for lunaaltare

With Halloween nearing, Sam is feeling more in the mood for a scary movie than usual. He'd never watch one on his own though, so he invites his roommate to pick one out and join in on movie night. or Prompt fill for Samtember ~ "It’s quiet for a while after that. Like always, the two of them start on opposite sides of the queen sized bed with at least a foot of space between them. And, like always, they drift closer to one another as time passes, though whether it’s habitual or instinctual Sam would never dare delve into."

flowers in darkness, the moon above the sea by 27dis

Sam enjoyed his job, really.

But, not when a certain person came in.

A quick detour and a sudden arrival by iwillnotbecaged for heuradys

He found Wilson shivering in the snow, left for dead. Sloppy.

You couldn’t trust the elements to do your job for you. They were rarely so obliging.

A mission gone awry, unexpected help, and close quarters makes for an interesting couple of days.

Don't lock the door on me by TuskFM

Sam’s desperately trying to sleep when he gets a visit from the Winter Soldier at three a.m., bleeding and asking for help. Sam’s not the kind of guy who let someone bleed out on his front door, even if the said someone threw him off an helicarrier and stole his wheel.

and i run, further than before by hermionesmydawg

"What do they call you?" Bucky carefully pulls out an equal amount of caramel and cheese kernels of popcorn and pops them into his mouth. "Birdman?"

"No."

"Captain Canary?"

"Hell no."

"The Winged Avenger?"

"Falcon, dammit, and I am not an Avenger," Sam snaps, and now he's kinda pissed because yes, it's a bird name. He didn't sign up for this kind of ridicule from an amnesiac assassin.

***

Basically, the 5 times Sam actually found Bucky and the 1 time he tried to hide from him. Don't tell Steve.

Exquisite Flavor by enchantedlightningwrites for honestlyfrance

W&M's Grand Corner's growing to be one of the popular restaurants in New York, where Sam Wilson works as a chef for his sister. A wedding's in a few weeks and he has no idea on what to do about it. Notorious for his picky taste and blunt reviews, Bucky 'Winter Wolf' Barnes pays a visit. Little did he know, food could really win one's heart and lands on his stomach.

He's a Beta, You Hear That? by 27dis

Reasons why Sam didn’t realize Bucky was courting him this entire time: 1. He is a beta 2. He is oblivious 3. He thought Bucky is way out of his league 4. He is a beta for fuck’s sake

See? It’s hardly his fault for not noticing it. Why was Bucky flirting with him anyw—

Oh. Oh.

Or; Bucky swore flirting with someone was never this hard before.

stay where we belong by glittercake

He doesn't know what the hell he's doing when he turns around and shouts, "Yo! You know what—" and Barnes turns on his heel in a flash, "It's getting late, man. Looks like rain."

Sam motions to the grey sky above, and Barnes follows his eyes beyond the hanging Willow branches. "Yeah? What are you saying?"

He's got that terribly smug look on his face, the one Sam can't stand but kind of misses when it's not irritating him. But mostly, he can't stand it, "Nothing! Forget about it!"

Arms Spread Out Wide, Turn Falling Into Flight by irisesandlilies

It was easy, nothing has ever been easy for Bucky. Except this, and that terrifies him.

Years in the making by glittercake

Bucky and Sam meet as two young soldiers, but the time is never quite right to make it anything more. Until it eventually is.

Sam refuses to let himself fall in love while he's deployed. Bucky pines endlessly for years about the prettiest bird he’s ever seen. Sam’s no better.

If At First You Don't Succeed by SonnyD

Bucky finally gains the courage to tell Sam about his feelings. He comes up with a list of methods to woo him that were bound to succeed. He didn't account for each and every one of them failing in unexpected ways. The five times that Bucky attempts to woo Sam and the one time that Sam returns the favour.

if i could take us back, if i could just do that... by safelikespringtime

Bucky laughed, cheeks flushing red, “I’m glad you didn't. Don't know what I’d do without my wingman.” Sam groaned, poking Bucky’s side, “That was awful.” Bucky laughed. “You couldn’t survive without me. We both know it.”

How right he was.

***

Sam dies. Bucky mourns.

Strawberries and Cigarettes always taste like you by winterscaptsam

There’s a sweet agonizing simplicity in leaving behind your safe haven, like the thrill of adrenaline, reaching the top of Everest, allowed to admire its beautiful icy view but with the everlasting fear of not making it back down. Maybe that's why it was a natural instinct for Bucky to reach out for the closest thing that felt like home, slowly then all at once falling for the sweet warmth of mahogany eyes, what soon became his safe haven.

Baked With Love by Siancore

Bucky Barnes’ family owns a bakery in a small town. High school has long been over, and Bucky is dying to move to the city to pursue a musical career with his band. And his future looks promising, if he can just persuade his father to let him leave his job behind at their struggling family bakery.

It is no secret that Bucky used to love baking with his father, but things change. He just can’t fathom wasting his life away watching rising dough and hot ovens. With his mind made up to leave, Bucky convinces his father to advertise for a replacement. While interviewing candidates to fill the position he has vacated, Bucky meets Sam Wilson: An easy-going guy who is as eager about baking as Bucky is about leaving. They bond over baking and become close. Love looks like it is ready to bloom between them if Bucky, in his haste to escape, does not ruin it.

Beneath this Crown by winterscaptsam

Sam traces his fingers from James’ hairline, down to his jaw, resting the pad of his thumb on James lips. He will let himself relish in this feeling. Not even the sculptors, painters or poets could carve their words and materials to accurately describe this.

“Do you think the history books will remember us?” Sam had once asked. And James’ words were made of the purest of golds, “my love, we will be legends for the children yet to come.”

Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes' love story, one a prince and the other a knight.

make my body come alive (i've got a right to hurt inside) by notcaycepollard

The body is weak. The body is hungry and soft and human. He looks at himself in the mirror, the bones of his shoulders, his cheeks hollowed out from hunger, and he thinks, gentle, you didn’t deserve this.

safe like spring time by quidhitch

“I already told you it looks good. What more is there?”

“I don’t know, man, you’re gonna live here. I just wish I knew a little bit more about how that’s sitting with you.”

Sam knows Bucky feels fine. What Sam’s probably actually after is how he feels about the fact neither of them have anywhere else to go, not with Natasha dead and Steve wrinkly. Therapists. Even the good ones, always so circular.

“I like the terrace,” Bucky offers, mostly to appease him.

Airy Laundry by AmarieMelody

Sam watches what happens when Bucky buys a clothesline.

lucky by CapnWinghead

In retrospect, it took Bucky an embarrassingly long time to realize that everyone and Scott's mom thought he and Sam were dating.

not an end, but (the start of all things) by notcaycepollard

They keep driving, for lack of anything better to do. A mission, Sam had said, and maybe that's true; maybe wherever they're headed is the way out, the way up.

So You Run On Gasoline by 343EnderSpark, ABitNotGoodieBag, OriginalCeenote

Bucky may have bitten off more than he could chew with this job, he thinks, as he ambles along the sidewalk to the cafe after leaving campus. He is running off the fumes of exhaustion and hasn’t had more than 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep in the past week. Between his students and his thesis, he knows that it’s foolish to try so hard to hang on to his barista gig, but DC isn’t a cheap place to live and Bucky can’t live with other people.

Bucky is just trying his best, despite being a human disaster.

we could jump the state lines (we only get the one life) by notcaycepollard

It starts in Paris.

“You can’t steal things just because you like them,” Sam tells Bucky, feeling innately that this is a losing battle, and Bucky cocks his head to the side, considers Sam very thoughtfully.

“Really,” he says. “I’m stealing you, aren’t I?”

we were a fire with no smoke by notcaycepollard

Sam can’t help but roll his eyes. Take the boys out of New York but they’re still Brooklyn Catholics, that’s clear enough. Bucky catches the gesture, smirks hard enough Sam can see his eye teeth. It should be dangerous but he’s beautiful, pale and charming and recklessly easy.

“You wanna come in?” Sam asks, ignoring the noise Steve makes, and Bucky’s smile gets wider.

“Yeah,” he says. Steps up close to Sam. “I do.”

Peace Begins with a Smile by Siancore

Bucky just likes the way Sam smiles.

They're Good Drones, Brent by chase_acow

When Redwing becomes infected with an alien A.I., Sam has to balance the needs of the team with his own curiosity about his new partner. Redwing isn’t the only one acting strange, he also needs to get to the bottom of Bucky’s weirdness. It takes a training exercise gone wrong that Redwing and Sam might not survive for their secrets to be exposed.

Wet Asphalt (This Is What Love Is) by ObviouslyOtter

Soft words in the dark tell us all we need to know about love. Better when they come from the person you need to hear it from most. It's crueler when you don't realize it till afterward.

Sam and Bucky go out shopping for candles.

i'm gone by bi_marvel

After infiltrating a Hydra base, Sam and Bucky are sent to a safe house, and there's only one bed. Oh, golly, I wonder what will happen!

Covert Coffee & Flirtation Special by glittercake

The reporter says "—for Captain America to—"

And Bucky rolls his eyes. "Oh, here we go."

Sam looks at him then tips his head sideways, got a weird grin on his face. "Not a fan?"

"Not that. Just… the guy seems too good to be true, right? Wings and a shield? Come on."

"Uh, is that why your eyes are like glued to the screen whenever he's on?" Kate says. "Is that why you call him Captain Tight Ass?"

"He's a goddamn show-off, and you know it. Tight ass or not."

Just then Sam snorts, real loud, grabs his coffee and suffers a horribly controlled laugh on his way out the door.

The Starting Line by birdlight

A Series

Lone and Level Sands by quantum_consciousness

The almost-smile disappears off Sam’s face and he takes a step deeper into the water, and he starts unbuttoning his shirt as he wades further. One look over his shoulder and he chucks the shirt to shore, and Sam dives into the water. The ache in Bucky’s chest deepens as Sam swims. He supposes, Sam has lost a lot more, he supposes, sometimes Sam feels as lonely as he used to.

in which love doesn’t ruin us by joesnick

“Idiot,” Bucky said, so natural and deliberate that she couldn’t hear well but it was there. Relief and happiness under a small light. “Don’t do that to me again.”

“Hey, I’m here,” Sam said, before getting closer and pressing his forehead against Bucky’s. “I’m here.” They ran out of words. They didn’t need them, not at that moment. Their steadying breaths and their tenderness, saved only for each other and fed by each other, was all they needed.

Ride of Shared Melodies by enchantedlightningwrites for honestlyfrance

Two strangers, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson meet in an unexpected encounter in the airplane. Over the course of the ride, they discover their mutual love for music and connect.

Let's Fly Away by Unclesteeb

"If I could fly, I could go anywhere. I could do anything.”

Sam’s mom gives his shoulder a gentle pat. “You can in your own way.”

“How?”

“Sammy, all you have to do to be as free as a bird is to just do the right thing.”

Sam furrows his brow. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” Sam's mom starts. “The right thing is doing nice things for people. It's treating everyone how you would want to be treated. It's going out of your way to help people and love them, even if they're not nice to you at first or at all. People deserve love, and I know you have plenty to give.” She leans down to give his cheek a kiss. “All you have to do to find your wings and fly free is to just do what you feel is right. You have a beautiful heart, Sam. I know you'll use it the right way. Then you'll fly.”

Been one of those days (can I lean on you?) by hazel_eyed_bi

Sam and Bucky wrap up an exhausting, weeks-long mission, only to go back to their mutual pining while forced to share a bed at a crappy motel. Also, Nat knows what's up.

Find your love and fight for it by winterscaptsam

Sam learns to love again, quiet and composed. Love letters stay in between walls and stolen kisses don’t leave his apartment. It's not that it's a secret, loving Bucky the way he does, lord knows he’d scream it from the rooftops, travel all the way to space to let any living life form know it as well. But that’s the problem, he just doesn’t know how and it aches him to his core to keep Bucky like a secret, like this love is something to be ashamed of.

Sam decides it's about time to come out.

Kings of Everything by glittercake

Twenty-five years after the events at a popular New York Bistro, Timothy DumDum Dugan tells the true story of infamous mobster Jimmy Buchanan and the man he gave it all up for.

arson we commit by winterscaptsam

Bucky seeks adventure, reaches out for an adrenaline rush whenever he can get it and he reckons this fellow will be the one to give it to him. All sweet smiled and dolled up figure showing off his attributes. Like he’s daring anyone to take the rush.

So, Bucky goes and gets what he wants.

“What’s your damage, doll?”

Bucky is the hitman and Sam is the target.

The Boys of Summer by Siancore for avintagekiss24

Sam Wilson returns home to the small town he grew up in to complete his med school residency. He hasn’t been back for an extended amount of time since he left for college. While he only consistently kept in touch with childhood friend, Steve Rogers, he was keen to see the people he had grown up with. With the exception of Bucky Barnes. They had a falling out the summer before Sam left for college. What happened between them? Can they move past it now that they’re adults?

Sam's Plan by OhHelloFandoms123

“I have a plan,” Sam said smugly, hands on his hips. “I have a three-step plan for you to marry me.” At first, he thought he was joking. Then, he saw Sam’s genuine smile.

Bucky groaned, “there is no way in HELL that I’m marrying YOU, Wilson.”

Wreck In the West by OhHelloFandoms123 for honestlyfrance

There’s just something about leaning on his chest as the sun goes down and the smell of tea whilst into the air feels so amazing. And he was a wreck because of it, it tore him apart and put himself back together because it was so blissful, he almost couldn’t breathe at first.

Gay cowboy proposal.

Belonging Season by OhHelloFandoms123

Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes have lived their most happy, married life for 70 years. Death won’t stop them today for living an eternity.

neverending; by glittercake

Sam passes away after a long and happy life with Bucky, but Bucky never ages and life keeps introducing him to Sam's reincarnates for the next 156 years.

Lighthouse by glittercake

This guy’s trouble. Bucky knows that in his bones. It’s not bad trouble, is the problem, it’s good. Sam is so goddamn inherently good and if Bucky even touches that with a ten foot pole—fuck if he even looks at it—it’ll turn to shit.

He can’t afford another move to yet another city because his colleagues started recognizing Brock’s fist prints on his face.

But Sam is a ridiculously bright glowing light, a beacon, and Bucky goes toward it like that idiotic moth to the flame.

masterlist | ko-fi | patreon

#onlysambucky #sambucky #fysbfriday #fysambuckyweek #winterfalcon #sam wilson #bucky barnes #france: fic rec #fic rec #sam x bucky #sam wilson x bucky barnes

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buttsmasher · 3 years

Text

This story is for @tyohlerrr. I think you'll really enjoy this one. He submitted a fucking sexy photo to go along with this story. Take a peak here.

Warnings/Tags: Face Farting, Farting, Gay Farting, Farting on Tongue, Willing Victim, Teasing, Musk, Musk Play

Today has been one of the roughest days since you’ve joined the army. You and Booker somehow pissed off your commanding officer again and were made to run until he told you stop.

“Yo Books.” You say as you jog next to your partner.

“Sup?” He keeps looking ahead, following the track with ease.

“Is your ass sweating as bad as mine right now?” Booker looks over at you and laughs.

“It’s probably worse man. That shit in the canteen is fucking with my guts.” Booker stops and lifts his leg up.

PFFFFFFFFFTTTT

Your heartbeat quickens, as you watch Booker get back to his previous speed. “Fuck man, sounds rough.” You joke trying not to let your mind wander.

“I’d hate to be behind me right now, the Booker brew is toxic.”

“I know, that’s why our barracks smells like shit all the time.”

PSSSSSSSSSSS

An airy fart hisses from him as he continues his jogging. “Fuck.” Booker huffs. “I’m telling ya man, once I’m on leave, I’m finding myself a pig slut and letting him go to town.”

“What?” You laugh confused.

“You ever had a fag eat out your hole?”

“I ain’t gay man.”

“I ain’t either. I’m just saying though, you get one of those piggy fags, hoo-wee. They know how to make you come just by using their tongues.” You stare at him briefly wondering if he knows your secret. When you’re about to pass Sarge you hear Booker let out another loud fart.

“God dammit Booker!” Sarge yells and you can’t help burst out in laughter. Booker reaches out for a fist bump, which you oblige.

“Good timing man!”

“You know I’m a pro.”

You go back to focus on your breathing and how fast you're moving when Booker surprises you: “I saw you sniffing my boxers.” You nearly trip over yourself as the realization of what he just said hits you.

“What are you talking about?” You feign.

“Two nights ago, when I went to shower.” Fuck he really did see you. “I saw you pick em off the ground and huff on them.”

“Sorry man, I-I don’t-”

“It’s no biggie man, I ain’t judging.”

“It’s just-”

“You’re a little piggy and you need to get my stink in you.” He interrupts again.

“Shut up.” You go to push him but he deflects you easily.

“Look if you want to sniff my drawers it’s cool. But I can probably offer you something better.” His mischievous smile intrigues you.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Let’s just say, when we get back-”

“Keep running maggots! Don’t slow down!” Sarge yells as you pass him again.

“I swear to god if I just had one day with him.” Booker balls his hands into a fist.

“When we get back what?” You can’t contain your excitement which makes Booker give you a smug smile. “Fuck.” You say realizing how you sound.

“So you horny-horny.” Booker laughs.

“Fuck off man! I like what I like.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be under my fat ass in no time. Hope you like rotten eggs.”

“I-I.” You stutter as you watch Booker pick up his pace and runs ahead of you. That’s when the scent hits you. You swear it smells like a skunk just sprayed someone and you cough as you fail to catch back up to him. “Fuckin’ hell man!” You yell and he gives his ass a smack while he keeps running.

After an hour and half of running, Sarge finally tells you to stop running and sends you back to your barracks where you find Booker. He’s standing there shirtless, sweat glistening off his body, and his ass is hanging out from his shorts. “Nice outfit.” You joke as you throw off your sweaty shirt.

“You think so? Thought I could wear it out tonight.” He quips as he uses his hands to jiggle his ass. You shake your head as you pull off your boots. “You think you can handle this?”

“Hell yeah, your ass ain’t anything special.”

“Oh we’ll see about that.” He pushes you onto your bed and sits down on your stomach. “I kept it nice and ripe for you piggy.” He drags his bare ass up your body and then slowly back down.

“I ain’t no piggy.” You use your hands to grab ahold of his buttcheeks.

“You will be after I’m done.” You pull his cheeks apart to be gifted with a short airy fart.

PFFFFFFFFFTTTTTT

The warm gust of air escapes from his ass blowing across your exposed stomach, making you shiver. “You like that?” He gives you the cockiest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Stop teasing man.” You groan.

“Just warnin’ ya, I’m gassy as fuck!”

“Like I just said, your ass ain’t special.”

“Aight then.” He laughs as he twists around to plant his bubble butt right on your face. It’s musky as hell and much, much better than his boxers. You take some deep breaths as he squirms around to get comfortable. “Just remember you wanted this.” His hole gets into place right against your waiting.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

An airy fart gets blown against your nose smelling like that rotten fart he let earlier. It’s extremely overwhelming and you’re immediately seeing stars.

“Fuck man!” You cough out. “That’s rank!” You pull away slightly but he uses the opportunity to push your head so it’s trapped between his ass and the bed.

“I told ya! Didn’t wanna listen.” He pulls off his shorts completely to let his dick free. Your mind goes to the same place and you attempt to pull your sweats down over your now hard cock.

PFFFFFFFFFFFF

Another quiet and airy fart gets blown across your ready face and you let out a loud moan as you take a large inhale. It smells like rotten eggs and old meat. “Lunch ain’t sittin’ right, all the better for you huh?” Booker jokes as he shakes his ass on your face.

PFFFFBBBBRBRBRBRRRRR

“See, that was wet as fuck.” Booker laughs as you cough the wet fart down. You groan, but continue to keep sniffing loudly as you slowly stroke your hard cock.

“It smells great down here.” You struggle to get out. “This ain’t nothing.”

“You’re disgusting. To think I was holding all these in for you.” He hikes his leg a little higher.

PFFFFFFFBBFFFFFFTTT

“I mean, who actually enjoys this shit?” He laughs as you can feel him stroking his hard cock. The toxic fumes assault all of your senses making your eyes water and your nose burn. “Fuck that stinks.” He waves a hand in front of his face. “That’s worse than normal.”

“Yeah.” You agree as you struggle to hold back the bile that’s burning it’s way up your throat. “I love it.”

“You sound like you’re struggling down there. Need me to stop?” Booker says, concern in his voice. You remove your hand from your cock to wrap your arms around him so he doesn’t move.

“I’m fine. Give me more.”

“If you say so.” You move one of your hands back to your cock as the other pulls and squeezes his massive ass. A silent fart graces your nose making your eyes flutter as you take the rotten smell into your lungs.

“Fuck Books, you smell so good.” You can hear him laughing above you but he doesn’t say anything. And by the way he’s shaking he’s getting off on this as well. “Seriously man,” You take another large inhale. “You’re addicting.”

“Just admit it dude, you’re a piggy.”

“Not…*sniff* a piggy.” He laughs.

PFFFFFF PFFFFFFFF PFFFF

He breathes out a sigh of relief. “Can’t lie, feels good gettin’ all this out.”

“I bet.” You smack his large ass. “Let me eat you out.”

“Run that by me one more time.”

“Let me, eat your, oh so beautiful ass out.” You say mockingly.

“I don’t know piggy. It’s kinda dangerous down there, you sure you want your tongue near that?” You don’t even respond, you just swipe your tongue against his musky ass. “Oh fuck.” Booker moans above you as he grabs onto the bed for support. “Do that again.” You do as he says and his back arches even further.

PFFFFFFF

“Fuuck.” He groans as you struggle with the terrible taste he left on your tongue. “Okay, yeah, keep doin’ that.” You don’t argue, you just keep swiping your tongue on his dirty hole and every few swipes you poke your tongue into his ass. “Shit, we should’ve been doing this, uhhh, sooner.” His body is twitching above you. “I got a big one coming piggy. Fuck, get your tongue out” You can hear his stomach rumbling, but you refuse to pull your tongue out eager to get a taste.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTFFFTTTTTTT

The loud 15 second fart gets ripped right against your tongue and your mind goes haywire. The taste is god awful, making your thrash and attempting to push him off you. At the same time you can hear him groaning loudly as you feel him shooting his load all over your chest and stomach. You’re not far behind him cumming in your hands, shooting the largest load you think you’ve ever shot.

Immediately as you finish shooting everywhere, you start thrashing about again to get him off you. He gyrates his hips for a few moments until he notices that you’re not moving as much. He pulls off you and takes a look at you.

“Shit, are you okay?” You give him a thumbs up as you cough. “I think you’ve had enough.” He says helping you sit up from the bed.

“Fuck.” You manage to get out as you look at him. He just shakes his head and pulls his shorts back up.

“You’re fucked up man.”

“Yeah, probably.” His scent is lingering and you know you’re going to be tasting that ass for at least another day.

“You need a shower more than I do.” You punch his arm but he’s probably right.

“Told you I can take it.” You brag.

“Don’t push it. I have more in my tank.” Booker gives you a hard pat on the back.

PFFFBBBRRRRR

He makes an effort to fan the fart towards you and you just laugh. “See you in the shower?” You nod and follow him, where you get to play with his ass just a little more.

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ladyartemesia · 3 years

Note

Yooo your love story straight out seems like an e2l slow burn tumblr fic. Do you have any plans using at as a plot?? I would def read it 👀

I don’t know if I would truly call it enemies-to-lovers because—although I got irritated with him and his behavior and did snap at him from time to time—we were not really enemies. In fact we were barely friends for most of the years we knew each other—

Well.

Ok. So that’s not totally true...

We fought online constantly. From the time we graduated college (where his crush first developed and I routinely forgot his name) the two of us were always fighting on social media—usually about politics—and occasionally about other things but both of us were too smart to ever truly get the better of each other so there was a grudging respect, (his mom said he used to yell at his computer screen about me). We had it OUT several times online even though we rarely—if ever—spoke in person.

My poor sweet boy DID get himself in trouble over me in more ways than one though—even if we’re weren’t close yet...

His college girlfriend set him up to fail asked him who he would date if the two of them weren’t together and he answered immediately—vehemently—

“Viola. I would definitely date Viola if I could.”

🤦🏻‍♀️ (oh...honey...no)

(That would become a huge THING in their relationship. Every time they got into a fight his ex would shout “why don’t you just go date VIOLA then?!”—When he married me he said he felt like a real winner in that particular collection of conflicts. Playing the long game I guess 🤣😂)

Back then I was all about the music/dramatic arts scene and I was dating a string of empty headed pretty boys who bored me nigh unto death because I was young and completely stupid.

In contrast my someday-boo was painfully quiet and shy (though not really with me because he was too busy trying to prove me wrong), but everyone who met him or spoke to him really liked him and respected him.

After college we were were still in the same extended social circle (and—as previously mentioned—fighting online), but I went to grad school and my not-yet-husband decided to chill for awhile and take a job as a landscaper while he figured his life out and... here’s where it gets complicated because...

—that’s where the girls came in. You see... he’s always been a really nice guy... maybe a little too nice 🤦🏻‍♀️

The term fuqboi tends to conjure up impressions of a cocky frat bro who slyly shags his way through a mountain of willing women with disconnected efficiency and a subtext of emotional constipation.

But that would not be the case here.

You see my husband is a listener. He’s an INFP. He, unlike many of his brethren, understands emotions and can really make a woman feel seen. Combine that with his good looks, brilliant mind, and broody nerditude and you have a recipe for women who were ‘just friends’ randomly dropping to their knees (and a lot more) for him.

Never one to stand in the way of a lady’s dreams, pre-me-hubby figured that if they were that determined to (*insert miscellaneous sexy stuff here*) with him then—well—he’d let them.

I mean why not, right? No harm done.

Wrong. 🤬

And here is where our paths truly began to merge (in the real world) for the first time.

As the FOURTH girl (just in my friend group) he graciously allowed (🤦🏻‍♀️) to have her wicked way with him sobbed in my arms, I became determined to put this ridiculous man-child IN his PLACE—this time in the tactile world as well as the virtual one.

...Poor Liz

She realized that he had absolutely no desire whatsoever to be in a relationship with anything other than his WoW account and she was insistent that he had broken her heart.

So I cornered him and we had it out. (Call me meddlesome, but to be fair he was four friends deep at this point.)

The problem was that... the more I talked to him...the more he was not really what I expected... I found myself...oddly...intrigued?

Later it would come out that I was the first girl—ever—that he actually pursued. And I was not even aware of it for like the first three months.

He was pretty slick after all when it came down to it.

That man convinced me to ‘help him’ with women—to make sure he didn’t get himself into another situation where some girl with heart eyes was tearing off his clothes and expecting commitment.

HE ASKED ME TO BE HIS ‘EXCUSE.’

🤦🏻‍♀️(...I know. I’m an idiot.)

“We can hang out. You’ll teach me how to spot if a girl is about to catch feelings and take off my pants. And I will have an excuse when they call as to why we can’t hang out” (—and ...they really were always calling. It was wild.)

....I mean he WAS shy! It SEEMED plausible!

So yeah my dim self agreed to it. (🤦🏻‍♀️)

I considered it a valiant attempt to save the rest of my social circle from the most clueless ‘accidental’ fuqboi on planet earth and maybe even an opportunity to teach him how to be a real human being and what not.

And before you think ‘fake dating’—we weren’t. We were just hanging out as friends. You see when I went to yell at him (and chased him down after he laughed at me and tried to escape) we ended up talking in his car for like four hours. And then that happened like three more times randomly so... I... actually... wanted... to be his friend... 🤷🏻‍♀️

I was still 110% not interested romantically.

Your girl (me) was after some bland banker dude (🤦🏻‍♀️) and so I blissfully fell into friendship with my actual soulmate without a single second thought. And I never worried about either of us catching feelings because I had a crush on someone else and he had heavily implied that I was not his type. (He told me later that I just assumed this and he simply never corrected me 🙄)

I don’t remember falling for him. I never decided to. I never thought about it...

But one day after the whole crew was hanging out at a restaurant (and the waiter kept giving me free drinks which may have pissed my once-and-future man off) the two of us went out to his car to have our customary three hour post-chill chat...

I was teasing him about something—some girl he was still attempting to untangle himself from—and I said—as had become my habit (seriously I said this so many times as a joke)—“It’s too bad I’m not your type—you could just tell her you have a girlfriend.”

(Now. I know what you’re thinking. But I was still firmly on team platonic ok! I was just a flirt. And maybe part of me was starting to feel weird things about him—but those feelings weren’t like anything I recognized so I thought I just needed to cut back on sugar or something.)

(Have I mentioned I’m an idiot?)

ANYWAYS he looked me right in the eye. So serious. And instead of saying “that’s too bad”—LIKE he ALWAYS did—he said—

“You...are my type, Viola... You’re exactly my type.”

To which I responded—“....What? No I’m not. You said I wasn’t.”

“Never said that. You assumed.”

“You LET me!”

—followed by a good ten minutes of me having an existential crisis/yelling at him for allowing me to believe he didn’t find me attractive and lulling me into a false sense of security. He was infuriatingly unapologetic.

At the end of it all he asked me to give him—give us—a chance.

And I agreed to go out on a few dates with him (mostly to prove to myself that there was nothing there).

(🤦🏻‍♀️)

The only thing I ended up proving was that I was wrong about what I wanted and even more wrong about what I needed.

You see...

Those weird feelings turned out to be love.

(🤦🏻‍♀️)

And it was a really special experience to sit in a room full of girls who had cried in my arms over him—girls I had lectured repeatedly on the dangers of his heartless ways— and admit that I was his girlfriend.

🤦🏻‍♀️

Love was—and continues to be—nothing like I expected and frankly I couldn’t be happier.

... to answer your questions

1. I have considered writing a fic based on our story called Broken Road. The title is taken from an old Rascal Flatts song that—as insanely cheesy as it is—really reminds me of us. Don’t know if I will actually write this. Thought about it a lot though.

2. Tags I would use for this story?

#enemies-to-lovers / #idiots-to-lovers / #college au / #outgoing!fem reader(me) x shy nerd!accidental fuqboi / #reader is also a huge nerd actually / #she’s just a loud one / #frenemies-to-lovers / #the love is requited / #they’re just idiots / #pining (his) / denial (mine) / #reader has terrible taste in men / #except for that last one / #she really redeemed herself there at the end

#wow #it was really cool to write all this out actually #my love story #well part of it anyways #it’s still ongoing #via💋viola

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ibiitsu · 3 years

Text

that one beach episode [Sk8] x male reader (platonic)

Cat boy supremacy [3/29/2021]

Warning(s) : beach episode spoiler (also makes more sense if you have watched that episode), it’s rly long

Pairing(s): Sk8 x male reader (platonic), Langa x Reki

Y/n gets invited by Miya to tag along for a trip and enjoy the beach and hot springs. When they get to the beach, Langa leaves his phone unattended and somehow Miya steals his phone AND knows his password ( he’s secretly in a society of magicians). Yup this is just pure chaos 👍

A/n - parts of this is inspired by a tik tok I saw by triburnt

The breeze was blowing, the sun was shining and y/n was vomiting.

This would of been a whole lot better if Miya had told you about the cruise part. He had invited you to tag along with him to go the hot springs and relax for the weekend. It had all just sounded like a great time but no. Here you were, emptying out your stomach and dying on the inside.

“Hey slime! How are you feeling?” Y/n wiped his mouth before turning to see a small gremlin grinning at him, as a small irk mark appeared on his forehead.

“A whole lot better if you decided to tell me that we have to go on a damn cruise!” He stumbled towards Miya as his stomach lurched and his mouth filled with the familiar bile taste.

“Well, too bad for you, what can you even do about it now?” Miya snickered at your suffering and turned back to his game. With a huff, Y/n fell face down onto a chair and glared at him.

You annoying, cocky little piece of-

“Miya? Y/n?” Both heads turned to see a familiar green- haired cook with 2 ladies clinging to him.

“Joe?!”

3 other heads turned his way before another voice was heard.

“Please wake up. 10 minutes until arrival.” A robotic voice stated which made all 6 heads turn to the direction of the voice.

“Thank you Carla”

“What the hell are you doing here?!?”

Y/n covered his face and staggered away from them before an argument immediately broke out between the gorilla and a certain pink haired male. There was no way he would want to be seen anywhere near them.

“Cherry? What are you doing here?” Langa asked, ignoring Joe who continued to try and argue.

“Ah, I’m here for business, and you?”

“Hot spring healing”

“Tagged along”

“Babysitting”

“Vacation!”

“Nobody asked you, you gigolo gorilla!”

Aaaand they’re at it again.

Y/n sighed, already regretting his life decisions as he threw up for the 4th time.

———

“So beautiful...” Langa muttered as he stared at the ocean in wonder. He leaned further slightly to the water and watched it wash over his feet.

Reki ran up behind him and suddenly pushed him forward, grabbing the board before it fell in and joining Langa after a minute. “You gotta drive in the ocean!” Reki laughed before splashing Langa and slipping.

Everyone was soon all over the beach, enjoying the sunshine and ocean. Shadow was flying through the air, Langa was floating around in a tube and Cherry was lying in the shade of his parasol. Miya, Reki and Y/n were currently throwing a ball at each other in a free for all until he grabbed Reki’s ankles and pulled him under.

... Reki slowly stood up and stayed very very still.

“R-Reki?” Y/n slowly inched away from him as he nervously looked towards Miya for help.

“You... you... YOU RUINED MY HAIR!” Reki suddenly look up at y/n and grabbed the ball throwing it at him , chasing him across the beach.

“MIYA HELP ME DON’T JUST STAND THERE DO SOMETHI-“ Y/n yelled as he ran for his life before proceeding to be hit with a ball and dramatically face planting into the sand. 🥲

———

“Anyways, where’s Joe?” Shadow took a quick glance around the beach before seeing Joe, once again surrounded by 2 different ladies.

“Damn that guy! I’ll get in his way!” Shadow set down the drinks and started towards Joe.

“Don’t bother, it would just work in his favor.” Reki then showed a terrible example of what would happen which Y/n burst of laughing at.

“Hey! As if you could do any better!”

“You sure about that? You probably can’t even think of a way to get in the way of Joe’s flirting! Watch the pros and learn.” Y/n grabbed Miya, interrupting his game, and walked up to Joe.

“If you would like any dinner tonig-“

“Dad! Momma said that if you don’t get back soon, she’ll kill you!” Y/n and Miya crouched down and looked up at Joe expectantly before y/n pointed a finger at Cherry.

“Momma’s going to be so sad when she sees you with another woman! She was already angry when she saw the first one! It’s a wonder how she’s still married to you even when she’s seen you with new women every day!” Y/n sobbed, hugging Miya as they both looked at Joe’s suffering.

“He neglects his kids?!?”

“Damn, I feel so sorry for their mom.”

“Let’s just go...”

“Wait! It’s just a misunderstanding!” Joe panicky tried to reassure them as they look at him skeptically.

“Please don’t take my dad away!” Y/n and Miya simultaneously yelled as you clung to his leg and Miya to his torso. The ladies quickly hurried off and Joe fell down onto the sand in despair as Y/n and Miya walked away triumphantly.

———

After crushing Joe’s dreams of more women, Miya and y/n sat under the parasol, bored out of their minds. Miya’s switch had ran out of battery and Carla was no where to be found so they had to resort to stealing Langa’s phone to play games.

“Ya know, I kind of feel like a spy.”

“...do spies even steal things? Or do they just like, spy?”

“That sound so dumb I can’t believe you would say something like that Miya... so disappointed in you.”

“...I can’t believe a slime is talking to me.”

“...well I can’t believe that-“

“Oi shut up, Langa is on the move.”

“Roger that.” Y/n quickly moved towards the bag and slipped a hand inside, searching for Langa’s phone. He ran back to Miya and they took off, away from the bag.

“D-do spies even say roger?!?” Miya asked between pants.

“Well I..it doesn’t matter. We got the phone now.” Y/n handed Miya the phone and watched him magically unlock it.

“I- how- huh?!? How did you even know his password? I only just knew how Langa’s phone looked like a few minutes ago but you already know the password? What?!?” He stuttered in amazement while Miya looked proudly at the phone. He then turned to Y/n and looked him dead in the eyes,

“I, am a wizard. Now watch, my dear disciple.” Miya processed to then give a 10 minute explanation about fingerprints and smudges and witchcraft.

✨wow✨

“Anyways, this is just sad. Langa doesn’t even have any good games!” Miya sighed before turning towards y/n. “What should we do now?”

“I guess looking at all his secrets would be interesting?”

“I- why would that be the first thing that comes to your mind?”

“Well... don’t you want to know as well?”

Is it really that weird?

Y/n tilted his head before taking the phone from Miya. He scrolled through the apps before opening messages. :0

“And would you look at that!” Y/n showed Miya the contact info the Langa had for Reki.

“:0. I called it, yep. I knew it!” On the screen for Reki’s contact name was Reki with a red. heart.

“It’s a red heart! A. Red. Heart. The ship is real!” Y/n and Miya looked excitedly at each other before Miya spotted a certain person walking towards them.

“Quickly! Hide the phone! Langa’s coming!” He hissed and y/n hastily shoved the phone into the fold of his jacket.

“Hey guys, have you seen my phone?” Langa walked up to Miya and y/n while looking around.

“No we haven’t, I don’t even know what it looks like!” Y/n laughed nervously as Miya jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

Ow ow ow damn you really didn’t have to do that. It’s not like you could do any better anyways 🙄

“What are you up to anyways?” Langa looked suspiciously at y/n while he tried to look natural and smile. Miya quickly interjected and said, “Nothing much, we’re just talking. If we do see your phone, we’ll tell you though.”

“Ah, okay thanks.” Langa turned around and started towards Cherry.

“Miya! My savior! I have always believed in you!” Y/n rejoiced and wrapped his arms around Miya in joy.

“Oi you idiot slime! You almost blew our cover!” Miya sighed, “you are such a horrible liar.” He shook is head in fake disappointment before getting the phone and looking around once again.

“Ouch Miya, my feelings :( I take back what I just said.” Y/n sobbed before wiping away his fake tears. Miya just rolled his eyes and pointed to the screen.

“Anyways, look at this! The first thing that I see when I open Instagram is Reki’s profile!”

“Wait, Langa has Instagram? Wowwww I can’t believe that he never told me! Wait let me make him follow me.” Y/n was about the search up his profile until he saw the search history.

“Pick up lines?” Miya commented as he looked at the screen. “I guess the ship is about to sail soon then.”

“Nahh, Reki would be too dense to know that Langa would be flirting with him.”

“Oh so you want to bet on it huh?”

“Hell yeah. If I win, you give me $10 and if you win, I give you $1.” Y/n smiled happily, as Miya looked at him sideways.

“...why do I have to give you $10 but you would only give me-“

“ANYWAYS, he probably has pick up lines written in his notes, let’s check that!”

“...so we’re just going to ignore that you only give-“

“Oh wow, these pick up lines are... really bad...” y/n sighed and shook his head.

“Okay... so we’re just moving on I guess. Anyways, yeah, those are some really bad pick up lines.”

Unfortunately, due to the fact that Y/n and Miya were so engrossed in reading horrible pick up lines, they never noticed Langa coming up behind them and well... let’s just say that there won’t be anymore y/n content. (I’m just lazy and have no idea how to end this 🤷‍♂️)

A/n- yea, that’s it, I hope it wasn’t that bad since it’s my first try at things like this and I hope u enjoyed it :]

#sk8 #sk8 x reader #sk8 reki #sk8 the infinity #sk8 x male reader #sk8 miya #male reader #x male reader #x reader

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sevlgi · 3 years

Text

bubblegum pop

requested: no

group: twice

pairing: sana x fem!reader

genre: fluff

contents: rich girl!sana, college!au, cashier!reader.

warnings: none

synopsis: An unfortunately hostile encounter with the school’s sweetest rich girl might just lead to more than you ever expected.

a/n: inspired by @pearicot‘s mean girl rosie series! (by the way, i’m not trying to feed into the “dumb sana” stereotype with this; i just thought that her personality fitted the character i was trying to achieve! does anyone wanna request continuations or scenarios in this universe 👀

word count: 3.3k

Something about Mondays the week of finals always got you in a bad mood, especially when you had to work double shifts at the same stupid ice cream shop you’d worked at for the past 2 years of college.

So maybe, just maybe, there was reasoning behind you snapping at the love of your life during your first meeting.

Actually, there really, really wasn’t.

There were plenty of mean girls on campus who you wouldn’t regret yelling at whatsoever, but you just happened to blow up at one of the considerably nicer rich girls.

Minatozaki Sana didn’t mean anything bad when she innocently held out a hundred dollar bill to pay for a $5 ice cream. She didn’t mean to seem pretentious, nor did she mean to mock you and your minimum-wage job, but you just so happened to take it that way.

“Really? You have to rub it in my face like that?”

Sana stared at you, the money that she held out wavering in the ear. “Sorry?”

Pinching the space between your eyebrows, you huffed out an exasperated breath. Luckily, there was no one else in the shop about to witness the stupidest meltdown of your life. “You think I don’t know that I’m poor? It’s five dollars for God’s sake, no need to bring out the big guns. Oh, or are you doing this to avoid seeming more pretentious with your daddy’s black card?”

The brunette’s hand retreated quickly, the heels of her Louboutins clacking softly against the pastel-toned linoleum of the ice cream shop. Fuck, you hated that linoleum. “I... I didn’t mean any of that, I swear! Um, is there an ATM near here?”

Once again, the girl meant well, and you took it badly. You scoffed, glaring disbelievingly at her. Some part of you was screaming out that you were putting your entire job at stake, and your morals as well, but you disregarded any common sense remaining in your brain. “An ATM for 5 bucks? Dude, just don’t.” Dipping your hand into the tip jar, you scrounged out a lousy crumpled bill and threw it down on the counter, shoving the bubblegum-flavored sweet to Sana. “Okay? Now get out, I don’t want to see your privileged ass anywhere near here.”

The dense gray clouding your mind somehow missed the hurt expression on the girl’s face as the staff door swung open. Wendy’s hands, though gentle on your shoulders, shoved you behind her with surprising force. “I am so sorry, Sana, it’s finals week. Surely you can understand? The ice cream’s on the house.”

“No, of course it’s okay!” Sana sounded genuine enough, that was for sure; you caught her glancing worriedly at you a couple times, nothing malicious whatsoever in her eyes. “I can pay though, are you sure?”

“I’m sure. See you in class,” Wendy called out, smiling all the while until the girl disappeared into the Lamborghini parked by the curb. As soon as that happened, she turned back to you, concern tugging at the corner of her lips. “Y/N...”

“Yeah, I know,” you mumbled as you crossed your arms. Already, you were regretting what you said, though you were far too stubborn to actually apologize on the spot. “No arguing with customers about capitalism. Sorry, Wendy.”

The girl bit her lip, scanning the store to make sure that there wasn’t about to be an influx of customers. Usually she enjoyed working with you; you just had absolutely terrible mood swings sometimes, and those days were nothing short of hellish for her to deal with. “Just head home. Focus on your finals, and come back next week. Okay?”

You hesitated to agree, knowing that you needed the money, but the grim expression on Wendy’s face told you that you had no other option. “Okay. Sorry.”

As you snatched up your stuff and shoved the door to the street open, you missed the sight of Sana watching you through the tinted windows of her 6-figure car.

“Really? Sana?”

“I know,” you groaned, biting down on the plastic spoon in your mouth. The flavor of the month (the only one you could eat completely free) lingered unpleasantly on your tongue, the taste of it oddly salty. “She was so nice about it, too.”

Jeongyeon and Mina exchanged glances, not touching their respective cups of “Ocean Caramel” either. It was extremely kind of them to come and accompany you on the slow days, both of them even offering to suffer through the gross ice cream with you. “If it was Park Roseanne I might understand, but Sana,” Mina winced. Jeongyeon nodded in agreement; after all, everyone on campus knew about the reputations of Roseanne and Sana.

On one end of the “rich girl” spectrum, Roseanne was quite possibly the bitchiest one of all. She and her Bugatti Veyron, the college upgrade from her old McLaren, absolutely weren’t to be messed with. People who went to high school with you often told story of the G Wagon she smashed, the locker room she lit on fire, and so many other horror tales of a spoiled girl gone wild. You were sure that had you gone off on her, even Wendy wouldn’t have stopped you.

But on the other end, Sana was notoriously kind. Sure, her family raked in an income close to that of the other girl’s, and her wardrobe was just as expensive, but she made a point to donate to charities every time she went shopping. She tipped in the hundreds, and she didn’t ever ask for her designer clothes back when she lent them to strangers. She paid any dinner bill in full when she was there, and sometimes even when she wasn’t invited.

No one was entirely sure about the relationship between the two, but Roseanne seemed to hate Sana more than she did other people. The two fought publicly occasionally, but Sana’s kind heart made it so that even Roseanne couldn’t carry a fight very long. She didn’t respond to insults, it seemed, nor did she ever seem to actually take them personally.

Stirring her half-melted soup, Mina continued, “Hopefully she doesn’t hold it against you. She doesn’t seem like the type, but...”

Jeongyeon shook her head, opening her mouth just as the doorbell rang. You froze when you looked up to find a designer-dressed bombshell, a sweet smile outlined in Chanel Rouge Allure. She looked completely out of place amidst tired college kids spending their last paycheck on ice cream, white gauzy sleeves and blue dress shimmering under LED lights. If you were being honest, you’d say that she was the most beautiful person you’d seen in your life, but you were always well versed in lying to yourself. “Y/N, you better go.”

“Why?” you whined, pouting at your much more responsible friends. They ignored your puppy face, though; Jihyo was usually the only one you could sway, Momo sometimes if she was feeling merciful. “I’m on break.”

“Only when there’s no customers,” Mina argued, shoving you to stand. Jeongyeon smiled at you, waving you away. “Go, and don’t screw it up this time.”

You forced a smile onto your face when you reached the counter, bowing and adjusting your name tag. “Hi, what can I help you with today?”

“Hi, Y/N!” Sana grinned, bowing back. The fact that she remembered your name only made your guilt worse; if she forgot who you were, you could at least pretend that she didn’t remember the incident at all. “Ah, could I have the same thing as last time? Bubblegum Pop ice cream, on a sugar cone today. 3 scoops?”

Nodding, you moved to open the case, avoiding the girl’s gaze as you did. “Of course.” She was quiet at that, staring at the ceiling so as not to rush you. Without prompting, you blurted, “I’m... I’m really sorry about last week, by the way. I don’t know what I was thinking, blowing up at you like that.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay!” she protested, waving a manicured hand in the air. “I promise I understand you. We all have our bad days.”

You wanted to apologize again, if just to assuage your guilt, but you held off on it, joking, “How do you deal with them? Yell at Gucci assistants?”

Sana looked honestly offended as she accepted the cone proffered to her, eyes widening in shock. “I’ve never done that, I swear! Besides, I don’t like Gucci much.”

A light smile quirking at the corners of your lips, you handed the receipt to her as well. She didn’t ask for it, probably not caring about the measly price or having the space for it in her tiny bag, but took it anyway. “I’m sure you don’t. Your total is $5.23, will that be cash or card?”

“Cash!” She held out a 10 dollar bill, pride shining behind that gorgeous face as you raised your eyebrows in surprise. When your hands brush together, you were reminded of how much better she was than you, how you probably weren’t worthy at all to be touching her with your shop-issued baseball cap and grimy apron. But Sana doesn’t seem to mind, still smiling that airy smile at you and not moving away. She broke your stare by offering, “I don’t want to sound rude, but keep the change.”

“Not rude at all,” you fully laughed that time, dishing out the remainder to stuff in your tip jar. You still felt terrible that she felt the need to apologize about such a normal comment, asking, “Are you sure it’s okay? You can have this one free too, if it makes up for me shouting at you...”

Sana shook her head, sugary light pink already mixing into her lipstick. She walked away, still waving with that gorgeous smile on her face. “It’s okay. I’ll see you soon, Y/N, you look really pretty today!”

Turning back to your friends, you whispered, “Damn. She’s really nice.”

You planned on spending your one day off from school and work cozied up with a good book and your favorite hot drink, but you supposed that getting into a fight with Park Roseanne wasn’t the worst way to go either.

As soon as you entered campus, book in hand and blasting music in your earbuds, you found a crowd of at least 3 dozen people right in front of the library building. It was unlike you to butt into others’ business, especially when it might lead to a ruined day, but Roseanne’s voice carried loud over the hushed whispers of everyone else. “--huh, Sana?”

It wasn’t any of your business, but for some reason, Roseanne’s tone when saying Sana’s name angered you immensely. Frowning, you shouldered your way through the crowd. The closer you got to the center, the more expensive the clothing that brushed against your own rough jean jacket was, cotton and leather becoming silk and velvet. You originally planned to just fit in with the other spectators, but with a shove at the small of your back, you were thrust into the center too.

To your shock, Sana’s eyes were red and shining with tears, the tip of her nose cherry-colored as well. Her head was almost bowed as she stared at her shoes, but she looked up to you when you almost bumped into her. You stuttered out, “H-hey. What’s going on?”

Instead of an explanation from the Japanese girl, though, your gaze was drawn to the blonde across the courtyard. “Didn’t you hear? Little Miss Perfect here got broken up with,” Roseanne scoffed, an infuriating smirk on her perfect face as she tilted her head at you. “By a future CEO, no less. I guess she isn’t a gold-digger, or maybe there’s some other reason that he didn’t want her anymore.”

Your hand shot out to protect Sana, a scowl making its way onto your own face. “Excuse me? From my standpoint, any future CEO is still way outta her league, so forgive me for doubting that he’s the one who didn’t want her. You’re the one dating someone who makes a tenth of what you do.”

Roseanne rolled her eyes, lips thinning. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that, Y/L/N, or you’ve got another thing coming. There aren’t many lesbians in this damn school.”

“You know me, don’t you?” Sana’s voice was wavering as she spoke, but it was strong enough to echo in the courtyard. To your surprise (and somewhat satisfaction), the blonde girl’s eyes widened as Sana stood forward, her lips jutting forward. “That’s why I’m not dating him anymore. I like girls, too.”

Somehow, you’d never expected that Sana was attracted to girls, but it made perfect sense. An irrational part of you wanted to cheer, but instead, you forced yourself to speak.

“R-right.” You continued to glare at Roseanne, who finally seemed to be speechless. “Yeah, so how come you’re tearing Sana down? We should be supporting each other, but you’re being so rude to someone so kind, and that says all I need to know about you.”

Reaching out, you latched onto Sana’s upper arm and pulled her out of the circle, people parting to let the two of you through as Roseanne wasn’t able to conjure up something to respond with. You didn’t stop walking until there was only silence surrounding you under the shade of a swaying tree, finally stopping to let the girl sit. “Are you okay?” you asked, brow furrowed as you knelt to be mostly face-level with her.

Somehow, there was a smile on her face; a slightly snotty smile, but nonetheless the most beautiful one you’d ever seen in your life. You ignored the uncomfortable leap of your heart when you reached out to take her hands into your own, somehow forgetting about the hostility you’d felt towards her from the beginning. “You- you stood up for me.”

“Yeah. I did, I guess,” you shrugged, smiling slightly. “I’m sure that was rough, though, to come out. How’re you feeling?”

“Honestly, much better,” Sana sighed. She leaned back, fingers curling slightly around yours as the afternoon sun shone golden brown in the locks of hair spread out on her shoulders. “It was good to get it off my chest. I didn’t even know you were into girls, you know.”

Reaching up to scratch your head, you chuckled, “Well, I am, if it makes you feel any better. What happened between the two of you, by the way? She seems to hate you so much.”

The girl laughed, as bubbly and airy as her regular voice. “I may or may not have dated her girlfriend before. But it was a long time ago, and I’m still friends with her! Roseanne just can’t forgive me.”

You feigned shock, swatting at her arm. “How terrible of you! I’m so disappointed.”

You were stuck simply smiling at each other for a good minute or so before you looked away, picking at your shoelace for something to do. “So. Uh, Roseanne knew the whole time?”

“She did,” Sana confirmed, nodding. “She just never talked about it.”

“Well, it’s good to know that she isn’t the only other one in the school with me,” you sighed, sitting back on your heels.

Sana lurched back forward, hands clasping together at her chest. “Then we should celebrate! We can go shopping or something, and we can just be happy that we aren’t alone anymore.”

It suddenly struck you how quickly you could change the girl’s entire outlook, a smile coming onto her face with no effort from you whatsoever. But even more surprising, you smiled even larger than she did just looking at her.

Laughing, you sat back on your heels and shook your head lightly. Seeming to take it as a rejection, Sana’s eyes widened. “Oh, only if you want to, of course! We can go wherever you want, we don’t even have to go shopping if you don’t want to!”

“No, we can go shopping,” you answered, reaching back over to squeeze her hand and pulling her up with you when you stood. “Come on, then. Let’s go celebrate.”

Sana wasn’t a great driver, but you didn’t expect much else. You were practically sick to your stomach by the time that you reached the mall, face green as you swayed out of the car.

“Ah, Y/N, I’m sorry!” Her hands rubbed lightly at your back as you squatted in the parking lot, fist held tight to your mouth. It wasn’t like you were actually going to throw up, but you didn’t want to risk ruining the girl’s expensive shoes. “I’ll let you drive next time.”

Next time? you wanted to ask. But you managed to stand, nodding quickly to ease Sana’s worry. “Yeah. It’s fine, I’m fine. Should we go?”

Immediately, she latched onto your hand, swinging between the two of you as she started to rush forward. “H-hey, lock your car first!”

Sana had unsurprisingly expensive tastes, but also surprisingly understated ones. She was fun to shop with, that was for sure- she loved to offer you clothes and also to offer to pay for them, but you didn’t necessarily hate a pretty girl telling you you’d look gorgeous in a certain sparkly dress.

She didn’t do any of the typical stuck-up things you expected her to- Sana carried her own bags, and she never forced you to follow her instead of doing what you wanted to. She did like to try on outfits and show them to you, but that could be ignored when it was just another opportunity for you to stare at her.

Eventually, you ended up having ice cream at one of the stores in the mall. You balked at the price, but Sana swiped her credit card without hesitation. “I have to admit, this bubblegum doesn’t taste as good as yours,” she pouted.

Chuckling, you savored the rich flavor on your own tongue. “You should’ve picked an expensive flavor then. Vanilla and chocolate are always good in these kinds of stores.”

“You know a lot about ‘these kinds of stores’ for someone who claims to be poor,” she teased, eyes widening as soon as the words slipped out of her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-”

“Nah, it’s fine,” you smiled, leaning on your palm. “I’m good with it, since we’re friends now.”

Sana grinned at that, her eyes curving charmingly. “We’re friends? Most people don’t want to be friends with me, I’m really glad you’re willing to.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

Looking down for once, the girl mumbled, “They say I’m dumb. You know that everyone says I’m nice, but they also think I’m dumb because I pay for everything. I just want to be kind, but no one takes me seriously.”

A wave of guilt rushed over you for previously feeding into the stereotype. The more time you spent with Sana, the more you realized that she was as brilliant as any other, and far more kind. “Well, that’s stupid. You are kind, Sana, and you’re amazing. I’m lucky to be your friend.”

She clasped your hand over the table, soft skin warm over yours, pink flushing in her pale cheeks. “Thank you, Y/N. You know, this is the best time I’ve had in a while. My boyfriend didn’t even listen to me this well,” she laughed.

Despite the fact that she treated it as a joke, you felt horrible. She was all too used to thinking the worst about herself and not believing that she was worth any better, and that was the worst possible thing you could imagine for a girl with a heart of gold. Jabbing your spoon into the remaining ice cream, you blurted, “Then go on a date with me. A proper one, not just a normal hangout like this.”

Sana instantly blushed, looking down as if it’d hide her face at all. But she missed the heat that rose to your cheeks too, the nervous biting of your lip as you waited for a response. “I would love nothing more,” she smiled, her eyes shining brilliantly. “And I can’t wait.”

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hearts-hunger · 3 years

Text

half-cocked || javier peña x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: Javi’s your boss, and he’s so damn stubborn. You’d have to be crazy to go off half-cocked twice in one night, right?

Pairings: Javier Peña x DEA Agent!Reader

Genre: smut, porn without plot (18+ only!)

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: god uhhh filth, oral (m and f receiving), thigh riding, choking, praise kink, dirty talk, hand jobs, unprotected sex, dom javi, sub reader, fluff at the end bc i think smut always deserves some fluff ♡ also, totally unbeta-ed.

A/N: full disclosure i was drunk on vodka cran and listening to “drew barrymore” by bryce vine when i wrote this, so it might be terrible or it might be really good. i just want javi to lovingly & tenderly top the fuck out of me :) let me know what you think!

“I told you not to go near those guys.”

Javi crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for you to answer, to explain why you’d done the exact opposite of what he’d told you to do. You felt yourself blush, face heating with anger and embarrassment and something you refused to acknowledge.

“I thought I could get something out of them,” you said, going on the defensive. “They know something, Javi. It would have been stupid to pass up an opportunity to get some intel from them.”

You watched the way his jaw worked.

“No, what would have been stupid is if you had gotten hurt,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. You almost wished he would yell at you and get it over with; this cold anger was harder for you to bear.

He’d expressly told you to stay away from the group of narcos you’d been tagging for a week, and he was your boss. But you knew you could get something from them - they’d talk to you quicker than they would talk to Javi, and you both knew it. You never disobeyed a direct order, especially not from Javi, but he was being so stubborn. You went ahead and questioned them anyways, and Javi had caught you red-handed.

“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” you asked coldly.

He ran a hand over his face. “Of course you can take care of yourself,” he said. “But you’ve been here for two minutes, alright? Sometimes you have to trust my judgement. I’m not a complete idiot. If you fuck around with these guys and go off half-cocked, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to say you’d done the job without getting hurt. You knew that was beside the point; you’d gotten lucky with these guys - you could have just as easily gotten shot for your trouble, and both you and Javi knew that.

He cut you off before you could say anything.

“You answer to me,” he said. “Are we clear? I don’t care what kind of wild ideas you have in your head about catching fuckin’ Escobar all by yourself. If I say to steer clear of a bunch of narcos, you do what I say. Not whatever bullshit you come up with. Got it?”

God, you could have screamed.

“Yes,” you managed. You started to leave, but that wasn’t enough for him. He took your arm in a grip gentle enough not to hurt but firm enough to show you how deadly serious he was.

“Yes what?” he asked.

You felt your face heat again. “Yes sir.”

You could have sworn you felt a fucking switch flip. The air in the office was suddenly hot and constrictive; you met his eyes and felt like you were on fire.

He was so close to you, so close you could feel his warmth and smell his cologne. You could see where his pulse beat furiously under his jaw; his eyes were dark as they met yours.

He gave a hum of agreement. “That’s better.”

You couldn't think of anything to say; you were completely consumed with him, the way his hair fell across his brow, the way the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, the way his skin looked so sunkissed and warm.

For the second time that night, you went off half-cocked; you pressed your mouth to his and hoped against hope it wouldn’t cost you your job.

His response was immediate - he opened his mouth against yours and took your tongue, one hand still holding your arm and the other moving to hold your waist securely against him. You carded your free hand through his hair, whining a little; god, but he could kiss. Your breath came in sharp gasps as he hooked your leg over his thigh, drawing your heat closer against him.

“You want this?” he asked, breathless.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, sir. Please.”

He sighed against your mouth. “Fuck. Alright.” He ran his fingers over the seam in your jeans. “What do you want?”

You could barely think straight; something you’d imagined countless times came to mind, and you decided to try your luck.

“Can I ride your thigh?” you asked, needy. “Please, sir.”

He groaned. “Yeah, pretty girl. Whatever you want.”

He stumbled backwards, one hand out to make sure you didn’t crash into anything; he found his desk chair and took a seat, looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Come on, baby girl,” he said, patting his thigh. “Right here.”

You did as he said, straddling his thigh, feeling a rush of heat before you’d even moved. You put your hands on his shoulders and let him kiss you, deep and hungry.

You started to move against his thigh; his hands roamed all over you, desperate, needy. You rocked your hips, pressing yourself against his thick, muscled thigh. Your breath started to catch in your chest; he put his hands on your hips and pressed you down against him, each movement of your hips dragging over his thigh.

“Javi,” you breathed. You gripped his shoulders and pressed yourself against him.

“Tell me how it feels, sweetheart,” he said, kissing your neck.

“God - oh, fuck, feels so good,” you managed. “Oh, Javi - ”

“Such a good girl for me,” he said. “Getting yourself off on my thigh - what a good girl.”

“‘M close,” you whined. You were almost embarrassed with how quickly you’d come to the edge.

“That’s alright, baby,” he said. His big hands moved over your breasts. “Come on, honey. Take what you want from me.”

Your eyes fluttered open long enough to see his face, all flushed pink; he bit his lip when you moaned, his head leaning back like he was getting off on your whines.

“Oh, Javi, I’m gonna cum,” you said, desperate and a little panicked. Though you’d gotten yourself off thinking about him before, you’d never gotten off with him, much less while riding his thigh. Maybe this was crazy. Maybe this wasn’t -

“Good girl,” he said, almost like a sigh. “Fucking gorgeous, getting yourself off on my thigh.”

Your nerves faded and you wrapped your arms around his neck, moving your hips sharply against his thigh; when he kissed you, it was surprisingly tender. He kept his mouth against yours as you reached your high.

“Javi,” you said desperately. “Fuck, fuck - oh, god - ”

He held you against him as you rode out your orgasm on his thigh, moans tumbling from both of you. He sucked right below your jaw, murmuring words of praise.

“Thank you, thank you,” you babbled, leaning against him as you came down from your high. You could feel how hard he was through his impossibly tight jeans; you palmed him and kissed at his neck, sloppy and sweet.

He couldn’t help a choked laugh. “You’re welcome, baby,” he said. “Anytime. But really, you did most of the work.”

He lifted you off his lap, ignoring your slight protest; he stood you up and fumbled with the button on your jeans.

“Let me taste you, baby,” he said. He knelt in front of you, looking up at you from under his long, dark lashes; you would never have guessed he could look this needy. You couldn’t do much but nod your head.

As he started to pull your jeans down, you had a sudden moment of clarity. “Javi, wait, wait.”

He stilled, looking up at you for direction. “What’s wrong?”

You fumbled with the words. “I didn’t - you haven’t - ” You swallowed. “Let me get you off.”

He chuckled, a wry grin spreading over his face. “Patience, baby girl. You’ll get your turn.”

God, your mouth practically watered at the thought. He quickly put any other thought out of your mind as he helped you shimmy out of your jeans, his ease and control only making you more flushed. He made quick work of your underwear, pausing only a moment to comment on how wet they were.

“Hmm, someone enjoyed themselves, I see,” he teased.

You blushed. “Shut up.”

He grinned up at you. “Make me.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he nosed at your heat, gently bringing your leg over his shoulder. You grabbed the corner of his desk, your whole body like a live wire with desire and overstimulation. You’d only just come down from your last orgasm, you couldn't possibly -

“Jesus Christ,” you gasped, tangling the fingers of your free hand in his curls as he went straight to business, eating you out like you were his last meal. The sounds he was making - god, they were downright sinful. You didn’t think you’d ever enjoyed a man going down on you with such pleasure or such skill.

“You taste so good, querida,” he rasped, catching his breath. “Fucking delicious, baby girl.”

You tugged a little on his hair, incoherent whines falling from your lips as he sucked on your clit. “Javi, fuck, oh, god, please - ”

“Gonna cum, beautiful?” he asked. “Gonna cum on my tongue?”

A sound came from your throat that almost sounded like a sob. “Yes, please, just - ”

You didn’t know what you were asking for, but evidently he did; within seconds, his tongue dipping into you and his nose nudging at your clit, you came so hard it made your legs shake.

“Javi, Javi, Javi,” you pleaded, like a prayer. He sucked your clit through your orgasm; when you finally came down, he grinned up at you and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said with feeling. “You sound so gorgeous when you cum, baby.”

You steadied yourself on his shoulder as he stood, shaking with residual waves of pleasure. He kissed you, salty with your own taste, pulling your hips against his.

“I wanna suck you off,” you said, almost begging. “Please, Javi.”

He groaned against your mouth. “If you want to, honey.”

You put your hands on his shoulders and pushed him down until he sat back in his desk chair, knees spread for you. You knelt in front of him like he had just done for you; your hands were shaking a little too much to easily undo his belt, and he did it for you. You pulled his cock out of his boxers and gave him a few quick strokes.

“Fuck,” he bit out. You waited before you did any more; you wanted to be told what to do, but you were mortified to admit it.

“What is it, baby girl?” he asked. You looked up at him, your hand wrapped around his cock, begging him to understand.

He gave a quiet hum, seeming to realize what you wanted. He put his hand to your throat, just firm enough to let you feel the pressure of his fingertips. He met your eyes, looking for permission; you put your hand on his wrist and held his gaze.

“You like this, sweetheart?” he asked, giving you every chance to say no.

You looked up at him from under your lashes. “Yes, sir,” you said, incredibly coy for someone who still felt the pressure and heat of his tongue between your legs.

He studied your face. “You like to be controlled, huh, baby girl? Wanna be told what to do?”

You ran your hands up his thighs, just enough to tease, pushing him a little; he tightened his grip, just enough to make you still.

“Don’t be naughty,” he warned. He leaned forward and kissed you. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“Javi,” you managed. “Wanna suck your cock, sir.”

“I don’t know, dollface. Only good girls get what they want. You disobeyed me earlier, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t help the whimper that escaped you. Now you were getting down to it. You’d disobeyed him and, like it said on your DEA profile, Agent Peña was in charge of any disciplinary action that needed to be taken in your case.

“But you’ve been such a good girl,” he mused. His thumb ran under your jaw, caressing the place he’s put a love mark earlier. “You won’t disobey again, will you, baby?”

“No,” you breathed.

His grip tightened. “No what?”

“No sir,” you whined.

“Good girl,” he praised. He moved his hand from your neck to your hair, brushing it back with intentional tenderness. You took that as your permission and moved your hand up and down his cock, drinking in the sounds he made as you pleasured him.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed. A string of Spanish curses fell from his mouth, somehow melodic; you took him as deeply as you could manage, swallowing around him, running your tongue up the underside of his cock. He tasted so good, and his breathy moans were like music; you put your hands on his thighs as he tangled his fingers in your hair.

“So good, baby, god - ” His voice pitched up sweetly. “You’re so good. Fuck.” He only just managed to keep himself from fucking his hips against your face, trembling under your hands.

“Wait, baby, hold on,” he gasped. You came off of him with a pop and looked up at him, waiting for direction; he swiped his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Don’t wanna come yet, sweetheart,” he said, his chest pumping. Sweat shone on his chest where his button-down was undone. “And if I let you go any more, I’d be done for.”

“Yes sir,” you said breathlessly, your voice hoarse.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Good girl.” He stood and brought you up with him.

“I want you,” you said petulantly, your hands roaming everywhere. “Please, Javi.”

“Hold on, honey.” He took both your wrists in one hand. “You’re gonna do as I say?”

You kissed him hungrily. “Yes. Please. I want to do what you say.”

He kissed you and bit your bottom lip. “Bend over my desk, baby girl.”

You did as he said, pushing files aside to brace yourself against his desk; you felt him draw close to you, giving himself a few strokes before he drew his cock between your legs.

“Easy, baby,” he soothed, putting one hand on your hip, holding you steady; his other hand gently brushed over your ass. “Can you be patient for me?”

You pushed back against his hips. “Yes, sir. I want you.”

“I know, honey,” he said. He reached around to circle your clit with slow, deliberate movements, making you give a breathy little moan.

“You sound so pretty when you’re needy,” he praised.

“Please,” you said. You were confident he knew what you meant.

He leaned down to kiss the back of your neck. “Since you asked so sweetly.”

He pushed into you quickly, all the way to the hilt; you gasped as he filled you, warm and tight and almost too much.

“Alright, baby?” he asked gently. You knew he was being sincere, and he gave you a moment to settle. You took a deep breath and moved against him, desire and pleasure washing through you with even that small movement.

“Please, Javi,” you whined.

He started to move his hips against you, each stroke deep and intentional. His hips snapped against yours at a steady and delicious pace, filling you, dragging across the spot that made you moan and whimper.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Javi said, his voice tight and heavy with desire. “You’re so beautiful, baby. Can’t believe I get to be with you like this.”

“Javi,” you keened. His fingers circled your clit, bringing you to the edge as your pleasure grew. “You’re so good, Javi, oh - fuck - ”

You tightened around him as you tried not to cum, wanting to finish with him. His grip on your hip tightened.

“‘M close, sweetheart,” he said.

“Fuck, me too,” you gasped. “Oh, please - ”

“Cum with me, baby,” he managed. “Come on my cock, sweetheart.”

He pushed into you and pressed deeply against your clit; your orgasm washed over you with blinding pleasure, and you called out his name like a prayer. As you tightened around him, he came too, groaning like you’d torn his heart out of his chest.

“Christ,” he breathed, leaning his head against your back. He kissed your neck and stood you up as he pulled out of you, steadying you as your legs shook with ebbing waves of pleasure.

“That was incredible, sweetheart,” he said breathlessly. He turned you around to face him, holding you close, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Thank you, Javi,” you said.

He gave a quiet laugh. “Anytime, querida.”

You wanted to kiss him again, but feared it might be too intimate; he pressed his mouth to yours and kissed you tenderly, slowly.

“Don’t disobey me again,” he said, though his warning was gentle and you knew it came from a place of worry and care for you.

You shook your head. “No, sir.”

You could feel his smile against your mouth. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.”

tag list: @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl, @punkgeekchic ♡

let me know if you want to be added to my pedro pascal character taglist!

#this MAY be terrible but it also may be SO GOOD #let me know 👀#javier pena x reader #javier pena x reader smut #maddie writes stuff!#pedro pascal #narcos fanfiction #dom!javier

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limitlessgojo · 3 years

Text

Blood Bound: Blackened Bond (Ch 15)

Warnings: Action, Coarse Language, Fighting, Descriptions of Blood

Previous Chapter: Big White Lies

Next Chapter: 土御門天皇 (Tsuchimikado)

Tags: Kamo Noritoshi x Reader, Soulmates AU, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Fem!Reader

Taglist: @lessie-oxj @rizzo-nero @whoreuc @fkngkumiko @isl3t @gojoussunglasses @onepotatostand-blog @s-t-f-u-b-i-t-c-h @sunaswife @lordguameow @track5enthusiast

Notes: If you want to be tagged for every update, and specify if you're okay with NSFW posts or not, please mention it in the comments below ty ❤

Chapter 15: Shadows Fall

You numbly sat down on your bed. The room was dark. Your Phoenix brand, silent, a dull sepia stain on your inner wrist.

It hurts a lot.

“He’s no different to the power hungry elders of this corrupt society after all huh.” You were disappointed. It was dumb of you to give your heart away to him. Especially to a man who was already planning on taking in concubines, this early into your “relationship”.

You checked your phone to see the notifications. Mai and Miwa were looking for you, saying that you have dinner out with them in a few minutes.

'Ah, that was supposed to be for tonight' you thought.

"Sorry can't go, feeling unwell. You guys go ahead." You texted back to them as you slumped on your bed.

After a few minutes your door slammed open. "Where have you been?!" Mai asked, but stopped talking upon seeing your red rimmed eyes. Miwa peeked out behind her. "Are you okay y/n?" She asked.

That question absolutely crushed you. You started sobbing again, not being able to hide your shaking shoulders. The two girls filed in and closed your door.

"We are ordering take out. Miwa go ahead and cancel that reservation. We will stay in tonight." Mai said. "Right!" Miwa worriedly replied as she pulled out her phone and made the call.

"I'm not here to baby you. You will tell me what happened, okay?" Mai demanded.

"I need a few minutes" everything looked so blurry through your tears, Mai and Miwa only looked like unfocused blobs of dark green and bright blue. Literally, the only way you could distinguish the two girls at this point was by their hair color.

They couldn't get much out of you other than you talking about how Kamo-san never liked you in the first place and how you pushed yourself onto him.

The girls held you as you cried. They couldn't believe what they were hearing. "But both of you looked great. I'm sure Kamo senpai really liked you though?" Miwa questioned out loud.

Mai just nodded her head. "I said it before already. Both of you act like you're so oblivious to each other's affections. But I do agree that you put more effort into the relationship. He always turns down your request for dates off campus. Even an outsider could see that."

"No, no it’s not that. You guys know how the big 3 clans operate. He just felt that I was a suitable wife to bear his heirs. They're jumping at the chance to use me to get a blood-manipulator jujutsu shi who may also possibly inherit my psychokinesis technique. I don't want to stay in a relationship without any love in it." You whispered.

Your voice was all gone after you sobbed for hours. The fight and energy just drained out of your body.

They couldn't say anything to that as it was your relationship with Kamo and not theirs. That night, they slept over in your room, the three of you squishing into your queen sized bed and plushies.

◇◇◇

On the other hand, Noritoshi had woken up from his nap, bedhead and red rimmed eyes and all. Clearly remembering all your painful words. He looked over to the side, staring at the Jade dragon pendant atop his bedside table. A small pink letter resting beside it, one that you had given him days prior.

‘Dearest Toshi,

You must be exhausted from all of your extra tasks given to you by your clan as of the late. I hope that it gets better soon, I’m here if ever you want to talk about it or if you need any help with that. My family and I are open to supporting you in your endeavors, though you haven't met them yet. Hiroki nii is especially excited to meet you, I can already see the both of you getting along quite well. Whenever you’re ready <3

Have a good evening.

Love, Y/N.’

He felt tears burn behind his eyelids.

“It was too sudden, I couldn’t even understand half the things she said to me earlier,” he murmured to himself. He racked his brain, trying to recall the things you said. It was mostly a blur to him.

Something about what he and his father talked about yesterday. That wasn’t an issue, it was mostly clan duties as per usual.

Also, how he never liked you. Well, he hasn’t confessed yet, but he couldn’t see why you’d bring that up out of nowhere when everything was still fine 2 days ago.

Concubines. The talk on concubines. Why did you- Oh. “... from yesterday” Noritoshi’s head was getting clearer and clearer. You must have misunderstood the conversation he had with his father, and left before it finished. It didn’t sound pretty now that he thought of it.

He had that single-minded goal of pleasing his father and the elders, but somehow you got tangled in the mess.

He sighed frustratedly. It always seemed to be the case with you jumping conclusions about him, didn’t it? Now he has to clear it up with you before it gets too bad.

◇◇◇

You woke up the next morning feeling and looking like utter shit. Mai and Miwa had to dress you up and drag you out of bed.

“There’s only one thing you can do now Y/N.” Mai said as she straightened out your collar. “Get over him.”

Huh. Easier said than done.

◇◇◇

There was a drastic change in your behaviour towards Noritoshi. The name "Noritoshi-senpai", that you had always cheerily called out, was replaced by a short and curt "Kamo-san" whenever conversation was necessary. Also, you don’t look into his eyes anymore.

You avoided him as much as you can, thanking yourself for knowing his schedule so well. Not hesitating to turn and go around in another direction if you ever saw him approaching from a distance. Because of this he rarely sees you on campus.

It hurt Noritoshi badly to see you act this way. He never realized just how warm you were with him until now that it was all gone. He tried to catch you during your breaks, calling out your name with the same tenderness he always had. But it was in vain as you ran away from him.

Todo and Momo wisely chose not to make any snide comments, upon seeing how downhearted Noritoshi was in the following days.

Everybody avoided eye contact with both of you if and when you had to interact. It couldn't be helped. The tension was like a fine piece of glass waiting to shatter.

The pain in your heart didn't subside at all. You've taken to staring at the mark on your wrist.

'Did I successfully reject our bond?' You wondered hollowly.

Sometimes you half expect your mark to start flashing wildly, like whenever you and Noritoshi have off days with each other. But this is the first time you've seen it so… silent.

You wrapped it up with more darker velvet strips and ignored it.

It was the opposite on Noritoshi’s end. He would lie in bed and stare at the mark that is dangerously bright red and hot. It almost felt painful, like someone was searing a brand onto his skin.

He wrapped it up in gauze bandages and put salves to soothe the mark. But it was never enough. He needed you back.

◇◇◇

During one afternoon, you just finished an English lesson with one of the windows who teaches at Jujutsu High. You stood up from your desk and turned to see the man outside of your classroom.

"Y/n, are you free for lunch?" Noritoshi had obviously sprinted as soon as his lessons had ended. “We need to talk.” All 4 of you looked up to see him outside the classroom, as composed as ever. But he looked terrible.

There were shadows under his eyes, and he seemed to have gotten thinner. The shitty side of you was cruelly happy. Good that he’s like this, because he lost his toy. Good on him. But your heart was sad, yelling at you to go back and take care of him already.

"Ah I'm sorry, but I've got lunch with the rest of the 1st year's here." You politely declined. Trying to school your face into a neutral expression.

"I insist." He firmly stated. He looked over to the other students. "You don't mind if I borrow her do you?"

You inwardly scoffed at his poor choice of words. The stupid arse still thinks I'm his belonging apparently. Something to be borrowed and used.

But Mai stepped up. "If she doesn't want to hang out with you then she doesn't." Miwa was fidgeting worriedly. "Now now." She started.

"I really wanted to have lunch with my fellow 1st years, if you could please excuse us Kamo San." You hastily uttered, pulling Mai's arms towards you while turning away. The other first years followed your lead.

But Noritoshi was determined. He quickly put his hand on your shoulder, only for you to slap it away and flinch from him. Everybody froze.

You were clearly trembling, which made Noritoshi lower his hand and step back. "I'm sorry y/n." Whether the apology was for holding you without your consent or for everything that happened, you painfully let it slide. Silently bowing to him, then quickly walking away with the others.

Noritoshi could only watch wistfully as your figure disappeared from his view.

◇◇◇

"The nerve of shitty men," Mai angrily stuffed her mouth with eggs from her bento. "Thinking they own women, that they're better than us. It was like this with the men in my family as well. Bullying and kicking aside the weaker women."

You sadly poked at your food. It was katsudon. You ordered it ahead of time from the cafeteria, wanting to perk up with a favorite dish. But today it tastes so bland. It wasn't the cooking that was off. Just that you had no appetite.

"Wouldn't you want to talk it out with Kamo senpai, y/n?" Miwa asked. Truth be told you were adding fire to the problem. You just dumped your anger on Noritoshi and kept rudely cutting him off before leaving him.

But your pride and broken heart didn't allow you to go back to him. "I don't think there's anything left for me to say or do to be honest. I'm not in the mood to face him. At all." You lied.

Mechamaru surprisingly spoke out, "Love is a fickle thing. And it's a fact that women are more in tune with their emotions than men are. But I think you won't regret it if you give him a chance. Kamo Noritoshi isn't a bad man."

Mai huffed. "Whose side are you even on?"

"There are no sides. Just two idiots who are madly in love with each other." Mechamaru dryly replied.

Your heart clenched, but you stayed silent, not denying the fact that even after you pushed him away, you still loved him.

"Let's talk about something else shall we?" Miwa hurriedly changed the topic and started discussing the homework to be done.

◇◇◇

Hiroki was both the best and the worst brother you could ask for. Because he chose this time to surprise you with a visit at Kyoto High, claiming he wanted to see how you were doing with classes and that he would stay for a while.

Secretly, he wanted to meet and gauge Noritoshi, only to find out that the both of you have just broken up. You brought him into your dorm room to have a chat and some snacks.

“WHA?! YOU- You ended things with your soulmate?! You were together for like what?! 4 Months?” His jaw dropped as you told him the entire story.

You gave a drawn out sigh. “Hiro nii, I’m done. Like… He… I dunno anymore. To be honest I broke up with him in the heat of the moment.”

“Tsk, you’ve always been led by your emotions. That’s why you’re so reckless half the time sis. You didn’t even try to talk it out with him.” He asked as he opened a bag of chips.

You stayed silent and reached for chips. Chewing and ignoring him.

“What’s with you and bottling all your pent up anger only to toss it onto the poor guy? Didn’t even give him a chance to explain himself.” he tutted.

You whirled on him angrily. “They just want me for my power. Then they’ll let him off with like a dozen women around him. What the fuck is there for him to explain?!”

Hiroki looked way too calm. “Who are 'they'?”

You paused. “The Kamo family.”

“Are you 100% sure Noritoshi was in this only to use you?”

“Like 99.99%...” you trailed off. Hiroki eyed you knowingly. “That 0.01 percent chance of him loving you. You considered it, even though that’s a small ass probability sis. But hey, that’s your man. If you want him out, our family’s got your back. I’ll beat him up for you if you need me to”

You shook your head at him.

Hiroki sighed, “Though with that concubine thing, I can see it happenin’. Clan heads are desperate to have a son with the inherited technique. The Gojo clan just got lucky with Satoru. We dunno if it’s normal in the Kamo clan though. But with you as his soulmate, he shouldn’t need any. Somethin ain’t addin up…” He got lost in thought.

“You won’t know until you talk with Kamo himself.”

You sadly continued eating your chips. “I hate it when you’re right.”

◇◇◇

The next morning Utahime urgently called for a full student body plus all available jujutsu sorcerers on site for a meeting.

You and Hiroki stumbled into the room, almost late, pushing against each other. The other students looked curiously at the man who was fighting you for space on the couch.

You jabbed him in the gut and put a leg over his. “Uhhhh y/n who is that?” Mai asked.

Your cousin shrugged your leg off of his, stood up and said his greetings, “Hello, I am Tsuchimikado Hiroki. Alumni here at Kyoto Jujutsu High. Semi-grade 1 sorcerer. Pleased to meet you all and thanks for taking care of my lil sis- ah I mean cousin.”

“Ohhhh” Miwa took a closer look. You noticed Noritoshi glancing over at you. Todo walked up to him and pointed a finger, “Tsuchi’s relative? Then what woman is your idea-”

You used your technique to immobilise Todo and forced him to sit down in a daze. “Sorry for my rudeness, senpai. You can have that convo later.” You knew it would take too long if this starts again.

Hiroki looked affronted, “It’s rude to point bruh.”

Utahime clapped her hands to gather your attention as Principal Gakuganji appeared on the podium.

“Thank you so much all for coming into this meeting on such short notice. Especially to the alumni and other available Jujutsu sorcerers. Let's get straight to the point: I am here to announce that War is coming.”

Blood Bound: Table of Contents

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kalee60 · 3 years

Note

If it inspires you... maybe you could write an established relationship Steve and Bucky where they are completely in sync when it comes to the battle field and the kitchen but there’s one place they are like fumbling idiots. I don’t know where. No hard feelings if this sparks no ideas lol 😂💖💖💖

Oh Kay - this wonderful prompt you gifted me could have gone in so many different directions. And it most definitely inspired me to write something...

But it's neither a clever take on your words or a twisted storyline, therefore I have no apologies and I went the obvious route when filling your idea 😂 (why does my brain always try and get these boys naked?)

So this turned into something a little longer (of course), a little more ridiculous than anticipated, and features some very well intentioned Avengers and two idiots helplessly inept in love...

The fic made it to almost 5.5k and is also on ao3 here (with all tags necessary) if you prefer to read there instead, it'll be part of my stucky bingo fills - 'Sex Magic' and rated E for explicit sexual content 😉 so proceed below with caution...

Oh it's also the first time I've ever tried established relationship... hopefully I've pulled it off!

Steve was happy.

He finally had a home to call his own, a brilliant team of coworkers, a place in the future and he had Bucky Barnes. After more years than Steve could count, Bucky and he had finally found themselves on the same page - different century, but on even ground. They’d kissed in the heat of the moment after a brutal mission, stated their affections clearly and decided after a breathless confession - to give forever a go.

Having been on the battlefield together for years, Bucky at his six and always there for Steve when he needed, and Steve, having had Bucky’s back no matter the situation (or trouble it got him into) - meant they had a solid base to grow from. And as soon as Sam took over the mantle of Cap, Steve was free to be himself for once, and although Nomad made appearances on the odd occasion, he and Bucky still fought flawlessly together, seamlessly, almost at one in their movements.

It was magical.

But not only were they in sync when under pressure and danger, that same energy continued into their modest but homely kitchen in their brownstone as they unlearned that boiling was the only way to prepare food. They wove around each other, hot pans and knives flashing in a dance as intricate as fighting while they spun about the kitchen, preparing dish after dish, including sweet treats for themselves and cat treats for Alpine.

Bucky and Steve were essentially one unit, an extension of the other in every aspect of their lives - except one…

They’d shared their first kiss, a declaration of intent less than a month earlier on the battlefield in the midst of chaos, and Steve had never felt sweeter lips against his. But it wasn't just the kiss that floored him, it was the all-consuming knowledge that Bucky was his, would always be his, that they were made for each other - that's what made it a perfect moment.

Afterwards, when they'd arrived home tired from the week-long operation, 'congratulations' and 'about times' ringing in their ears, they sat on the sofa staring at the other until Steve leant in, cupping Bucky’s cheek and slowly pressed forward. Bucky having the same idea, lurched up and they smacked heads hard enough to see stars. Chuckling with small smiles, they tried again, with Steve accidentally biting Bucky's tongue, and the third was a kiss so awkward and sloppy, it made Steve feel like a thirteen year old practising on the back of his hand again.

Steve wasn’t sure how he'd got it so wrong.

Bucky had laughed it off at the time, asking Steve if he wanted to watch TV, and with nothing left to do, he agreed. For two overly large war-torn men, they fit wonderfully; wrapping limbs around the other, holding tight like they'd never let go again. It was soothing, comfortable - right. And as Steve pressed soft lips to the crown of Bucky's hair while a documentary played in the background, he wondered why their attempt at kissing when alone, without an audience hadn’t worked.

Steve could only put it down to nerves.

Bucky was his best friend after all, he was the only one who remembered and knew Steve, knew everything about him in fact, there were no secrets - except for the almost one hundred year pining between them. The awkwardness had to be because of a change in dynamics, they were now more, they wanted more, and were so nervous and scared to adapt to something new, it had become an issue of self-confidence.

It would get better.

It had to.

The next morning when Bucky left for a briefing, he placed a kiss on the corner of Steve’s mouth, and when Steve jerked his head to the side to capture Bucky's lips, he somehow managed to press his teeth into the soft pink flesh, tasting blood. Bucky pulled back with a huff of laughter and licked his lips to capture the red stain before leaving with a wink and a goodbye. Steve flushed red, the heat on his cheeks burning enough that he jumped up and organised an impromptu run with Sam to escape the memory. The whole time Steve lamented to a cackling Sam, that he'd somehow forgotten how to kiss.

Sam was a dick.

It had officially been three weeks, three full weeks of 'dating' and even though their actual dates were wonderful, full of laughter and fun and exploration, it was when they crawled into bed next to the other that suddenly every kiss, every touch was fraught with danger and peril. And maybe it was because they were both supersoldiers, both familiar and unfamiliar with some of their strengths, they'd overlooked they were still prone to the usual calamities that befell non-serumed folk, they just bounced back quicker.

So when Bucky ground down hard enough it bent Steve's dick practically in two - well, it wasn't pleasant, and took over an hour for the tears to stop streaming, all while he yelled to a panicked Bucky there was no way he was calling Dr Cho over it and that it would heal.

It healed, but Steve winced each time he went to the bathroom for the following two days.

The love bite Steve sucked into Bucky's upper thigh on the way to taste his gorgeous dick for the first time, erupted into a blood blister almost immediately and Bucky instinctually jerked away, kneeing Steve in the temple.

He only saw stars for two minutes, but the mood died in a flurry of apologies while the mark on Bucky's skin disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

By Steve's count, they'd tried a total of ten times to initiate sex, to make each other feel good, and every single time something had happened to thwart their attempts.

Steve wondered if the universe was trying to tell them they were not supposed to get physical. That they were destined to be best friends without any benefits.

But Steve wouldn't give up without a fight.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You can stop laughing now,” Steve said with a sigh, taking a sip of his espresso while trying to ignore the spluttering of his other best friend.

“Oh I know, but I can’t. You kicked Bucky in the hip so hard it somehow threw his body out of alignment and he was walking with a limp for two days. And not the type of limp you want.” Sam was practically heaving in mirth by that stage.

“Why did I come to you for advice? I'm leaving.”

"No, no don't. I'm glad you came to me. But Barnes? I understand your reaction because I'd kick him so he couldn’t walk for days too - but obviously under different circumstances,” Sam added when Steve scowled at his words.

"I don't get it though," Steve complained with an exaggerated shrug. "We sync so well everywhere else. Christ, we even snuggle in such a natural way, that neither of us have had a real nightmare in a month. We are more than ready for the next step. Sam, you have no idea how much we want to take it - but the minute we try to get… intimate - it falls flat."

Sam took a long sip of his iced coffee, thick cream bobbing over the surface as he tilted the glass up. Steve winced at how sweet it had to taste, but he said nothing, remained quiet, knowing that Sam would have some advice at least.

"Maybe it's the way you say intimate? I'm joking, jeez Steve, don't give me your disappointed face. Look, I think you should set the mood, you know - music, candlelight, silk sheets and no distractions. Maybe some aromatic oils too, do the whole, 'I think you're sexy and I want you' gesture - make it obvious you find him desirable.”

“Aromatic oils?”

Sam smirked and waggled his eyebrows, “for a special massage of course.”

Steve flushed at the thought of having Bucky’s naked skin and hardened muscles under his hands, sliding and slipping as he loosened him up, ready to make Bucky fall apart, make him languid and hazy with want. Sam coughed and Steve realised he was letting his imagination run too wild, especially in front of company.

“You know what? I think I chose wisely for my replacement.” Steve grinned as Sam ducked his head, a pleased look gracing his features. “Thanks, Sam. I’m sure it’s a timing thing, we just need to make it sexy.”

Sam clapped his back, and with a wide toothy grin and a wink, said in a low deep voice, “you’re an overachiever Steve - you’ve got this.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Steve in fact, did not have it.

Maybe his first mistake was to massage Bucky on the sofa, not in their bed. He used too much oil and when Steve raised himself up, eager to flip Bucky over and finally take his hard dick in hand, the vinyl fabric in conjunction with Bucky’s skin was soaked and slippery. Steve found himself sliding and flailing uncontrollably, right off the sofa to smack his face into the coffee table, the mood disappearing in a peal of Bucky’s laughter. Steve couldn't even blame him, it would have looked a sight.

After a long hot shower where Steve contemplated his choice in friends and their terrible advice, Bucky and he sat on a freshly cleaned sofa and watched Animal Planet while eating Thai. They ended up cuddling under Bucky's weighted blanket, falling asleep entwined, and just before Steve blacked out, he wondered if maybe Sam wasn’t the right choice for Cap after all. His plan stunk.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You do know I’m not that kind of Doctor, right?” Bruce reiterated for the third time, and Steve shrugged in response.

“I know. But at this stage it’s worth a shot. So Doc, any advice for me?”

Bruce sat back on the lone stool in his lab, hand cupping his chin as he thought. At least Bruce appeared to be more contemplative than Sam had been. “Have you tried to romance him? Take Bucky out for a nice dinner, partake in some Asgardian wine to loosen things up, before dancing, showing him that you're a gentleman - prove to Bucky how special he is to you. In my limited experience, the rest will flow from there with no problems.”

Steve nodded along as Bruce spoke, holding Bucky against his body as they danced across the floor wouldn’t be too different from fighting together, and they were in perfect harmony while out in the field. Bruce’s idea made perfect sense to Steve, had more of a familiar feel from Bucky and his early life, before the war than what Sam’s had. Sam's suggestion centered on the physical between Steve and Bucky, whereas Bruce was suggesting something subtle, emotional.

“You know what Bruce? Thank you, I think it might just work.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It did not work.

Halfway through their fifth dance as their bodies started to meld together, barely moving on the dancefloor, holding each other's gaze as they whispered words of desire to each, Steve leant forward, their lips barely touching. And as Steve took in a breath, feeling Bucky’s returning exhale on his lips, the back wall blew out in an explosion, Bucky headbutting Steve in surprise, and suddenly they had Hydra operatives swarming them. Steve, as he took out three hostiles with his shield, wondered if he should talk to Dr Cho about the effects of concussion and if he could suffer them, due to his head seemingly taking the brunt of recent mishaps.

Bucky and Steve fell into tandem together, their natural ability to fight kicking in, keeping the other safe. It was much more natural than dancing and Steve sighed, knowing romantic nights out might not be the right course of action for them.

It took three days of intense fighting to take down the Hydra faction, and afterwards they were both too tired to speak more than a sentence, and fell into a deep sleep curled around the other immediately.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Steve ignored Tony's unsolicited advice to take Bucky to a ski chalet and teach him how to toboggan, knowing freezing conditions and a small metal tube wouldn't be the best way to loosen them both up to get frisky. Plus Steve was still trying to work out how Tony even knew Steve had asked other people for advice about sex? Maybe JARVIS was spying again, though the AI had promised Steve he wouldn't.

But what was worse, was Peter Parker, at barely even twenty years of age coming to Steve, red faced and stammering, saying that he thought Steve should take Bucky to laser tag and the arcade to have some old fashioned fun.

Steve at that point was at his wits end, so he tried Peter's plan. When Steve was confronted with all the bright, colourful and confusing machines, he almost gave up. Actual 'old-fashioned' and Peter's idea of it, were poles apart. Though, Steve found he was really good at Tetris and Bucky excelled at zombie shooting games. But it was when playing laser tag it all fell over, Bucky and Steve getting too competitive, and a tad physical, which ended up with them being kicked out and banned, after having to apologise to a bunch of wide-eyed yet excited fifteen year olds.

Bucky's exclamations that there wasn't that much blood, fell on the deaf ears of the twenty year old manager who reprimanded them, saying that at their age they should know better.

It did not induce a night of passion afterwards. Although, Bucky purchased a console online and a bunch of zombie games that evening, including a bundle that included Tetris, so it wasn't a complete bust.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“So basically what you’re saying is that nothing has worked? You’ve been tiptoeing around each other for what? Almost two months now?” At Steve’s nod, Nat grinned, crouching down and did a handspring, legs wrapping around his neck, pulling him to the floor. “The way you are with each other, I honestly would have guessed you’d been screwing for years. If I didn't know you better.”

“That’s not helpful. I’m serious. We have a real issue.” Steve looked up from his twisted position directly into her green eyes and sighed, she loosened her legs and Steve ran a hand over his face and stayed on the ground. “What if we’re just not meant to be?”

Nat’s expression softened as much as it ever did, meaning her left eyebrow turned down for less than a second before reasserting itself into a perfectly sardonic position.

“Okay, my advice for what it’s worth, and just note that I’m extremely offended that you didn’t come to me first, I mean Sam - come on. But let it happen naturally, organically. Just like it took you a hundred years to own up to your feelings, wait until it feels right to have sex.”

Steve groaned, and stood up, “I’m not waiting another hundred years, Nat.”

“Jesus, Rogers. Fine. Go see Wanda then.”

“Wanda?”

“Use that big brain of yours, not the small one. She’s a witch, I’m sure she can help you out.”

Steve knew the surprise on his face wasn’t feigned. He’d not actually thought Wanda could do spells or the like, but the more he thought about Nat’s words, the more it appealed. Could some magical interference help them?

“Thanks, Nat - I’ll definitely think about it.”

In the space of him finishing his words and a smile forming - Steve was on his back again, Nat’s thighs wrapped around his neck as she squeezed with intent.

“You’ll see that I was right.”

~*~*~*~*~

That night when Steve tried to let things happen naturally, organically as Nat had suggested, Steve slid a hand up Bucky’s side, light as a feather, only for Bucky to squirm in laughter and throw his head backwards, smashing into Steve’s poor battered nose - which broke. It healed within seconds, but blood spurted out in a gush, coating the back of Bucky’s hair and neck. It took an hour to clean up.

~*~*~*~*~

He went and saw Wanda the next day.

~*~*~*~*~

“Well, I’m one lucky girl, first a visit and latte from James this morning and now you this afternoon with a pastry.” Wanda took a bite of the flaky dessert, one Steve knew was her favourite. “Alright Steve what can I do for you today?”

Steve’s immediate reaction was to ask why Bucky had been there, but knew that the two of them had a strong connection, Wanda helping Bucky through some of the residual trauma with her powers, and then their fast bond over Alpine - Bucky’s terror of a stray cat that took up residence in their apartment. Or took over would be more apt.

“I… err, I need your help with something... delicate.”

Wanda gave Steve the smallest smile, a knowing look in her eyes and Steve lost his train of thought for a moment, not sure he really needed another Avenger to know about his intimacy issue with Bucky. He almost chickened out, but Wanda leaned forward and grasped his forearm.

“It’s okay, Steve - you can tell me, ask me anything.”

Sighing heavily, Steve steeled himself, he was out of options.

“Alright -” Steve laid out plainly what had been happening, the awkwardness, the injuries, the sheer unluckiness they’d suffered each time they’d attempted to move their relationship forwards physically.

“And you came to me for...?”

“Help, I guess,” Steve said and looked at Wanda pleadingly, “Can you? I mean, with a potion or a spell or something of the like?”

Wanda slumped back in her chair, mouth opening to speak, but nothing came out, she remained silent. After a minute, she swallowed audibly then looked up at the roof, and if Steve didn’t know better, he would have thought she was rolling her eyes at him. Yet he knew that wouldn’t be the case, Wanda was polite to him, always had been, they were a team. Friends. Only Nat would take those liberties with him.

“Alright,” Wanda finally spoke and stood up, walking over to her kitchen cupboards, pulling out jars and bottles holding different liquids. And before Steve knew it, he was holding a small glass vial filled with a substance that smelt like vodka, but had rosemary and a slice of orange and a few other items bobbing around inside.

“What’s this?”

“Well you asked for a potion, didn’t you?”

“Really? I actually didn’t think you’d -”

“- Do you want the sex magic or not?”

Steve grasped the tiny bottle in his hand, careful not to crush it in his huge meaty hands.

“I do,” he said quickly and stood, pulling her into a warm hug, which she returned readily.

“Just take half an hour before you want to… well, you know.”

“Thanks, Wanda, you were my last hope.”

And as he walked out the room, Wanda called out after him, “you’ll be fine Steve. I know this will work for you.”

~*~*~*~*~

It worked.

Bucky was on his knees, mouth wrapped around Steve’s thick dick, swallowing and licking like his life depended on it. And Steve, well, he couldn’t articulate, could only stare down into those familiar grey-blue eyes that gazed at Steve like he was a conquering god, stare at the way saliva dripped down Bucky’s chin as he drew in as much of Steve’s hardness as possible, Bucky’s plush lips stretched taut until they’d lost most of their colour.

It was the most glorious sight of Steve’s entire life.

He didn’t want to think about Wanda in that moment, but he was eternally grateful to her. Bucky had disappeared into the bathroom about half an hour earlier - leaving enough time for Steve to drink the potion in one go, and before he knew it, almost half an hour to the dot, they launched at the other. For once there were no injuries, awkwardness, or pain - just hungry kisses, curious hands and moaning. A lot of moaning and grinding.

Then Bucky dropped to his knees, yanking impatiently at Steve’s pants until they all but ripped off, and sucked him down in the same breath.

Throwing his head back, Steve looked to the ceiling, fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair as Bucky hummed and gasped around his dick, sucking loudly, slurping and choking at times. But Steve couldn’t keep his eyes away for long. Bucky was too compelling, too perfect.

“God, you have no idea how you look right now do you, on your knees, mouth full of me?” Steve husked and involuntarily pumped his hips a few times. Bucky’s eyelids fluttered shut as he listened to Steve’s words, not complaining about the added pressure. “Born to take me, weren't you, Doll?”

Bucky practically squirmed on the spot, moaning and whimpering and Steve realised through the haze and bliss of what Bucky’s clever tongue was doing to him, that Bucky clearly had a thing for pet names.

“Do you want this large dick inside of you sweetheart? Do you want to sit on it? Take it deep into your body, let you take control and ride me until you come?” Steve should have been taken aback by his words, about where his filthy mind was taking them. But he was running his mouth, not thinking, letting what felt good flow off his tongue. And Bucky - he loved it.

Popping his mouth off the end of Steve’s dick, tongue immediately lathing up and down the shaft so as to always have a point of contact, he moaned loudly, wantonly. “God yes, Stevie - want you to fill me up, stretch me, want to feel you for days after, I want you to own me…”

Steve growled possessively, his fingers tightening in Bucky’s hair, pulling back so Bucky was jerked away from his dick, Bucky whining at the loss. Oh christ - that jar of sex magic needed to be marketed - it was phenominal. Steve had never felt so in control of a situation, so ready for anything, not scared, just willing to make Bucky feel good. “I want that too, baby, want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Yanking Bucky upwards, Steve devoured his mouth in a kiss, completely surprised that the potion had worked so well. Not only were they finally on the same page, they were doing it with no shame, telling each other exactly what they wanted and when, pleasuring with sensations and not overthinking, and the teasing - it was natural, it felt right. And Steve knew he was forever in Wanda's debt for the gift of her magic.

“I want to watch you prepare yourself, gorgeous. Want to see your fingers sliding in and out of your tight hole - a hole I’m going to own from tonight onwards.”

“Jesus, Steve, you’re killin’ me here.”

“Not quite yet, I’m not. Give me an hour and we’ll circle back to that.”

“Don’t speak to me like a rookie learning the ropes.” Bucky grumbled.

Steve smiled, “But aren't you?”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

Steve swallowed the rest of his retort when Bucky stripped naked to crawl up on their bed, spinning around to lay amongst the pillows, spreading his legs wide like he couldn’t wait to be railed. And Steve was unable to tear his gaze away from Bucky’s hole, his gorgeous and perfect entrance, one that would be puffy and leaking before the night was out - the superficial damage caused by Steve and no one else. A tight sensation welled in Steve’s gut, lurching when Bucky grabbed the lube, pouring liberally before starting to finger himself.

That was the point where Steve knew he'd made a grave mistake.

He wasn’t going to be able to watch Bucky open himself up, Steve was too wound up, too impatient and also too much of a control freak. He needed to ensure Bucky did a good enough job, knowing his girth alone was more than most people were used to. So when Bucky was two fingers in, sweat beading, eyes never leaving Steve’s face, Steve jerked forward and climbed up on the bed, positioning himself between Bucky’s legs. He lubed up his fingers to test the tightness himself, Bucky’s eyes opening in shock at the probing.

“Steve…” he stammered, “What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

Bucky sighed out a breath, relaxing into the intrusion as Steve pressed a finger in next to Bucky’s, and Steve shut his eyes, groaning; Bucky was so tight and hot, perfectly wrapped around Steve’s finger. Steve knew he was going to lose himself in Bucky’s body, was going to transcend, never be the same again and he couldn’t wait.

Steve ensured Bucky was a writhing panting mess before he even contemplated sliding into his tight heat. No matter how much Bucky asked for it, no matter the pleading, the begging (of which Bucky did so prettily, especially with the beginnings of frustrated tears in his eyes), Steve wanted their first time to be free of pain and injury, and by god was he going to deliver.

When he deemed Bucky ready, who pouted back to declare he was, hours ago, it only confirmed a surly Bucky was absolutely gorgeous to Steve, and Steve pulled him down the bed, spreading Bucky’s legs wide. Bucky sank back, allowing himself to be positioned, holding Steve’s gaze hotly as Steve pressed the tip of his dick against the loosened muscle of Bucky’s ass.

The first testing push felt like Steve was going to split Bucky in two - there was no way he would fit. But Bucky grabbed Steve violently by the back of the head, holding him tight in his superhuman strength.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop - not now.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve said placating, “just don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Bucky replied adamantly, and Steve still wasn’t sure until Bucky husked out, “Trust me.”

And Steve did. He trusted Bucky more than anyone else in the world, the universe, and so he continued to press past the tight muscle and...

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He wasn’t expecting Bucky to feel so good, so tight, so perfect. Steve kept pushing, further and further, almost endlessly until he had to pull out an inch to gain more leverage, and the whole time he did this, the whole time he tested and pressed forward again, Steve watched Bucky’s face, looking for signs of discomfort. He saw none.

Bucky was slack-jawed as he stared into Steve’s eyes in a completely blissful state, and pride welled up inside of Steve, he was making Bucky look like that, giving Bucky what he wanted, desired. Steve and no one else.

It was both heady and compelling.

When Steve could push no further and was fully seated within Bucky’s body, he took a breath, then another, and although his instinct was telling him to thrust, take, pound, he didn’t. He’d promised Bucky something.

Grabbing Bucky’s waist, he spun them quickly; Bucky yelping suddenly at the change in position, and looking a little dazed, he ended up straddling Steve, thighs stretched taut over Steve’s large frame.

“Ride me baby.” Steve said simply, and Bucky melted, falling forward to kiss Steve’s lips passionately. Steve held Bucky close as a tongue snaked into his mouth, lips frantic and hot on his, so Steve jerked up into Bucky’s body, reminding Bucky of what he was supposed to be doing, earning him a gasp directly into his mouth.

Sitting up, Bucky pressed his hands against Steve’s stomach for leverage, and tested his breadth of movement, wiggling side to side before he started to move in earnest. Soon Bucky was bouncing on Steve, pulling up and slamming down, taking the pleasure he wanted for himself, and Steve, he lay back and watched the love of his life take every inch he could, and adored it.

After a while, sweat started to pour down Bucky’s temples, his eyes squeezed shut tightly in concentration as he speared himself again and again on Steve’s hardness, wringing pleasure out of every pore, and Steve knew Bucky was close - could tell by the shortening breaths. Licking his palm, Steve reached forward to grip Bucky’s gorgeously rigid dick as it bobbed freely before him, mesmerizing in its movements.

Bucky snapped his eyes open, capturing Steve in his intense gaze, a pleading spark in them, and what Bucky was asking for, Steve wasn’t sure - so he grasped harder and began to stroke. He was methodical, brutal, unrelatening and soon Bucky was clenching around him as come erupted from his dick, coating Steve’s stomach in sticky stripes, and Steve was desperate to taste. So he did.

Trailing a finger through the mess while Bucky caught his breath, Steve relished Bucky holding him deep within his body, clenching and twitching around him as Steve slid one wet and come soaked finger between his lips, moaning at the unique and tangy taste. It was pure Bucky. His essence, and Steve was addicted already.

“Oh Buck, I’m going to suck you so good one day. You’re the sweetest thing, aren’t you?”

Bucky nodded his head in return, sated and hazy, his breathing returning to some semblance of control, and with a refractory period only superserum enhanced soldiers experienced, Bucky’s dick started to fill again, not quickly, but enough Steve knew from experience that the sensitivity would have abated enough to touch - to continue.

“My turn,” Steve growled, spinning them back over, crushing Bucky into the bed under his weight.

Steve didn’t wait for a response, just immediately pounded hard into Bucky’s limp, open and languid body. And at odds with the rest of his self, Bucky’s dick hardened against Steve’s stomach with every stroke, but Steve had become lost in the sensations, in how good it felt to be encased in Bucky’s heat, his warmth, of finally being closer than ever before for the first time and he couldn’t think straight.

Grabbing Bucky’s chin in one hand, Steve pressed their mouths together, panting into Bucky’s as he whispered words of love tempered with a stream of filth that had Bucky’s eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Thrusting harder again and putting all his strength behind it, able to without hurting Bucky, Steve went into a frenzy as Bucky writhed and moaned underneath him, nonsense words falling from his throat. Steve held on as long as he could, but it was too much, had taken too long to finally be inside of Bucky, and with a litany of ‘oh god’s’ Steve came deep inside of his lover, his friend, his forever and basked in the moment, knowing it was all thanks to a little potion bottle.

As he caught his breath, inhaling Bucky’s scent, smiling down and kissing his lips reverently, Bucky looked up at him grey-blue eyes full of wonder and happiness.

Their smiles couldn’t be any larger.

Maybe magic wasn’t so bad after all.

~*~*~*~*~

“Judging by the way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other this morning at the team breakfast, I assume you gave Steve and Bucky some help and advice?” Nat asked Wanda as they sat in a wine bar downtown that night on their weekly catch up.

Wanda smirked, holding her glass up in a cheers to Nat. “Yep, Bucky came to me yesterday morning and Steve in the afternoon. Both seeking the exact same help.”

“And did your ‘sex magic’ work?”

“Of course it did - I used my best Vodka.” Wanda affronted that Nat would even question her, knowing the redhead was really teasing.

“What about the spell you used?”

“Well, I wriggled my nose for theatrics, added a sprig of dried rosemary that was stuck to the back of my fridge, and made my hand glow for a second. Some of my finest acting work I think.”

“Those boys just needed some inner confidence - I knew it would work.”

“Of course you did.”

“Damn straight. Tequila shots here please!”’ Nat yelled to the barman who looked way too eager to assist, even though the bar was packed. Nat left a hefty tip when their drinks landed before them less than a minute later, and picking up the glasses she handed one to Wanda. Wanda knew she was going to regret their night the next day.

Clinking their glasses, Nat declared, “to sex magic and dumb idiots in love.”

“And to us for being excellent enablers and smarter than the lot of them.”

“I couldn't agree more.”

Wanda woke up the next morning wishing she could infuse potions, if she was able to, then her headache might not be so epic. She hid under the covers for the rest of the day.

Romanoff was a bad influence.

#stucky #mywriting #established relationship #mishaps and injuries #attempting to have sex #multiple times #they sync everywhere except when trying to get sexy #well meaning Avengers #bad advice #clumsy Steve and Bucky #idiots in love #prompt fill #Kay this was fun to write ❤️ thank you for the idea!!#Wanda has magic.... doesn't she??#canon divergence #kalee answers

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mascwhump · 3 years

Text

Chapter 14 - Mistakes

TW: Forced self h*rm, (almost) forced attempted s*icide, noncon drugging, needles, blood, manhandling, guns, begging

Tag list: @whatwasmyprevioususername @milk-carton-whump @whumpasaurus101 @whatwhumpcomments @mnmlover2002 @ashintheairlikesnow

The sound of a drill caused both of them to wake. Rudy was standing on a step stool at the other end of the basement, screwing something into the ceiling. As he stepped down, Charlie realized it was a camera.

Rudy folded the stool and pointed the drill at Charlie, pulling the trigger twice before walking up the stairs.

"Fucking weirdo," Charlie mumbled.

"Great, I was just getting used to not having my every move watched," Crow said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

They both got up and stretched. Charlie went into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. When he walked out, he noticed Crow sitting on the couch.

"Hey," he said, "we can't sit there."

Crow sighed, annoyed, as he got up and went to sit by the wall. Charlie sat on the floor across from him and crossed his legs.

"How do you think the guys are doing?" Charlie asked.

"Fine, I hope. I'm surprised Deke's plan worked to the extent that it did," Crow replied.

"Me, too. Hey, I've been wondering... why didn't you stay on the helicopter? You could've gotten out."

Crow shrugged. "Couldn't just leave you."

Rudy came down and set two plates of toast on the bar without a word. Crow ate quickly, and Charlie wondered about when was the last time he had eaten.

"Here, you can have this other piece. I'm not really hungry," he said, putting the toast on Crow's plate.

"You sure?" Crow asked.

Charlie nodded. After they ate, they sat in their previous spots against the wall.

"After this, what's next?" Charlie asked.

"Well," Crow sighed, "there's going to be a lot of questions. A lot of assessments. Best case scenario, nothing changes and the team stays together. Worse case, honorable discharge."

"Let's hope for the best case, then," Charlie said.

"Yeah. Um, how's your neck? It looks, uh, pretty bad."

Charlie reached up and felt his neck. He had purposely avoided looking at himself in the mirror. It was tender to the touch.

"It hurts a little, but I'm fine," he replied.

"Okay. How about your mouth?"

"Stings a bit. I don't think it's nearly as bad as it looked, though. Just bit a little hole in my cheek."

"If only Ethan were here.”

"I'm kind of afraid to be in his care after this. He's strict when he's in doctor mode," Charlie laughed.

Their conversation was cut short when Mallory and Rudy arrived at the bottom of the steps. Mallory was carrying a small case, and Charlie already knew what was inside. He set the case down on the bar, then turned toward the two.

"Rudy was kind enough to bring along a sample of the first batch of this new serum we're working on," Mallory said with a prideful grin.

He opened to the case and pulled out a syringe filled with a deep orange liquid. Charlie thought it looked similar to the truth serum, and he shifted uncomfortably. Mallory stood between the two of them.

“Who wants it?” He asked.

“What does it do?” Crow questioned.

“Why don’t you give me your arm and find out?”

Charlie and Crow exchanged worried glances. Rudy was just inside Charlie’s vision, and he could see his hand resting on his holstered pistol.

“I’ll do it,” Charlie said.

“No, I think I want Crow to be the first to test this one. Arm?” Mallory said.

Crow reluctantly held out his arm. Mallory kneeled down and took hold his arm to steady it before pushing the needle in. Charlie hadn’t noticed that he was chewing on his lip until he tasted blood.

Mallory put the needle back in the case and turned back toward them.

“Well?”

“Don’t feel any different,” Crow said.

“Good, it’s not supposed to make you feel different.”

“Then, what’s it for?”

“Stand up.”

Crow immediately got to his feet, and a confused look appeared on his face. Mallory looked at Rudy and smirked.

“Hold up your hand,” Mallory said.

Crow’s hand shot up.

“Hey, I didn’t do that,” he said, his confused expression turning into one of concern.

“Listen closely. You only listen to me, and don’t make a sound unless I tell you to. Got it?”

Crow nodded. His eyes were wide as he looked down at Charlie.

“What the hell have you done?” Charlie snapped as he stood up.

“Crow, grab a glass from behind the bar.”

He walked almost robotically. He picked up a wine glass from under the counter and held it in his hand.

“Good. Now break it,” Mallory ordered.

The glass shattered in his hand. Blood and glass fell to the floor, and he remained still and silent. Mallory was beaming.

“Stop!” Charlie growled, grabbing the collar of Mallory’s shirt.

Mallory shoved him back hard, causing him to slam into the wall.

“Restrain him,” he ordered to Rudy.

Rudy grabbed Charlie arms and held them behind his back as he forced him against the wall.

“Take one of those shard of glass, and cut your arm with it,” Mallory said.

“No! Crow, don’t do it!” Charlie yelled, struggling against Rudy’s hold.

Crow picked up one of the shards on the bar top and held it against the back of his wrist. He began to drag it slowly up his arm, stopping at his elbow. He set the glass down as blood began to drip down his arm and onto the floor.

“Great job,” Mallory said.

“You fuck, stop! Stop now!” Charlie screamed.

He tried to kick Rudy from behind, but he was wedged between him and the wall, preventing him from getting a leg up.

“Shut up,” Rudy hissed.

Mallory paced for a moment. The blood continued to drip as Crow stood there, eyes wide and breathing heavy.

“Crow, you love Charlie, right?” Mallory questioned.

Crow nodded.

“I saw the footage of you jumping out of the helicopter. Very brave,” Mallory said, “So, my question for you is... would you die for him?”

“Don’t answer that!” Charlie yelled.

Rudy slammed his head against the wall. Crow nodded again. Mallory reached over and pulled the gun from Rudy’s holster, then walked over to Crow. Charlie fought as hard as he could to get free. Tears were streaming down his face as he tried to rip his arms away from Rudy.

“Prove it,” Mallory challenged.

He held out the gun. Crow took it from him with no hesitation.

“No!” Charlie sobbed, “Please! Please Mallory, I’ll do anything! Please, just stop!”

“Anything? I don’t believe you,” Mallory said.

“Anything, I swear! Anything you want, please!”

Charlie lost his ability to stand and fell to his knees. Rudy kept his grip on one of his arms. Mallory walked over and lifted Charlie’s chin to look into his eyes.

“Put the gun down,” he said.

Crow set the gun on the bar and Charlie let out a terrible sob, like he had been holding his breath for hours. His face was soaked with tears as he pulled in sharp breaths. Mallory sighed as he let go of his chin and went to retrieve the gun. He put it back in Rudy’s holster.

“Go clean up your arm, and then clean up this mess,” he ordered to Crow.

Crow went into the bathroom and Rudy let go of Charlie’s arm. His attempts at controlling his breathing were futile.

“You’re fucking pathetic,” Mallory hissed.

A sudden anger exploded inside of Charlie. He sprang up and tackled Mallory, throwing his fists at him wildly.

“How fucking dare you?!” He screamed.

His attack was short lived. An earsplitting bang stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at Mallory and the reddened marks on his face. His eyes were wide. Charlie stood up and backed against the wall. Mallory stood, as well, but his focus was on Rudy and the pistol in his hand.

“I thought it wasn’t loaded,” he said in a eerily calm tone, “I thought I told you not to load it.”

Rudy put it away. Mallory roughly grabbed his jacket and stood on his toes to get in his face.

“It wasn’t supposed to be loaded!” He yelled, “I told you! You’re lucky you missed, you stupid twat!”

Rudy stammered over his words, trying to find some sort of excuse.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mallory hissed, shoving him backward, “Now!”

Rudy walked toward the stairs like a dog who had just gotten caught destroying furniture. Mallory picked up a glass from the bar and threw it at the wall. It shattered, and he grabbed a bottle of vodka to take a few swigs from.

Crow emerged from the bathroom with his arm wrapped in toilet paper. He walked to the bar and began picking up the shards of glass. Mallory sighed and left upstairs. Charlie stood, frozen. When Mallory came back, he was carrying the first aid kit. He set it on the bar and told Crow to give him his arm. He unwrapped his makeshift bandage and cleaned the cut with an alcohol wipe. After, he wrapped his arm with a real bandage and secured it with tape.

“It’s not deep. Won’t need stitches,” he mumbled as he packed up the first aid kit.

He walked into the bathroom to wash his hands. Charlie watched in disbelief as Crow then continued to pick up the glass.

“Crow, stop. I’ll do it,” Charlie said.

Crow ignored him. Charlie held back new tears as he helped clean up the rest of the glass. He grabbed a rag from the back of the bar and soaked up the blood on the tile.

“Go rest, Crow. You can lie on the bed in there,” Mallory said.

Charlie popped up from behind the bar as Crow walked away. He threw the bloody rag on top of the bar and folded his arms.

“Charlie, I didn’t know,” Mallory said.

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Charlie hissed, “He could’ve died. You made me believe he was going to shoot himself. Why? Why, Mallory? What for?”

“Charlie-“

“No. I don’t want to hear it. Whatever shitty excuse you have, I don’t want to hear it. There is no justifiable reason you can give me for making me fucking beg for his life.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Charlie reached for the vodka on the counter and poured it into a tall glass. He shot it down, not caring that it was the equivalent of 6 shots or so.

“And you loved it, didn’t you, you sick fuck? You loved every second of it. I fucking hate you,” He went on as he took a seat on the couch, not caring about the rules anymore.

Mallory didn’t say a word. He pulled out his phone, and began typing something.

“Who are you texting, now?” Charlie questioned.

“I’m telling Rudy to come back. He’s going to take Crow and put him on a helicopter,” Mallory said without looking up.

“A helicopter to where?”

“Home.”

#easton’s unnamed story #whump #whump oc #whump story #whumper #whumpee #attempted suicide tw #self harm tw #where’s basil #is this what you wanted anon?

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 4 years

Text

Just A Taste

Characters: Spencer Reid x reader, minor characters

Word Count: 2,925

Warnings: talk of men abusing their female partners (very implicitly), smut, oral (female recieving), fingering, a bit of dom!spencer

request by @theitcaramelchick: Okay but imagine Reid interrogating a suspect and you, an assistant at the BAU office, happen to hear how domineering he is with them and you get all hot and bothered? Jesus. 🥵 And the way he would make the suspect tell him stuff. ...Could you do a one shot with this?

Summary: You assist Spencer with an interrogation despite having no experience with it all. Turns out, there is a reason why Spencer chose you, and it’s not all for work.

Squares Filled: office sex for @cmkinkbingo // free space for @cmbingo

Author’s Note: If you have any requests, please send them in! this is unbeta’d and every mistake is all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

For the first time in… ever… you’re going to assist the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid in an interrogation room with a real criminal. You’re only an office assistant, but they wanted you to be in there with him. You know nothing about how to talk to criminals or where to even begin, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer. You don’t even know what you would do in this interview, but you’re not going to question it. This is your chance to prove you belong with the rest of the BAU.

Your dream is to be a profiler that catches bad guys. If you can see how they think during this interrogation, then maybe you can start to work on your own profile. While you’re very nervous to be in this interrogation room, you’re more worried to be in that room with Spencer. It’s not that you’re worried for how bad you might be in front of him, you’re afraid he will figure out your feelings for him. He’s the most talked BAU agent on your floor. He’s so smart, innovated, talented, and very handsome.

His brown eyes can be so soft and caring, but can also turn hard and threatening in a moment’s notice. How he hasn’t landed himself a girlfriend yet is beyond you, but you’re glad he hasn’t. Him being available makes you less guilty for the thoughts you have about him. He’s tall, lean, has curly hair that you really want to tug, and he has a habit of biting and licking those damn lips. He’s definitely been the center of far too many fantasies you relive over and over again.

Your office is one floor below the BAU team. You’re best behind a computer, but you’re trying hard to prove yourself worthy enough to be a profiler. Because you’re great with a computer, your best friend is Penelope. When the team is away, you like to go to her office and hang with her when she’s not assisting her team. You use her to gather intel on the rest of the team, and you’ve learned the following details:

Rossi loves to drink. He has a very impressive collection of old alcohol that he doesn’t really use all that often, but always loves to show off. Hotch loves his son, and would do just about anything for him. One year, Jack dressed up as his father for Halloween. You thought that was the best thing ever. While Emily isn’t on the team anymore, Penlelope does talk about how brave and selfless she is. She’s saved the other teammates in more ways than one.

JJ has been through so much; not only as a mother but as an agent. She’s suffered the most, but she works the hardest. Derek is the muscle of the team, and Penelope has said some raunchy stuff that you’d rather not repeat. Last, but certainly not least, Spencer. He’s had a kind of serious girlfriend, Maeve, but she ended up dying right in front of him. He’s been through a lot as well, but he won’t ever give up on helping people. He’s really great with kids, and he is definitely husband material. Even Penelope is surprised how Spencer hasn’t settled down by now.

Fine by you, as long as you get a piece of him at some point.

It’s hard to put yourself out there for a man like him because if he somehow rejected you, then you won’t be able to recover from that. You don’t want to be one of those women who centers her world around some guy, but Spencer is just so special that you wouldn’t bounce back by a rejection from him. You’ve voiced your thoughts and opinions to Penelope, and as far as you know, she’s kept all those opinions to herself.

Now you have to work with the guy you are already nervous to be around. No one told you why they wanted you in there with him, but it’s not like you’re going to complain. You head up to the floor above you where Spencer is waiting for you. Once he sees you, he heads over to you. Your heart pounds just a bit faster, and your breath comes out a bit shakier. You try to keep your complexion the same color, but you know you’ve revealed how pink they are.

“Are you okay? Do you need a minute?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Your cheeks are flushed. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just a bit nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know why I’m even here,” you chuckle nervously.

“You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“Why am I here, Spencer?”

“I asked for you.”

He leaves your side without another word, and you follow him to the interrogation room. The unsub they caught, Frank Bishop, sits inside the room silently. From what you’ve heard about this guy, he’s killed half a dozen men. The BAU doesn’t know where he’s buried them, and they have to get him to confess to their murders as well as their locations. You’ve seen some terrible people, but he is on your radar.

First and foremost, this man is accused of killing men who were physically and emotionally abusive towards their wives or girlfriends. He sees himself as some sort of God or savoir in the eyes of these women. Not that you agree with his method, but these women aren’t suffering anymore. You’re actually nervous to talk to a man like him because of the person you are.

Yes, you’re a submissive. Everyone who meets you knows this. You don’t broadcast it, but it’s all in the way you present yourself. You’re also showing signs of nervousness, you rarely say no to people in fear of what they would do to you if you did, and all your friends are dominants. They just embrace life and want you to do the same. You’ve done some stupid shit in your day because of them, but your life wouldn’t be what it is now if you didn’t have them in your life.

Spencer gives you one last look before entering the room. Frank’s head pops up, and he straightens when he sees you. He must have seen the way you’re presenting yourself because he can’t take his eyes off you.

“Don’t look at her, look at me. Tell me where you buried those five men,” Spencer demands.

Seeing him like this is putting you back into your late night fantasies. One thing you never considered is the way he is with hardened criminals. He can get so threatening that sends a heat sparking up your core. You push your thighs together to relieve some tension, and you cross your arms loosely.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What five men?” he asks and smiles at you.

The way he smiles makes you nervous, and you begin to bounce your leg aimlessly. Frank likes how nervous you are, so you try to keep it under control.

"Don't waste my time here. Where are they?" Spencer asks again.

The man doesn't answer. All he does is stare at you. Your leg bounces faster so that's the only thing you can hear besides the ticking of the clock in the room.

"Stop bouncing your leg," Spencer demands.

He puts his hand on your thigh to stop you himself and that doesn't go unnoticed by Frank. You immediately stop what you're doing and look at Spencer with wide eyes. Once he knows you won't do it again, he takes his hand away.

You wish he hadn't.

"We know you stalked and killed men who abused their partners. They'd be somewhere where you can visit and continue their humiliation. You wouldn't want a proper burial for them, would you?"

"I didn't kill anyone else besides Jack Harmer."

"Yeah, that's because we caught you in the act. We know you did it. We found traces of your DNA in their houses."

"Doesn't mean I killed them."

The tension in the room thickens, and you feel trapped. You can't go anywhere, you haven't said a single word since you got here, and all Frank has done is stare at you. You'd leave, but you're afraid Spencer is just going to yell at you. You knew he wouldn't, but your anxiety doesn't know that. Because you feel trapped, you result in biting your nails. It's one of the things you do when you don't know what to do. However, as soon as you put your thumb between your teeth, Spencer swats your hand away.

"Don't bite your nails," he orders.

Why is he being like this? He is never this aggressive towards people—or that's what Penelope told you.

"Why don't you let her do what she wants?" Frank asks.

"Is that what you told Jason Hurley, Jared Bush, Harold Jenkins, Bailey Pickett, and Cody Campbell?"

"Who?" Frank smirks.

You shrink back into your seat because this interrogation can literally take a number of turns. Spencer looks at you with fire in his eyes, and you actually became scared at the thought of what he might do to you.

"Sit up straight. We're in a goddamn interrogation. If you can't handle that, then why are you even here?" he snaps.

Okay, you have no idea why he's treating you like this. Is it all for show, or does he really think he can boss you around like that? Of course, you're not going to say anything to him about it, but that doesn't mean you won't complain to Penny about this.

"Leave her alone! Who do you think you are treating her that way? Jason, Jared, and Harold all thought they could get away with treating their women like that. It's why I threw their bodies in the lake behind my house. Now, don't get me started on Bailey and Cody." Frank blew up.

He confessed to all five murders including revealing where their bodies were located. It wasn't long before you were able to leave. However, you didn't get very far because Spencer was pulling you into the nearest empty office.

"Look, I'm sorry for how I treated you there. Frank looked for men who "bossed" their partners around. I figured if I did that to you, he would reveal where he hid those bodies."

You knew Spencer was one of the good ones.

"You could have just told me. I would have played along."

"Your reaction needed to be real. I chose you because I know you're a submissive. I needed all of it to be real."

"How did you know that?"

"Besides how you acted today... Penelope told me."

"She what?"

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Though, that's the other reason why I picked you."

"Which is?"

You meant to say that accusingly, but it came out in a breathy whisper.

"You're attracted to me. I need that attraction to be real," he reveals. You want to deny it, but your brain just isn't cooperating. So, he continues when he sees you wanting to deny it. "I knew it was true when you came up this morning. I asked you if you were okay because your cheeks were pink. They were like that because of me. I'm sure your heart started pumping as well. The next sign was in the interrogation room. You were rubbing your thighs together because of me. Should I continue?"

Goddamn, the man really knew how to sweet talk you. You could deny it, but what would the point be? He already knows your feelings. The other option is to come clean and hope he doesn't reject you.

"What are you going to do if what you said is true?” you wonder.

He takes three large steps toward you, and you, purely out of intimidation, take five much smaller steps back. Your back hits the wall next to the door, and you realize you trapped yourself. He places one hand on the wall next to yours and with the other, he locks the office. He leans down so that his mouth is right next to your ear.

"If it were true, I'd get down on my knees, yank that unbelievably tight skirt down your legs, and bury my tongue in you," he whispers.

Shit. Did he really just say that to you? Your panties are so wet right now, and it's all because of the man right in front of you.

"Hmm? Would you like that?" he asks as he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You can't help but nod slightly. He's taken your ability to talk. "That's my girl."

You could have come right there, but you really want to know what his tongue feels like inside you. He presses his lips on your neck and gives a few kisses. He has you exactly where he wants you. You are his and he knows it.

"Remember, we are at work. Be a good girl and don't make a sound," he whispers before dropping to his knees.

Holy shit, this is exactly what you pictured in your fantasies. Now, you're getting the real thing. His hands grip your waist, digging his fingers into your skin. You know bruises are going to show up even through the couple layers of clothing. He gives you a questioning look as if to ask if this is alright. You just nod once, and he gets to work.

He slides down both your skirt and panties until they are on the floor. He keeps your heels on, and you make a mental note that he likes heels. He rests one leg over his shoulder, and he presses light kisses to your inner thighs. It didn't occur to you that you're exposing yourself to him for the first time. He has an eidetic memory. If this whole thing doesn't work out, he will have the look, taste, and feel of you embedded into his mind.

The smell of you messes with his mind, and he knows he has to get a taste of you. He gives one kiss to your clit, and you do your best to keep that moan in. Whenever you had sex, it’s always a challenge to stay quiet. You did it, but it always came at a cost. Spencer loves it when a girl moans for him, but not at work where his coworkers and bosses are.

Too much time has passed since he first got a whiff of you. Maybe he can take his time later, but for right now, all he wants is to make you come. From the bottom to the top, he licks one thick stripe up your center. When he sees you dripping with anticipation, he shoves his unbelievably long tongue inside you. You bite your lower lip to keep yourself from screaming out. Spencer looks up through his lashes and swipes his tongue from one wall to the other. The way he's looking at you makes you clench around his wet muscle. You have to get your tension out somehow.

There is finally an opportunity for you to satisfy one of your urges. You reach down and grab a fistful of his curly hair. You tug, and he moans. The vibration sends ripples through your body, and you give another hard tug. Your head bangs against the wall behind you, but you're too caught up in the moment to care.

He grunts when you give another yank. You file that piece of information in the same place as the heels. He pulls away only to suction his lips around your clit. He doesn't want you to feel empty, so he slides in two very long fingers.

“Shit! Spencer!” you hiss.

That response only makes him suck harder. You tighten around his fingers, making it almost impossible for him to remove them. He keeps his fingers right where they are and wiggles them so that he's hitting places not even you knew you had.

"I'm close! Fuck!"

Without going too hard, he nibbles on your clit with his teeth. The stimulation, combined with what his fingers are doing, is enough to push you over the edge. Your orgasm washes over you just as your come spills over his fingers. He pulls away and sticks them in his mouth. He sucks your juices from them before diving in once more. You're very sensitive from the first orgasm, so you twitch away from him. However, he grips your hips to hold you in place. He licks you clean until there is no more evidence lingering.

Once he finishes, he sets your leg down and redresses you. Your legs are wobbly, but you're doing a good job at keeping yourself up. He pushes your hair back to expose your ear, and he leans down to whisper in it.

"I never knew you tasted so sweet. I'm going to have a hard time focusing on work now that I got a taste. Be a good girl for the rest of the day, and I’ll show you what else I'm good for."

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck before leaving the office. Did that really just happen? How can you get through the rest of the day when you've experienced how well he can work his tongue? Plus, you also won't be able to stop thinking of his proposition. If he's that good with just his mouth. What else will he be good at?

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you!

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

110 notes · View notes

skinsharpenedteeth · 3 years

Text

Freakday - Sex Week Series

You can read the series on AO3 here!

You can read today’s fic on AO3 here!

Freakday!

Alright, y’all, this is 3.7 k of Malex FILTH. Tags include: crossdressing, lingerie, anal play, anal sex, panty kink, pwp, and mentions of alien refractory periods. Enjoy!

Michael let himself into Alex’s house using his TK without even glancing over his shoulder to see if a neighbor was watching. He was tired and was having erotic feelings towards a weeks worth of sleep. It was late, midway between midnight and morning, but he’d been helping Sanders with an emergency tow an hour out of town. It had been a bitch of a job and he was tired, dusty, and feeling like the most shit boyfriend ever. Alex's first performance as Brad in Roswell Theatre Company's rendition of Rocky Horror Picture Show had been that night and he'd missed it.

“Babe?” he called out, toeing off his boots and hanging up his jacket. He heard an answering yell from the back bathroom. He stopped by the kitchen to grab a beer and then went on into the master bedroom. The bathroom door was shut, but the light was on underneath and he could hear movement through the thin door. “Hey, I’m sorry I missed the show.”

He set his beer down on the dresser and started pulling off his dirty clothes to chuck them into the hamper. He'd unbuttoned his jeans and was about to shimmy them down when he heard the bathroom door open behind him. He turned and felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

Alex stood in the doorway in costume. He still had on the fishnet thigh-highs, the black satin underwear and red garters, and the black bustier from the show. He’d apparently taken off his shoes and gloves and was in the process of working off the stage makeup. He looked surprisingly comfortable in the outfit as he stood there working a make-up cloth around his eyes.

“I thought you were playing Brad?” Michael asked dumbly, his mouth suddenly incredibly dry as his eyes kept running up and down Alex’s body. He didn’t think seeing a guy in lingerie would be a thing he’d like, but Alex wearing lingerie was a thing he definitely liked. When Michael’s eyes finally made their way up past Alex’s collarbone he could see the amused smile on his boyfriend's face.

“I am playing Brad, but the final number always has all the main characters in the same outfit,” he said, waving a hand down his body to indicate his current get up. He tossed the soiled make-up cloth into the trash and approached Michael where he was frozen by the laundry hamper. Up close, Michael could still see flecks of shimmer glitter on his skin and in his hair. The smudged remains or black eyeliner around his eyes and the red stain left on his lips from the lipstick made Michael’s heart rate pick up. Alex laid his arms over Michael’s shoulders and let his body arch into him. “Where were you?”

“Sanders had a complicated towing job out towards Alamogordo. It took us for fucking ever, this guy ended in a ditch by a gully and…. Jesus, you’re so fucking hot right now,” Michael interrupted himself. He’d been running his hands up and down the bustier and then past it’s edge between the two or three inches of uncovered flesh before he hit the panties Alex was wearing under the garters. They felt like they had distinctly less fabric to them than a normal pair of women’s briefs. Alex was giving him an amused smile which Michael took as encouragement as he traced along the edges of Alex’s underwear with the tips of his fingers.

“Just don’t rip anything, I have to wear this for two more nights. Rocky Horror all Halloween weekend!” Alex repeated the advertising line with his best attempt at a radio announcer’s voice. Michael grinned and moved forward to hover in front of his mouth for a kiss.

“We’ll get you out of this in no time. I think I’ve already found my favorite part,” Michael breathed against his lips before giving Alex a quick kiss and snapping the waistband of Alex’s panties.

“Oh? You don’t think I look good in the whole outfit?” Alex teased as Michael’s wandering hands pushed under the edge of the bustier to touch his back and then back down to his ass.

“Oh, I love the whole outfit. But I mean, if I can want to fuck you in that terrible, unflattering airmen’s outfit, then there’s nothing I won’t want to fuck you in. This, however, is certainly something...more,” Michael replied easily. He moved his mouth to Alex’s jaw, then neck, then shoulder, then chest. He kissed along the upper edge of the bustier, his hands starting to go for the knotted corset ties at the top. Alex stilled his hands. Michael looked up at him curiously.

“There’s a zipper in the back,” he said with a frankly dirty grin before turning around to show Michael his back. Michael caught the flash of the silver zipper tongue, but couldn’t help but stop and appreciate the full picture. The swell of Alex’s impressive shoulder muscles over the top of the black pleather, the way it framed his tapered waist, the red garter that pressed into his muscular ass on its way down his to the tops of his black fishnet thigh highs, and the black satin panties that were almost a thong showing off the round globes of his ass. He’d shaved just about everything to be able to wear this outfit and while Michael loved Alex’s body hair more than was appropriate, this smooth, manicured version was also delectable.

“You just going to look or are you going to help me get out of this?” Alex asked over his shoulder. Michael moved close to speak low in Alex’s ear as he grasped the top of the zipper.

“Hold your horses. I’m admiring a piece of art,” Michael said before starting to kiss a trail down Alex’s neck and then down his spine. He unzipped as he lowered himself onto his knees, mouth pressing against every new inch of skin exposed by the parting zipper teeth. When he got to the end, he unhooked the zipper with a quick tug. He was peripherally aware that Alex slipped the garment off his torso and tossed it towards the top of the dresser. He was more aware of the new expanse of naked skin in front of him and the faint lines of indention pressed into it from the tight garment. He traced the lines on Alex’s skin with his fingertips for a moment before continuing his slow descent down Alex’s body. He pushed his fingers under the red garters and traced down their path with his knuckles, admiring the red against Alex’s skin and the goosebumps that sprang up in the wake of his touch. He started to undo the hooks at the bottom of the garters with his fingers while his mouth brushed over the swell of skin that wasn’t covered by the bottom of Alex’s panties. He gave sucking kisses to the skin, enjoying the rosy flush as evidence of where his mouth had been. Alex moaned above him and Michael had to remind himself that this wasn’t the main event.

“Turn around for me so I can get the garters in the front,” Michael commanded, staying on his knees on the floor and enjoying the view of Alex carefully twisting around to face him. It was evident when he turned around that Michael wasn’t the only one enjoying his slow exploration of Alex’s body. Michael threw him up a mischievous look before pulling down the front of Alex’s panties and tucking the band underneath his balls. The top of the garter belt and the fabric from Alex’s panties made an enticing frame for his cock. Alex was two thirds hard and it was making Michael's mouth water with memories of how good he tasted and felt on Michael's tongue. He caught Alex’s gaze as he moved forward and took him into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head and shaft as he sucked more of him in. Alex let out a broken moan, his hands shooting out to clutch at Michael’s shoulders. Michael worked the other garters free quickly before pushing his hands up Alex’s thighs and massaging gently. Another moan worked itself out of Alex, this one full throated as his cock filled to full hardness in Michael’s mouth. Michael popped off with a sigh and pulled the front of Alex’s panties back up. They couldn’t cover all of Alex’s straining cock now that he was fully hard and the spit-slick tip stuck up past the waistband. Alex whined at the pressure under his head, but didn’t move to remove it. Michael curled his fingers under the garter belt and pulled it down Alex’s hips and thighs and then carefully maneuvered it off his feet.

“You should go lay on the bed for this next part,” Michael advised, hands smoothing back up the textured expanse of the fishnets. Alex, who’d been watching him through half closed eyes, nodded his agreement and stepped back and over to the waiting bed. He hopped onto the edge and after a slow look up and down Michael who was still kneeling, crooked a finger at him to beckon him over. Michael stood and walked over, immediately situating himself between Alex’s obscenely spread legs. Alex drew him in for a deep, filthy kiss, his hands tugging through his curls before moving down his bare chest and lower to dip into the front of his open jeans.

“Have I told you before how much I love it when you don’t wear underwear?” Alex said with a smile that spread from his lips to Michael’s as he pushed his jeans down his legs until they piled at the floor around Michael’s feet. Michael stepped out of them and kicked them behind him. Alex’s hand was around him, stroking and smearing the precum that had gathered at his tip over and down around the head. His other hand stayed tangled in Michael’s hair as they continued making out. Michael couldn’t stop running his hands over Alex’s body, too restless to stay one place, too keyed up to focus as it went from his thighs to his back to his chest to his hair and back down again. He started to lean forward, forcing Alex to let go of his cock in favor of catching himself on his elbows to gentle his fall as he was pushed back into the mattress. Michael broke their kiss and began kissing, sucking, and nipping a path down Alex’s body back towards his red, neglected cock. He only briefly paused to suck at the exposed head, drawing out a whine from Alex above him, before he kept moving down over his covered shaft and balls, mouthing at the soft fabric.

He pushed down the thigh highs one at a time, careful not to tear them. He kissed and nipped roughly at the thin, sensitive skin of Alex’s inner knee as he worked off the prosthesis, sock, and liner. He massaged the muscles of Alex’s residual limb and up to his outer thigh, his mouth working the inner thigh. When his mouth reached the apex of Alex’s legs, he looked up towards Alex’s flushed face where he’d been watching him undress and worship his body.

“I want to fuck you with the panties on,” Michael said, before mouthing over Alex’s balls and cock again, moving back up towards Alex’s face. “I want to you to lie on your stomach with you ass presented for me, panties on, and I want to eat you out and then fuck you. Sound good?”

He’d finished with his mouth on Alex’s chest and he barely had to wait half a breath for Alex’s response.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathed, pushing his hand into Michael’s hair so he could direct his face back up to Alex’s for a deep, searching kiss full of filthy promises and need. When Alex broke the kiss, he moved back away from Michael further onto the mattress and realigned his body so he could have his face near the headboard. He moved a pillow under his hips, but kept his body up on his knee not resting on it yet. Michael grabbed lube and a condom out of the bedside table and threw them onto the cover near Alex’s pillow before climbing onto the bed behind Alex’s beautifully presented ass. He put his hands over both cheeks of his perfect ass, fingers sneaking under the leg bands, and he began massaging the muscles in his hands. He loved watching the way the fabric seemed to disappear between Alex’s cheeks as he moved them, loved knowing he was one thin scrap of material away from what he really wanted. He bent forward and pulled Alex’s cheeks apart. He breathed through his mouth over the area directly above Alex’s hole, knowing the fabric was getting warm as he did. He pressed his tongue forward and licked over the fabric, causing Alex’s breath to hitch in surprise. Gathering some spit on his tongue, the next lick soaked the material through and it was almost like there was nothing between him and Alex��s skin. He backed up, kissed up to Alex’s skin, and rubbed his thumb over the sodden fabric over Alex’s pucker.

“Does this feel okay, babe?” Michael asked, smiling even though Alex couldn’t see it when he got a needy whine and Alex pressing back against the pressure of his finger. He couldn’t help but mess with him a little. He pressed a little more firmly, dragging his finger up and down over his entrance, petting him with his thumb. “Do you need a little more?”

“Fuck, Michael, yes!” Alex answered, sounding equal parts of horny and frustrated. Michael smiled against the skin at the bottom of his spine and kissed him apologetically.

“Okay, I got you,” he said, then moved back down to replace his thumb with his mouth. He licked firmly over the fabric, pushing with his tongue at the pucker, swirling over it and sucked at the satin and skin surrounding it. Finally, he pushed the fabric aside, too desperate himself to keep teasing. At the first touch of his tongue to Alex’s skin, Alex let out a high pitched cry and Michael had to reach down to hold himself to keep from letting the sound get him too worked up. He returned to eating Alex out, pushing his tongue past his tight rim faster than he might normally but feeling himself starting to get desperate for more. Alex must’ve been feeling the same way, because he groaned into his pillow and rocked his hips back against Michael’s probing tongue. Michael sat back and grabbed the condom and lube. He ripped open the condom packet and rolled it onto himself quickly. When he popped the cap and looked up through, Alex was already working one finger in and out of his hole. Michael bent forward without thinking and licked around the probing finger, pushing his tongue alongside as much as he could. Alex keened above him and Michael reached between his legs to pull the panties down off of his cock. Even without seeing, Micheal could feel where Alex was dripping steadily onto the pillow beneath him. The tip was so warm and slick that Michael’s hand slid easily as he wrapped his fingers around Alex’s length and jerked him as best he could from the odd angle. He felt Alex pull his finger back and come back with two. Michael caught his hand and kissed his fingers before letting go.

“I got you, baby. Let me take care of it. You touch your cock while I get your ready, yeah?” Michael suggested, letting Alex’s cock go so he could drizzle lube onto his fingers. He smeared the tips around Alex’s red, needy pucker before pushing in with two to take up where he and Alex had left off. It was still a slight stretch, but Michael immediately began spreading his fingers carefully and scissoring them to help Alex along. He teased at the rim with a third after a few minutes and Alex groaned behind him.

“Please Michael, I’m good. I wanna feel you stretching me on your cock!” Alex groaned while looking over his shoulder, hair disheveled and expression wild. Michael nodded, too keyed up to say no, and dragged the panties down until they rested under the swell of Alex’s cheeks. He drizzled lube over his cock, using his hand to spread it around before positioning himself at Alex’s entrance. Since he wasn’t fully stretched, it took a little more effort for his body to accept Michael’s thick cock inside of him. Michael rocked forward gently, holding Alex’s hips steady as he pushed his way slowly past the tight rim of muscle. Alex’s thighs were trembling and Michael could feel the tension in his body. He paused and ran his hands up Alex’s back, massaging the muscles of his shoulders and down his spine. Minutely, inch by inch, Alex relaxed as Michael continued to push himself further into him with short, slow thrusts until their hips were cradled against one another.

“Fuck, we should’ve stretched you more. You’re so fucking tight right now,” Michael groaned from above him, trying to get used to the velvet vice grip surrounding him. Alex was panting into his pillow, but Michael could see his arm moving beneath him, slowly stroking his cock. Alex loved this. Alex loved a little less prep and a little more stretch, loved to feel his body forced to make room for Michael inside of him, and Michael felt sure that Alex could cum just like this, without Michael moving, just stuffing him full while Alex jacked himself off onto the bed spread. But that wasn’t today’s game. Leaning forward, Michael positioned his hands to either side of Alex’s ribs and started to pull his hips back. It felt amazing. It always felt amazing to be inside Alex’s body, but this sucking pressure as he pulled out and pushed back in was indescribably good.

“Oh God, Michael. Like that,” Alex moaned underneath him, punctuating his praise with a squeeze of his muscles around Michael’s cock that left him moaning helplessly into the skin of Alex’s back. Michael tried to keep up his steady pace, but his body craved more and it was hard to keep going slowly.

“Alex, baby, I gotta…,” Michael panted against his skin. He couldn't wait before he picked up the tempo of his thrusts, pushing harder to feel the singing sting of their skin slapping together, and he could feel the coil of impending ecstasy in him growing tighter and tighter. Alex was likewise moaning and pushing back into his thrust, their skin meeting in meaty blows that pushed grunts out of Michael’s throat. It was too good, everything felt too good. He wasn't going to last very long.

“Are you close?” Michael managed to ask through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut so he couldn’t be tempted to look down at the reddening skin of Alex’s ass and thighs where it was meeting Michael's or at his cock splitting Alex wide as he thrust hard into his body.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m so close, Michael. Fuck, so.. So… AH!” Michael felt the inexorable tightening of Alex’s body around him and he bit his lip as he plowed through his last few thrusts so he could follow him. It was the kind of orgasm that sucked all the sense of our brain and poured it into every nerve ending on your body. He kept rocking through his aftershocks until it became too much and he had to still and calm his heart.He and Alex tipped to the side as one, still connected, and breathing heavily. Michael lazily kissed Alex’s shoulder as he recovered, his arms wrapped solidly around his waist as if Alex would try to move away from him. Alex rubbed his forearms soothingly and pressed his body back into his kisses, tangling their legs together.

“You’re amazing,” Michael breathed into Alex’s sweat dampened hair. He loved the smell of Alex after sex. He smelled good enough for Michael to get hard for another round before he could pull out from this one. The condom was the only obstacle keeping him from doing just that. With distaste and disappointment, Michael reached down between them to hold onto the condom as he pulled out of Alex’s body. He stripped it off and tied it quickly, tossing it towards the wastebasket. He pushed back against Alex’s body, needing to feel every inch of skin against his that he could. Michael buried his head in Alex’s neck and just breathed, trying to memorize his scent and their scent together.

“So panties are apparently a thing we both enjoy. Good to know,” Alex teased in a casual, conversational tone. Michael nipped at the skin of his neck and snuggled himself closer as if they weren’t already touching everywhere they could.

“Yes, I’d say so,” Michael agreed after Alex started to grind his ass back against Michael’s only half deflated cock. “But if you keep doing that, I’m not going to bother with the condom next time and we’re just going to have a mess to clean up.”

“You didn’t have to bother with it this time,” Alex said, still giving small rolls of his hips.

“I didn’t want to stain your costume,” Michael explained, feeling his cock fill again. Fucking alien refractory period was a curse and a blessing. His body had started to respond, small rolls of his hips to correspond with Alex's, his cock nestling in the valley between his still pink ass cheeks.

“No costume in the way now…” Alex said conspiratorially. He reached back and raked his short nails up Michael's thigh to his hip, where he gripped him as if to spur him on.

“Fuck, you’re a fucking menace,” Michael complained halfheartedly. Alex let our a pleased hum of agreement. Michael pulled himself away suddenly to lay on his back. “But you’re on top this time.”

Alex rolled over and looked Michael up and down slowly, licking his lips as he did so.

“Oh no, what’s a boy to do,” he replied with a slow, dirty grin that made Michael exceedingly glad he already had the morning off, because he didn’t think he’d be fit to move until after lunch.

#malex fic #malex #sex week challenge #michael guerin #alex manes

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