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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

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Ready-Made Family

Characters: Richard Muñoz and F!Reader

WC: 6251

Other Pieces: This is a stand alone.

CW: Angst; idiots in love; pining. Mentions of infidelity.

When Richard Muñoz’s next door neighbor moves in, he’s not home to see it. His previous neighbor—an old man of his mother’s generation—had moved away to Florida, and the house had sold quickly.

But he’s not there the day the moving trucks pull up, and he doesn’t meet you right away. One day, it was Mister Forni next door, his evening news and game shows blaring through the shared wall of the connected homes. The next day, seemingly overnight, it was much quieter, though Richard could sometimes hear sounds through the wall. Talking, too low to make out the words. Music. Television, sometimes, and it seemed bright and cheerful, like kid’s programming.

-----

He doesn’t meet you until spring, when the April thaw starts in earnest and you are in your front yard, surveying the abysmal condition of the flower beds. Strewn with trash whipped around by winter winds, full of dead plants. Richard goes out to take stock of his own front yard (in far better shape than your own), and he tilts a nod at you when he catches you looking at him.

He starts to make the few steps over, hand extended to introduce himself, but he’s stopped short by a child—a little girl—flying down the front steps and tackling you around your knees. You give a quiet oof at the impact, and then you gift Richard a rueful smile over the girl’s head.

You introduce yourself, and you introduce your daughter, Rowan, who grins at him shyly, ducking behind you as she does. You hold out your hand and Richard takes it, shakes it briefly while giving his own name.

You’re lovely, in an understated way. Your hair is up in a neat ponytail, and you’re wearing an oversized barn coat in the spring weather. No gloves, and Richard checks on the sly—no wedding ring, no engagement ring.

“We share a wall,” you tell him. “If we’re ever too loud, please let me know, okay?”

Richard says he will, but he knows he won’t. He’s too shy, too reticent, too willing to let others walk all over him.

-----

But you and Rowan aren’t loud at all. Sometimes he hears the two of you—you seem to enjoy singing together around dinnertime—but it’s never too loud or too long or too late.

He sees you more than he hears you. In the front yard, when you and Rowan (the little girl armed with a plastic shovel) whip your flower beds into shape. More often in the back of the house where you park in the alleyway. Unloading the little girl from her car seat, unloading groceries. When summer comes, Richard grills outside a fair amount, and you and Rowan often take your meals out there in the sunshine.

Richard is painfully shy, so he only ever nods and smiles when he sees the two of you. Maybe you’re shy too, or closed off, because you only ever answer with your own nod and maybe a small wave.

Your little daughter, though? Rowan? She has a bold assurance, not an ounce of shyness now that he isn’t a stranger. She waves at him wildly when she sees him. She shrieks his name—Mister Muñoz, polite to a fault. And her enthusiasm is doubled when his dog is with him. The little girl is dog-crazy, wants one of her own, begs you within Richard’s earshot about how she wants one just like Bianca, small and fluffy and white, and how the dog could sleep in bed with her…

You always shoot him that same rueful smile, just as you had the day he met you. A little beleaguered, as if you hear Rowan’s pleading for a dog all the time.

One summer afternoon, when Rowan’s pleading is particularly persistent, Richard kneels down beside the little girl and points out, reasonably enough, that she lives next door to Bianca and is welcome to visit with her whenever she wants.

Another smile from you, but this one is more thoughtful.

“You’re going to regret that offer,” you tell him, but he won’t, not once. He doesn’t know it in this moment, but this is where it begins. In this moment, Richard is only a lonely single man with a weakness for how Rowan waves at him wildly, happy to see him. A weakness for the way you smile at him over her head, like you and he are sharing a secret.

-----

It starts slow. At summer progresses, Richard learns more about both you and Rowan. Rowan, he learns, is four and in pre-school. She’s charmingly polite for a small child. She’s a picky eater, but you often use reverse psychology to trick her into trying new foods. Her favorite color is pink one week, then yellow, then green.

She updates Richard on her new favorite colors with a serious look on her face, as if she is conveying grave news. He always makes sure to receive these updates with an equally serious look, a stern nod of understanding.

You? You’re more reticent, happy to just sit and listen to your daughter chat with Richard and Bianca. But you open up over time.

You work for the city, in the parks department as a city planner. Stable work with stable hours, which helps since you are single mother.

Once, when Rowan is engrossed with Bianca (brushing her out gently, as Richard demonstrated), you sit closer to him and talk to him in a quieter voice, so your daughter can’t hear.

“Her father isn’t in the picture at all,” you tell him. “We divorced when she was two.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies softly, and he is sorry for Rowan’s sake and for whatever hurt you had or still have…but a selfish part of him who relishes these moments with the two of you isn’t sorry at all.

You gaze at him a long moment—so long that he squirms under the force of your attention. So long that he wonders if he messed up and said the quiet part out loud, or if you’re a mind reader.

“Don’t be,” you finally say. “He was a terrible father and a worse husband.”

-----

Summer fades into autumn, and Richard would despair, would worry about the loss of these moments with you and Rowan in your backyard, but by the time the weather turns cool, your reserve has burned off enough that you consider him a friend.

Sometimes you and Rowan come to his home, but more often, he comes to yours. He brings Bianca and has a coffee with you some weekend afternoons while your respective daughters (his small and white and furry, yours currently mad for the color purple) play.

You’re still reserved. Richard is sensitive, and he’s good at sensing someone’s feelings. Between his natural understanding and the little you’ve told him, he can guess that you’re wary of men in general. That if he were any other man, you’d never invite him into your home. That you have only let him in because he’s gentle and because he’s good with Rowan. He humors your daughter, genuinely enjoys spending time with the little girl.

-----

Halloween is never a holiday that Richard celebrated much. The most he’s ever done is buy a few bags of candy that he leaves out in a bowl on his porch for the children to help himself to. But a week before, you knock on his door and ask for a favor.

“Rowan wants to go trick-or-treating, but she’s scared.” You glance at him, and he can see it written on your face, how much it pains you to ask for help.

“What do you need?”

“I wanted to see…if you’d join us,” you say. “You and Bianca, maybe. I think she’d feel braver if she had a few buddies with her.”

Richard nods, agrees to it immediately. “Do you want me to dress up?”

You shake your head, laugh lightly. “I wouldn’t want to put you out. Don’t worry about that.”

Other men may have seedier fantasies, but this has always been one of Richard’s: you and him, Rowan and Bianca, trick-or-treating together. Well, the fantasy was never so specific, but this is as close as he’s gotten—family stuff, time spent together. It’s easy to pretend that you’re his wife, that Rowan is his daughter, and that you’ll all return home to the same house where Rowan may throw a tantrum over the candy. That he’ll get her to sleep after reading her a story, and that you and he will pick through the haul for your own favorites before heading to bed too, where he’ll wrap an arm around your shoulders and pull you to him, both a little foot-sore but happy…

Just a dumb, tame fantasy, but so easy to fall into.

Rowan is dressed up in all white with furry ears perched on her head, and skipping beside Bianca, it’s obvious what inspired the costume. You are looking at Richard when he realizes, and he catches the soft smile you gift him.

-----

Thanksgiving comes, and it’s a stark difference to Halloween: you and Rowan pack up your car and head upstate to spend it with your family.

Richard? He’s on his own again, just him and Bianca.

But there’s a difference this year. Before you leave for your long weekend, you knock on his door. When he answers, you can barely meet his eye—you’re reserved, of course, but Richard also thinks you’re shy and moments like this further that theory.

“I made you this,” you mutter, not looking at him. “For Thanksgiving.”

It’s a pie: a glorious looking pastry with golden crust, the heavenly scent of apples and cinnamon wafting out of the tin covered with plastic wrap.

“To say thank you,” you clarify. “For being…well, for everything, I guess.”

He starts to stammer out a protest, say no, that he should be thanking you, that you’ve given him far more than he’s given you, but you’re already turned away and fleeing down his steps, and something is different about your reticence here.

He doesn’t know it now, but this is the moment it begins for you. Or nearly so: he’ll find out later that it was the night before, when you contemplated the things you had to be thankful for. That Richard Muñoz drifted near the top of that list, so much so that you stayed up late to bake him a pie in thanks.

-----

You go away for Thanksgiving, but when you return, you’re hollow-eyed. Deep circles under your eyes like bruises. Even Rowan seems subdued.

Richard gets a bit of the story from you during one of your playdates. Bianca and Rowan are in your living room, snuggling on the couch and watching a cartoon. You and Richard are in your kitchen, drinking coffee and picking at pastries you picked up from a nearby bakery.

“We saw my ex. Rowan’s father,” you say. You push around a few stray crumbs on your table, make a neat little pile of them. You glance up at him, then clarify, “we grew up next door to each other.”

“Ah.” Richard hates himself in these moments: he never knows what to say and is often reduced to stupid one syllable words. He has no wisdom or comfort to offer most times, though you seem to just need a listening ear from him.

You voice drops a little, and you lean forward so he can hear you. “He remarried and has a new baby. Rowan saw them outside. I didn’t think she put it together…he left when she was so young, you understand. But I think someone said something she overheard. She asked a lot of tough questions on the ride home.”

“I’m sorry.” He swallows hard, then adds, “is she okay?”

You shrug. “I think so. But I think…maybe I should take her to see someone. Like a child therapist.”

“It couldn’t hurt, her having someone else to talk to.”

You nod at that, but he can see the misery on your face. From what, it’s hard to tell: your ex moving on, your daughter hurting, needing outside help for her to work through her feelings. Richard knows that you’re fiercely independent, and he would bet his pension that you are toughest on yourself.

“Hey,” he says, and he waits until you look at him again. “Are you okay?”

You blink at the question, look startled. He wonders when the last time anyone asked after your own feelings. Probably not for a long while, judging your reaction.

You answer with another shrug, which is answer enough for him. You’re not okay at all.

-----

There’s family drama and angst that Richard can’t even begin to guess at, but again there’s a selfish upside: you spend Christmas at home, no traveling.

Even better, you invite him to Christmas dinner.

“It’s nothing elaborate,” you warn him. “We have a small turkey, but it’s still too much for the two of us.”

Richard hasn’t shared a Christmas with anyone since his mother died, and his breath catches in his throat when he realizes the gift you’re giving him. He feels sick all of a sudden, flushed and sweaty, and he struggles to accept. Struggles to ask what he can bring, how he can help.

You watch him a long moment, your usually-wary eyes bright and curious. “You don’t have to bring anything other than yourself and your dog.” A beat. “And if you want to come over obscenely early, you can join me in watching the little gremlin unwrap Santa’s presents.”

“I’ll be there,” he manages to say, and his voice is still choked up a bit. Another beat of you studying him, and then you reach out. Lay your hand on his upper arm, a bracing touch that only lasts a second, but it buoys Richard through the rest of the day, the rest of the week, all the way through Christmas morning.

-----

Richard arrives Christmas morning early, but not early enough.

You answer the door and you’re absolutely charming: in flannel pajama pants and a shapeless sweatshirt, bare feet and tousled hair. And a huge yawn.

Rowan is right behind you, bouncing up and down, squealing his name.

“Richard!” She shrieks, and it hits a decibel that makes you wince as you put a steadying hand on the head of your daughter, trying to calm her glee just a bit. “Santa came!”

“You must have been good then,” he answers with a smile, and you snort softly at that, smile at him.

“Mommy said I had to wait for you,” Rowan says, and there isn’t a bit of petulance in her voice. In the months since he’s gotten to know the little girl, he’s found her to be sweet-natured to a fault. Willing to share with others, crying in sympathy when other children cry.

“Thank you for waiting.” He jostles the bag in his arms, and he kneels down by Bianca and unclips her leash. The dog is familiar with your home now too, and she scampers inside and joins your daughter by the Christmas tree. You smile at him again, tell him good morning, and you reach past him to shut the door.

“Ro, just let me and Richard get some coffee and we can start, okay?” you call out, and you gesture for him to follow you. In the kitchen, though, you frown at his bag.

“I told you not to bring anything,” you tell him.

You did, but it paralyzed him. Richard grew up in a household that took gifts when visiting other homes: bottles of wine, cut flowers, a dish to pass around at a dinner party. You did tell him not to bring anything, but he has decades of home-training fighting against him, and he tells you so.

“Besides, I couldn’t not get Rowan anything,” he points out.

“You spoil her,” you reply, but you’re smiling at him as you pull down a mug and pour him some coffee.

He got you something too, but he doesn’t say so. He’s usually rendered near-mute around you, but the thought thundering through his head is, of course I want to spoil her, I want to spoil you both.

-----

It’s a morning of surprises.

Rowan is surprised when Richard hands her his gift, which is just a purple stuffed unicorn with a rainbow mane and tail. It’s poorly wrapped—he never had the knack for wrapping misshapen gifts—but the little girl shrieks in delight, then surprises him with a fierce hug and a smacking kiss to his cheek.

“I love it!” she says, hugging it tight to herself, her words going high-pitched in delight. “Thank you!”

But then she sets it gently beside him on the couch and scampers off, and here you reach out and touch his arm.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly. “She got you something, but…just act happy, okay?”

Before you can clarify, Rowan is back and thrusting her own poorly-wrapped gift into his hands. Richard is surprised (he expected nothing, and the only gifts he ever gets are from his union, which sends out fruit baskets when a new contract is ratified). He makes a show of unwrapping it, and it’s several things in a gift box that he takes out one at a time and marvels over while Rowan claps beside him and you hide your grin against the rim of your coffee mug.

A pair of socks with little white anchors on them. A bar of fancy soap, marbled and swirled green and white that smells like peppermint. A tin of mints. And a toothbrush.

Rowan only half-accepts his hearty thanks, already turning back to her new toys, and when he catches your eye, you burst into laughter. Real laughter, and Richard realizes it’s the first time he’s really heard you laugh.

“Do I…smell?” he asks in a low voice, and your laughter doubles, folds in on itself until your eyes are watery from glee. You have to set your coffee down, and you swipe at your eyes once the merriment dies down.

“No,” you manage to wheeze out. “I asked her, but there was literally no logic behind what she picked out.” Another wave of laughter, and you reach out and steady yourself against him, grip his bicep through his sweater. “She just saw something, said Richard will like this, and threw it in the basket.”

He chuckles along with you, but he gives a mock-rueful shake of his head. “I think I’ve been walking around stinking all this time, and you’ve been too nice to tell me.”

“You haven’t!” You shake your head too and wipe away the tears of glee. “You don’t!”

“Liar.”

But the surprises continue: once your laughter dies off for good, you tell Rowan to hand Richard a certain gift that was set off to the side. It’s wrapped in crisp silver paper, clearly by you, and he unwraps it to reveal a framed photo. It’s the three of you and Bianca, from Halloween. He remembers when it was snapped—you had a neighbor take your phone and get a few pictures of you and Rowan, but at the last minute, you waved Richard in.

“It’s dumb—” you start to say, but Richard cuts you off gently. Firmly.

“It’s perfect.”

There’s a gift for Bianca (a giant treat that she gnaws on for the rest of the day), and Richard’s own gift for you (a French press, because yours had been broken in the move and you hadn’t gotten around to buying a new one).

When you invited him over for the day, he had the idea that it would just be for the noontime dinner you have planned…but Richard spends the whole day and most of the night too. And it’s as magical as anything he’s ever imagined in his loneliest hours: he helps you with the meal, he helps you clean up, the two of you side by side in your kitchen. There’s an ease to you now, he realizes. You aren’t as reserved with him; you let some more of your walls down.

Afterward dinner, the three of you (Bianca in the corner, gnawing on her treat) sit on the couch and watch Christmas movies. It’s all child-friendly fare, oldies, and Rowan nods off, her little head pressed against his arm. You nod off too, curled against the arm of the couch, and Richard thinks it may be possible to die from a broken heart, because that’s what it feels like. His chest feels too tight, as if it’s been stuffed too full from all the love—or at least conviviality—that he suddenly has.

When the two of you wake up (and it’s cute, how you both are a little grumpy after a nap), there’s an evening meal of leftovers and pie, another movie. You put Rowan to bed, tuck her in with her new stuffed unicorn, and then you rejoin Richard.

“Up for some coffee?” you ask, and of course he is.

When he finally gathers up his gifts and Bianca and goes to leave, he’s surprised when you stand before him. You hesitate for a beat, then give him a hug. It only lasts a few seconds, and your shyness blooms at the motion because you don’t quite meet his eyes when you murmur your thanks, when you murmur how happy you were that he joined you and Rowan.

-----

You invite him over for New Year’s Eve too, but it’s less of an affair. Rowan has a normal bedtime, so it’s just dinner with her…and then drinks with you, as the two of you wait for the new year to start.

It’s the closest thing Richard has had to a date in years, and if he’s nervous, you seem doubly so.

“I had an ulterior motive, inviting you over tonight,” you tell him. You don’t look at him which is your tell, he realizes. It’s the sign that you’re nervous or shy. He makes a noise of assent for you to continue, and you do after you take a big sip of wine.

“I wanted to say, Rowan really likes you. I do too, but I have to put my daughter’s feelings first.” Another sip of wine, and you turn to face him. “I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault…well, I guess it’s my fault, but you’ve become kind of a father figure to her.”

“Okay,” he replies, not sure where you are going with this, but his stomach sinks at the somber look on your face.

You shake your head. “I shouldn’t have let it get this far. She talks about you all the time. She always asks when you’re coming over.” You hesitate again, then add, “she mentioned you to her therapist, you know. Told her that she has a new dad.”

Richard feels sick to his stomach, because the first place his mind goes is…not a good place. He works in a prison, after all. Works with some of the worst people, and some of those people hurt children. That’s what he thinks you may think, and he flushes at the insinuation that he has nefarious intentions. Indeed, he’s not made many proactive moves in this entire relationship with you and Rowan. He’s been buoyed along on the current, and he starts to stammer out a defense of himself, that he’d never hurt Rowan or you, that he never told her he was her new father…

You place your hand on his arm, still his fumbling torrent of words. “I know, Richard. I know.”

“I never told her I was her father,” he protests anyway. “I thought I was being nice—”

You cut him off again. “You are nice.” You sigh and shake your head. “Listen, we both really like you, but Rowan is confused. She’s in therapy, and it sounds like she has a lot of big feelings about her bio dad leaving. I just don’t want to confuse her any more than she already is. She’s only four.”

“I understand.” Richard swallows hard against the tears rising in his eyes, and he offers you a feeble smile.

You shake your head again, and you give a growl that sounds like pure frustration. “I’m sorry. I’m not being clear. I’m not telling you to go away and stay away, Richard. I’m just saying…her therapist and I have clarified the difference to her about who her father is, and who you are. I just need you to understand, and I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything. Anything at all.” A shard of hope lances through him, sharp, and he’d promise anything to stay in your lives…

“Promise me that when you meet someone and…have less time for us, that you’ll fade out quietly.” He looks at you, and he’s surprised to see your own eyes glassy with tears. You look him dead-on, and there’s a fierce quality to your expression—the closest he’s ever gotten to a mother bear, he’ll realize later.

“Promise you won’t just disappear on her,” you add. “Promise you won’t be like her real dad and just…disappear.”

Richard turns over your words in his head, and he realizes what you’ve alluded to: that he’d meet someone else and move on with them, leave you and Rowan behind. Have less time for us, you said. Not Rowan. Us.

Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s sitting so close to you on your couch as the old year ticks away its final hour. Something makes him brave when he’s only ever been passive and a little cowardly.

Richard reaches out and takes your hand in his. He only means to hold it, but then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it.

“I promise,” he says. “But I’d never disappear on either of you. Not ever. I’ll stay until you send me away.”

It makes you blink, and a tear breaks free and starts to trickle between the lovely curve of your cheek and your nose. The courage never comes easily to him, but once he has a taste, he finds a bit more in reserve: he reaches out with his other hand and brushes the tear away, and when you blink a second one free, he gets that one too.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

The moment feels so heavy, though. Richard hates that you have this past where your ex hurt you and Rowan so badly that any other man being kind carries its own hazards. He hates that Rowan has to see the therapist, that you carry such heavy burdens alone. It’s almost a new year, and he wants to see you smile for it.

“Besides, you’re the only two ladies who’ve ever put up with my stink for so long,” he adds, and it startles a laugh out of you.

It diffuses the heaviness hanging over the evening, and when the new year starts, Richard feels a hopefulness that is more substantial than the nebulous feeling he had when he first starting hanging out with you and Rowan.

It doesn’t hurt that when he lifts his arm in invitation—definitely the influence of the wine, by now—you look at him for a moment and then lean against him.

-----

It’s deep into January when Rowan addresses the issue herself. You are out running errands, and Richard is babysitting, though your daughter tends to test her limits, wheedling for more snacks and a skipped nap.

But you reminded him before you left (“You’re the adult here, Richard. Don’t let her boss you around”), so he remains gently firm in her schedule, and when he puts her down for her nap, she brings up the topic you broached on New Year’s Eve.

“I know you aren’t my daddy,” she says. “But you’re my friend, right?”

“I am.”

“You’re not my best friend though,” she clarifies.

Richard chuckles, and he guesses that he ranks lower than Bianca, though it doesn’t bother him.

“I’m okay with that, niñita.”

-----

The angst over Rowan’s therapy seems to settle and level off, but you and Richard….that’s a different issue.

He’s shy and uncertain, and he has the sense that you’d cut him out of your lives in an instant if you feel it’s the right thing to do for Rowan. But you’re shy too, still hurt and walled off, though your walls come down a little bit each time he is with you.

And while he’s not that experienced with women, your shyness seems to have shifted. It doesn’t seem to be the same reticence of before: now it seems more fragile, like you might have your own hope that you’re fostering.

He knows more about your past with your ex, and it only infuriates him further. The boy next door, high school sweethearts, married young. Your ex had wanted kids more than you had, and he had cajoled you until you finally gave in and agreed. You got pregnant, but your ex started to steadily drift away in the final months of your pregnancy.

When Rowan was a year old, you caught him cheating on you.

When she was two, the divorce—an acrimonious thing, full of venom—was finalized. You and Rowan moved back into your parents’ house to rebuild, and after a couple of years, you moved here.

But one day, in the beginning of February, you fix Richard with that bright gaze you have sometimes, and it’s paired with a soft smile.

“I’m glad we moved in next door to you,” you tell him.

“I’m glad too.”

You look like you want to say something else, but then you seem to think better of it and remain silent.

-----

Thing is, if you’re shy and Richard is shy, the two of you would stay in a painful stalemate forever. The three of you spent time together, and both you and Richard trade off on babysitting duties: he watches Rowan for you sometimes, and you help with Bianca when he has late shifts.

It's a regular Saturday when he babysits Rowan. You have a mountain of errands to run, and you offer to make him dinner if he can just watch the little girl for a few hours. He waves off your insistence for quid pro quo, as he always does, but he never turns down dinner with you and Rowan. For one thing, he loves the little family unit the three of you have. For another thing…you’re just a damned good cook.

Over the course of the afternoon together, he and Rowan watches a cartoon, then reads some books, then color together. Then, to his everlasting dismay and chagrin, she wants to play beauty shop.

He loves Rowan like his own, but…he really hates playing beauty shop.

But he obliges, and he allows the little girl to treat him like a fancy lady (her words, not his). She puts plastic clips in his hair, puts plastic beads around his neck, and then she gives him a makeover. Your mother, Rowan’s grandmother, gifted her a child’s kit of play-makeup: glittery, bright stuff mild enough for a kid’s skin, and that’s what Rowan smears all over his face over the course of play. She coos over him, pats his cheek kindly, tells him he’s very, very pretty and that all of the girls in school will be jealous of how pretty he is, and Richard dies a little inside but he’s also touched by how gentle of a kid Rowan is. He doesn’t remember kids being that kind when he was young.

The only problem is that you show up entire hours before he was expecting you. Just as Rowan is putting the finishing touches on him (an inexplicable glittery sticker on the back of each hand), just as she stands up and starts squealing, saying he’s very, very lovely, you walk through the door.

Rowan turns in surprise, then points at her handiwork in obvious pride. Squeals “look at Richard, mommy!”

Richard turns in surprise, sees the way your eyes widen, hears the sharp intake of breath, and he wishes he could curl up and die.

He’s never heard you laugh so hard or so long. Just when it starts to die down, you look at him again and start back up. You laugh so hard that tears roll down your face. You laugh so hard you start to cough.

“Oh, goddammit,” you wheeze when you finally make your way over to him. “Does she torture you like this every time you watch her?”

“I usually have more time to clean it off,” he replies, smiling at you. He looks ridiculous, but what a small price to pay to have you so happy, even for a moment.

“I’m so sorry.” You look at him, giggle again, and it makes his heart feel light, his chest filled with warmth.

“I’ve been told I’m very pretty,” he teases.

“You’re usually very handsome,” you answer. “But right now, I’m sorry to say, but you look like you’ve been attacked by a gang of demented clowns.”

He flushes at your sudden compliment. He’s rendered unable to speak. And you don’t seem to notice because you turn to Rowan and tell her to clean up her toys, and then you turn back to Richard and hold out a hand to him.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He still can’t speak, so he lets you lead him to the bathroom, and he perches on the edge of the tub and watches as you take down a bottle of something, a few squares of cotton that you douse with the bottle. Then you turn to him and gentle as anything, you clean his face.

“I know this stuff comes off with water,” you say softly. “But it can still dry out the face.”

“O-okay.”

“This is makeup remover. Better for the skin.”

He nods, but his chest feels suddenly tight: you’re standing right over him, as close as you’ve ever been to him, and your light touch makes him break out in goosebumps.

“You can tell her ‘no,’ you know.” You say it with a teasing lilt.

“She likes playing beauty shop.” The words come out in a croak, rough around the edges.

You hum at that. You reach over and get another square of cotton, squirt the makeup remover on it. Do another pass over his face, and he shuts his eyes against the feeling of your hands on him, such a chaste touch but still intimate. He can’t remember the last time a woman touched him so gently or at all—

“Richard,” you whisper, breaking him from his reverie. He opens his eyes and looks up. Sees you gazing at him. “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

“W-what?”

You smile at his stammering. “Can I kiss you?”

He nods. He tries to swallow but his mouth is suddenly dry, but he has no time to worry about it because you place your hands on the sides of his face and tilt his head up, and then you’re bending your own head, and then your lips are on his, light as air, and all of Richard’s painful worrying disappears.

He’s glad you lead him. You have a better handle on this moment then him. You pull away for a moment, gaze down at him, like you’re trying to gauge his reaction. When he smiles up at you like a dope, you smile back and kiss him again. You slip one hand back; you push your fingers into the curls on the back of his head, and he sighs into the kiss. He doesn’t know what to do with his own hands so he keeps them folded in his lap.

When you pull away a second time, you press your forehead against his.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you whisper.

“Really?”

You lean back a little and look at him, and now your soft gaze has a sorrowful slant to it.

“I was hurt pretty badly. It…it took me a long time to get up the courage.”

He reaches out his hands and takes hold of yours, and it makes you smile. “I’m glad you did.” A beat. “Because I’m a coward.”

You snort, squeeze his hands gently, then lean forward and gift him a third kiss, a light peck on his lips.

“I think any man willing to wear glitter eyeshadow is pretty brave,” you joke.

He opens his mouth to joke back, but Rowan yells from the hallway that she’s cleaned everything up and she’s also starving and what are the two of you doing in there and can she come in and help but also she’s starving and what’s for dinner—

“The little monster beckons,” you sigh with a roll of your eyes. “Are you still going to stay for dinner?”

“If that’s okay…”

You smile…no, you grin at him. “More than okay.” You hesitate, then add, “I’d like you to spend as much time with us as you want.”

“Careful, cariño.” The term of endearment slips out, makes you smile wider. “You say stuff like that, you’ll never get rid of me.”

A fourth kiss, this time a playful smack that makes you laugh, duck your head a little in faint embarrassment before you tell him, “sounds good to me.”

#richard munoz #richard alonso munoz #richard alonso muñoz x reader #richard alonso munoz x reader #richard munoz x reader #The Letter Room #tropes-and-tales

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marvel-and-mischief · 1 year

Text

❄️ December Writing Challenge ❄️

Day 15. Matching Pyjamas

Pairing: Richard Alonso Muñoz x GN!Reader Words: 754 Warnings: none!

December Writing Challenge masterlist

“Do you think this is cute?” Richard turned the catalogue that had been placed in his mailbox this morning towards you, a nervous frown creasing his features. You lower the book you were reading, a collection of Emily Dickinson poems, to peer at the page he held open. There were two beautiful models leaning towards each other, mistletoe dangling above their heads as they held a small gift between them. Their bodies were twisted uncomfortably towards the camera to display the clothes they were selling; a pair of matching button-up pyjamas in festive red with gold lining.

“Couples pyjamas?” you asked, glancing questioningly at Richard. He gave a half shrug, cheeks dusting pink in embarrassment as he fumbled with the pages of the catalogue.

“It was a thought, never mind,” Richard mumbled almost incoherently but you heard enough to know he was deflecting from his true feelings. You noticed that with Richard. He was sometimes too afraid to say exactly what he felt. Instead he tested the waters, threw out a suggestion, making out it was only half a thought. But you knew him. And you knew he wanted couples pyjamas.

“I’ll make us a tea,” you suggested, patting his knee comfortingly on your way to the kitchen. You made sure you weren’t observed when you typed the catalogues website into your phone and searched for a pyjama set.

Neither you nor Richard wanted to make a big deal out of Christmas this year. You both had a couple of days off and you’d decided to spend it with each other at home, watching holiday movies, eating a wide range of food from both your cultures and settling down in the evenings to play games and read in each others company.

As soon as you were ready to get into your pyjamas, when the sky was becoming dark and the hot cocoa was at the forefront of your minds, you turned to Richard with a content smile.

“I brought you a new pyjama set. Would you wear it for me tonight?” Richard looked at you in surprise. Already beyond grateful for the presents he’d received this morning he couldn’t believe you’d brought him another gift.

“You are much too good to me,” he kissed you sweetly, pulling back reluctantly with child-like excitement in his eyes.

“It’s on the bed,” you said, prompting Richard to hurry up the stairs.

Richard was a careful dresser. He secured every button carefully, tied every lace firmly, positioned collars perfectly. So you knew you had time to ready your final present. You reached over the side of the armchair to retrieve the bag you’d secretly placed there a few days before, pulling out the pyjamas you’d brought that matched the ones Richard was changing into upstairs. They weren’t the exact pyjamas he’d seen in the catalogue a couple of weeks ago but they were just as festive. The fabric was good quality cotton, a shade of light grey adorned with red berries and green holly leaves with a silver lining running along the edges of the collar, cuffs and down the front where pearl white buttons sat. The trousers were the same pattern with a red drawstring waist, the bottoms folded over and sewn. It was a beautiful set that you hoped Richard would love.

You got changed and sat on the couch until you heard his tentative footsteps walking down the stairs. Your heart thumped with both excitement and apprehension. Your breath caught in your throat when Richard turned the corner, his hands nervously flattening the front of the pyjama top over his belly as he looked to you for approval. He was adorable in the pyjamas; the top button was low enough you could see some chest hairs poking over the top, he was walking slightly on the bottoms of the pyjama legs but he’d folded over the sleeves to free his hands. You walked over to hold his hands, giggling softly at how you two must look; silly, but completely in love.

Richard leaned forward to kiss you, underestimating the distance and landing a peck on your nose instead. You didn’t mind, there would be plenty of time this evening for as many kisses as you both wanted.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely with a wobbly smile. You took his face in your hands, your thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his cheeks.

“It’s my pleasure,” you replied, receiving a toothy grin. “Anyway, I think we look cute.”

Richard nodded, pulling you into a hug.

“We do.”

#december writing challenge #the letter room #oscar isaac #richard alonso muñoz #richard alonso munoz x gn!reader #richard alonso muñoz x reader #richard alonso munoz x reader #wwdilfcember #richard alonso muñoz x gn!reader

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boredzillenial · 4 months

Text

Laurent Leclaire

Sweet Relief

Laurent finds you during a difficult time of the month, he wants to help you feel better.

Jonathan Levy

A Simple Arrangement

Jonathan wakes you in the night to meet his needs with your agreement

King John

Exhibitionism

🎃 King John upholds his scandalous reputation and takes what he wants.

Jack Jackson

Dirty Talk & More

🎃 You come home to find a stranger by your pool.

Orestes

Bathhouse

🎃 Orestes follows you to the bathhouse and admits how intriguing you are to him.

My Dove

📨 Orestes trying to woo his bride

Basil Stitt

Anonymous Sex

🎃 You take a risk and try anonymous sex, but the man you meet is a little… off…

Pizza Delivery

📨 Orestes hears of a Saint that may span the hostility between him and his new bride.

Richard Muñoz

Vouyerism

🎃 Richard knew better than this, but he just can’t help himself.

Nathan Bateman

Data

Your boss Nathan needs your body “for science”

Poe Dameron

Sir’s Suprise

Poe is off on a mission but has just the thing to fill his pet’s needs

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cannedsoupsucks · 3 years

Text

MY FAVORITE FICS - REC LISTS

Assume all stories are 18+ and contain smut (no minors). Review all of the author’s warnings prior to reading.

PLEASE SUPPORT THE AUTHORS BY REBLOGGING

PEDRO PASCAL

Dave York

Din Djarin (Mando) - One Shots

Din Djarin (Mando) - Series

Ezra (Prospect) - One Shots

Ezra (Prospect) - Series

Frankie Morales

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels

Javier Peña

Joel Miller

Marcus Moreno

Marcus Pike

Max Phillips

Oberyn Martell

Pedro Across the Street

Pero Tovar

The Thief

Zach Wellison

OSCAR ISAAC

Abel Morales

Cecil (Revenge for Jolly)

Duke Leto Atreides

Llewyn Davis

Nathan Bateman

Poe Dameron

Richard Alonso Muñoz

Santiago Garcia

OTHER CHARACTERS

Boba Fett

Bodhi Rook

Jango Fett

Obi-wan Kenobi

Paz Vizsla

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brandyllyn · 3 years

Text

Baubles of stolen kisses

Richard Alonso Muñoz x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Summary: A slow dive into the start and growth of your relationship with Richard. Deals with themes of insecurity and self-worth. Words: 17.6k (oh my god, what the hell happened?). [Read it on AO3]

Rating: Explicit Warnings: angst. fluff. smut (fingering, breast play, PiV, oral [m&f]). food mention. alcohol mention. a little language. as slow a burn as you can get in a one-shot. what even are tenses?

A/N: I blame @writefightandflightclub entirely for this. I was just minding my own business, not being in love with this man and then BAM she hit me with Somebody to Love and then I was buying the short online and 17k words later...

I can’t find anything on what Richard calls his dog but her real name is Miss Shiloh so I went with that.

The first thing you noticed about him was the mustache. It was frankly difficult not to notice. It was bushy and large, nearly overwhelming his face. When he smiled and introduced himself it was difficult to even tell what his expression was. If it hadn’t been for his eyes it could have been anyone’s guess.

But his eyes… deep brown and oh so soft. You accidentally jerked on the leash you were holding, the dog on the end grumbling and standing up to give you a disgruntled look. You introduced yourself, holding out the hand with the leash before realizing and trying to switch it. But Ruby was having none of it, the large mutt flopping down onto the cement again and giving a loud put-upon sigh.

"She doesn’t seem like she wants to move."

"Yeah," you roll your eyes, "she’s like that sometimes."

Richard, his name was Richard, crouched down and held his hand out. Ruby lifted her head with a dissolute air and gave it a cautious sniff before laying back on her side. Richard looked up at you and smiled and yes you could see the corners of his eyes creasing. He nodded at you as he slowly stood back up, bracing himself against his thighs. His eyes seemed to linger for a moment before he moved on to the next volunteer, a guy you hadn’t worked with much holding a perfectly behaved German Shepherd.

"Ruby," you whisper down and see the dog at your feet crack one eye open. "Get up, you’re making me look bad."

Ruby ignored you. She always did.

It was the first day of the Pups for Prisoners program. You hadn’t been involved in any of the initial negotiations, but when the call had gone out to the rescue organization that you spent your free time you had jumped at the chance. You’d read an article about other prisons who had implemented similar programs and it seemed like a good idea. Something you could really get behind.

Richard introduced you to an inmate named George, a nice older man with crooked teeth who Ruby took an instant shine to. Within a few seconds she had her entire ninety pound body between his legs, tail-wagging, and a large happy smile on her face while he scratched at her butt.

"She’s a little demanding, she really likes butt-scratches," you tell the man with a smile and he grinned back at you.

"Ladies always like it when I touch their butts," George winked.

"George," the tone was cautionary, Richard appearing near your side with an apologetic shake of his head. "What did we talk about?"

George stood up straighter, looking sheepish. "Being on our best behavior."

Richard shot you a look that seemed long-suffering and you had to resist the urge to giggle at how much he looked like Ruby had earlier. George was old enough to be your father’s father, if not one generation even further. Ruby, suddenly bereft of her new friend’s attention, wended her way between the three of you, looking up with an expression that clearly wondered why she was no longer the center of attention. You handed George her leash. "Why don’t you take her for a turn around the yard? Just be careful she likes to-" but George was already gone, Ruby trotting happily at his heels.

"I think this is going well," Richard said next to you, his eyes scanning the half dozen prisoners and volunteers. To your right two people were working on teaching Peanut, a tan a Corgi, tricks. In front of you, the man with the German Shepherd was walking with a prisoner, pointing out what an appropriate 'heel' looked like. And to your left…

Ruby had her leash in her mouth, playing duck and bow and run with George who was chasing after her as best he could. Both of them seemed to be having the time of their life.

"Oh," Richard stood up straighter, "should I…?"

You shook your head and laid a hand on his arm. It was firmer than you expected and you noted the slight blush that rose to his cheeks when he looked at your hand and then at you. "I swear, she’s usually a very good girl," you sigh and then smile at him. "I’ll go help."

"Why don’t," he swallows and looks at you from the corner of his eye. "Why don’t we both go?"

A sharp whistle recalls Ruby to your side and she doesn’t have the sense to look sheepish. Just drops her leash into your palm and wags her tail a mile a minute. You wait for Richard to finish whatever he was telling George and then hand the man the leash again. "Her all-purpose stop command is wait. So if she’s being bad just say 'wait' really sharply."

George nods and they start their walk again, Ruby being a perfect angel next to him this time.

"How long have you been volunteering?" Richard asks.

"A few years," you shrug. You give him a smile, "This is a really cool idea. Was it yours?"

He nods bashfully. "I read an article about it and I-"

"In the Atlantic? I read the same one!"

He smiles and you’re getting better at spotting them, the way the edges of his mustache move. "Yeah. I read it and started to write to a place that does grants for programs like this."

"That’s great. That’s really great."

You drum your fingers on your thigh, trying to think of something else to say. Unfortunately, the moment passes and Richard moves on to the next pair working with a dog. And if maybe he glanced back at you a few times through the rest of the morning, well… he was probably just checking up on you.

+++

"Where is Rubí?"

You can’t stop the wide smile that takes over your face when your turn to Richard, coaxing the shy Pomeranian at your feet to turn too. "She got adopted!"

"Oh! Good for her!" Richard smiles in return and then you see his face fall. "George will be sad to hear it though."

"I know," you give him a small shrug, "but I think Sandwich will be good for him."

"Sandwich?"

You gesture at the ball of white fur by your feet. "I didn’t name him."

"Hey!" George’s voice cuts through the air, "Where is my best girl?"

You turn to George with as big a smile as you can manage. "She got early parole, got to go to a home!" You watch George’s smile fall and you drop into a crouch. "However, Sandwich here has been having a rough time of things at the shelter. It’s loud and he doesn’t like it when the other dogs are yelling."

"Is that right?" George looks down at the two of you hesitantly. He sits on a nearby bench slowly, holding his hand out and you mentally will Sandwich to take a liking to him.

"Yeah, he needs someone to give him some special love and attention and I thought of you immediately."

"You did?" George looks at you and then the dog. "He is pretty cute."

You stand and let the two get to know each other, meeting Richard’s eyes. He’s not watching the interaction, he’s watching you. He’s trimmed his mustache recently and you can see his lips are slightly parted. He blinks at you and then turns on one heel, walking away to another set of volunteers.

You had gotten used to Richard’s weird little habits over the last month. This was your fourth visit to the prison and Richard always lingered by your side for long nearly silent minutes until it was like he remembered there were other people and then he’d rush off to them. You were pretty sure he was interested in you, and he didn’t seem to have a ring, or a marking of one that he slipped off for work.

Lagging a little when the inmates left and the volunteers returned to their van, you were hoping to catch Richard alone. He always walked the group to the van, thanking every person individually for coming out. Every person and every dog. You waited to be sure you were last, hugging Sandwich to your chest with one hand. You didn’t mistake the smile he gave you or the soft way his hand caressed Sandwich’s head when he thanked him for coming and being such a good dog.

"So…" you start and Richard’s eyes flew to yours. "Do you… eat?"

His brows drew together. "Yes?"

"Would you like to-"

"Hey, get in the van! We don’t have all day!"

"I’m coming!" You called back and then smiled at Richard. "Would you like to eat me? With me? Eat with me? Go out somewhere and eat with me?" Jesus Christ had you fumbled that one.

Richard blinked at you, seeming to be stunned. "I’d-"

"Come on!"

"In a minute," you yell back, twisting your body to glare at the driver. "Sorry, you were about to let me down easy?"

"No," he looks down, his shoe scuffing at a mark on the asphalt. "I was going to say I’d like that."

"It’s a date!" You chirp, pulling out a piece of paper from your back pocket and stuffing it into his hand. Yes, you had already written out your number for him, just in case and no, you did not care how desperate that made you look. "Call me! Or text! Text is probably better!"

You don’t look back as you run to the van, tucking Sandwich into his carrier and then hopping inside. You pull your phone out immediately, somehow disappointed you don’t have any new messages even though it’s been less than a minute since you gave him your number.

A girl could hope.

You continue hoping all day, as you return home and make your dinner, settling in to watch some prestige TV show everyone had been raving about. But it doesn’t grab your interest. You keep checking your phone, deflating a little every time there’s nothing new. Finally, on easily the thousandth glance, you see a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hello. Thank you for volunteering with the dogs. 🐕

You stare at it and then reply.

Me: It’s a lot of fun! Is this Richard?

Unknown: Yes! Sorry.

Unknown: I would like to take you up on the offer to eat.

Unknown: If you were serious.

You sit up straighter, a wide grin making your cheeks hurt.

Me: Absolutely!

You work out the details and agree to meet at an easy bistro on the edge of downtown. Sighing in contentment, you clutch your phone to your chest and try to become invested in the show.

+++

The bistro is quiet when you arrive. You’re early and decide to go ahead and nab a table. The host leads you outside and you spot Richard immediately. However early you were, he was even more so.

"I see my friend, actually, thanks."

He’s tapping his fingers on the table, eyes darting around, and it takes a moment before he spots you. When he does his face breaks into a wide smile and he stands. You think he’s going in for a hug but he shifts away and pulls out your chair instead, settling in across from you once you’re seated.

"You had a nice drive?" He asks, his hands flat on the table.

"It was fine, no traffic."

He looked really… something. His hair was slicked back even more than usual, his side part straight and stark. His mustache was also fluffier than you were accustomed to seeing. He was wearing a light blue button up, sleeves all the way down and securely cuffed, and a paisley print tie.

He was wearing a tie.

If you had any thoughts that maybe he was a smooth Lothario who had lured you in by pretending to be a sweet and nice guy, they flew out the window. He looked so awkward, the fingers of one hand just barely tapping on the table top, that you couldn’t help but smile. Deliberately, and holding his gaze the entire time, you carefully shifted the salt and pepper shakers to the side of the table. Next, the single flower in a small bit of water.

That accomplished, it was easy to lean across the table, just a little, and lay your hand over his. "Thanks for coming out with me. I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while."

He had been staring at your hand but his gaze shot to your face. "You have? Really?"

Laughing a little you start to pull away but his hand turns under yours, his fingers catching for just a moment before letting go. Well, you had no issues staying where you were. You interlace your fingers with his and smile at him. "Yeah. I mean, I kind of thought you had noticed me watching you."

"I think I was too busy watching you." The statement comes with such urgent earnestness you melt a little.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

You’re shocked out of your moment by the waitress and you order a soda and then both you and Richard put in your meal order. When she walks away you notice him pulling at his cuffs slightly.

"Are they bothering you?"

"What?" He lays his palms on the table again. "No. It’s fine."

Deciding to take a chance you move to his side of the table which is thankfully a bench where it is easy for you to perch next to him, your hip pressing to his. "May I?"

Richard could be under enchantment for all the vacant look in his eyes as he holds his hands to you one by one and let’s you roll his sleeves up to just below his elbows. Finished, you pause, then gently tug on his tie. "Do you want to be wearing this?"

"I wanted to look nice," he glances down at his tie. "For you."

"I think you look great," you smile at him, shifting back to your side of the table. "And I think you’d look just as nice if you let yourself breathe a bit."

He nods and pulls his tie loose, unbuttoning the top two buttons before carefully laying his tie next to him on the bench in a small folded pile. He takes a deep breath and then smiles at you. "I guess maybe I was overdressed."

"Not at all," you smile in return. "I just couldn’t wait to get you a little undressed."

You wink and he blushes, eyes dropping to the table just as your food arrives. You chat through dinner, turns out he has a dog and you don’t, which surprises him. He’s only been working in the HR department for about a year and you were starting a new job next week.

"Does this mean I won’t get to see you?" He frowns into his plate, brow furrowed.

"Well, yeah, I’ll have to start just volunteering weekends," his gaze rises to yours and he looks so forlorn you rush to reassure him. "But I was hoping maybe you and I could see each other still. Maybe… not… at the prison?"

His face lights up and he smiles at you before giving a small sigh. "You were my favorite part of the dog visits though."

"Really?"

He nods, reaching across and laying his hand on yours this time. "Yeah."

"Well, we’ll have to make sure we see each other at least weekly then won’t we?" You pause and swallow, "If you want to, that is."

"I do want," he says quickly. "I… I do want to."

He insists on paying for dinner and when you try to offer to go halves he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. But, you do insist on walking down the street to a gelato place and buying dessert which he agrees to with a smile. You walk side by side down the sidewalk until you find a small park and settle in on a bench together. There’s an artificial lake in front of you and the last rays of the setting sun are making it glow like molten gold. You look over to point out a bird to him and then have to repress a giggle.

"What?" He asks, eyebrows drawn together.

"You have ice cream, on your-" you motion at your upper lip and his tongue snakes out, sweeping across his mustache. You feel something inside of you clench and you bite your lips for a second. "You missed a spot."

"I did? Where?" He raises a hand but you beat him to it, reaching out and gently pressing your thumb at the corner of his mouth, wiping upwards and then bringing your thumb back to your mouth before you can think better of it. Licking the vanilla off while his eyes are locked on your mouth.

"Got it," you breathe. He doesn’t move, just continues to stare at your mouth until the sound of two people shouting shatters the moment and you both turn back to the view with a flustered shift in position.

He walks you back to your car, telling stories of muggings and robberies even as you watch a family stroll by with a baby in a stroller and an elderly lady sweeping her front walk. You don’t argue, you’re as eager to extend the night as he is.

But once you get to your car he doesn’t lean in for a kiss, either on the lips or cheek. He doesn’t even go for a hug. He just stuffs his hands in his pockets and wishes you a good night, turning on his heel on the sidewalk and leaving you with a dumbstruck look.

You go home, unkissed and confused.

+++

You’re in charge of planning the second date and you hop down your front steps happily when you see Richard pull up in his car. He doesn’t even have time to get out before you have the door open and you slide inside, giving him a bright smile. "Hi!"

He frowns at you for just a moment before returning the smile. "I would have gotten the door for you."

"I know," you grin and pat his leg quickly. "But I didn’t want to wait that long to see you."

He doesn’t say anything to that but you see the small smile playing on his lips as he pulls into the street. He drives just like he seems to do everything in his life, with slow and careful deliberation. As it is, it takes about ten minutes longer than you were expecting to get to the bowling alley.

"Those shoes look sexy on you," you point out as you lace up your own rentals. Richard looks down at his feet and then up at you.

"Should I see if they’ll sell them to me?"

You grin and go in search of a ball, meeting him at the lane a few minutes later. He’s already inputted your names and his 16lb ball is sitting on the carousel.

"You’re first," he motions to the lane. He raises an eyebrow at the neon pink 8lb ball in your hand, the smallest you could get your fingers in. "I’m not sure you know, but the heavier the ball the-"

His sentence is cut off when you positively fling the ball down the lane, striking the lead pin dead center and sending the others scattering. You turn back to him with a wide grin. "You were saying?"

If someone could fall in love watching someone else bowl you’d be pretty sure that it just happened. His eyes go wide and his mouth gapes open just a bit and then he flushes, rubbing one finger across his mouth and looking at you from under his eyelashes. He takes his turn, picking up a respectable spare, before you pick your light-ass ball up again. When you get to the end of the lane you bend over and look back over your shoulder at him. Checking that, yep, he was watching. You give a little wiggle and then fling your ball again. It doesn’t do as well the second time - you knew from previous visits that your strategy had some pretty random outcomes, but it was fun and that was what mattered.

In the end, Richard’s consistency has him edging you out by about ten points in the final frame. You line your shot up, focusing down the lane, when an idea occurs to you.

"Richard?"

"Yes?"

"What do I get when I win?" You tuck the ball under your arm and turn to him with a raised eyebrow. As you watch he scrubs a hand across his mouth, trying to hide his own smile.

"When you win?"

You nod at him, "Yeah, when I win."

"What do you want?"

You bite your lip and then blurt out your answer. "A kiss."

Richard’s entire body seems to go into stasis as he blinks at you with wide eyes. You can see him swallow, see that his knuckles are white where they clench on the small table holding the nachos you’d ordered.

"Okay." The word is breathy when it leaves his mouth, his eyes locked on you and then the score.

You take your shot carefully, lining up just right and…

"Oh come on," you groan as one pin refuses to fall. You pout and wait for your ball to come back, trying not to look at the man behind you as you carefully let loose for a…

"A spare! Yes!"

When it’s Richard’s turn you’ve managed to edge just ahead of him. He would only have to knock a couple of pins over to win.

He throws a gutterball.

He doesn’t meet your eye when he waits on the ball return. Just stands there with his hand over the vent and then picks the ball up immediately. He barely even looks at the pins before he lets the ball loose.

Another gutterball.

He looks almost bashful when he returns to the bench but you bounce up and meet him halfway, throwing your arms around his neck and giving him a huge hug. "I won!"

"Yes you did."

"Fair and square!"

"Yes you did."

You know he threw the game but you’re not going to mention it. Instead, you let Richard pick up both of the balls and returns them to the back racks while you clean up the lane for the next group. Once you both have your shoes back you loop an arm in his and lean on him on the way to the door before pulling up short.

"Bet you can’t beat me in air hockey."

Richard looks into the arcade and then smiles at you. "What do I get if I win?"

"A kiss?"

He hums softly as he drops quarters into the machine. "A kiss if you win, a kiss if I win. It seems like this is just an excuse for kisses."

"You found me out," you giggle, turning with a hint of bravery and brushing your lips on his cheek. "I just want to kiss you."

Your words must fluster him because he loses the game soundly, six-nil. You consider being a gracious winner but instead you crow about it all the way home. You wait when he parks at your house, and he walks around to open the door for you and trails you up your front steps.

"I had a really good time tonight," you say, twirling your keys in your hand.

"I did too." He pauses for a second and then ducks his head. "Good night."

"Richard," you reach out and grab his arm and he turns back to you instantly.

"Yes?"

"My kiss?"

He nods and leans into you, his eyes fluttering closed and…

Oh god his mouth is soft. How is his mouth so soft? He doesn’t touch you anywhere else, his hands staying firmly at his sides, but his mouth… oh good Lord his mouth is so achingly soft and gentle as it brushes over yours you think you might just melt into a puddle right there. How is he not holding you right now? All you want is to wrap yourself around him but you restrain yourself because Richard is kissing you and you don’t want him to stop.

His mustache tickles your upper lip and a small moan escapes you in a puff of air. Richard pulls away instantly, his eyes searching yours and then he smiles, that lovely wide smile. "Your kiss… was it worth it?"

"Oh yeah," you sigh, "absolutely."

+++

You take a deep breath and let it out in a huff before you plaster a smile on your face and knock on Richard’s door. This was fine. You were fine. You were not going to jump his bones the moment he answered the door. You had a nice bottle of wine and you were just two minutes early - you’d waited parked in your car up the block for fifteen minutes to be sure - and everything was fine.

He answers the door in a short sleeve button up, his undershirt just visible, with his curls somewhat disheveled and a big smile across his face. Your mouth goes instantly dry, fingers curling around the neck of the wine bottle so hard you worry you might crack it.

"I brought you this," you almost shout the words, thrusting the bottle at him. God why were you so nervous. He takes it and backs away, motioning you into his house.

"Please come in I-"

He’s cut off by a ball of white fur rocketing around the corner. The dog jumps up, putting their forefeet on your knee and looking up at you with a hopeful expression. Oh thank God. You drop to one knee immediately, focusing your attention on the dog and try to remember how normal human interaction is supposed to go.

"You must be Miss Shiloh!" You rub your hands on the side of the dog’s cheeks and she leans into it, a wide doggy smile on her face as she instantly flops onto her back and presents her stomach for scratches.

"She likes you," Richard says from above you and you look up to meet his eyes. Lord, why does he have to look at you like that? Like you’d just hung the sun in the sky instead of petting his dog. You bite your lip and give him a small smile in return.

"I like her too." You stand and work up the courage to lean in and brush your lips on his. "Her dad’s not too bad either."

He cants towards you a bit, his nose nuzzling yours, and then he steps back and holds the wine bottle up. "Would you like a glass?"

"I’d love one," you chirp probably too happily but you can’t help it. His place is neat, tidy in a very deliberate way. Where there are items scattered about they are lined up with each other. A comb next to a small notebook next to a TV remote. The TV itself is perched, somewhat haphazardly, on a small stand across from a loveseat.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" You call out and he returns with two glasses of wine, one in a real wineglass which he hands to you and the other in a limited edition Disney glass with a raccoon on the side which he keeps for himself. You don’t comment on it - your glasses didn’t exactly match either - just clink your wine to his and say "Cheers."

"Cheers," he echoes and you try not to stare as he takes a swallow, his throat working and the muscles moving and how would they feel under your tongue?

You choke, waving Richard’s concern off and sitting on the loveseat while you regain your breath and he brings out dinner. You could do this. You could sit next to him and smell his soap and absolutely restrain yourself from licking him.

You could.

However, if he kept making those pleased little mmph noises as he ate you were not going to be responsible for your actions.

He waves you off to clear away the dishes and comes back with a DVD. He fumbles with the TV set and you realize this is not the ordinary setup. In a flash, you can see that he has rearranged his living room for this date and you feel a sudden rush of warmth as the menu screen pops up for a 1950s movie you’ve never even heard of.

"Is this okay?" He asks, one eyebrow raised as he stands nervously next to the TV.

You nod and you can see him relax, coming to sit next to you on the couch. You thought he might cuddle, put his arm around you, but he sits stiff and upright, his palms flat on his knees. You frown slightly and take a sip of wine, trying to plot out how you can get from Point A (on the couch) to Point B (making out) without startling him.

In your years of dating you’re not sure you’ve ever put this much planning into making a move. There’s just something about Richard - his hesitancy, how gentle he is - that pulls at your heart. Like he’s a bird you’re trying to lure to you. Or a squirrel.

Okay, analogies aren’t your strong point.

You’ll start with a hand, that’s non-threatening right? Just casually reach over and lay your hand over his and intertwine your fingers. Nothing to it. So what if he jumps like you just tased him. You can ignore that. The movie is very interesting.

Not that you’re watching it.

No, you’re inching your body close to his and you can sense the moment he realizes it. You hold your breath, deflating a little when he lets your hand go. But he slings his arm around you almost casually, his palm settling lightly on your shoulder, and you have to resist the urge to pump your fist in triumph. Instead you rest your hand on his thigh and focus on just how nice he feels. The faint hint of another scent under the smell of his skin and hair. Cedar maybe? Whatever it is, it smells really nice.

The movie is actually pretty good, even if you missed the first third of it. And Richard has obviously seen it more than once, pointing out moments on screen and giving some behind the scenes insight into the dance numbers. When the credits begin to roll he turns his face down to yours… presumably to ask you if you liked it.

You meet him halfway, brushing your lips across his and then pulling back slowly. He looks stunned and a little confused before his eyelashes flutter shut and he leans down and presses his mouth more firmly to yours.

It’s like someone has let you off leash. You turn more fully towards him, your hand coming up to rest on his stomach, your tongue licking his lower lip. He groans into you, his hand cupping the back of your neck in his broad palm. God he’s so slow. Everything about him careful and measured and deliberate and you want to feel him lose control.

Suddenly, everything feels sensual and erotic. The corduroy fabric of the couch under your thighs, the brush of his mustache on your upper lip, the soft chambray of his shirt against your fingers. You want to be closer to him, want to feel every part of his body on yours. You can imagine it, imagine how he’d feel between your thighs, his hands on your body, those same pleased noises from dinner falling from him as you kiss and lick your way along his body.

You move to straddle him, pushing him back on the couch and leaning into him. You’re startled when he stops you, his free hand pushing at your shoulder and he breaks the kiss looking disheveled and a little bit wild.

You can only imagine your own blissed out expression.

"I’m not…" he swallows, holding your body away from him, his eyes downcast. "I would like to just kiss you. If that’s okay?"

Ah shit. You’d moved too fast again. You nod and he brushes his lips along yours again, the barest hint of pressure. You settle back onto the couch next to him, leaning your head into the cushion and let Richard lead. Let him drift his lips over yours and stroke his fingers lightly down your neck. Your fingers might twist into his shirt but you manage not to unbutton it and frankly you deserve a medal for being so good.

For his part, Richard seems to have a plan. His lips part slightly and you feel his tongue trail softly along your lips. It takes everything you have not to pull it into your mouth, to suck on it. Instead you part your own lips and let him trace inside, touching yours briefly before retreating. He repeats the motion again. And again. Deepening the kiss each time until you’re moaning softly and aching for him.

When he hears you he pulls away, eyes studying your face, and then he gives you a gentle kiss on your forehead and smiles. His deepest eyes crinkling at the corners.

He might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

+++

The next few weeks ended up being a repeat of that night. Dates ending at your front door, where he insists on walking you every time, his lips on yours, the barest touch of his tongue. Sometimes you stayed in and dinner would end with you both on the couch, hands touching as you watched a TV show or movie. After the first night he would look at you sideways, casually placing his arm along the back of the couch and you’d slide into his embrace, resting your head on his shoulder and feeling his palm settle on you.

It was maybe your fourth night in, just like that, you setting a bowl of popcorn and two beers down on your coffee table, his arm lifting in invitation. You nestle yourself to his side, perhaps a bit closer this time, perhaps sunk down a little lower against his body. Whatever it is when his hand came to wrap around you his fingertips nestled lower, just brushing the swell of your breast.

You weren’t sure he noticed the change, it was only a few inches difference. If he wasn’t looking it would be easy to think he was gently caressing the soft skin of your upper chest - just below your collarbone as usual. But he wasn’t. His fingertips danced across the very top of your breast and you were absolutely melting.

You weren’t paying a lick of attention to the movie. Instead you were wondering if you might be able to shift just so, to stretch in such a way that his fingers drifted lower. If you might, through some combination of trickery and feigned innocence, pull your relationship to the next level. You consider it for longer than you should, even if you knew you wouldn’t. Richard was going to take the time he needed and you were willing to wait for him as long as it took.

But God did his hand feel good. And the small tingles racing through your body as he ever so slightly caressed you had you biting back a moan. It had been so long. Over a year since you were last with someone, and over a month of yearning for this particular man.

"You’re not watching-"

His words startle you and you did move, jumping slightly - and his hand did shift lower, his fingertips just barely skimming your nipple and you can’t stop the low sound of need that rips from your throat. His hand flies from you entirely, leaving your skin cool and aching for him.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-" You turn your head sharply to him, see his lips part and a slightly panicked look in his eye as he stumbles over his words.

"No!" You hurry to soothe him. "I… I liked it."

He blinks at you, his hand still hovering somewhere behind your head. "You did? You do?"

You nod, biting your lip and giving him a small smile. "Richard, I thought I’ve been clear. I like it when you touch me. I want… I want you to feel comfortable touching me. Wherever."

The last word is a breathless addition. You didn’t want to pressure him but God did you want him to know that you were ready. That you were aching for him.

He nods at you, turning to face the television and you settle into his side again. He is staring intently at the screen but there is a rosy glow to his cheeks. Then you feel his shoulders shifting slightly and his fingers slide down, down, and oh yes just barely trace the curve of your breast through your shirt. Your eyelids flutter closed and you can’t help but twist just a little, just so that the rough pad of his finger drags across your pebbled nipple.

You couldn’t have held back your whimper if you had tried. You feel the tension in his body, the deliberate way he does it again. One finger cresting over your nipple back and forth in slow easy motions.

Neither of you were watching the movie. Not even pretending to. All of your focus was on not losing your mind and having your wicked way with the man beside you. And he, he seemed to be memorizing your sounds, your whimpers, the small arches of your body. When you do something that he likes he repeats the motion again. But always soft, always delicate, just the hint of his touch on you until you think you might scream.

"Please Richard," your whine sounds pained and you can’t fault him for stopping. For lifting his hand away from you. You can’t fault him - but for a brief moment you hate him for taking his touch away.

"What?" He sounds so concerned you nearly laugh, lifting your head to look into his eyes, turning your body towards his on the couch. His brows are drawn low in question, his tongue darting out to lick his lips and you knew he could see the hard points of your nipples when his gaze flicked down to your breasts. "Is something… did I…?"

Fuck taking it slow. You grab his hand in yours and pull it to you, pressing his palm to your breast and moaning at the contact. His jaw was hanging open, his eyes glued to where you held him to your body. You let him go as quickly, feeling shame tingle up your spine. You had just finished convincing yourself to move at his pace. That he was obviously wanting to take things slow and then you went and… "I’m sorry Richard, I just-"

Your words are cut off by the tightening grip of his hand, your nipple caught between his thumb and forefinger, and the low groan you let out could have sold a thousand home videos. His eyes meet yours and his tongue licks along his lower lip. He watches you as he pinches your nipple again, softly, rolling it between his fingers just a little. His face must have been a mirror of yours. The way his eyes softened, his head tilted, the slight lean forward and deep shaky breaths.

"Can I see them?"

Your hormones were raging. You could hear your blood rushing through your ears. He had one hand on your breast, not touching you anywhere else, and you swore you were ten seconds from coming from it. If this man only knew the power he had over you, the things you would do if he could find the words to ask for them.

"Can I?"

"Can you what?" You gasp out. He was so close, you could feel his breath ghosting across your lips. You want to kiss him, want to feel his mustache tickle along your lips. The firm press of him to you and the taste of him and oh fuck why is he asking you questions?

"Can I see them?"

"See what?"

In fairness to you he was still doing that thing with his fingers, that gentle grip and roll that was making you clench between your thighs. One corner of his mouth tilts upwards and you felt his hand shift, cupping beneath your breast just slightly. "These?"

Oh. Oh. He wanted to see your breasts? You turn fully towards him, bringing your legs up so that you were kneeling on the couch facing him. You pull your shirt over your head and throw it to the side without so much as answering him, one hand falling to the back of the couch and the other to your knee. And Richard, bless him, keeps his eyes on your face. Despite your actions, you haven’t given him permission to look.

It was at once so earnest and so sweet that you couldn’t help but lean forward, to brush your lips to his and bring his hand once again to your breast. His fingers twitch when they meet your skin, gripping you almost painfully for a second before relaxing. You pull back and stroke a hand down his cheek and then smile, nodding at him. He takes a deep breath, the muscles of his neck working as he swallows, and then he looks down.

"Ah Dios mio," he murmurs. "You’re beautiful."

You feel beautiful under his gaze. He looked dumbstruck and as much as you knew they were just breasts, you could tell that to him it made a difference that they were your breasts. That he was touching you and making you moan. His other hand was resting lightly on your knee and you pull it up as well, gripping both his wrists and pressing his palms to your soft flesh.

He couldn’t seem to stop staring, his eyes riveted on the contrast of him against you. His broad, roughened hands on your smooth skin. He lifts both of your breasts together and then drops them, his eyes roving as the mounds bounce with the motion. He covers them with his hands again immediately, lifting them, separating them, squeezing them together.

It was almost funny, watching him play with you. Like a teenager who had never seen a pair of breasts before. You could almost think it was true, that despite his age maybe he hadn’t actually… but in the same moment his fingers deftly twist, pulling on your nipples and pinching just right and you don’t bother biting back a low moan of pleasure.

"Is that nice?"

"Yes Richard," you nod at him, fingers digging into his shoulders. "It’s… more than nice."

He smiles at that, his eyes on your face, and he does it again. You lean towards him and he meets you partway, his lips warm and soft as always. Your tongue sought entrance first and you make a small whimpering noise when he allows you into his mouth. His tongue strokes yours in time with the strumming of his fingers on your nipples. He breaks away with a pant, his breath hot and harsh across your cheek when he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to yours.

"Can I taste?"

Thank God you were paying attention this time because you got the impression he would not have worked up the courage to ask again. You gasp out an affirmative, leaning back slightly to make it easier for him. To your surprise he skips the entire intervening stretch of skin. You had expected him to kiss your neck, maybe trail his mouth over you - but with your permission his head ducks downwards and he immediately sucks your nipple and as much surrounding skin as he can into his mouth with a rumbling moan.

You melt backwards into the cushions, suddenly boneless. Pulling him with you, your legs thrown to one side over his thighs, his body leaning over yours. The bristling hairs of his mustache tease at your skin, his tongue swirling around your nipple like it’s a popsicle.

"Oh Richard," you moan, carding your fingers into his hair, holding him tight to you. He moans in response, moving his mouth to your other breast, his fingers coming to take the place of his lips. His hands are slightly rougher now, his tongue flicking over your nipple while he strums you like a guitar. He pulls back with a sudden wet pop, plumping your breasts up in each hand and scattering kisses across one and then the other. Nuzzling his nose to you, scraping his mustache across your nipple with what you can only describe as deliberation.

He presses his nose to your sternum and your breasts to each side of his face and just… stays there. His breath coming short and fast, his hands massaging you. Then he arches upwards, capturing your lips with his and for a moment it’s as though his control snaps. His tongue thrusting into your mouth and his fingers pinching your nipples hard. You cry out, body arching…

He’s gone.

Sitting as far away from you as he can on the couch, hands clenching into fists on his thighs. He’s staring at you with a furrowed brow, his chest heaving with short pants. "What-?" You start, blinking at him, but he cuts you off.

"I think I should go."

He’s moving again, off the couch and across the room and you’re still bare-chested laying where he left you. Your brain feels like molasses and you try to connect what is happening. What had happened. What…

You sit up and drag the blanket from the back of the couch across you, clutching it to your chest and turning to the door just as he gets there. "Richard what-"

"I’ll call you?"

And he was gone.

+++

It took you a week to work up your courage. A week of staring at your phone and hoping he would call like he said he would. Send a text. Even just a random emoji to let you know he was thinking of you. You had already done all three.

But there was nothing.

Finally you bite the bullet, walking up the steps in front of his house with sweaty palms. You balance your package in one hand, knocking with the other. He should be home, you knew his schedule well and unless he was…

Oh no, what if he had a date?

"Coming!"

Your eyes must be as wide as saucers when he opens the door. You had thought about running, but you knew there was no way you’d make it off the porch and to your car before he opened the door and him seeing you running would be so, so much worse. He was wearing a short sleeved-plaid shirt, the snap buttons only partially done and you could see the white undershirt beneath. He looked really really good.

Stop staring at his chest, you scold yourself. That kind of thing is how we got here to begin with missy.

You gulp and realize that Richard hasn’t said anything. Just opened the door and now was looking between you and the glass globe in your hands with a confused expression. "I got you a terrarium," God did you sound stupid. You hold it out but he doesn’t take it, his hands still loose at his sides. You drop it slightly, sighing. "I wanted to apologize for the other night."

That seems to knock him out of his stupor and he reaches out, taking the globe from you with two hands and stepping inside, motioning you with a tilt of his head to follow. You do, careful not to touch anything, not to look for signs of someone else having been in his home.

"You got me a plant?"

You nod and point at it, "Succulents. They… they’re beautiful and will bloom if you give them a little attention. They don’t require much."

He blinks at you and then down at the object in his hands. "Thank you."

You nod and twist your hands. Suddenly Richard springs into action, setting the terrarium down on his coffee table and motioning you to sit on the couch. You do so carefully, back stiff and hands clasped in your lap. He sits down beside you, as far away from you as he can get. Suddenly, Miss Shiloh comes leaping into your lap, wiggling around and begging for pets which you gladly give while the silence stretches between you and her father.

"I’m really sorry Richard," you finally break

You can’t look at him, can’t meet his eyes, so you have no idea what his expression is when he says, "Why are you apologizing?"

"I… I pushed things," you blurt out, staring at the carpet in front of you. "You’d said you wanted to take things slow and I pushed things and made you uncomfortable and I’m sorry." You swallowed hard, forcing the next words out. "I would understand if you don’t want to- If you don’t want to see me again. I just wanted to apologize. To your face."

Well, to his carpet, but you weren’t going to point that out.

The silence in the room becomes almost oppressive. Miss Shiloh leaps out of your lap, in search of whatever it is that amuses a dog. You watch her go with apprehension, her presence had been a welcome distraction for you. You start to wish Richard would say something, anything. Just break the tension one way or the other.

"You don’t need to apologize to me."

You look at him finally and see the same concern on your features etched across his. His body language is a mirror of yours, his hands clasped tight between his knees. "If anything I owe you an apology."

"What? Why?"

He looks at you then, one eyebrow raised, and you bite your lip and looked away. How was he always able to fluster you so much?

"I shouldn’t have… the last time that we…" From the corner of your eye you could see his knee jiggling, his heel moving anxiously up and down while he searched for words. "I was… rude."

Rude. Okay. Well, that was one word for it. Leaving you aching and wanting and reeling on the couch from the feel of his mouth and hands was another set of words. But 'rude' was more compact you guess.

"Why did you leave," you ask, the words rolling out of your mouth in a jumble. "If it wasn’t because… because I pushed, then why?"

His knee jiggles faster and you reach over tentatively to lay your hand on it. It felt right, bridging the distance. He stills immediately, and to your relief he gently places one of his hands over yours. "I was too… too rough with you. I hurt you."

You must look confused because his grip tightens over your hand. "I heard you cry out, in pain." He hangs his head, "I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you I just… sometimes I get away from myself. I-"

"Wait, Richard," you cut in, not wanting this to continue. "You think you hurt me?" He nods and you laugh, biting your lip and giving him a lopsided grin. "If I made a noise it was pleasure not pain." You reach out with your other hand slowly, pushing one of his curls back behind his ear. "You could never hurt me Richard."

He shakes his head, reaching up and catching your wrist in a loose grip. "No, it’s… it’s been a problem. I’m too rough. Too..." He stares into your eyes with a sad look. "I want to make you feel good but I’m afraid that I’ll … that I’ll be too much."

Oh God oh God oh God… you try not to implode at his words. You can feel your core clench, the wetness between your thighs when you shift on the couch. "Richard, I don’t mind if things get a little… much." Oh God your own words are going to make you come. That combined with the sudden, hopeful look in Richard’s eyes.

"Are you sure?" He licks his lips and you bite back a groan. "I don’t want to-"

You shush him with a kiss. Now that you know it’s welcome, that his issue is too much interest and not too little. You sink your fingers into his hair and kiss him deeply, humming to yourself when his tongue tentatively meets yours.

When you pull away you’re breathless, smiling. You both are. His eyes are closed and he’s leaning into your hand like he’s never going to leave. "Why don’t we order some dinner and watch something?" You ask, stroking along his temple.

He hums an affirmative but doesn’t move and you laugh when you kiss the tip of his nose. He opens his eyes then, catching your mouth in another soul-stealing kiss and then he pats your knees and stands, holding a hand out to you. "And you can tell me where to put this plant?"

You nod and take his hand, noting that he doesn’t let it go when he lifts the terrarium carefully under one arm. Together you find a sunny spot for the succulents and decide to order from a place around the corner he says he always wanted to try. It doesn’t take long for you both to ease back into the familiarity of the previous weeks. The awkwardness of your last date a memory far far behind you.

That is, until, it’s time for the movie and he has his hands flat to his knees, not making room for you to cuddle against him. You don’t say anything, just sit next to him and try to relax as best as you can in the small space of his loveseat. Miss Shiloh cuddles to your side, her chin on your thigh and you stroke her furry head with one finger. After about fifteen minutes you sigh and reach over, pausing the movie in the middle of a scene and turning to him. You had already proven you had no idea what went on in his brain and if you had to sit here a moment longer trying to guess what was wrong you were going to go insane.

"What?" You ask.

He blinks at you, gesturing to the screen. "Why did you stop it?"

"Because you’re very tense and I’m worried something is still wrong."

He blinks again at your bluntness but you see some of the tension ease out of him, his body sinking a little further into the couch cushions. "Nothing is wrong, I thought maybe you would want to take it slow again."

"I don’t." It’s a simple statement, one made with a shake of your head and he smiles softly at you and holds his arm up, beckoning you into his side. You fit yourself against him easily, curling your knees under you and inhaling the scent of his laundry detergent. He didn’t wear cologne, just clean clothes that you wanted to nuzzle inside of. He starts the movie again, his hand resting on your shoulder and after a minute he begins to trace lightly on your skin. At your side, you hear Miss Shiloh give a contented sigh.

This was nice. This was exactly how your relationship with Richard was supposed to be. Warmth and safety and the faintest hint of something deeper starting to emerge. It had only been a week but you had missed him desperately.

It was dark when the credits rolled, neither of you had thought to turn on any other lights before settling down and you could only see him in the glow of the TV screen. He looked pensive, his lips pursing occasionally. You let him think, resting your head on his shoulder again with a contented sigh.

"Do you want to stay?"

Your breath catches and you try not to sound too eager when you answer. "If you want me too."

"I want you to."

Simple words but they made you shiver. He helps you to your feet, giving you a soft kiss and then you both clear up the dishes. He checks the door locks while you wait and then guides you with a gentle hand on the small of your back down the hallway. He stops in the bedroom and seems lost at what to do.

"I have some pajamas you could wear?" He offers with a questioning look.

You nod and he turns to a set of drawers pushed against the wall. Other than the bed and a chair it was the only furniture for humans in the room. A large dog bed, far far too large for little Miss Shiloh, took up an entire corner. A framed portrait of a boat hung on the wall, the color of the ocean the same deep blue as his comforter. He hands you a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, smiling sheepishly.

"The bathroom is-"

"I know," you tell him, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I’ll be right back."

You stare into his bathroom mirror for a long time. It isn’t a pep talk, not exactly. More like… a talk down.

"Do not scare this man off," you tell yourself. "Even if he gets a little… fuck… rough with you." You clench your hands against the sink at the idea. What was Richard’s idea of rough? Would he want to tie you up? Spank you? Bend you over and…

You let out a low moan. "Stop it," you bit out. "Just, be cool okay?"

You nod to yourself and pull your shirt and bra off, slipping on the soft cotton tee he had loaned you. You thought about the sweatpants and then smiled, bundling them up with your regular pants and stepping back into the hall.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed when you get back, wearing an outfit similar to what he had handed you. He was petting and talking to Miss Shiloh as she settled into her bed. You set the bundle of clothes on the chair and cough softly to get his attention. His head jerks to you and he half stands up, his jaw dropping when he realizes you aren’t wearing pants. His t-shirt wasn’t long enough to cover you and you knew that he could see all of your legs up to a glimpse of your panties.

"You are beautiful," he says simply, holding a hand out to you and you walk into his arms, tilting your head for his kiss. It was as soft as the rest of him, one of his hands cupping your jaw for just a moment before he turns and pulls the comforter back, settling you down and tucking you in. You watch him walk around the room, turning the lights off and then slipping in next to you.

You try. You really do. You try not to reach for him. To just sleep next to him and enjoy his warmth and presence and no actually you were rolling over and resting your head on his arm and laying your hand across his chest. He shifts and you lift your head, letting him wrap his arm around you.

This was nice. He was so warm, almost hot, and his chest moved under your cheek with every breath he took. You tilt your face up so you can look at him, the streetlights outside casting an orange glow through the room. He must have felt your movement because he looks down at you, a slow smile spreading on his face.

"What is it?" He asks, fingers skating on your arm.

"I was thinking about kissing you."

"Oh," he swallows, "okay."

You shift yourself upwards and he turns his body to lay on his side, facing you. You kiss him gently, sliding your hand over his waist and resting it at the small of his back. He didn’t try to take things further, he seems content in fact to do nothing but kiss you tonight.

You were okay with that. You were. So what if you wiggled a little closer. He was warm and you weren’t wearing pants. So what if you threw your thigh over his hips. It was just nice to be so close to him.

You gasp when he rocks against you, the hard bulge of him not even pretending to be contained in his sweatpants. "Richard?"

He freezes and then jerks his hips away from you. "Sorry. Sorry."

You press gently to the small of his back, trying to get him to return. "No, it’s okay, it was just surprising. I didn’t think you were…"

"Oh I am," he says earnestly. He lets you pull his body back to yours, lets you settle him between your thighs. You moan softly. You can feel the shape of him pressed against you, his hard length a steady presence between your thighs. You squirm slightly and he groans, his fingers clenching into your skin.

"Do you want to…?"

"Yes," he gasps and his hips snap to yours for a moment and you see stars. You brush your fingers under the hem of his shirt and pull upwards. Richard lifts himself away from you, his head hanging down as he allows you to strip the garment off. You hum to yourself when his chest is revealed, running your fingers through the whorls of grey hair. He shudders above you and you can’t help but lean forward and press an open-mouthed kiss to his shoulder.

The sound he makes is low, breathy - more an exhalation than a noise. Arching upwards you press your body to his, twirling your fingers into his hair and pulling him all the way down on to you. He feels perfect, amazing, his weight pressing you to the bed and his cock solid at the heart of you.

"Can I take your shirt off?"

You don’t answer, just scramble to pull at the garment and whip it across the room to land God only knew where. Now it was bare skin sliding against each other, Richard’s head dropping to the crook of your neck with a low groan.

"Can I-?"

"Yes," you laugh, pulling his mouth to yours. "Yes you can do anything. I promise I will tell you if something is wrong."

"Or if you don’t like it? You’ll tell me?"

His eyes were so soft, so pleading that you nod solemnly in return. "Yes Richard. I promise."

He nods once more and slowly lowers his mouth to your neck, mustache rubbing pleasantly along you as his lips sought out skin. You shift slightly, raising your knees and wrapping both your legs around his waist, arching up into him.

It was like the snapping of a rubber band. Suddenly Richard was everywhere. One of his hands was pressing into the dip of your hip, the other holding your neck arched up and his mouth… oh Jesus his mouth was skimming over your throat, your collarbone, down over the swells of your breasts and then back up and taking yours in ravenously long kisses. His tongue and lips and teeth all working against you while you squirm beneath him. You moan and he echoes the sound, shifting his body to the side and gently tracing his fingers over the band of your panties.

"I want to take these off," he murmurs against your cheek and you stop yourself from telling him he already had permission to do whatever he wanted. Consent is sexy, you remind yourself, reaching down and hooking your thumb under the band, pulling them partway down and then letting Richard take care of the rest. You expect to feel him touch you, maybe slide one of his thick fingers inside of you, but he holds himself away, his hand returning to your hip and his mouth to yours.

"You’re overdressed," you whisper a moment later, pulling slightly on the band of his sweatpants. Richard nods into your neck, pushing at his own clothes and you help where you can, tangling your legs with his and helping him kick them off.

Oh come on, you think when you realize he was still wearing his boxers. "These too?" You ask, fiddling with them as well but Richard shakes his head.

"Not… Not yet."

Okay, well, fine. You could manage 'not yet.' Especially when he was running one finger through your folds and letting out a pleased little sigh when he felt how wet you were. He props himself up, staring down at you with a breathless look, one curl hanging down over his eye.

"I want to put my mouth on you."

Yes yes yes yes yes

"But I’m not… I’m not very good at it."

Oh.

You bite your lip and stare back at him. This was outside your realm of experience. You’d been with guys who were bad at it, but none had ever admitted it outright. You study his face and then reach up to push the errant curl away. "I think… I think it will feel good. Even if I don’t…" you struggle with the words, sensing that something too crude may drive Richard away. "I would enjoy you kissing me anywhere. Everywhere." You emphasize the last word and pull his face down into a kiss. He meets you with slow deliberate thrusts of his tongue, it’s the most deliberate he has been so far. It’s the first time you’ve felt like he is taking the lead, deepening the kiss and gently stroking his fingers back and forth through your wetness.

Once again he surprises you by skipping the intervening areas. With one hand he throws the sheet to the side and then he is between your legs, his mouth covering you, his tongue everywhere. His mustache scrapes along your clit and you clench your fingers into his hair.

Now you get what he meant before by too much. His tongue is thrusting inside of you one moment, then he’s sucking at your lips the next. He licks circles near your clit, flicking his tongue and then he’s back thrusting his tongue inside of you. On the one hand it’s overwhelming, but on the other it’s not enough. Every movement somehow manages to miss being right - too soft or just to the left or somehow just not giving you the right pressure and tempo and fuck…

"Richard," you moan and pull at his hair. He stops, eye scrunching closed as he pulls back from you.

"I told you I wasn’t-"

"Can I show you?" You ask, lifting your head to meet his eyes. "Can I show you what I like?"

He’s looking at you like you’re Jesus, Mary and Joseph combined - a deity come down from on high to make his dreams come true. "Yes, please."

So you take his hand in yours, trail his fingers through your slick and place them at your clit. With one hand you show him the soft circles you like. He watches his hand move, his lips parted and his chest heaving. After he catches the rhythm you transfer your grip to his hair, pulling him closer and he dives in willingly, replacing his fingers with his tongue. It takes some adjustment, some guidance from you, but soon he finds the right place and tempo and he’s making you feel so good that you think you’re going to come apart at the seams.

"Richard I’m-" you gasp when he shifts angles, his mustache drawing across you for just a moment before his lips are on you again, his tongue. "Fingers."

"Where?" The word is mumbled against your clit, he can’t seem to stop himself from tasting you.

"Inside. Please."

He groans and you feel one of his fingers slip into you. Oh fuck that was all you needed. The slight stretch, the fullness, something to clench down on while you came and fuck if you didn’t come. Long and loud, pulling at his hair and writhing beneath him. He seemed shocked at first, his mouth leaving you for a second before you pulled him back with a moaned plea and then he doubled down. Thrusting his finger inside of you and sucking on your clit until you thought for sure you had blacked out and died.

You had to force him away from you, pushing on his forehead with an unsteady hand. His eyes met yours over the curve of your body and you could see in the low light that his pupils were blown and Jesus you could see your wetness glinting on his mustache.

"Did I…?"

"Fuck Richard you did so well," you sigh, pulling at him so he slid up your body, capturing his mouth with yours and tasting yourself on him. "Not very good at it, my ass," you mutter and he laughs. A joyous chuckle that shoots tingles straight to your toes.

"You’re a good teacher," he responds, rubbing his face to your neck.

You can feel him, hard and oh so ready, pressing to your thigh. "Do you want to-"

"I want to hold you," he finishes for you, shifting his weight to lay next to you and drawing you into his arms. His hardness is insistent, twitching slightly, but he seems to want to ignore it so you don’t say anything. A shudder wracks your body, an aftershock from your orgasm, and Richard pulls you tighter to him, hands stroking in soothing patterns on your back. You fall asleep like that, held and safe and warm in Richard’s arms.

+++

Okay, it’s not like you were expecting sex or anything. You knew everyone was different. There were people who didn’t like sex at all. And that was fine! You could have worked with that! But you also got the impression that wasn’t Richard. An accidental peek under his couch had garnered you an eyeful of an impressive collection of porn magazines. And his body definitely responded to yours. You didn’t know a whole lot about that end of the sexuality spectrum, but you were pretty sure Richard was into you in that way. He just… wasn’t doing anything about it.

You pondered the question as you tidied up your small house, waiting for Richard to arrive with the pizza for your date night. Sex wasn’t everything in a relationship. In fact, you could be happy with Richard if you never did… never went all the way. But again, the situation didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like he didn’t want to. It felt like…

Like something was stopping him.

You’d worn your most unthreatening pajamas. T-shirt and soft pants with a pattern of puppies and hearts on them. Something that was sure to make Richard smile. You wanted him to feel at ease. Unthreatened.

You wanted to talk to him about sex.

He was already smiling when you opened the door for him, his eyes taking in your outfit and you saw the smile widen. "Those are very cute."

"Thanks," you leaned in and brushed a quick kiss across his lips, moving back and letting him into the house. You already had the living room set up for the movie and you settled cross legged on the couch in as relaxed a position as you possibly could.

This is easy and we are very fine with each other.

It was hard to convey through body language but damned if you weren’t gonna try.

The movie is a simple romantic comedy, formulaic down to the gratuitous karaoke moment. It’s a perfect excuse to snuggle next to him, his fingers lightly brushing your arm, your body rocking when he laughs at something onscreen, or falling softly with him when he breathes a large sigh at the final declaration of love. The credits roll and he smiles, turning his face down to you and you lean up to meet him partway. He makes a small noise, his lips parting, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he tucks his fingers under your chin and tilts your face just so.

God you could kiss him forever.

You move on the couch, turning towards him and shifting one of your legs so it’s thrown across his lap. You’re not straddling him - you’re pretty sure that would send him into a mild panic, but it’s more contact than normal. He reacts positively, his hand falling to your knee and pulling you tighter to him.

The brush of his mustache against your lips, your nose, your cheek, sends shivers through you. You break away from him to pepper kisses everywhere you can reach. Trailing your mouth across his jawline, pressing your lips to his eyebrows, even planting a quick peck on the end of his nose that makes him smile.

Leaning back a little, you pull him with you and gently pull his hand up to cup your breast. You know he likes that, likes to touch you and play with them - and he does. Gently cradling you in his large palm and lightly tracing your nipple. He presses his lips to yours, his tongue just barely touching the seam of your mouth and you open immediately, allowing him to slip inside. To stroke your mouth with his while his fingers play on your breast.

He breaks away from you with a soft pant, one curl falling over his forehead. "Can I put my mouth on you?"

You nod, back arching into the tight grip that accompanies your affirmative response, and he slides off the couch, his knees hitting the floor as his hands pull you to the edge. His fingers tuck into the waistband of your pants and he presses a kiss to your hip before tugging them and your underwear down to your ankles. He doesn’t hesitate before he falls into you, his tongue just as eager as you remember.

He needs help again, gentle tugs on his hair and a few directions, but he’s a fast learner and you don’t even have to tell him to use his fingers. He slides two into you without prompting and this time he strokes, caressing inside of you.

"Oh Jesus, Richard," you gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

"Is this good?" He mumbles against your clit and you nod before realizing he probably can’t see you.

"It’s so fucking good, just a little to the left and oh fuck."

He hums in pleasure and you probably pull a little too hard on his hair when you come on his tongue. Your hips move beneath him, fucking yourself on his fingers, and his mouth moves with you. Drawing out your orgasm for endless moments. He rubs his cheek to your thigh while you recover, his hands petting you in long soothing caresses on your legs.

"Good?"

"So good," you sigh and lift your head to smile at him. "Let me return the favor?"

You reach for him but he grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm and gently interlacing his fingers with yours. "There’s no need."

Fuck. This again. You’d almost forgotten.

Shifting slightly you get your elbows under you, lifting yourself so you can see his face more clearly. "Richard, do you want to have sex with me?"

You might as well have told him you were in fact a Martian. His head jerks towards you, his eyes wide as saucers and his jaw drops open. "Wha-?"

He’s looking up at you and all you can see are the puppies scampering across your top. Somehow entirely inappropriate for this discussion. Cursing, you pull it over your head and fling it to the side. This is… well this is marginally better. Sitting naked on your couch staring down at Richard while he’s still fully clothed should put you at a disadvantage. But the way he’s looking at you, like you hung the stars in the sky…

You’ve never felt more powerful.

If he were anyone else you would be more careful. Play things more closely. But this is Richard and so you take a deep breath and cup his face in your hands.

"I want to have sex with you Richard. I want to press my mouth to every inch of your body and feel you move inside of me. I want to know you in all the ways two people can." You pause and swallow, "And if that’s not something you want as well please tell me so I can-"

His lips cut you off. He crosses the small space between you so quickly you don’t see him move, just feel his hands on your face and his mouth on yours and he thrusts his tongue deep into your mouth and you’re overwhelmed by the taste of him. The soft slide of his shirt on your bare nipples. His jeans rubbing against your knees.

When he pulls away his eyes are dark, his breathing labored. "I want that too."

Something unclenches inside your chest. A ball of stress and anxiety you hadn’t realized you were holding.

"But…"

Fuck. No. No buts. You don’t want any buts. You just want him and his mouth and his body on yours for as many hours as you can manage.

"I don’t think I can make it good for you."

Ok that was… not what you were expecting. Certainly not from a man who still had your come on his mustache. You try not to let your confusion show on your face and he sighs as he shifts to sit next to you on the couch again. His hands are clasped in front of him, elbows on his knees, and he stares at them and hangs his head.

"I’ve been with people in the past who… well it did not go well. I want things that… it’s not gone well."

You stare at him, less concerned about your nudity than the deep furrow between his eyebrows. "Can you tell me… what happened?"

"I’m too vulgar," he tells you flatly, a faint note of hesitancy in his voice. "And I have some… perversions."

That shouldn’t be hot. That shouldn’t be hot. That shouldn’t be hot.

You swallow, resisting the urge to start up a list of your kinks and his and see where the overlap is. This is obviously something he is serious about, something that has really affected him, and you struggle to come up with the right words. "And you think I won’t like your… perversions?"

He looks at you for a moment as though it never occurred to him you would do anything other than not like him for them. He meets your eyes and then they flick downwards. For just a moment it’s like he had forgotten that you were naked. He looks away quickly and nods, hands tightly wound together.

You muse on that for a minute and then nod to yourself. "Ok, you’re afraid you’ll do something vulgar. Or something I think is disgusting. Is that right?" He nods again and you shrug to yourself. "Well, what if we only do what I want to do?"

"What do you mean?"

You bite your lip and take a deep breath. God, you hope he goes for this.

"What if I was in charge and you were… maybe restrained? Tied up?"

He chokes, eyes bugging out, turning to look at you with a dumbstruck expression. "What?"

"We would use a safe word!" You rush to reassure him. "But it’s just… we both want this. And I get that you’re worried. I’m trying to think of how to make you not worry." His mouth works soundlessly and you look away. "Sorry. It was a dumb idea. I-"

"You would want that?"

He sounds breathless and suddenly you let yourself imagine it. Imagine his body stretched out on your bed. Able to do whatever you want to him. To kiss him, touch him, lick him, bite him… you moan and meet his eyes. "Oh God yes." You hesitate and then reach out to place your hand over his. "Is that… is that something you want to try?"

His nod is swift and you stand quickly, holding your hand out to him.

You try not to think of your body on display for him, the heavy pants of his breath as he follows you to your bedroom. You turn to him and shut the door, motioning for him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Ok," you haven’t done anything like this but you try to sound confident for his sake. "We’ll need a word, something you can say in case you don’t like what I’m doing and then I’ll stop. Immediately."

Richard shakes his head, "There’s nothing you could do that I-"

You feel a warm flush at his words but cut him off. "A safe word Richard. Just in case."

He shrugs and smiles at you. "Shiloh?"

The dog’s name. Yeah, that’ll bring you out of it. "Shiloh it is." Slowly you step towards him, raising your hands and starting to work the buttons of his shirt. "If there’s anything at all Richard, you’ll tell me?"

He nods and you push his shirt off, fingers dropping immediately to the hem of his undershirt and pulling it over his head. His golden skin glows in the soft light of your bedroom and you step even closer, between his knees, and run your hands along his chest. It trembles beneath your fingers and you don’t hesitate before you lean forward and press your mouth to his shoulder, licking his skin softly.

The taste of him fills you, salt and a little sweat and just the sweet taste of Richard. His hands hover just above his knees and you take pity on him, reaching down and placing them on your waist. He grips you tightly and you press kisses across his shoulders and neck.

You step away and motion him further onto the bed. He moves quickly and then lays straight in the center, his hands folded on his stomach, watching as you move around your bedroom. You have to muffle a laugh, he looks like he’s lying in his own coffin.

You find what you’re looking for quickly and perch a hip on the bed near his shoulder, smiling down at him before you lean over and press a soft kiss to his mouth. He returns it hesitantly, his hands stiff and white against his stomach. Gently, you reach down and pull one loose, bringing it to your lips and pressing a kiss to his fingers. Feeling suddenly mischievous, you fold all but one of his fingers inwards and slip the remaining one into your mouth.

The reaction you get from him is gratifying. His eyes roll back into his head and his spine arches off the bed. You swirl your tongue around the pad of his finger and then suck softly, watching him, watching his reaction. His eyes are still closed, his mouth hanging open as he struggles to pull in air. Smiling, you reposition his hand, pulling two of his fingers across your tongue and pressing them into your mouth as far as they’ll go.

You choke softly and his eyes fly open, his arm trying to jerk away from you. But you don’t let him, digging your nails into his wrist and holding him there while you lick and suck and stroke him. You’re starting to understand, just a little, this beautiful man laying on your bed. Starting to understand the fear that drives him when it comes to sex and intimacy and you. And so you don’t allow it, don’t allow him to sink into his thoughts. Instead you stroke the fingers of your other hand on his cheek and meet his eyes when you gently nip at his flesh.

Your name falls from his lips like a psalm, his lips wrapping around each consonant and vowel like they’re individual treasures. You release his fingers and lean in, thrusting your tongue into his mouth with a needy moan. You want this man to know, with every fiber of his being, how much you want him. His moan is an echo of your own, his tongue rubbing against yours. When you pull back you smile at him and the smile he gives you in return is lopsided, a little lovestruck.

It’s a good look on him.

You don’t really know how to tie a slipknot or anything that you feel would be a safe knot. So you settle for threading the scarf you’d found around the bedframe and then wrapping it around his wrists several times before tucking the ends under. He’s not actually tied, he could get out with very little effort if he wanted to. But he is restrained, his arms taut over his head. You sit back on your heels to admire your handiwork, biting your lip and running your fingers down one of his biceps.

He shivers and you giggle. "Ticklish?"

"A little," he admits, his eyes wide.

You nod and press harder, avoiding the sensitive skin of his armpits and moving to his shoulder instead. Watching his face, you trace the lines of his chest, digging your fingers into the hair for a moment and tugging. God he looks wrecked, sweat beading on his brow, his lips slightly parted.

Wrecked and you’ve only just started touching him.

"Is this okay?"

He nods furiously, biting his lower lip and gazing at you with adoration. You move over him on the bed, lifting your leg and straddling his hips. Now you have him where you’ve been trying to get him for ages. Pressing his cock straight up into your core and you rock against his jeans for just a moment before you catch yourself and look down at him. From this position it’s easier to splay your hands on his chest, to tweak his nipples between your fingers, to watch his expressions change and vary as he loses himself into the pleasure.

"I love watching you like this," you whisper and Richard’s eyes fly open, staring into yours as his chest heaves beneath you. "I wish you could see you the way I see you Richard. See how beautiful you are."

You can see the doubt on his features, the consternation, the disbelief that overwhelms him and you don’t want to give him time to deny you. Instead you lean forward and press a kiss to the bottom of his ribcage, licking at the soft skin of his stomach and nuzzling into the line of hair that rails down to his pants.

You scoot back so you’re sitting on his thighs, running your hands down the swell of his stomach and pulling at the buttons of his jeans with jerky movements. You should probably be more suave, more in control, more something. But you’ve been waiting for him, for this, and you want to feel him now.

He groans when your hand slips beneath the fabric, his cock straining and hot in your palm. Suddenly you want nothing more in the world than to taste him and you yank at his pants and underwear until you have them pushed down to his knees.

Now you can hover over him, crouched between his legs, his cock hovering near his stomach. It’s average, nothing exciting or different or strange. Just ruddy flesh and leaking precum and fuck if he doesn’t look delicious. You lean forward to lick the fluid from the tip, to draw him between your lips, but his voice is harsh.

"You don’t have to-"

"I want to," you say with a glare, nipping the skin of his hip hard enough to leave a red mark. He gasps and you take him in your mouth, pressing him as far as you can comfortably go before pulling away, stroking your hand along him. You lick along his length and moan softly before pulling back and swirling your tongue around just the tip.

"Still okay?" You glance up at him from under your eyelashes and can see him straining to keep his head lifted, to watch what you’re doing. You move away from is cock and hear him bite back a groan of disappointment. Pulling one of the decorative pillows you motion for him to sit up slightly and then tuck it beneath his head.

"Now you can watch," you tell him, brushing a soft kiss over his lips and then moving down to draw his cock into your mouth again.

And watch you he does. Every time you glance up at him his eyes are wide, his mouth open. He looks so shocked by a simple blowjob that it makes you feel almost powerful. You don’t harbor any illusions that you’re some master at giving head, you enjoy it and can get a guy off but you’re not going to pull out some trick someone’s never seen before.

But Richard…

Everything you do seems to be a revelation to him. When you lick along the underside of his cock he writhes. When you hum with just the tip of him inside your mouth, your tongue licking away at the precum that is leaking from him, he moans. And when you take him as far as you can, all the way into the back of your throat, he curses.

Richard - sweet, gentle, achingly soft Richard - says the word Fuck.

The word settles inside of you, thrumming along your nerve endings and making you even more wet if that was somehow possible. You move away and then take him again, your nose pressing into the soft hairs at the base of his cock. Every time he slides into your throat he curses, like the noise is drawn from somewhere deep inside of him he can’t control.

"Please stop," he gasps and you pull away immediately, wiping the back of your hand over your mouth.

"I’m sorry did I-?"

"I want to finish with you," he interrupts, his chest heaving and his Adam’s apple bobbing with the hard swallow he takes.

"Oh."

You move up his body, straddling him with your knees on each side of his hips and your hands braced by his shoulders. You kiss him and he returns your enthusiasm with the same fervor, licking inside your mouth and even biting your lower lip when you pull away.

Watching his face carefully you lower yourself until his cock slips into your wetness, nudging your clit and then settling in between your folds. Your own sound of pleasure nearly drowns his out and as one you move together, him sliding through your wet heat and you arching your hips to draw the movement out as long as possible.

"Can I… Can I fuck you?"

There are no words to describe what hearing Richard say those words does to you. Every fiber of your being tingles in the same moment and you nod, forgetting momentarily that he’s tied up and despite his question - you’re going to have to take the lead.

He shifts beneath you, his feet planting on the bed as he tries to position himself to push inside of you but it’s quickly apparent that he just can’t do it from the angle he’s in. You sit up and lift your body over his, reaching between you to hold him steady and press the head of his cock to you.

"I’m on the pill," you tell him and you can see him struggle to process that information. Your slick is coating his skin and frankly you’re unsure from where you’re getting the mental acuity to ask the question yourself. "Are you good?"

It clicks finally and his eyes widen. "I’m not… that is I don’t have any…"

"Good."

You sink onto him, feel his cock stretch you, bracing your hands on his stomach as you slowly work his length inside of you. When he’s seated to the hilt, when every inch of him is pulsing and hot within your walls… only then do you pause and take stock of the feeling of him.

Fuck he feels good.

Your inner muscles work along his shaft and you hear him moan, an accompanying slight creak from the bed frame. His arms are straining against the scarf, his neck arched back and his eyes squeezed shut. You try to imagine what he might do to you if he was free. What perverse desires he might have. Electric shocks? A foot fetish? Maybe he would want you to wear your nylons or choke him. Your mind races and your muscles clench down on him hard.

"Mi amor," he groans and you do it again, lifting yourself at the same time and then sliding back to him. His hips rise to meet you, chasing you when you pull away from him as though he can’t bear to have you not on him. It takes a minute for the two of you to find a rhythm, but when you do it feels absolutely glorious.

"Oh God Richard," you sigh, bringing your hands up to cup your breasts. He watches you, teeth digging into his lip, watches as you play with your nipples and rock your body over his. You move one hand between your thighs to rub your clit and you think he might combust. He looks shocked, if you didn’t know better you’d say he looked scandalized.

But you’re too caught up in the feel of him inside of you, the way your own hand plays with you, that you can’t find it in you to try to categorize his expressions. Your orgasm is coming and it’s coming hard.

"Richard I’m… are you…?"

Your words push him over the edge and you hear him shout, feel the warm spurt of his cum inside of you and you rock your body faster on him, your fingers working your clit furiously, finally throwing your head back and crying out when your own release overtakes you.

You collapse across his chest, keeping him deep inside your body, your forehead resting on his shoulder. You listen to the harsh sounds of his breathing, the rapid beat of his heart. You feel him shift and a minute later his arms are wrapped around your back, giving lie to the idea that he had ever really been restrained.

"You are amazing." His voice rumbles through you and you give a small smile, pressing a kiss to his skin. "And maybe a little perverse too?"

A small giggle escapes you and your stomach muscles contract. Richard makes a small noise of pleasure even as he is pushed out of you by the action. Smiling, you shift to his side, pulling him with you so you can look him in the eye.

"Maybe. Just a little."

He looks so soft, so sunk into this moment with you, that you can’t help but touch him. Pushing a lock of hair from his face, tracing his nose with your fingertips, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He kisses you in return, cupping the back of your head, and for once you don’t feel like he’s holding himself back from you.

"Do you want to tell me," you say after a few minutes of making out, "what some of your ideas are? I promise to only be a little shocked."

He flushes and glances downwards, his eyelashes fluttering. "Well, maybe next time, I could…" your brain immediately fills in the gap with a multitude of possible answers but when he says his next words you blink at him in confusion, "be behind you?"

"You mean like anal?" You blurt out and Richard looks at you in shock. "I’m not opposed but we’d have to-"

"No!" He says quickly and turns a deeper shade of red. "I just meant with you on your knees and I could be behind you…"

You blink at him and then push yourself up with one arm, looking down at him in bewilderment. "You mean doggystyle?"

He nods and looks away and you just stare at him. After a moment of silence he gulps. "I’m sorry, I know it would be degrading for you-"

"What? No." You reach out and turn his face up to yours. "Richard we need to have a talk about what you think perversions are, because so far the things you like are just… well… sex."

He tries to turn away from you and you instantly regret your flippancy. You follow him, moving your body to straddle him again, turning his face back to yours. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. I just, I don’t understand. You’ve never asked me to do something I’m uncomfortable with or don’t want and I don’t know why you would think that I wouldn’t want to do those things with you."

His hands are resting on your thighs and he drums his fingers, eyes fixed on your face. "I’ve…" his voice catches and he swallows before trying again. "My exes didn’t enjoy those things."

"Didn’t enjoy what things?" You need him to be specific. You need to know exactly what you’re working with here.

"My mouth, my hands, my…" he looks away from you and you can see his throat work. "They’d let me… do things. But they didn’t like it."

Oh Jesus. It hadn’t occurred to you that he might… "No one?"

"There haven’t been that many," he gives you a small smile that almost breaks your heart. "And after… well it didn’t seem like things were getting better so what was the point?"

Your mind races as you watch him, watch him study your face and press his hands to your skin. "Richard? Do you…" you swallow and bite your lip. "Do you enjoy the things we’ve done?"

His answer is immediate. "Yes."

"And you want to do more?"

He nods quickly, his fingers clenching on your thighs.

This man, this gorgeous, wonderful man. You feel a brief flash of pity for his exes, and for him. To be with someone who was that unsuited to you?

"Richard?"

"Yes?"

"Can I tell you the things I want to do? And we’ll see if maybe they overlap?"

He looks like he just got hit by a freight train but he manages a nod. You settle yourself on his stomach, sitting up so he can look at your body and maybe if he gets up the nerve, touch it as well.

"Well, I think we’re agreed that we both like oral. Right?" He nods quickly and you reach out to touch the corner of his mouth where it lifts into a smile, playing with the edge of his mustache before pulling back. "I would really like to kneel for you, like you did for me on the couch earlier. I would love to suck on you and maybe play with myself. I kind of…" you bite your lip and feel your cheeks warm, "I kind of get off on the idea of getting you off like that. Of you… of you coming. In my mouth."

You’re going to have bruises where his fingers are digging into your thighs but you don’t point it out. He’s listening to you intently and his breaths are coming faster. Pleased by the response you gently trace your fingers over his hands.

"You said you want to be behind me? I think about that too. About your hands on my waist while you’re deep inside of me. Maybe arching my back so you can be even deeper inside of me?" He is under your spell now, hanging on every word that falls from your lips. "Maybe, maybe you could pull my hair? Not hard, just, pull on it while you’re fucking me from behind?"

Every line of his face is taut, a deep furrow between his eyebrows. His hips are moving just slightly against you and you can feel his cock, hard again, just barely gliding against your ass. You resituate yourself, as casually as possible, so that he is pressed more firmly to you.

"I think about you sometimes in the morning. Imagine waking up with you inside of me. Your tongue or your… your cock." You moan and lean forward, feel his hands catch beneath your breasts. "Laying down behind me, holding my thighs spread open for you, your teeth digging into my shoulder…"

"Sitting in your lap on the couch, kissing you and tangling my fingers in your hair while you bounce me on top of you…"

"Bending me over the kitchen table and yanking my panties to my knees…"

"Pushing me up against the shower wall …"

"Your fingers inside me in the front seat of your car…"

As you detail your fantasies you squirm on him, knowing he can feel how turned on you are smear against his stomach. His fingers are playing with your nipples while you talk, occasionally squeezing almost painfully. His body is rolling beneath yours, his cock sliding behind you and you can feel how wet he is too, how he’s leaking for you.

"Is that okay with you Richard? Can we do that? Can we do those things? I want to so badly. I want you-"

His lips cut you off when he sits up abruptly, his arms wrapping around you and flipping you onto your back. He’s over you, his mouth stealing the breath from your body and before you can think about the change of position he’s sliding inside of you, his hand cupping under your thigh and pulling it high on his hip. You whine and he stills, pulling back so his eyes can search your face. But whatever he sees there reassures him and he kisses you again, thrusting his tongue into your mouth at the same moment he fucks into you hard.

You can’t help but cry out, arching your back and digging your hands into his hair. You’re probably pulling too hard but he doesn’t stop you, instead he growls. Richard fucking growls and pushes into you faster, harder, his breath caressing your cheek in hot pants.

"Want you so much," he groans into your ear and the soft sensation riots through you. You lift both your legs to wrap around his waist and pull his mouth to yours. He is everywhere at once, wrapped around you and inside you until you don’t know where he ends and you begin. And then he pulls one of his knees under him, changing his position just slightly, and he’s hitting just the right spot inside of you that you fall apart.

You can see the moment he realizes, see the moment he realizes he fucked an orgasm out of you with just his cock. Not his hands or his tongue, just his cock inside of you and his entire body convulses for a moment while you squeeze down on him. Holding him as close as you can while you babble nonsense into his mouth.

He must come, you know he must, his movements still and his entire body weight presses you into the mattress. He must have come but you have no fucking clue because you actually blacked the fuck out from the strength of your own orgasm. Your fingertips tingle and you try to stroke your hands across his shuddering back but you barely have the energy to hold him. You can feel tears at the corner of your eyes and you press your face into his neck as you try to gather the scattered pieces of your humanity.

Richard recovers first, pushing himself onto his elbows and brushing a soft kiss along your nose. "Did you mean it?"

How can he be asking questions right now? You’ve forgotten approximately half of the English language. "Mean what?"

"What you said."

"The sex stuff?" You blurt out and smile at him, biting your lip. "Yeah, I did. I really did."

His eyes go darker and he kisses you, thrusting his tongue in your mouth before pulling away, his mustache tickling along your cheek. "No, the - the other thing."

Your eyebrows draw together. "What other thing?"

His eyes are soft when they meet yours. "That you love me?"

Oh shit. Had you said that? Said that when you were pouring out the very contents of your soul while he fucked you into oblivion?

Probably.

Well, all things considered, not the deepest confession to be made tonight. "Yeah, yeah I did mean it."

His smile is bright enough to light up the room. "Me too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You pull him down to you, snuggling your face into his neck and he rolls you both to the side, gathering you into his arms and holding you tight. You lay like that for several minutes before he breaks the silence.

"I have a confession."

You freeze, trying not to move when you ask, "What?"

"I let you win when we were bowling." He pets your hair for a moment, "I wanted to kiss you."

Your giggle bubbles up between you and you push him away so you can see his face, see the warm smile stretched over his features. "A likely story."

He kisses you softly and pulls you back into his shoulder. "We’ll have to go again."

Oh you will. You’ll go as many times as it takes. You intend to have an endless amount of bowling dates with Richard. And arcade dates. And dinner dates and dancing dates and movie dates and…

As many dates as he’ll let you have. You don’t intend to ever let him go.

When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few. Baubles of stolen kisses. Trinkets of borrowed loves. Trunks of secret words,

I CRY.

-Maya Angelou, "When you come"

Taglist:

@pascals-cat, @hotspacepilots , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @waatermelon-sugaar ,

#Richard Alonso Muñoz #richard alonso munoz x reader #richard alonso muñoz x reader #richard alonso munoz #the letter room #fanfiction #smut #oh god smut #let Richard have a good time 2021

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

Text

Somebody to love (PART 1/2): Richard Alonso Munoz x fem!reader

Summary: Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Author’s note: This is part of my friends to lovers event, prompt requested by @foxilayde who I adore and you should too. Prompt was: he does something utterly mundane which shows how well he knows you, and your feelings hit you. I took some liberties with the prompt, and there is zero pressure to read this - IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB! :P More of these requests in pinned post!

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY): swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

You had been thinking about the small gesture all day. You had been distracted all the way through your shift, and then all through dinner with a friend.

Richard -your neighbour to the right- had turned-up at your door that morning, before setting off on his way to work. His visit had been unexpected, and you had opened the door in a fluster, seeing him greet you with a characteristically soft smile - just visible from beneath the thick brush of his bold, impressive moustache.

He had held them out to you - in between his index and middle finger. A small book of postage stamps.

You had simply looked at him in confusion for a moment.

“For your letters,” he had stated, in his soft-spoken voice. “You said last night you didn’t have any stamps, and I found these in my drawer, so...”

It was true. You had said that. Had forgotten you’d said it. Had barely registered running into him, since it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Your routine overlapped minimally with Richard’s -though more so since his new role in the letter room had him working days exclusively- but sometimes, you would meet serendipitously, as neighbours tend to do. Last night, in the liminal space between your work day ending and your home life beginning, you had stopped to chat with him, and -you remembered now- had made some offhand comment about needing some stamps.

The topic of letters had come up; naturally, given his new position. It caused you to mention having written some letters to your nieces -packaged up with little illustrated portraits you’d gotten commissioned for their new bedrooms. Letters which you hadn’t gotten around to posting.

And so, here Richard was. On your doorstep. With stamps.

It was a little thing. So little, it didn’t even register at the time. In fact, you had bundled him off your porch with a quick, cursory “Thanks, Richard!”, prioritising finishing your morning scramble and making it out of the door on time.

It didn’t register in the moment, no; but you were noticing it now, alright.

“-so, this morning,” you explain to your friend opposite you in the pizza parlour, as she absent-mindedly dips her crusts in some hot sauce, “there he is on my doorstep, and he’d brought me some stamps.”

Your friend, Jaz, dips her chin and slowly raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, her glossed lips curling in an amused, incredulous smile. “So, let me get this straight. He brought you some... stamps, which he already had, from his house next door,” she recaps, her smile inching wider by the second, “and now you want to fuck him?!”. Her eyebrows knit together in faux concern and she clamps a hand over yours where it rests on the table. “Sweetie, we need to talk. How low is your bar these days? Exactly how dick-starved are you?”

Ordinarily you’d be more than game for the light fun she pokes at you. Would even have a smart riposte ready. This time, though, you simply huff, your jaw twitching in minor irritation at how flippant she is being. So, shaking your head gently, you pull your hand away from hers, folding your jacket around yourself, suddenly feeling exceedingly self-conscious.

“Never mind. I’m obviously not telling it right. And, wait - hold up- who in the hell said I wanted to...” you look around the parlour, voice dropping to an indignant whisper as if anyone around you would hear or care about your hypothetical sexploits “...fuck him?” Your tone is defensive, and you shift to take a masking nibble on your straw, slurping the dregs of your soda and bouncing your leg nervously under the table.

Your friend merely raises an eyebrow, with a healthy -and not entirely unfounded- scepticism, and so, you try to rein your protestations in, lest you get slammed with a “methinks you doth protest too much”.

“Okay, okay,” Jaz concedes, holding up her hands and leaning back in her chair. “All I’m saying is, it seems like you have a hard-on for him all of a sudden. You’ve lived by him for years and you’ve never noticed the guy! It’s just stamps, baby cakes. It’s just your paunchy, kindly neighbour, who gets milkshake stuck in his moustache.”

At least he’s not afraid to make a mess of himself when he’s slurping, you think idly, your eyebrow ticking up - the thought leading you in a very particular direction and sending a sudden scorching heat to your cheeks. Also - paunchy? I like a beautiful soft tummy to rest my head on, thank you very much.

Yeesh. You are not okay. Still, before you go full feral, you shrug your shoulders in partial concession, widening your eyes in innocence. “Uh huh. Sure. Yeah.”

“Seriously?” Jaz continues, shaking her head in good-natured disbelief - blatantly seeing right through you. “Are stamps your love language now, or what the fuck?”

She’s not wrong. It is very… sudden. You’ve never felt that way about Richard before. But is it so preposterous to think you might begin to?

“Jeez! Who said anything about love?!” You swirl your straw in your cup, concentrating on puncturing the remaining bubbles and ignoring your friend’s peals of bemused laughter. “Look, okay? I guess you’re right, Jaz. Maybe I’m just dick-starved,” you suggest, a smile finally claiming your lips. “It has been… a little while. And the last encounter was not very... inspiring.” You wiggle your eyebrows at her and your shared laughter mingles in the space between you. Still, you’re more than a little keen to deflect, and you bounce your foot more furiously under the table in your haste to change the subject. “I just thought it was sweet of him, that’s all, but… forget it, okay? Tell me everything about your hot date with Jackson.”

As soon as the invitation is given, Jaz jumps on it. And, as you listen to her spill the tea on her latest hook-ups with her fancy man, you try really hard to focus - but you can’t help that your thoughts keep wandering time and again to a certain man. A man with the kindest, most soulful cola-coloured eyes. Your neighbour to the right.

You’re unsure why, but you feel a little bent out of shape - a little annoyed, even- that Jaz was so quick to dismiss Richard. Particularly that she had seemed to miss the whole meaning behind his small gesture. He was listening to you. He was thinking about you. And, as you dwell further on it, you realise that maybe -just maybe- you want the kind of guy who brings you stamps, goddammit.

Shit - maybe Jaz wasn’t too far off when she said stamps were your love language after all.

And, true, maybe you hadn’t paid the faintest bit of romantic attention to Richard -for the most part- in the years you’d lived side-by-side with him... but maybe it was time to start. Maybe, in fact, it was well overdue.

***

Granted, it hadn’t struck you right away how sweet Richard’s gesture was, but as soon as it had, you started to notice everything. To remember everything.

You remembered how he pushed a flyer through your door one evening, just in case you might be interested in the latest art exhibit going on at the local rec centre. You recalled how he had duct-taped the handle of your garbage can back together after it spectacularly broke one morning, causing your trash to spill over the sidewalk. It hadn’t seemed like a huge thing at the time, but now, as you imagine him painstakingly unfurling the roll and passing it around and around the broken piece, entirely on his own steam, it takes on a new meaning.

You have begun to notice - really notice- how he always smiles and stops to chat to you, his face lighting up as if he is genuinely pleased to see you. You have begun to notice everything he has done for you, over the years, a deluge of kindness flooding your heart. Details -little things- which seemed insignificant at the time, but which weigh heavier than gold now that you reflect on them.

And, most of all, you have noticed him.

Richard.

You have noticed his positivity. That bounce he gets in his step when he’s enthusiastic about something (which is always). The way his expressive, long-lashed eyes reveal everything he’s feeling whenever he talks or listens - his emotions and his compassionate heart pinned firmly on his sleeve, as prominent as his Corrections Officer badge. You notice how handsome he is; a fact which has inexplicably passed you by for the longest time. Perhaps, because of how understated he is? Not cocky and assured and alpha like the guys you’re usually drawn to.

Tonight, though, most of all, you are noticing that he’s not home, as you sit on your front porch steps, entirely locked out of your own house. You know for a fact that a couple of neighbours have spotted you there - you’ve observed pairs of curtains twitching- and yet no-one has come to your aid so far, mean bastards. You know, in contrast, that Richard would help anyone who needed it, without hesitation. And, it’s fair to say that sitting here, waiting for him to return and help you out, is certainly providing you plenty of opportunity to dwell on thoughts of him. In fact, you can’t wait for him to get home; not only because you wish for relief from the elements, no. But because the thought of seeing him actually excites you. You are looking forward to it.

Finally, thankfully, after the evening chill has long begun to bite at your extremities, you see Richard approaching. He whistles a jaunty tune as he comes up his drive, happy as usual. From his silhouette, you note that he’s dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and his usual ill-fitting jeans, his keys already jangling in his hand, and he stops abruptly when he sees you sat out front as though his feet are glued to the floor.

You can just about make out the smile which tugs at his lips, moments before his words do. He always seems happy to see you, and, on this occasion, you echo that feeling too, more so than ever. “Locked out?” he calls, and at the sound of his voice you stand, hopefully, clasping your purse on your shoulder, your own feet glued to the floor too.

“Yeah,” you call, throwing your voice over to him. “Waiting for the locksmith.”

You grip the strap of your purse a little tighter, as Richard takes a few steps closer, a polite but cautious smile lighting his face. “Want to wait inside?”

“Hell yes,” you gush with a relieved exhale of breath, gratefully trotting around to meet him on his porch where the security light bathes him in a halo of orange. “You’re a babe. Thank you, Richard.” You allow your eyes to gently rove over him as you approach. He’s wearing a turquoise bowling shirt, you realise. A bowling shirt with “Alonso Muñoz” stitched in an adorable flourish of red embroidery above the left shirt pocket. What’s more, he looks cute as all hell in it too. You seem to recall he’s in a casual league with some buddies.

“It’s no trouble,” he says with a warm, disarming smile, deep, pleasing creases radiating from around his eyes – and, even though you aren’t usually one to be lost for words, it is all you can do to smile back at him vacantly, clutching your purse strap tight enough that your knuckles strain.

Richard pauses too, seemingly taking a moment to remember the keys bunched and readied in his hand - as though your presence has pushed all other thoughts out of his head. “You must be cold. Let’s get you warmed up,” he says finally, snapping himself out of his stupor.

Yes please.

And so, with a bashful flutter of his long lashes as you shuffle even closer to him, Richard opens the door and guides you inside, hover-handing his palm at the small of your back.

He smiles widely as he is welcomed by his little fur ball, Lady, the white dog yipping and wagging and jumping up at his shins. Richard stoops to bundle her into his arms, the animal rasping its tongue over his shapely jaw, which he raises as he squirms away from the wet, eager kisses.

“Aw, you’re so precious, Lady,” you baby-talk, reaching out to apply fond scritches to the mop of her head. “I forget how cute you are, little bean!”

Richard chuckles with mirth, seemingly warmed by your sweet interaction with his pupper, and only when Lady gets restless in his arms does he set about plopping her down and refilling her food bowl.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Richard offers, before he briefly excuses himself, dipping away into another room and signalling he’ll be right back.

With Richard gone and Lady chowing down on her dried food, you take the opportunity to glance around the place, surprised by how at home you do feel, already, even though you’ve never set foot in here before. You’ve been in his yard before; for example, when he’s hosted block barbeques, or, when the summer sun has withered from your yard, you’ve sometimes shimmied your deck chair to be side by side with his as you languished together in the remaining patch of sun. But you’ve never been inside his home. Now that you are, you drink in the details of him, eager for any new information you can glean, and scanning over the books and paintings and photographs with particular interest. You smile as your eyes fall upon Lady’s bed, filled with a procession of carefully arranged stuffed animals and chew toys. You are warmed by the painting of a beachy, mountain-edged, palm-fronded sunset, propped against the ‘sill.

You note that his place is homely and well-tended, and you also can’t help but notice that the place signals a rather solitary existence. One plate and one fork drying on the dish rack. A perfectly placed easy chair -for one- in front of the TV, the small couch to its side covered with stacks of books and papers, as if it has been a while since he entertained a guest. In fact, you would take a seat -make yourself at home- but you don’t want to intrude on His Seat, and nor do you wish to disturb his personal papers to clear the couch.

As you ponder this, Richard re-enters, extending a soft, flannel shirt towards you. “Here. In case you’re cold.”

You smile your thanks to him (grinning like a dumbass, actually) and you gratefully slip the garment over your shoulders, feeling instantly warmed. As you wrap it around yourself, you get a waft of fresh-scented detergent. You would never have guessed that you’d be able to recognise any particular Richard-y scent, but as the shirt’s pleasant odour engulfs you, you realise it is infinitely familiar. That it is wildly comforting.

You watch, a brief moment of awkwardness as Richard self-consciously combs his fingers through his thick moustache; sweeps a hand over his already immaculate, plastered-down curls. He looks so... neat. Controlled. Restrained. It crosses your mind that you’d like to mess him up a bit, see him come undone - of course, if he wanted.

Then, noticing your seating predicament, Richard surges over to gather up the strewn piles of mess, shifting them on to the coffee table instead. “Here, take a seat,” he indicates. “Sorry for the mess- I emptied the bureau looking for the stamps. Please. Every time I think to put it back I get distracted.”

His comment is nonchalant, but for the second time since he arrived home, you are at a loss for words, and you can only stare at him as you sink your ass down, gratefully, on to the now emptied couch. He’d gone to that effort for you? And now he’s apologising right to your face for the mess of it?

“That was kind of you, Richard,” you state, finding words again, and he shuffles nervously from shoe to shoe in response. You note that his brown skin grows increasingly flushed, with a deepening undertone of crimson as his eyes skim cautiously over you. “And thank you for letting me hang here. Promise I’ll be out of your hair soon. The locksmith should only be...” You suck in air through your teeth as you un-pocket your cell and glance at the time. “Yikes. Another hour. I’m so sorry to get in the way.”

His moustache twitches with a shy smile, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes all big and pretty. He certainly doesn’t look put-out, at least. “Not at all - it’s… really nice to have you here,” Richard insists, polite and sincere as ever. You are the one to feel bashful now, and you tug his shirt more firmly around your shoulders for comfort, the act serving to further fluster you and entrance him, it seems. He seems frozen to the spot again, and meanwhile, you’re now feeling overly warmed.

He looks a little lost, for a moment, as though it’s been so long since he had a visitor that he doesn’t quite know what to do with you. In the next second though, his practiced hospitality kicks in, his warm and affable nature shining through as he determines a course of action. “Have you eaten? I could fix you some dinner.”

You are hungry, you think, your tongue darting out along your bottom lip at the thought of food. Well, if he’s going to feed you, you’re not letting him do all the work -you decide- so you tentatively rise from your seat, clapping your palms together, signifying action. “Only if I can help you?”

“O- okay. Yeah. Thank you,” he nods; then, he comes to stand with his hands on his hips, thumbs to the front, causing his soft, rounded belly to protrude exaggeratedly from under his shirt. You’re not sure why that sends a very subtle flare of heat down between your legs, but it does all the same.

Meanwhile, oblivious to your thirsty inner monologue, Richard looks at you reservedly, until you smile and cross together to the humble kitchen, where, with another bashful flutter of his lashes he begins grabbing out utensils and ingredients. All the while, he moves seamlessly around you, so careful never to touch or to invade your personal space. The pronounced and careful lack of contact makes you realise, however -as he skims his body so close yet so far from yours in the compact space- that maybe you desperately want him to touch you. That you wouldn’t mind if his hand brushed your back, or lower. That maybe having him envelop his arms around you would feel as warm and comforting as his shirt – or even more so. That even, perhaps, if he pressed you from behind into the counter, his soft stomach leading, followed by his wide hips pinning you in place, his moustache grazing up the column of your neck, that you wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, the thought of his touch, and even the mere potential of it, fills you with an excited buzz deep in your belly. A thrill that you haven’t felt for a long time – at least, not quite like this.

Right now, though, you set these thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. You move around each other a little awkwardly, but thankfully, the conversation flows far more easily than your bodies. Richard’s shy and gentle, but he’s friendly. Inquisitive and interesting, and he keeps you chatting. And, so, you converse and cook together, until the resulting, homely odours waft into your nose, keeping your mind firmly on your much more literal hunger; at least, for the most part.

When the steaming food is plated up, Richard invites you to take a seat on the couch and you oblige, watching him fondly and with interest as he produces various condiments, a bottle of Mr. Chimi’s Churri sauce taking pride of place on the surface in front of you. You add a healthy dollop.

“Mmm, this is so good, thank you,” you say approvingly when he invites you to dig in, eagerly wolfing down forkfuls.

As soon as Richard has plonked himself down in his chair and balanced his own plate on his lap, he flicks on the TV – likely, more out of habit than anything. A vibrant telenovela sparks to life in the background, a particularly melodramatic scene in full swing. You smile to yourself. You recognise the show - you’ve heard him talk about it too. Even get the impression he watches religiously.

Richard’s eyes fix on the screen for a moment, and he is visibly suckered-in by the unfolding plot, his food disappearing at an impressive rate as he scoops it up to his mouth while he watches. Still, he doesn’t forget you’re there. Quite the contrary.

“It’s so sad,” he explains for your benefit, between his mouthfuls of dinner, his eyes overflowing with warmth as he turns to you. “Carlos and Adela are so in love, but they can’t be together. She’s engaged to Luis. She has to stay with him to save the family home because she already signed some papers.”

You smile, Richard’s heartfelt summary filling you with warmth. He cares about people. It’s what he does. Apparently, he’s even invested in the fictional ones. You try hard to supress your good-natured amusement at quite how invested he is; however, when his gaze meets yours once again, flicking back and forth between you and the screen, he must catch a hint of it in your expression. “Sorry,” he flusters. “I can turn this off, if you like?” he offers gently, eyes apologetic.

“Are you kidding?” you respond, with a warm smile. You’re no stranger to becoming over-invested in fiction, you suppose, and besides - you like the prospect of sharing this with him. “Catch me up some more,” you encourage. “So, we’re rooting for Carlos?”

Richard smiles gratefully, nodding vigorously in response. You like seeing him like this. In his own element, his own environment, doing things he typically enjoys. It’s nice to see him living his best life, thriving on the drama of the trope-laden plot. “I hope Carlos crashes the wedding. Luis doesn’t deserve her.”

“Yikes. You’re brutal, Alonso Muñoz,” you tease, a musical laugh lilting out of you.

You chat back and forth, an amused smile twitching at the corner of your mouth for the duration, and although Richard seems somewhat entranced by the developing storyline, he seems even more invested in you. He makes sure to listen to you, even when you’re sure you must be talking over an important detail. He ensures he fills you in on any prior plot point you may need for context.

And, while his eyes do intermittently flick back toward the screen, your eyes, however, remain firmly fixed on him. On the singular swoop of his meticulously parted, grizzled curls. On his long lashes blinking, his deep eyes shining beneath them, glinting in tandem with the light from the screen. His warm, brown skin and the lines etched in it when he smiles cast with a bluish hue, flickering light and shadow ghosting over the contours of his strong nose and chin and his heavy brow. The soft, inviting rolls of his stomach as he relaxes into his chair, and the way his belly shakes when he laughs. Of course, his glorious moustache, positively flourishing on his upper lip. Last but not least, what most gets you though, are his eyes. Eyes as kind and expressive and open as this sweet man’s heart is.

You laugh alongside him, hoping he is enjoying the company as much as you are. You could get used to this, you think; used to him. Indeed, you have no idea how you have managed to overlook this man, beautiful inside and out, until now. You resolve though, that you won’t make that same mistake again.

Eventually, the credits roll, and you thank Richard once more for the food. He carries your plate over to the sink, insisting -when you offer- that the dishes can languish there for one night. And so, instead of rising, you pat the couch cushion beside you invitingly. His throat bobs around a hard swallow as he stands before you, his feet momentarily glued to the floor; yet again. When Richard finally musters movement and takes a seat next to you, he places himself as far away from you as he possibly can on the small two-seater; out of respect rather than repulsion, you are more than sure. However, the compact space affords him little chance to keep his distance, and his clothed thigh presses warm against your own. He doesn’t make any attempt to move away though, and, equally, nor do you.

“Thank you, Richard,” you say, your voice softer and far more breathy than you intended, now that he is so close to you.

He clears his throat self-consciously, before his eyes crease with a sincere smile. “It’s no trouble. Anytime.” He sounds like he means it too.

You lean back, settling yourself deeper into the worn and slightly lumpy couch cushions. His posture, meanwhile, is still alarmingly stiff beside you, his torso upright and his hands folded formally in his lap. If you had to hazard a guess, you’d say that, perhaps, you made him nervous.

“Richard, I don’t bite,” you soothe. “Sit back. Relax. It’s your home.”

He nods in concession, exhaling his tensely held breath. “Yes, Ma’am,” he sounds obediently. You don’t think you’ve ever had anyone call you Ma’am before; but you note that you don’t entirely mind it, out of Richard’s mouth. You maybe even… like it?

Anyway, outside of your increasingly feral internal monologue, Richard reaches over to flick on the soft, ambient lamp to his side -the room having grown thick with shadows- and then he is sinking back, resting his head against the couch cushions alongside you.

You turn your head and tilt your torso a little towards him. When Richard does the same, it evokes a sense of intimacy that you weren’t all the way prepared for; the rest of the room seems to disappear as you are both held in a close circle of oranged light, the TV nothing but a lulling, background hum now. “I mean it... I... I wanted to thank you properly. For the stamps.”

“It’s no trouble,” he repeats, his voice deep and resonant and close now, catching you off-guard. No trouble? Sure. Despite the fact he’d clearly emptied-out everything in his living room to find them. “Did you send your letters?” he enquires softly, his eyebrows jumping up a little.

You can’t supress the bittersweet smile which inches over your face as you respond. “I did, and I got the cutest video call from my nieces when their mail arrived.” That wouldn’t have happened. Not without him being so thoughtful. You’d have put it off and put it off. The letters would still be sat on your dresser.

Richard’s eyes light, and he looks genuinely pleased for you, his face glowing. “I’m glad.” He smiles, revealing a flash of his cute, ever so slightly imperfect (and therefore entirely perfect) teeth. Finally beginning to relax again, his hands rest flat astride his sturdy thighs and his head lolls towards you. With his next words, his voice becomes even softer. “I can tell you miss them since they moved away. Portland, right? I, uh. I really hoped you would send those letters. I know how much they can mean to people.”

“Portland. Yeah. Wow, you remember that?” You have to admit that you are a little shocked. Richard listened to you. Really listened to you. And, not only that, but he clearly read between the lines, connecting the dots between each one of your ad hoc interactions in a way which you -apparently- had failed to do thus far.

Jaz would scoff at you right now, you know it, if she could see you becoming all shy and flustered for him.

And now you want to fuck him?

But it wasn’t only that he brought you the stamps, okay? It was why he did it. He did it, because he knew what it might mean for you. Because, evidently, not only did he notice that you were sad -about something you barely let yourself acknowledge, by the way- but he also cared enough to try to make you happy instead.

The realisation that he cares is an emotional thing, causing a slight lump to rise in your throat. It should probably make you happy, but in fact, it saddens you. It saddens you because -you realise now- you have taken for granted all this time how easy Richard is to talk to. Have taken for granted the way he has been privy to so many candid details about your life.

Richard has often been the first person you’ve spoken to when you arrived home -sometimes the only person- and you have never hesitated to share your good news and triumphs with him. Nor have you hesitated to vent, sharing the more difficult details of your bad days. You’ve taken for granted just how much of yourself you’ve cumulatively shared with him; in a way you don’t often share with anyone else. Richard has been an important part of your life all these years, without you truly realising it. Perhaps because your interactions with him have tended to exist in such a liminal, peculiar space in your day. Perhaps because you were too close to see the big picture, instead of this collection of valuable, little things.

You hug your arms around yourself. You can merely repeat it again. “Thank you. For real.”

“It’s just a little thing,” he dismisses, modestly, and you are very suddenly tired of him dismissing himself. You want him to know how appreciated he is. Embodying this, your hand darts out to grip his where it rests on his thigh, and Richard looks down at this small spectacle in mild shock; and yet, he doesn’t pull away from your touch.

“It’s not. It’s a lot of things, Richard. I want you to know I appreciate everything you do. It has... It has been a long time since anyone was so sweet to me.”

Feeling self-conscious suddenly, following your outburst of affection, you inch your hand away from his; retreating, and reining yourself back in. For a moment, Richard’s fingers twitch up from his pant leg as though they might chase yours; but then, his hand stills, settled on his thigh just as before.

Then, a crease appears at his brow. “None of your Adonises are sweet to you?”

Your nose crinkles in confusion. “My... Adonises?”

“The... your... gentlemen visitors.”

Your brow creases, as you try to detect whether there is any judgement or malice in his observation, but, knowing him, you are not inclined to think there is. Still, you feel there is more to uncover. He’s noticed your dates coming and going then? He thinks they’re… Adonises? He’s surprised they aren’t sweet to you?

Still, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, perhaps realising how they might be misinterpreted, that crimson undertone to his skin flares again, this time reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks like he wants the couch to swallow him up, and you can’t help but feel for him. “I just meant...”

“-It’s okay,” you say, swooping in to rescue him before he can start helplessly blabbering. He keenly takes the invitation to stop, his mouth suddenly clamping shut, ready to listen. And you? You are ready to talk. The words seem to come so easily around him. “I guess... you’re right. I’ve been on some dates but they...” you sigh, furrowing your brow as you try to find the words. “That’s all fine. Most of the time it’s really fun. Or it was. But... lately...”

“Lately?” Richard encourages, when you don’t go on, his voice barely above a whisper as he hangs on your every word.

“Lately, I think… That maybe it would be nice to have somebody who doesn’t just come and go. To have… somebody to love, I guess?”

“Somebody to love,” Richard ponders, his expression becoming wistful. His head begins moving up and down ever so slowly, gradually building to a more adamant nod. He smiles, but his eyes don’t crease at the corners this time. “That really does sound nice.”

It shocks you, but seeing him even a little sad, like that, has your hands fisting in the material of your skirt, as you resist the urge to reach out for him and offer comfort. You want to cup his face in your hand and kiss him senseless, until his eyes glow once more, imbued with his characteristic positivity. You want to care for him and protect him and make him laugh and spend time with him and…

Fuck.

You want to love him, you realise, and the thought scares you down to your bones. It scares you enough that you sit forwards, breaking this most peculiar tension. Changing the topic. And, abrupt as it may be, at least it works.

“What are you reading?” you ask, shrugging his shirt from your shoulders as a hot, cloying flush creeps along your skin and up your neck, prickly enough that it feels like fingertips. As you imagine Richard’s fingers dancing the same path over your bare shoulder blade, slipping beneath the spaghetti strap of your top, peeling it down, you hurriedly pick up the first book you can put your hands on, turning it in your palms without taking in a word written on it.

Poor Richard. You must be giving the sweet man whiplash.

Still, he leans forward in his seat too, sombrely taking the book from your hands and gazing down at the cover.

“Ah. It’s a bleak topic,” he warns. A deep crease appears in his brow. “It’s Night, by Elie Wiesel – a survivor’s account of his experiences during the Holocaust.”

Your expression turns grave and pinched and you nod, listening carefully as Richard recounts some of the key details. Then, together, you continue to pore through the pile, tackling each book in turn. You listen intently to Richard recount the various synopses, passionate and precise and sensitive in his summaries. It seems he reads a lot of non-fiction. Heavy reading, with many titles about the prison system, and atrocities - often both. But, you understand why it’s important to him. You are grateful to understand how his empathetic nature begets yet more empathy, as he seeks to expand his knowledge of experiences and histories different to his own.

At first sight, you think it’s seemingly at odds that such a positive man seeks out such dark accounts, but it makes sense to you, in a strange way. After all, he wants to understand how things can be better. He believes they can be. You don’t know anything more Richard-y than that.

Reaching for the next title, you find it is a little different to the rest. You are reluctant to segue too abruptly from such heavy topics, keen to give them the merit they deserve, but at the same time you are grateful for a little lightness as you pick-up what appears to be a slightly trashy romance novel. You smile fondly, connecting the dots between this and the telenovela plotlines that seem to grab his attention; the way he seems so in love with love. Again, you consider how the two sides of him -the more serious and seemingly more trivial - may seem at odds, but that actually, they each reveal what is at the core of him. He is interested in people. He’s invested.

“And this book?” you ask tentatively, not even trying to stifle your smile as your eyes wander over the cover, two half-dressed people locked in an erotic, sordid embrace. You are especially keen to hear what he has to say about this one too.

“Well… Like you said. Somebody to love - right? Don’t we all need those kinds of stories?”

Your eyes glow with admiration. Whilst he’s not cocky or overly assured, no, you are coming to admire Richard’s quiet confidence in who he is and what he cares about. His integrity and his lack of embarrassment in the things he chooses to value. His delight and lack of shame in the things that he enjoys. He’s not afraid to be who he is. You think that’s wonderful.

Next, your eyes flick back to the final book on the pile, partly for completeness but also out of curiosity. You feel with each title you pick-up, you are learning something about him; and, frankly, you want to know everything there is to find out. You look at it with a start however, when you realise what the final book in the pile is.

It’s your book. It’s the anthology of poetry you’d self-published around a year ago, and sold at your local readings. You reach for it instantly, almost cradling it in your hands like a precious object. Not because it’s yours - not exactly- but because it’s his. His copy looks eminently different to the spares you still have boxed-up in your house, all fresh and crisp, spines unbroken. This one looks a little worn around the edges - well-thumbed, spine broken-in. Some of the pages are dog-eared, and various makeshift bookmarks are sticking out of it. You’ve never seen one of your publications looking so… beautiful. So treasured.

“You actually read this?” you ask, a little overwhelmed, your heart hammering, and tears spiking in your eyes.

“I read it often. I told you, I really like it!”

You stroke the cover with your palm. “Honestly? I thought you were just being polite.”

When you’d mentioned to him for the first time that you wrote poetry -specifically erotic poetry- and had invited him to the reading, Richard had looked, at first, as though he was ready to die of embarrassment. Regardless, he’d still come along - your only neighbour to have done so. You vaguely remember having spoken to him the day afterward about it, but when you think of the show itself, you can’t picture him there. Now, you desperately wrack your memory of the event, searching for him. Wishing you could recall him showing-up for you in such an important way.

It had been such a blur, though. You’d had a lot of friends there. You’d had a date there, who, at the time, you’d thought was the be all and end all. Now, however, you curse yourself for overlooking Richard. You wish you could go back and root through the crowd for him. You wish you could bring him into the spotlight. Bring him into your arms. And yet, while you ponder all of this, Richard reaches for the book and gently lifts it from your hands, with a gentle hum. It practically falls open on one particular page.

“This one is my favourite,” he admits bashfully. “Salted Peach. I must have it almost memorised by now.” You turn to him, studying his face. His expressive eyes are full of a heat gentler and more nuanced than your words could ever hope to be, you think, as he pores over the page. Over your words.

“No way. Prove it, Alonso Muñoz,” you challenge, exhaling a laugh that is surprised and disbelieving and utterly delighted all at once.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it, but the man sets his face, both more determined and more playful than you think you have seen him so far, as he hands the book back to you. “Okay,” he smiles, softly. “I’ll give it a go.”

You hold your breath as his eyes flutter closed -so that you know he has zero chance of cheating- his long lashes fanning-out beautifully over his cheek. You take the chance to look over his handsome features, while he can’t interrupt your surreptitious study.

Then, he begins. His voice is hushed and unsure, yet the richness of it washes over you, right from the first line.

“Like salt kept on the lips,

To resist is to rust,” he begins, and your breath catches in your chest.

“Let me be an oiled thing under you, all fluid and opening smoothly

With keen, slick hinges.”

First, you are struck that he really does know it. That he really does remember it, almost word perfect. You exhale a breath in disbelief, your chest filling with butterflies.

“A ruined peach

Spilling nectar over your thumb,” he continues, and desire knots deep in your belly.

It’s not that the words are explicit – they aren’t. But something about the way he recites them -recounts your desire- makes them feel positively sinful, his voice quietly confident and subtly erotic as he recites your words. You don’t only hear the words, but you feel them, almost as if his thumb really has punctured you.

You are becoming slick already, feeling like a ruined, grateful fruit. You want to be his fruit, you think. His salted peach.

“You can be my stiffness

My joints

My... (my stone heart? Is that right?)” he interjects.

“It’s perfect,” you encourage, your voice trembling slightly, even as his grows ever more robust, and, as you bolster him, he sits a little taller in his seat, his posture proud and the new confidence reflected in his voice as he proceeds. As he grows, stiffer, taller, you become liquid, and you writhe your heat subtly against your seat. You press your thighs closer together.

Enraptured, you watch his lips and tongue move seamlessly around the words. The micro-expressions on his face, revealing how tenderly he wishes to portray them, every word imbued with care. With expression, and feeling.

“(Got it...) My stone heart

And I, boneless;

Bodiless flesh.”

As he continues, you close your eyes too. You stop checking the words against the book and you let yourself feel them. You let them wash over you. You let his voice wash over you; to sink and curl into the pit of you. You squirm in place, and yet this shifting makes you all too aware of your stillness – this fixed position and distance from him, when surely you should be moving and surging and undulating on him? Surely you should be leaning in and hearing the deep yet gentle timbre of his words waft into the shell of your ear, or fanning over your skin?

Surely, he should be touching you?

Your heart is racing.

“Salt me, then.

Lick your lips and taste me; sweetly.”

You want to taste him. Be tasted.

“Only on your tongue, do I exist.

Only in your hand, do I perish.”

You want to exist and perish on his hand.

“Do not keep me on your lips.

Oil me with your writhing”

You want to be swallowed by him. Oiled by him. Made slick.

“Or else I rust.”

You are rapt. His words -no, your words, spoken by him- melting you.

His voice. So rich, and so sensual, and you could swear, as you listen to him, that your words have never sounded so erotic. That you have never felt them as deeply as you do now, hearing them fall from his tongue and his lips. Hearing them flow from his heart, as he recites them in a way you’ve never heard them; an interpretation entirely unique to him.

In fact, listening to him, like this, lights a flame in the pit of you, a heat suffusing through you, warming everywhere. He warms you, even from this distance, and you can feel how much heat he has to give. And, on boy. You want to lap it up. Every. Last. Drop.

“I... I forgot the next part,” he adds, shyly, his confidence wavering, and you open your eyes, beginning to recite the rest for him.

“Oh, love,

I long to be a fluid thing;

Under you.”

It sounds… true. It feels right. It feels so right to say those words to him. So right that it knocks the air from out of you.

At the sound of your voice, you watch a soft, unfiltered smile appear on Richard’s face, his still-closed eyes creasing deliciously at the corners, his moustache animating with it.

“And yet you resist me; rust me,” you continue, voice full of fissures, and Richard’s eyes slowly peel open, pooling with heat. This time, unlike the other times his eyes have met yours, he holds your gaze - doesn’t drop his eyes from yours in a flurry of bashfulness and fluttered lashes. He holds your gaze and he holds you, in this moment. In this little circle of intimacy, his eyes glowing, all for you. Pooling with that heat, so nuanced and gentle, but every bit as hot as anything you’ve ever touched.

Your voice and your smile and your heart crack wide open as you continue.

“You are salt kept on my lips;”

You complete the last lines at the same time, eyes locked.

“Always tempting.

I seize up.”

Of all the swimming emotions rising at that moment, gratitude balls in your heart most intensely, and yet again, it is all you can do to thrust it towards him, your humble offering.

“Thank you,” you say, for the nth time that evening, a smile of the purest joy still splitting your face. “That was really beautiful.”

It’s hard to comprehend how moved you are by what just happened. You are shocked. Flattered. That someone appreciates your words, that they resonate at all, makes you feel so seen. That the person is Richard is more of a treasure than you can fathom, and it causes a flood of raw, reckless emotion, joyful tears brimming in your eyes.

In return, Richard’s eyes shine as he regards you, with an admiration so deep and yet prominent that you almost shrink back from it. “They’re your words,” he impresses, aiming, as ever, to shrink himself instead.

You shake your head. You won’t have that. “No, Richard - it’s the way you recited them. I swear you should do my next reading for me. You’re so…” You search desperately for the right words, and you can’t find ones any more fitting. “…So fucking beautiful.”

And you call yourself a poet?

Your eyes well up.

You feel entirely caught off guard and just a little silly that you are getting yourself upset in front of him, and yet Richard’s eyes narrow kindly as you try to scrub a stray tear away from your cheek. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soothing, and in the next breath he reaches out to touch you, his hand settling over the top of yours. The gesture is a little awkward, unsure, but only until his hand is in place. After that it simply feels... right. Perfect, in fact.

He strokes you, his thumb ghosting slowly, minutely over your pulse point, sending a delicious shiver along your spine. His eyes search yours, and you become thoroughly lost in the intensity of them. Lost in a way that you don’t ever wish to find yourself again. Lost in a way that turns everything on its head - has you finally feeling found.

“I loved hearing you read. It was so wonderful. You should definitely do another event,” Richard gushes. “I’m sure I could listen to you read from this all night.” With that, and the scenario it conjures, perhaps, he looks down at his hand on yours. Maybe growing self-conscious, or worried that he is overstepping; that he has lingered there too long. Suddenly, though, you don’t think any length of time could be too long for him to be touching you.

When your gaze drops to his lips, however, his moustache bristles, and he quickly snatches his hand back to his lap. “Have you written anything lately?” he asks hurriedly, scooping up the book again, his topic change giving off the same energy as yours did previously.

You wonder if he is imagining your fingers trailing over his bare flesh now too. You hope so. Oh how you hope.

At his question, though, you exhale a small laugh, pumping your eyebrows once as your face splits in a smile. You shake your head gently. “I haven’t been... it’s a while since I was, let’s say, properly inspired by an encounter,” you explain, looking down at your hands in your lap, missing his contact already. “I’m just... Hmmph. I don’t know. It’s just... missing something. Guess they don’t make Adonises like they used to,” you add flippantly, poking light fun, partly at yourself.

Contrary to your flippancy, Richard becomes more serious. A gulp trails down his throat, and he seems suddenly frozen in place; seized up. As if he needs you to oil him so that he doesn’t rust. “W-What are you missing?” he asks, his voice lower than you’ve heard it, slightly more grit to it. His chest visibly rising, breaths slightly quickened; just like yours.

You look into his deep, cola-coloured eyes.

You?

What are you missing? You’re not sure, but somehow you feel that whatever it is, Richard could give it to you in moments.

Still, you don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you ask him a question in return. You ask him a question feeling that, somehow, in a roundabout way, both of your questions may arrive at precisely the same answer.

“Why that poem?” you question, softly, lifting your eyes to him. “Why is that one your favourite?”

“I... I think...” he swallows again, then he whets his plush lips with a flick of his pink tongue. “It’s about longing, isn’t it? About being... lonely? About... wanting... someone in particular.” He fixes his expressive eyes on a point on the table, unable to look at you, it seems, in that moment. Still, his words are telling enough alone, you think, even without you seeing that same sentiment mirrored in his eyes too.

Now, you have another question. “Do you ever... get lonely? Are you? Lonely?”

It’s not even an assumption about him, you vaguely realise. It’s a projection. A projection of how you feel, and how you never realised you felt. It’s a desperate plea for affinity. For that longing to be understood, finally.

You are the one who is rusted. Seized up.

However, as soon as the question is out of your mouth you wish you could retract it. Loneliness is a solitary thing, after all, and you have no business, you suppose, wading into anyone else’s.

“I’m so sorry, please don’t answer that,” you mutter quickly, your fingers darting out to ghost along his forearm in apology, your naturally tactile nature coming through.

He drops his gaze towards your fingers there, watching them skimming his warm skin and the soft, dark hairs on his arms. He doesn’t inch away. Instead, he lifts his eyes to you, and you know the answer before he says it aloud. You know the answer as his emotions are written clearly in his eyes. Worn on his sleeve, like his badge.

The weight of his loneliness crushes you as if it was your own.

“Me too,” you admit, nodding softly, and his mouth curls briefly into a small, sad smile as your fingers continue their slow inch across his skin.

He sits in that sadness for a moment, and then, tentatively, as a thought flashes across his eyes, he brightens, just a little – looking mildly more hopeful. “Well,” he suggests, bravely. “Maybe we can… keep each other company?”

That really does sound nice.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Richard reaches out to fumble away the single tear ever so suddenly coursing down your face, swiping a line on your cheek with the pad of his thumb, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt anything so tender as his touch in that moment. It is yet another little thing; like the graze of a match head along its box. A little act, charged, with all this dangerous potential for a much larger, blazing thing to ignite.

You nod, the corners of your mouth trembling. “I would like that.” You would like that a lot.

Richard searches your eyes, and, ever so slowly - always slowly- as if you don’t wish to scare him away, you dare to hook your arm into his at the elbow, and you lower your head until it is resting on top of his shoulder.

“Is – Is this okay, Richard?” you ask in a small voice, pleading inwardly with the universe that he will say yes. That it is.

“This is... perfect,” he responds, even as he remains stiff against you, and, given his affirmation, you curl and scooch your body, shuffling a little closer to him. Bolstered too, with seeming new-found confidence, Richard raises him arm over you, and he nestles you safely against him where you can better feel his warmth. Where, with your knees drawing up on to his lap and your ear coming to rest on his chest, you can feel and hear the quickened thud of his racing heart as he holds you. His beautiful, kind, open heart.

Your mouth extends in a watery smile as you are held by him. He’s right. It’s a little thing, but it is perfect, isn’t it?

Still, again, although you should feel light, you feel heavy. With emotion. With longing. And so, you reach for another topic change. You reach for lightness. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an incredibly impressive moustache?” you enquire into his shirt, another solitary tear slipping over the bridge of your nose and wetting the flourish of red stitching.

Giving yourself whiplash now, you smile, as Richard’s chest shakes beneath you with gentle, easy laughter.

“Well, not everybody is a fan.”

“Who would actually dare?” you exclaim, as if thoroughly scandalised. “Fuck them, Richard. I like it. I like it a lot.”

His fingers trace shapes on your back. “Thank you.”

You are pleased to feel him gradually relax against you, his form melding with yours, his body becoming less stiff. Less rusted; more of a fluid thing.

“Do you… do you have a little moustache comb?”

Another chuckle. “I do,” he confirms, and you don’t know why on earth that detail settles it, but you think that he must certainly be the most perfect man on earth.

You go silent for a moment, but Richard prompts you gently - “No more questions for me?”- as if he was enjoying your mood-lightening segue. You are more than happy to oblige the sweet man by continuing, and you chew on your lip as you come up with something.

“Are you on Tinder?” A cheeky smile claims your mouth again - you’d kill to see his profile.

You’d think about the fact he’d probably never send unsolicited dick pics, but… then you’d be thinking about dick pics, and that’s one dangerous road towards Feral Town.

While you ponder this, Richard laughs again, but it’s a little self-deprecating this time. “No... I... I was for a while, but I...”

“What?”

He inhales and sighs his whole breath out again - a sad sound. His tone when he speaks is equally morose. “I’m… not sure people are looking for someone like me.”

At that, you abruptly sit up, narrowing your eyes and fixing a determined, earnest stare on him. You reach up, gingerly, moved to cup his cheek with your palm, his groomed sideburn and the plume of his moustache pleasantly rough under your fingers. You make sure he is looking you in the eyes. “Richard,” you contest, with every scrap of sincerity you can muster; and then some. “I think everybody must be looking for somebody like you.”

His eyes are pierced by a peculiar emotion you haven’t seen there yet. At first it looks like pain, but then it levels off until his eyes are shining, with something resembling pride or gratitude. When a smile finally twitches his moustache, your gaze drops to his lips again, and you are no longer surprised by how easy it is to think about kissing him, desire unfurling in your belly at an alarming rate. A palpable, mutual longing eddies in the space between you.

You surprise yourself though, by dipping to press a sweet, chaste kiss into his cheek, rather than sinking towards his lips as you so wish to do. When you perform this gesture, his eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a soft, involuntary hum, the sound gathering in your very bones and setting up camp there. As you dip back from him, the edge of his moustache grazes your cheek, and you have to admit it’s sort of electrifying. You imagine how it would tickle if you were kissed by him. How it would tickle wherever you were kissed.

The lines of poetry, so to speak, are writing themselves in your mind, already. You haven’t felt this inspired in a long time, and yet, on this occasion, you want to wait. You don’t want to rush it - even though you’ve never felt the need to quell your desires on many occasions before. Life is short, after all – too short to waste. However, something tells you that Richard is the type of man you should savour. Something tells you, that you may have found somebody to love, and, you may not love often; but when you do, you love slow.

So, you pull away from Richard, and you note that his eyes have fluttered closed. When he opens them again, you know that this kiss on the cheek was the right thing to do. You see subtle tears shining in his eyes. Again, he looks pained -with first appearances- but these tears, on second examination you think, are joyful. His heart joyful yet heavy, exactly like yours. After all, when you are overwhelmed with joy all at once, with a flood of little, happy things, it can weigh you down, at first, if the measure of joy is not one which you are quite accustomed to. If you are not practised at carrying it.

At that point, contemplating joy, you are ripped cruelly from the moment, as, with the worst and best possible timing, your phone buzzes to life, vibrating against your hip until you reach to fish out the insistent device.

“The locksmith is here, Richard. I have to go.”

“Y- yeah. Okay,” he nods, despite the fact everything about him is conveying the opposite sentiment.

I don’t want to go.

“Thank you so much.”

He nods again, and, wanting to leave him with a parting thought (or, not wanting to leave him at all, but needs must), you have the bright idea to pick up your book from the table, thumbing through it quickly to find the page you want. A poem called The Flood.

“Recommended bedtime reading,” you wink, thrusting the book towards his chest and standing, grabbing your purse and making your way towards the door. “I can give you back your shirt tomorrow, right?” you say cheekily. “Maybe after dinner?”

Richard stands too, following you towards the door like he’s magnetised to you, Lady trotting along too, inquisitively, her little black nose snuffling at the air.

“A-after dinner?” he enquires, confused, as you sweep out in a little bit of a whirlwind.

“Yeah, Richard,” you smile coyly from beneath your lashes, injecting some flirtation into your tone. “I owe you dinner. To make it up to you.”

“You don’t need to make it up to...”

You arch an eyebrow at him, looking at him pointedly and smoothing your hand over his upper arm until he gets the gist. When your meaning dawns on him, he gets that adorable, excited little spring in his step. You revel in his bright toothy smile, striking and pearly from beneath the thick brush of his moustache. “I know a nice little pasta place. And there’s a great documentary playing at the Coolidge if you want to catch it?”

“Sure,” you agree, dipping forward to plant another lingering kiss on his cheek in the doorway, relishing the feel of that moustache all over again. “It’s a date.”

Evidently flustered, and in no bad way, Richard fumbles for words and finds none, omitting a mere collection of stunted syllables and unfinished sounds in response.

You wink at him, and before swooping off, you add one final thing. “Feel free to consider the bedtime reading a preview, okay? If you’d like.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up in disbelief. You get the feeling he already knows exactly what that particular poem is about. “Yes, ma’am.” he nods, looking sweetly and longingly and adoringly after you as you sashay away.

“Goodnight, neighbour to the right.”

“Goodnight, neighbour to the left.”

You allow yourself one last long look at him before you retreat, an unstoppable smile splitting your face, and, seeing him stood in the doorway, smiling after you, only cements everything you have come to learn this evening.

From now on, neither of you will be lonely anymore. There will be no more longing. Instead, there will be a flood, you think.

THE END

PART TWO IS HERE

#Richard Alonso Muñoz #richard alonso munoz x reader #the letter room #oscar isaac #richard alonso muñoz x reader

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ophelialoveshandsomemen · 2 years

Text

A december writing challenge that I will try. If you want to send me one of Oscar Isaac’s characters and a day to write for, go ahead! If I don’t get any prompts, I will be writing my own choices. Ask me if you wanna be tagged!

Female reader or GN reader only please!

I’m more comfortable with female reader, but I can easily write gender neutral. Male reader, however, I am NOT comfortable writing for too many reasons to state here.

Just a warning, I’m not big on cities, so this will feature mainly rural/country settings.

Warning. There may be religious themes in some of these, which I will tag accordingly.

** indicates smut, both light and heavy.

Day 1 - Baking || Vanilla, sprinkles, and chocolate flavored kisses. (Richard Alonso Munoz x fem!reader)

Day 2 - Frozen Lake || Cold hands, Scarves, and Snow.(Duke Leto Atreides x fiancée!fem!reader) **

Day 3 - Hot Chocolate || Marshmallows, warm hands, and soft smiles.(Abel Morales x fem!reader)

Day 4 - Cozy Cabin || Patterned rugs, soft blankets, and warm baths.( Santiago Garcia x wife!fem!reader)

Day 5 - Fire Places || Fuzzy socks, soft rugs, and hands intertwined.(Pt.2! Duke Leto Atreides x fiancée!fem!reader)

Day 6 - Blanket Fort || Fluffy pillows, movies, and snacks(Modern!Poe Dameron x pregnant!fem!wife!reader)

Day 7 - Catching a cold || Tissues, savory soup, and cuddles.(Llewyn Davis x fem!reader)

Day 8 - Snowed In || Candles, snow drifts, and quiet.(Mikael Boghosian x fem!reader)

Day 9 - Sledding || biting wind, cold noses, and laughter

Day 10 - Winter Market || Murmuring crowds, rows of stalls, and the smell of food.(Blue Jones x gn!reader)

Day 11 - Snowball Fight || Heavy breathing, footprints in the snow, and warm hugs.

Day 12 - Lonely || Gloomy skies, soft blankets, and a warm fire.

Day 13 - Warm Bath || Bubble bath, soft music, and gentle hands.

Day 14 - Homemade Meal/Cooking || Savory spices, hot meals, and family.

Day 15 - Sleigh Ride || Sleigh bells, foggy breath, and the smell of cedar.(Nathan Bateman x fem!reader)

Day 16 - Mistletoe || Warm lights, smoke, and friends.(Jonathan Levy x fem!reader)

Day 17 - Gingerbread || Icing on their cheek, smell of cinnamon, and playful kisses.

Day 18 - Sunsets || Golden hour, towering pine trees, and warm coats.

Day 19 - Movie Nights || Laughter, snacks, and cuddles.

Day 20 - Hiking || Rough ground, crisp morning air, and sunrises.

Day 21 - Sweaters || Cozy feelings, goosebumps, and comforting hands.

Day 22 - Unique Traditions || Smiles, acceptance, and making memories.

Day 23 - Proposal || Nerves, candles, and a tasty meal.

Day 24 - Holiday Traffic || Car horns, comforting words, and snow.

Day 25 - Lazy Mornings || Soft blankets, familiar arms, and the morning light.

Day 26 -Furry Friends || Shining eyes, the pitter - patter of paws, and that fuzzy feeling in your chest.

Day 27 - Roasting Marshmallows || Roaring bonfires, laughter of friends, and gooey marshmallows.

Day 28 - Huddle for Warmth || Warm bodies, steady breaths, and comforting feelings.

Day 29 - Holiday Lights || Holiday music, bright colors, and joy.

Day 30 - Fireworks || Loud booms, sparkling light, and a breathtaking kiss.

Day 31 - Wild Card || write anything you want!(Victoriano ‘El Catorce’ Ramirez x fem!reader)

#aerynwritesdc21 #santiago garcia x reader #richard alonso munoz x reader #duke leto atreides x reader #nathan bateman x reader #llewyn davis x reader #laurent leclaire x reader #victoriano 'el catorce' ramirez x reader #jonathan levy x reader #december writing challenge 2021 #orestes x reader #poe dameron x reader #blue jones x reader #abel morales x reader

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waatermelon-sugaar · 3 years

Text

Choose Me

Pairing = Richard x GN reader

Words = 1.4k

Summary = You meet Richard at a fancy-dress competition

Warnings = some mistakes, I wrote this quite quickly

A/N = Prompt no. 18 requested by @phoenixhalliwell as part of my 300 follower celebration, thanks so much for the request, hope you like it! Prompt was “Choose me” w/ Richard and bolded in text. First time writing him, hope it’s ok!

Posted to AO3

Masterlist

***

Fancy dress competitions were the worst.

And your sister, Hannah, had decided to throw a fancy dress competition in her garden, all to raise money for charity. Which meant you couldn’t complain and you had to make an effort.

It was all part of an annual summer party she threw, starting in mid-afternoon, finishing late, with children running around, a barbeque for the food, and a couple of games. And this year she’d also chosen to do fancy dress. Conveniently she was exempt, because she was going to judge.

When you’d asked why you couldn’t judge, she told you “Too many cooks spoil the broth.” And also that “it would be embarrassing if the host’s family didn’t dress up!” But apparently not that embarrassing, because neither she nor Hayden, your brother-in-law, had dressed up.

It wasn’t the dressing up that bothered you so much, more it was deciding what to wear. What if everyone else had much better ideas, or went along with a theme, or…?

In the end you’d chosen a simple costume, finding a ghostbusters jumpsuit in town and deeming it to be good enough. You were regretting all your life choices at the moment, however, the sun beating onto your shoulders in the late afternoon heat, and you were sure that your tank top and shorts underneath were soaked in sweat.

The garden had been decorated nicely, bunting around the boundaries, fairy lights pinned up for later in the evening when it turned dark. But for the meantime, you were left standing next to a stranger who was more interested in talking to the person on their other side, leaving you feeling like a lemon, standing there, not knowing anyone.

You glanced back to the darkness of the kitchen, where it was no doubt much cooler, and aimed a glare at where you were sure Hannah was standing. What was taking so long you had no idea, but you could see her talking to someone else.

Your nieces, nephews, and their friends milled around in front of you, a couple chattering about the merits of each costume in amusing seriousness while they ate the treats available. Hayden was playing a game of football with a couple of kids in the shade at the other end of the garden and you huffed in impatience.

Hannah had claimed she’d choose a fair, impartial judge (and you ‘didn’t fit that criteria’, when you’d opened your mouth to argue), someone she knew from work, she’d said, but you weren’t prepared for who stepped out of the kitchen with her. The first thing you noticed was his moustache, big, but neat. His hair was curly, and greying slightly, a stray curl flopping onto his forehead.

He looks nervous as the two of them step out of the house, and although you don’t care, you never did, about this competition, suddenly you really, really want to win.

They took their time going down the line, accepting donations from each of the entrants and marking something on their clipboards.

Finally, finally, they reached you.

“This is Richard,” was all you got by way of introductions as you handed over your donation. You gave him your hand to shake, smiling and telling him your name.

“Nice to meet you Richard.”

Hannah had already seen your costume, so she soon returned back to the cool darkness of the kitchen, so you walked up to Richard, where he was watching the football game, clipboard hanging at his side.

“Dare I ask who you picked as the best?” You ask, standing next to him.

“That would be telling.” He has nice eyes, you notice, dappled brown in the sunlight and with laughter lines at the side which crease as he talks.

“Choose me.” You say. “Choose me and…” You flounder for a second, flirting a strangely unfamiliar territory after so long without practice. “... and I’ll give you a kiss.”

Your eyes meet his before he ducks his head, a faint blush rising up his cheeks. “I … ok.” The words are quiet enough that you nearly miss them, but, regardless, you lean forwards and give him a quick peck on the lips.

You don’t give him a chance to do anything about it, drawing away, opening your eyes, and watching as he leans forwards slightly, trying to follow your mouth. You grin and Richard’s suddenly fascinated by the football game, shifting his feet, while you can’t help but grin wider. His lips were soft, and his moustache tickled you, but he moves closer so the backs of your hands were touching.

The rest of the afternoon is spent flirting, and you learn that both of you are rusty when it comes to flirting. The winner of the fancy dress competition is announced just before dusk after some passionate arguing between Richard and Hannah, before you are given second place, and the winner is a friend of Hannah’s, wearing an elaborately patterned Belle gown.

You can’t be bitter, she does look good.

“Sorry you can’t take back your kiss.” Richard has approached you this time.

You bite back a smile. “Maybe you could walk me home and kiss me properly as compensation? Away from all these children?”

Richard leans forward into your personal space as his eyes flick down to your lips, again. “I’d like that.”

So the two of you say your goodbyes, a short process considering you both know a combined total of 5 people at the party, leaving the glittering fairy lights and light music behind for the yellow of the streetlights and sounds of distant cars.

Hannah had given you an annoyingly knowing look as you’d said goodbye, hardly able to contain herself with excitement. “Coffee tomorrow?” may have sounded like a perfectly innocent request, but seeing as Hannah was just short of winking, you knew exactly what she wanted, rolling your eyes but nodding in agreement.

“I’ll text you,” you promise, already walking away, turning to go through the house, where you can already see the outline of Richard through the glass in the front door, waiting for you.

It’s cooler this side of the house, less people, and a lack of fire, but you prefer it this way. You didn’t dare take off your costume all afternoon, not even to wrap it around your waist, and the cool air feels light on your face.

The sky is clear and beautiful, stars peeking out between the glow of the streetlamps as you and Richard walk home. There’s still a faint glow of orange sun peeking over the horizon, casting deep purple above the two of you. You stay quiet for the most part, and you know that you’re too busy thrumming with anticipation to think of something to say, although you can’t speak for Richard.

“Well this is me.” You’ve made it to your house, and you suddenly think that you don’t want the night to end. Standing at the edge of your front yard, you glance back at the house. “Do you want to come in? For a … for a drink?”

When you look back at Richard, he’s stepped closer. “Better not,” he says, and you can’t help but feel disappointed. “Maybe I could take you out tomorrow night though?”

His voice is soft, and you bite your lip so you don’t grin like a fool, nodding your head. His eyes are starting to close a little, darting around your face, centering on your lips.

You close the space between you, pulling your arms around his neck and kissing him.

It’s ten times better than the one earlier.

His lips are still soft, but he takes more agency this time, biting your bottom lip, and when you open your mouth, eagerly dipping his tongue in. His arms are on your body, hands feeling like they’re running everywhere, like he can’t get enough of you, can’t believe he’s actually touching you.

It’s messy, and a little desperate, and you feel a bit like a teenager again, having to kiss out of sight of your parents. Your bodies are pressed against each other, and it takes all your self control not to wrap a leg around his waist. Richard’s pressing into you, and you can feel the weight of his stomach against yours, the way he purposefully keeps his hips away from yours.

Your hands thread into his hair, tugging a little when the two of you separate, gasping for air. “Meet me here at 7?” You ask. It takes a minute for him to remember what you were talking about before he nods, eyes sparkling in the growing darkness.

You steal another quick kiss before you leave him, and when you invite him in the next night, he doesn’t say no.

***

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments mean the world to me 🥰🥰🥰

#richard alonso muñoz x reader #Richard Alonso Muñoz #the letter room #richard alonso munoz #the letter room fanfic

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temptressofwaikiki · 3 years

Text

Well this is a damn shame.

We need more of this sweet man.

#richard alonso munoz #richard alonso muñoz x reader #the letter room #Richard Alonso muñoz x you

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ofstarsandvibranium · 1 year

Text

My You-niverse: Richard Alonso Munoz

Fandom: Oscar Isaac

Pairing: Richard Alonso Munoz x F!Reader, throughout the series: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader

Summary: You and America get stuck portal jumping until you reach your universe again. In the meantime, you meet various versions of your husband.

Warning: mentions of domestic abuse

A/N: sorry its been almost a month since i last updated...i can't promise that it wont happen again.

Series Masterlist

"You've been coming around here a lot lately," you state as you take your mail from Richard.

"Dana's on maternity leave, so I'm taking over the women's block as well."

Your brows shoot up, "Oh. I didn't know she already had the baby. Tell her I said 'Congrats'."

Richard gives you a nod and a soft smile, "Will do."

_____________

Steven groans and wipes his mouth after throwing up. America gives him a sympathetic look, "Yeah, that happens sometimes."

"Strange, not that I don't enjoy all this universe hopping and what not, when will we find, Y/N?"

Stephen rolls his eyes at Marc's alter, "It's not like I put a tracking on her."

"There's no spell of some sort that could help us track her?" Steven asks in desperation.

Stephen thinks and then his eyes widen. He turns to Steven, "Do you have anything of Y/N's?"

Steven rummages through his pocket and pulls out a necklace, "Here. I gave this to her on our first wedding anniversary. She makes me hold it during missions because she doesn't want to lose it."

"Perfect. Hold it up." While Steven holds up your necklace, Stephen does several hand movements, creating different glowing magical shapes. He pushes the shapes to your necklace and it proceeds to glow. The light from it then fades and the necklace is just the same as it was.

"...soooo...what was that supposed to do?" America asks with a cocked brow.

"This," Stephen points to your necklace, "will glow if it senses any trace of Y/N."

America threw up her arms, "Why didn't you think of this earlier?"

"I didn't think of it until now."

Steven groaned, "Would've saved us a lot of time, mate, if you did!"

"Doesn't matter now. All that matters is that we're closer to finding Y/N." Stephen created a portal to the next universe, "Shall we carry on?"

____________________

Twenty-five years to life. Shit. Well, you suppose that's what you get for killing someone. That someone being your sister's abusive ass ex-husband.

"I'd do it again," you murmur, pushing your food around your tray while Richard sat across from you, "No one, especially my sister, deserves to be treated the way he treated her," you spoke, the memories this universe' version of you flooded your brain, "If I didn't do it, there would've been another woman after my sister that he'd use as his personal punching bag. I couldn't have that."

"I get it. I don't condone what you did, but I get it. I've read the letters your sister sends you. I can tell she's very grateful of you."

You nod and let out a deep breath, "So you probably know everyone's dirty secrets, huh? Having to read everyone's letters and whatnot."

Richard smooths over his mustache and shrugs, "I try not to really get into all. Just have to make sure no one is trying to break out of here or trying to hurt someone."

You smirk at him and lean in closer so that he could only hear you, "Have people sent nudes?"

He gave a nervous laugh, "Oh God," he shakes his head, covering his blushing face, "I'm surprised how many people send naked photos of themselves to these inmates."

"Oooouu, Ritchie!"

"I don't look at them long. Just to see it's nothing harmful and then set it back in the envelope." he scoffs, "I've seen more naked women here than I do outside of work."

Your brows rise in surprise, "Really?"

He shrugs, "Yeah, is that surprising?"

It's your turn to shrug, "I dunno. I just-you're sweet and funny and handsome. Thought you'd have someone to give you some lovin'."

Richard sighs, "Unfortunately, there is no love for me."

You prop your elbows up, resting your chin on your hand, "I'd date you if I wasn't locked up here."

"Yeah?" Now it's Richard who looks at you with surprise.

You nod, "Yeah. Like I said, you're sweet, funny, and handsome. Very understanding and a great listener."

One of the guards then announces that lunch is over and that everyone should be heading back to their cells.

You groan and hang your head low, "Guess I'll see you around, Ritchie."

_________________

"So all of these versions of Marc's are just a bunch of tossers, aren't they?" Steven says with a snort, but then he punches himself in the face.

"Shit!" he cries out, "Unnecessary!" He begins to start arguing with Marc.

America starts slowly moving away from them but closer to Stephen, "So, Doc, are we getting closer to finding Y/N?"

"I think so," he fiddles with your necklace in his hand, "It's getting warmer, so we might not be that far behind." He looks back at Steven and calls out, "If you two are done bickering, I'm sure you'd like to get back to finding your wife?"

Steven nods, "Right," he straightens his jacket, "Let's go then." He catches up to Steven and America.

He and America trail behind Stephen and as he follows wherever your necklace is leading him. He's fully concentrated on the task at hand.

America then speaks up, "So, Steven, I know Y/N and Marc are married, so does that mean you're married to her too?"

"I suppose yes, in a way," he holds up his left hand to show his wedding ring, "But technically no. On the marriage certificate, it's Y/N and Marc's name. To be fair, I was never really a relationship person. That's all Marc with the romance and sweeping her off her feet. It took me a while, but I've come to love her as well. There's no title, really. She's mine just as much as she is Marc's and vice versa."

The teen suddenly looks upset, "I really am sorry I got her into this mess."

"It's not your fault. Marc's pissed, yeah, but it's at himself. He gets hard on himself whenever something happens to Y/N. And this is unknown territory for, well, all of us. But Marc doesn't like being so blind to all of this."

"What about you? How are you feeling about all this?"

Steven chuckles, "It's rather thrilling, innit? Visiting multiple universes and timelines and all that?"

America chuckles, "Yeah, it's pretty cool. Maybe once I really get the hang of my powers, we can do this again sans losing Y/N and trying to get her back."

Steven winces and rubs his belly, "Maybe not for a while," remembering how many times he's thrown up already from the universe jumping.

America laughs, "Fair enough."

________________

Richard should be keeping watch of everyone else in the courtyard, but he can't. His attention is captured by you.

You're laying in the grass, soaking up as much sun as possible. He can tell you're at peace in this moment. He doesn't want to disturb you, but he can't help the pull that draws him to you.

He crosses the basketball court, to the area of grass that's starting to yellow as the summer heat is rolling in.

When he approaches you, your eyes are focused up at the sky.

Your eyes go to him and you smile, "Care to join me?" you pat the grass beside you.

He shakes his head, "I'm alright. I just wanted to check up on you."

You hum, eyes going back up at the sky, "When I look up, I'm taken away from this place. I'm not in prison, I'm somewhere else. Somewhere I'm free." You look back to him, "And you're there with me."

"Am I?" Richard gives a chuckle.

You nod, "Of course. You're sharing all of the poems that you've written and read to me." You sit up and turn to him, "Have you written anything new?"

"I'm...working on something."

"Can I get a sneak peek?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?!"

"Because I only want to show you when it's finished."

You hold up your hands in surrender, "Fine, fine. I won't budge."

You put your hands behind your head and lean back to lay back down. Once your head hits the grass, you're suddenly somewhere else.

You're on a cold floor. Standing above you is another version of your husband. His hair is slightly longer, more salt and pepper. He's also donning a beard similar to Nathan's.

"I win again, stardust." this version of Marc holds a baton towards you.

You groan, sitting up, "Ow."

He offers a hand to you and pulls you to your feet, "What's hurt?"

"My ego," you answer with a pout.

He gives a low chuckle and kisses your head, "You're fine."

"My Duke Leto," a man enters the room, "your meeting ," he reminds Leto, as you've learned his name.

"Right. I lost track of time." He hands you the baton, "Maybe you should join Paul in his lessons." he playfully nudges you.

"Ha ha."

Leto gives you a chaste kiss on the lips and heads for the door, "I'll see you at dinner, stardust."

You wave at Leto and then take a look around the room you're in. It's all stone of some sort. You walk towards the only window in the room and peer through it, seeing waves of water crash against a cliff.

The sky didn't look right. Were you on some other kind of planet?

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #richard alonso munoz x reader #oscar isaac #f!reader #fem!reader #female reader #marvel #au #marvel au

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tropes-and-tales · 2 years

Text

Half of Each of Us

Day 5: Breeding (Richard Muñoz x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen. The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)

CW: Fluff (engagement); Smut (PiV, unprotected; breeding kink; talk of theoretical pregnancy). 18+ only.

Word Count: 2677

Requested by @isvvc-pvscvl!

It starts because Richard forgets to buy condoms.

He doesn’t remember until the two of you are in his bed, naked and panting for each other. He reaches into the nightstand and finds the empty box, and his heart absolutely sinks.

You let out a laugh that is only tinged with a bit of frustration. You shove at his shoulder playfully, and you laugh again at the pained groan he gives.

“I’m so sorry, hermosa,” he grumbles. “I’m an idiot.”

“Oh, you’re not.” You lean over and kiss him, and you’re both still overwrought, so he wraps an arm around your neck and tugs you down on top of him…

“Richard, we can’t.” You whine and it sounds so pretty, so laced with regret.

“I could pull out,” he replies, lifting his eyebrows hopefully.

“You know what they call people who pull out?” you ask, pushing away from him with a smile. “They call them parents.”

He laughs, and then his laughter dies off when you bend your head near his and whisper that there’s other things you can do for each other, and your comment doesn’t register until much later, when you’re both sated and drowsy in each other’s arms.

Would it be the worst thing, having a child together?

-----

The question bounces around Richard’s head for days. It bubbles to the top of his thoughts all the time: at work, in the car, when he’s walking his dog.

Would it be the worst thing, having a child together?

He never considered fatherhood before, but he also never considered the possibility of finding someone. It was a series of unlikely events: his dog breaking her leash and running into traffic, you jogging from the other direction. You saw the disaster about to unfold, sprinted into the street, and scooped his dog up in your arms like a superhero.

He was so shaken up, he forgot to be nervous. He repaid you by taking you out to dinner, and you both had such a good time, it turned into a second dinner. Then a coffee date, then a walk in the park. A series of lovely dates until he worked up the nerve to kiss you, and now here you are, a year later. You have a shelf in his bathroom, two drawers in his dresser, and he is eager for more.

He’s terrified to ask for more.

He wants it all: he wants you to move in. He wants to marry you. And yes, he’d love a child, would love to raise a child with you. But how can he ask? Even the thought makes his stomach churn in anxious terror.

-----

The two of you are walking his dog together: a leisurely stroll through a nearby park as his dog sniffs at the varied and interesting smells there. Your hand is warm in Richard’s, and every so often you give him a gentle squeeze that he finds reassuring.

When his dog starts to tire, you find a bench and sit down together, allow his dog to lie panting at your feet. It’s a beautiful day; it’s sunny but there’s a bite of winter on the wind, a cold thread that makes Richard shiver. It’s going to start getting darker, colder…usually the winter is a bleak time for him, but this winter, he has you.

You release his hand, but then you wind your arm through his. You scoot closer to him and lay your head on his shoulder, and he smiles at the touch. He turns and kisses the top of your head, enjoys the clean, faintly floral scent of you.

“Richard?” you ask, but you don’t lift your head.

“Yeah?”

“You know, if you are worried about asking me anything, you shouldn’t be.”

“What?” he asks, confused. Stupidly, his mind goes to the mundane: the coming conversation on what the two of you are going to do for dinner, the tame argument where you each end up compromising on the same taqueria around the corner.

You lift your head, but you don’t look at him. You gaze out across the landscape of the park when you say, “if you have anything you want to ask me, but you’re afraid to…I’m saying not to be afraid.”

“Hermosa, I don’t—”

“And if you think you need, like, a specific item to ask the question…I’m telling you not to worry about that either.”

It takes him a long beat to catch on, and his stomach does its usual twist. Richard thinks he might throw up. He has no idea how you’ve figured him out…

“I saw your internet search history.” You squeeze his arm, and now you glance at him. There’s a soft smile on your face. “You asked Google a million questions about it, but the one that stood out was ‘how can I tell my girlfriend will say yes if I propose.’”

“I didn’t mean—”

You squeeze his arm again. “I wasn’t snooping, I swear. I was trying to find that movie we had searched before, and the history just…revealed itself.” You turn on the bench and face him directly. “Richard, I would say yes. If you asked me. So don’t worry about it anymore, okay?”

He feels faint. He feels the edges of his vision wavering as he takes in what you’re telling him.

“Okay,” he replies, hoarse.

Your smile widens, and you nod at him. “And you were searching on…uh, jewelry. So, don’t worry about that either. Maybe…if you wanted to buy a specific piece of jewelry, that is something we could do together?”

“Okay,” he repeats.

-----

He manages to make it home with you, and the sick feeling fades. Just a little.

He still feels sick at heart. He ruined it. He should have been smarter, should have deleted his search history. Or he should have been smarter. Other men didn’t struggle like this, did they? Why didn’t he just know, why did he have to search for it…

“Okay, stop.” You stand in front of him right inside his door. You’re both still in your jackets, but you block him from going further into the house. You fix him with a studious look.

“You’re overthinking, aren’t you?” you ask. “You’re wallowing.”

“I should have done better, hermosa. I should have—”

“Okay then.” You shrug as if to yourself, and you add, “you leave me with no choice.”

He thinks you’re falling, his brain slow to catch your motion until you’re on one knee in front of him, grinning up at him, your closed hand extended.

“Richard Alonso Muñoz, will you do me the honor,” you start to say, but he realizes what you’re asking and cuts you off with an outraged squawk, and then you’re laughing as he tugs you to your feet, tugs you into his arms.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls. “I’m going to propose to you, not the other way around.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” You laugh at his indignation, and you hold out your hand, clasped into a loose fist. “I only had a leftover doggy biscuit in my pocket anyway. No big diamond for you, Muñoz.”

He laughs too, dispels the tension that only he was feeling. “I don’t want a big diamond.”

You reach up and cup his face, force him to look you in your eyes. “And neither do I, Richard.” You say it so seriously, so solemnly. “And know that I’ll say yes, so no more worrying. I mean it.”

He always wanted to do it grander: fireworks, champagne, dozens of roses, in front of the Eiffel Tower or on a beach at sunset. But you’re gazing at him so earnestly, his face held between your warm palms, and the question falls so easily from his lips.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, and you tear up, blink against the tears, and you tell him of course you will.

-----

It happens weeks later, when you finally have a ring on your finger. You spend the day together shopping for it, and you find one at an antique shop. It is an art deco ring, a small diamond flanked by sapphires, and it feels like fate because it fits your finger perfectly.

You celebrate at a nice restaurant that night. You in a dress, him in a nice suit. The lovely ring gleaming on your finger as you get tipsy on champagne, giggling as he loads you into the car and takes you home.

Giggling as he gets you to the bedroom and into bed after peeling you out of your clothing. You are flushed and warm with the champagne but not drunk, and as you lay on the bed waiting for him, Richard can’t miss the soft way you look at him. It always stills him, leaves him stunned that you could love him as much as he loves you.

When he joins you in bed, when he reaches for a condom in the nightstand, you still his arm and ask in a near-whisper, “would you like to not wear one tonight?”

He turns and gapes at you, expects you to be joking. But your face is earnest, and you nod at him encouragingly.

“I’ve never…not used one,” he admits.

“Me either. But we’re both clean, and we’ve both been together for a while now.”

“Yes, but…” The implication leaves him breathless, and the thought goes straight to his erection, makes him so hard he swears he can feel his heartbeat there. “You could get pregnant.”

“I could.”

Richard licks his lips. His mouth feels dry. “Is that something you want?”

“Is it something you want?” you counter.

“It’s not a deal-breaker for me,” he tells you, choosing his words carefully against the thoughts swimming through his head. “You’re my family now no matter what. But I’d…if it happened, I’d be happy.”

You reach out a hand and grasp his erection lightly, but the touch still makes him keen, makes his vision go double for a moment. You lead him to you, and he goes willingly, the condom long forgotten.

“So let’s just try it and see what happens,” you whisper, and Richard is powerless to resist. He wants you so badly, but the sudden thoughts—being inside you with nothing separating him from you, spilling inside of you…the possibility of it taking hold, of his child, yours and his, growing inside you…

The thought must affect you the same. You are so wet already, so slick and ready for him that when he slots himself between your spread thighs, when he nudges against your folds with the tip of his erection, he finds it so easy to slip inside of you.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. Joined to you, bare, the silky warmth of you that he’s only felt through latex before. Every delicious flutter and pulsing against him. The way your arousal coats him.

You must feel the same way. You moan underneath him, your eyes flutte at what you’re feeling. “Oh, Richard,” you whisper, already ragged and half-way gone. “You feel so warm. I’ve never…never knew it’d be like this.”

Richard is always gentle in bed, but some feral, primal part of him takes hold. He’s still gentle, but he deals you firmer thrusts—slow and deep, burying himself to the hilt in your molten depths. As deep as he can, to give the best chance…

“I can picture you,” he pants against the side of your neck. “Your belly growing round with my baby. Our baby.”

You groan at his words, and he feels the warm wash of your arousal pulsing around him. You’re enjoying his words.

“Tell me more,” you beg. “Please, Rich—”

He’s never been very good at dirty talk. He never wants to call you mean words, even in the bedroom, but this is different. This is primal, it’s animalistic, but it’s still loving. It’s still the two of you creating a potential life….

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he says, and his voice takes on a deep growl he never thought possible. It hardly sounds like his voice at all, but you lift your hips to meet his thrusts when that voice appears. “Gonna b-breed you, mi amor. Fill you up over and over until it takes, until it takes hold and you are pregnant with my baby—”

“Might not work the first time,” you breathe out.

Richard shakes his head, nips at the side of your neck. “Doesn’t matter. I’m gonna keep you in this bed, keep you full of my cum until you’re swollen and round—”

His words are cut off by your orgasm, sudden and fierce with no warning. He thought it was heavenly, making love to you with a condom on, but this is so much more. Romantic but primal, and the connection is so much different with nothing between you. He can feel so much more of your orgasm: the slick arousal that makes it so easy to bury himself in you, the way your core ripples along him, pulls him deeper.

It makes sense, all of a sudden, that way your body pulls him deeper: it has to be some function of pulling his release deeper into you, of giving his seed the best possible chance of taking root…

The realization makes him come too, just as sudden. He doesn’t feel the usual signs; it’s as if his orgasm roars to life out of nowhere. One minute, he’s lost in the feeling of you, and the next minute, his own pleasure breaks around him, sharp and hot as he spills deep inside of you.

-----

Afterwards, when he pulls out and his release trickles out of you (and you give a little grumble at the sensation and the mess), he helps you clean up. He asks, half-seriously, if you want to tuck a pillow under your hips, but you laugh and tell him that’s just a thing people do on TV and it doesn’t really help, from what you’ve been told.

Afterwards, it’s so much better. He feels so much closer to you. A cliché, maybe, but he feels like you’re joined as one, even if you aren’t married quite yet. It isn’t just the lack of condom or the addition of the engagement ring on your finger. It’s just that these moments—like all moments with you, the intimate ones and the mundane ones alike—make Richard more and more certain that you’re his soulmate. And that he’s yours.

The two of you are curled up against each other, still naked. Richard realizes that not all of his release trickled out of you, that he’s marked you, and that makes him twitch at the thought, but he wills himself to behave.

“You know it probably won’t take,” you tell him after a while. “I think the timing is off.”

“I know.” He kisses your forehead and smiles against your head.

“Still fun to try.”

Richard hums in agreement.

“But it might not happen at all. Ever, I mean. My mom struggled, and I heard that my cousin—”

Richard shushes you, kisses you again, this time on your mouth, halting your words.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he replies, and now he’s staring at you, serious and cupping your face so you understand him.

“You’re my family,” he tells you again. “Me and you, that’s all the family I need.”

You smile at him. “I feel the same. I just wanted to warn you—”

“No.” He shakes his head, cuts you off again. “No warning. You’re my girl. You’re all I need. If we don’t have a baby, you are still all I need.”

Your smile turns tremulous at the corners of your mouth, and he knows you’re fighting tears again. “You’re all I need too, Richard.”

He pulls you to him, kisses you softly. “If it happens, it happens. And I’ll be happy because it would be half of each of us.”

“Half of each of us,” you reply. “I do like the sounds of that.”

#tropes-and-tales #tppkinktober2022 #richard alonso muñoz x reader #richard alonso munoz x reader #richard munoz #richard alonso munoz #richard alonso munoz imagine #The Letter Room

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

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Somebody to love (PART 2/2): (Richard Alonso Muñoz x fem!reader)

Summary: PART ONE IS HERE. Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE, THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Tags: (will add tomorrow)

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY): swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/ consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

The date has been flawless. The best date you’ve had.

Richard is amazing to talk to and appealing to look at. He makes you feel safe and secure, yet also ignited and pleasantly destabilised. His laugh is music. His smile is sunshine. He is at times serious and in other moments delightfully playful. His gentle, quiet nature suckers you in to him, and once you are in the circumference of his warmth, you simply don’t want to leave.

You want to treat this special man to all the love he deserves.

You reflect, as you walk together towards your street, hand-in-hand, that it feels as though you’ve known him for years - and, of course, you have. You simply hadn’t been paying adequate attention. It is evident that Richard has, however. That he already knows you and understands you better than you could have imagined.

So, now, as you step up on to your porch, Richard stands a couple of steps below you, his cola-coloured eyes big and gentle and sparkling as he looks up at you. You loop your arms so that they rest on his shoulders, your fingers dipping into the glorious manicured curls at the nape of his neck. You had hoped that Richard might respond by winding his arms around your waist -or perhaps gripping your hips or your ass, to be quite honest- but instead, he stands there, taut with nerves, and yet his arms hung limply by his sides.

He seems so responsive; so receptive to every small touch you give him, the man humming lightly as you stroke his soft skin, and yet, he hasn’t returned the favour. You wish he would touch you, but, in resignation, you smile softly, guessing that if Richard won’t take the initiative, you will simply have to. After all, you’ve been desperate to kiss the man all evening. So, with a gentle smile and a search of his eyes, you shift one hand to cup his shapely chin, tipping his face up towards you.

“I want to kiss you, Richard. Is that okay with you?”

Keenly, he lets out a half-strangled affirmation, the weight of his plea creasing the space between his brows. “Please.”

And so, you pick up his unsure arms and you guide them around your waist, until his hands tentatively settle, polite but also firm and broad and warm around you, and you rehoop your arms around his neck, readying to move in for the kill.

Dipping your head down, you inch yourself closer and closer towards Richard’s lips, and you wonder if his heart is hammering the way yours is. You take in the beautiful sight of his eyes fanning closed and chin tilting up eagerly towards you, before your own eyes follow suit, your noses bumping awkwardly as you tilt around each other. The first sensation you feel is his moustache, the thick brush of it tickling your lips and causing you to faintly moan as you feel this small indication of his closeness. This breathy, broken sound from you causes Richard’s hands to tighten around your waist, finally, and with either a surge of bravery or a collapsing of his resolve -perhaps both- it is he who closes the remaining distance, his warm lips keenly meeting yours.

At first, it is a chaste, closed-lipped kiss that, even so, makes your legs tremble almost immediately. His soft lips are so moreish that when you break from him, leaning your forehead against Richard’s -both your chests heaving and your breaths practically one- you immediately sink back again to his lips, needing to taste him again.

You smile into the kiss as you become accustomed to the sensation of that glorious moustache, scraping lightly against your upper lip and cheek and nose, and you feel desire sink all the way through the pit of you like a stone as Richard’s tongue delves gently into your mouth. This surge of his kiss is like nothing you have felt before, and whilst Richard may seem timid, and while his ministrations may be gentle and slow, you could swear you have never felt a more assured tongue in your life.

“Do you want to come inside?” you ask urgently, your voice a broken, breathy thing, the air for your words ripped from his lips.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to, very much,” Richard answers just as quickly, his eyes dancing with a delicious brewing heat as you take his hand and lead him into your home.

Your lips find him again as shoes and jackets are shrugged off, strewn haphazardly in the hallway, his kisses slow-moving and deliciously sweet, sending a cloying desire like warmed syrup sinking to the pit of you. Your stomach flips each time you feel his tongue against yours, as though your core intends to mirror the languid circling of his tongue, and suddenly you are already throbbing there, thinking of where these burgeoning kisses might be leading.

“You’re so beautiful,” Richard breathes, sinking on to your lips again, and your legs weakening beneath you.

You lead Richard deeper inside your home, and you vaguely consider your options, but with this hazy, hungry heat all around you, dragging him to your bedroom by the hand seems like the only viable course of action.

“Do you... want to come to my bed with me?” you ask, voice levelled with need and stomach buzzing with the pleasant thrum of nerves.

He answers affirmatively and you waste no time, until you are both seated on the edge of your bed, continuing your slow, sensual make-out session, bodies twisted towards each other. Richard kisses you deeply, opening your mouth up to him, until he breaks from you with a wracked groan, squirming with slight discomfort and apology as he adjusts himself, to better accommodate the growing bulge between his legs.

When he spreads his denim-clad thighs, like that, they look so sturdy and appealing that you want to climb him. Want to straddle his lap and writhe your heat right over his tenting arousal.

Still, you hesitate. He’s eager, you know that much; and God, so are you. However, he still seems nervous about reaching out to you or taking the lead. His hands never stray far from zones he may consider more polite or more comfortable, despite the fact he has happily allowed your hand to inch up and up his clothed thigh and towards that tenting crotch of his, his pretty, wracked moans spurring you on.

So, as he breaks from you, momentarily, you pull back to search his eyes.

“Would you… Would you like to touch me, Richard?” you suspire, wanting to progress this further, but only if he’s comfortable.

As you regard him, you note that you have never seen a man look quite so dishevelled with need - both literally and figuratively. Your hands have upset his perfectly fixed curls, mussed tendrils now draping over his forehead. His kiss-plumped lips are parted to accommodate his now ragged breaths, and he looks almost forlorn - pained with it, as though he might end if he isn’t kissing you again within moments. “Yes. Please.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” he responds, brow furrowed with weighty desire and eyes searching yours.

The tone with which he responds to you, sunken with need, has a hard swallow trailing down your throat. An immediate and impossible ache building between your legs.

“How about… here?”, you say tentatively, gingerly taking his hand, and moving it beneath the fabric of your dress until his warm fingers meet the bare flesh of your thighs. His thumb instantly sinks in to knead you as he works his hand up further, inching towards your core, exactly where you need him.

“God, you’re so soft. You feel so good.”

“C-can I touch you?” you ask, as he inches higher, and it comes out as a plea. You need to. Need to touch him. Everywhere. You need to feel him under your hand - feel him all over you. On you. Against you. Buried in you. Fuck, you need him.

With your question though, Richard’s hungry eyes are momentarily clouded by apprehension, and so, you take a moment to rein in your snowballing desire; to properly check-in with him.

“Let’s talk for a minute. Can I do anything to make you feel more comfortable?” your voice soft and soothing, your hand smoothing over his thigh.

Richard flutters his eyelashes and looks down at his lap, withdrawing his hand from under your dress. Your skin shivers, instantly cold with the loss of him. He nods, slowly, soberly, his face set and moustache downturned. Then, when his words come, his voice is small and sad. “I asked my buddy at work for advice. Said I had a date with someone out of my league. Somebody so perfect, and that I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Your eyebrows knit together. You shake your head in disbelief. Your one single desire now, is to set his misapprehension to rest. “Fuck that. I’m not out of your league, Richard. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect.” You cup his cheek again, planting a kiss on that now familiar spot, right on the tip of his cheekbone, a spot perfectly contoured to your lips.

His eyes flick back up to yours, shining with gratitude, but he still looks unsure.

“Perfect,” you repeat, dipping to press a kiss to his opposite cheek. “Gorgeous.” To the tip of his nose. “Sexy.” To the corner of his lips. “Handsome.” To the column of his neck. Meanwhile, smoothing your hand over his thigh and arm and chest, keeping your desire stoked but mainly aiming to offer him comfort, and to bolster his wavering confidence.

A smile claims Richards eyes, at least, if not his lips, and he brings his hand to your face, caressing you gently in gratitude. You pull up to search his eyes and his expression says it all.

You are beautiful.

And, despite his nervousness, his timidness, when Richard next speaks, there is no hint of self-consciousness in his voice. Not an ounce, his kind eyes backlit with lust. With that now familiar, gentle, nuanced heat. “He said… Said that I should eat you out like a man starved.”

To your credit, you try to speak. You really do, your mouth opening and closing again wordlessly, but all of a sudden, you have lost language. You can barely breathe. Can barely form a coherent thought. Barely an incoherent one. Barely a -

“Would you like it? If I did that, bonita?”

You whimper. You actually whimper, as he sits there, coolly holding your face in his broad palm, caressing you with the pad of his thumb. Behaving as though he’s an innocent thing and yet making you feel like this.

“I would not be. Opposed to. That,” you muddle out, barely, your voice trembling with need. An insistent pulse between your legs, causing you to press them tightly up against one another, just for a morsel of relief. “But… you. Ohhh.” His thumb brushes over your cheek. Towards your mouth. “Y-you don’t have to. Um.” Skims your lower lip. “Ahhh. Do. Anything you. Uh. Don’t want. To.” The pad of his thumb pushes inside, just deep enough for the tip of your tongue to meet it as he grazes over you. “Uhhh.”

Richard nods in understanding, and when your tongue fleets out to taste the tip of him, his eyes darken deliciously, pupils lust-blown.

You, meanwhile, are vapour. Your breath is ragged. Your arousal is soaking through your dress. You can feel it. Feel your own slick, a mess on your thighs.

And yet, you can tell there is more he wants to say, so you encourage him to go on. “Richard?” you plead.

“I... I want it to be perfect for you. You’re so perfect. But I...” his moustache twitches as he sucks his own lips between his teeth. His hands drop dejectedly into his lap, and he can’t meet your eyes, fixing his gaze on a spot of carpet. “I want to. So much. I‘m aching for you.”

Then what? You search his beautiful big eyes, reaching up to gently tuck a cute, hanging strand of curls away from his eyes and urging him to go on.

He reaches behind his head, to self-consciously stroke the nape of his neck. “The last woman I was with... It wasn’t... She didn’t like the moustache. And she... she said I was... too big.”

Fuck.

Your hand drops from his face into your lap, and your jaw slackens in shock as you let his words sink in. Meanwhile, his face becomes tinged again with that undertone of crimson you’re becoming rather familiar with.

Too big?

“Fuck, Richard,” you breathe -or, rather, can barely breathe- as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes, nervously, humbly awaiting your reaction. He really has no idea what he’s doing to you, does he? How perfect he is? You can feel the heavy pulse of desire throbbing between your legs once more - even more so now. A slow-crawling heat under your skin.

Can he really be so... endowed?

Can he really be so shy and so hot at the same time? (Yes, apparently, he can.)

You gulp. You take in a breath to speak and then literally say nothing. You consider, so help you, burying your face in the mattress and silently screaming. But, somehow, you hold it together.

“That’s. Wow. Well, we can definitely figure that out. Together, Richard. Can work around… That,” you reassure, your blood rushing in your ears, your hand slowly trailing back up his thigh. “Will you… will you let me take care of you?”

Looking reassured, he nods. He smiles softly. His eyes ardent as he looks at you.

You reinstate your hand on to his sturdy thigh, and you begin your slow, languorous crawl up towards his crotch, following the seam of his pants like a trailing spark along a fuse line. As you inch further, his eyes flutter shut and he groans when you reach the junction of his legs, lightly ghosting your fingers along his straining zipper.

“Can I... see?” you purr. “Are you hard for me, sweet man? Can I take you out of your pants?”

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes. Please.”

You proceed when Richard eagerly shifts position for you, parting his thighs for you and leaning back on his hands so that you’re able to unbuckle his belt, and to slowly release his zipper.

You’re playing really well at having any shred of self-control left, for his sake, but in reality, you’re a trembling, wet mess, overtaken by a furious, barrelling need. You simply can’t take this. Shit, you wonder if you will actually, very literally, be able to take this. Take him. Still, you certainly don’t want to stop, and so, with Richard’s cooperation you tug his jeans and his boxers down on his hips, and, biting down on your lip, you release his proud length.

“Fuck,” you say, almost inaudibly as you drink the sight of him in.

He wasn’t exaggerating. He is big. He’s long, but perhaps not the longest you’ve ever had – a fact you are honestly thankful for. He certainly is thick too – especially thick, his contoured head ruddy and gleaming for you. Launched on an urgent breath, you ask if you can touch him, and when he encourages you, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, his length warm and heavy in your hand. He fills the circumference of you in such a pleasing way, hard and velvety and thickly veined. He eagerly strains against you; engorging even further against your touch.

“What do you think?” he asks shyly, intently watching your fingers tease and skim and squeeze him. “Can you work with this?”

“You’re perfect. Fuck, Richard. This is the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean it?” he asks, modest as ever.

“Every inch of you is perfect, sweet man.” You want to prove it to him. And you know exactly how. “D-do you… Do you want to feel how wet you’ve made me? How much I want you, Richard?”

“Please,” he begs hoarsely, his voice quaking, desire knotting his brows, and, you stretch out on the bed beside his already half-reclined form, the mattress dipping beneath you. Eagerly, you return his hand to your thigh, where his girthy fingers resume their slow path towards your core. This time though, Richard doesn’t stop. Positioning himself, propped on one elbow, he turns on to his side, his other hand travelling under your dress - inching, achingly slow, all the way up your thigh. He traces a warm, steady, torturously slow pressure along your clothed slit, over your aching nub, until he reaches the top hem of your panties -silly, silky little things- and then, he pushes the elastic hem aside, dipping his two, thick middle fingers down into your folds, gliding effortlessly through your slick until he curls towards your entrance.

You shudder from his touch, submitting an open-mouthed moan to him already as he skims through your wetness, his half-bared cock twitching against his soft, rounded stomach in response to the feel of you. The sound of you.

He pulses and swirls his fingers up and down over your heat, simply gathering and playing with your arousal, and you can imagine what he is feeling beneath his fingers. You can hear your own wetness, your sweet nectar aiming to sucker him in.

It works.

“Please. Can I taste you?” he asks, in that wrecked voice again- the one which ends you.

Your eyes traverse him, hungrily. His mouth tipped open, needy breaths circling beneath that flourishing facial hair. His forearm exposed and veins popping as he works his fingers against you. His cock. Fuck. His delicious cock looks so hard and ruddy, the head of him practically crimson -fit to burst already- and the man must need some relief, and yet all he can think of is sinking his mouth to you? Not that you’re complaining, mind you.

What most gets you though – still – are his eyes. Those gentle, heat-infused, heavy-lidded, lust-laden, adoring, cola-coloured eyes.

Still, you throw your head back, as his fingertips continue to haphazardly explore your folds, your hips bucking and writhing readily, messily against his fingers. “You… ohhhh. You don’t have to do what your buddy said, you know? Only if you want.”

“I want to. I want to taste you, please. Hermosa. Please.”

Fuck, those beautiful brown eyes.

You never imagined you would end the evening with this handsome man begging to eat you out, and you don’t have it in you to resist, not even for a moment. Instead, you nod eagerly, scrambling to spread your thighs for him and hitching your dress up over your hips, opening for him with slick and eager hinges. Richard’s exposed member gleams for you, peeking out from his jeans, and each item of his clothing now looks like it is an impediment; however, he wastes no time on that. Instead, he simply begins a slow, deliberate peel of your panties down to your ankles, and, as you expel a string of affirmatives and pleas into the air, he sinks his face towards your heat.

You weren’t ready for it. You weren’t ready for the feel of his supple, eager tongue writhing against you, nor the feel of his lips engulfing you, his moustache scraping your sensitive skin ever so slightly as he munches over your clit. You weren’t wrong either - he is definitely, unequivocally not afraid to make a mess of himself. At all. In fact, you wonder if he has forgotten this is for you, as he truly does seem intent on tasting you, drinking from you as though he’s slurping on a milkshake, or relishing a cherry sucker. You think he might drink you dry. Or, you would think so, except you are getting wetter, as his assured, quietly confident tongue laps and probes and licks at everywhere it counts.

“Unnng. Dulce. Como duraznos en almíbar,” he praises into your heat.

Sweet. Like peaches in syrup.

You mewl for him. You writhe yourself desperately, embarrassingly, but this man moans eagerly into your heat as if he’s gaining as much pleasure from this as you are. That can’t possibly be true, however. It can’t be true because you are positively alight with ecstasy. You are experiencing such an abundance of it that you can scarce handle it, pleasure both balling and knotting tightly at your centre, and zipping out to every extremity. Your body bows and bucks under the weight of it and at the same time soars, weightless, to another plane.

When you think you couldn’t possibly take any more, Richard’s thumb begins a slow circle of your entrance, tracing around you. Dipping in to you. When his thumb slips in to fully puncture your heat, your juices spill over him, like you truly are a ruined peach, your fists clenching wildly in the sheets. You are his fruit. His ruined, ravaged fruit, existing and perishing only on his tongue. Coming to life and ending when he tastes you.

“Fuck, Richard!” you exclaim, as your peak threatens to overtake you so soon, and you worry that the sound was too weak for him to hear it; however, the man is apparently attentive as ever, even when he’s lost in between your thighs. He stops immediately, lifting his pretty eyes to yours, running his hands up and down along your quivering legs, trailing his fingers reverently over your mound and your patch of hair.

“You’re shaking, bonita,” he says, sounding awed.

“F-feels too good. But I want you inside me. I need you. Please. Will you – W-will you undress and lie down for me?”

It’s all you want. He is all you want. And you can’t explain why, but when you do fall apart for him, you need it to be together. Perhaps, so that when you unravel, you can bind yourself to him. You will tie those knots so tightly, you think, that they will not come undone.

In response to your request, Richard looks positively wrecked with need -and still a little nervous- but he obliges you, and your eyes keenly watch him as he slowly relinquishes his clothes. First his lower half, jeans kicked off to the floor. Then his shirt. He hesitates, when it comes to his white undervest. He looks so appealing in it that you wouldn’t mind if he kept it on; and yet, you are endlessly pleased when he peels it over his head, revealing his smooth chest and stomach and arms to you, your hungry eyes wandering over his form.

“Mmm. Gorgeous man,” you praise, rolling onto all fours with a surging, tidal wave of desire, trailing kisses and skimming your hot, wet mouth all the way down his bared torso as he kneels on the bed. He tastes faintly of sweat; salt on your tongue.

“Tell me what you want, Richard.”

“I… I need to feel your skin. Feel all of you,” he pleads hoarsely, and so, you follow his lead, tugging your dress over your head, and, with a ravenous, seductive stare, slowly releasing yourself from your bra. Richard’s jaw actually goes slack as he takes in the sight of all of you, entirely bared for him, the word “wow” gently suspiring from the pillow of his lips.

You smile as you guide him on to his back, and, tucking your body into his side, propped on one elbow, your hand smooths over his chest as you kiss him deeply. You taste yourself on him, a sweet, heady musk lingering on his moustache; and then, your hand traverses his chest and soft stomach, inching closer to where you crave. His body shivers under your hand as your fingertips stroke him at a spot where he’s evidently a little ticklish. He half-giggles, but the sound transforms quickly into a stuttered moan as your reach his arousal, a single finger circling the head of him.

Your fingers have barely so much as grazed him there and his cock is twitching, his hips bucking in search of your hand and his shapely chin tilted up towards the sky.

“Fuck. Are you sensitive there, baby?” you purr, and, as your fingers curl gently around him again, he nods vigorously – desperately- his expression almost tortured and his arms pinned by his sides.

“Yes, Ma’am. It feels so good when you touch me. Please. Please don’t stop.”

He shivers again -in a whole new way- as your thumb swirls, gingerly, spreading the glistening pearl of precum around the head of him.

You believe the man – that you make him feel good. He expels a breathy, gasping moan, or a tortured half-chuckle every time you so much as brush him. His might even be the most sensitive cock you’ve had, you think, and you watch, enraptured, as his pleasure plays out over his face, his hands fisting into the sheets at his sides as his body writhes for you. Still, you want more. You are greedy for him. Want to feel him everywhere.

“Can I take you in my mouth, Richard?”

“Do you want to?” he asks, and you nod, slinking cat-like down the bed, until you are in position, your mouth settling over his cock.

“You look delicious,” you purr, and when he pleads with you, you dip your head, your tongue laving out to encircle him in a wet, writhing embrace. He’s moreish here too, and so, you sink your lips down around his straining mass. He’s big, and he stretches your capabilities. You can’t even take all of him right away, but you give it your best effort as he moans beneath you.

“Unngg. No-one has ever fit so much,” he praises in disbelief as you take him deeper, humming around him, your head bobbing languorously over his shaft. Richard bucks his hips up ever so gently into your mouth - very careful not to drive into you further than you can take him. His hands come to rest tenderly on your head too, and his fingers smooth so delicately over your hair - reverently even. He doesn’t make any move to grab you to push you down on him- even if you might like that, or he might like that, at a later stage. Right now, you are more than content with this rare, unparalleled gentleness. This delicate, tender joy.

With relish, you continue. He makes such pretty sounds when you have him under your tongue, and yet, for how sensitive he is you are certainly impressed with his stamina. After a particularly deep bob down on to him, you surge off his length, using your hand to rub your slick into him as you look up at him, finding you have him transfixed.

“Need you inside of me, Richard. Can I get on top of you?”

This ache between your legs is becoming untenable.

“Unngg. Want to be inside of you so badly, bonita. Are you ready for me?”

Indicating your readiness, you shift yourself to straddle his hips, your core practically dripping over him as you settle your arousal over his. You writhe him along your folds, coating him in your juices, before rising up on your knees. You have to rise a little higher than you’re used to, to reach the tip of him, and eagerly you settle the blunt pressure of his ruddy, gleaming head at your entrance. You can barely steady yourself in position as your thighs and core tremble for him, in mere anticipation of him filling you. You are grateful when Richard’s hands come to lightly grip the meat of your hips -steadying you, supporting you a little- thumbs caressing your soft spots.

You tug in a breath as you prepare to spear yourself on him, the air faltering in your lungs as you pause where you are, just for a moment, Richard looking up adoringly from under you.

“Soñé contigo por tanto tiempo,” Richard whispers, barely audible. I have dreamed of you for so long. You’re not sure whether it is his sincere, heartfelt words igniting this pleasure within you or the slow inch and drag of your wet heat down his thick, veined shaft. Likely both, but either way, you know you want more.

“Uhhh. Slow. Slow, bonita,” he groans, as you begin to sink all the way down on him, his steady hands guiding you, now cupping your ass, staccato breaths escaping his parted lips as you engulf him. You take him, slowly, gradually, feeling him inch by inch as his girth and his length stretch you open. As you take him to his base, all the way, the full weight of you settling on his hips, Richard’s eyes practically roll back into his head. “God, it feels so good inside you. Can you take me like this?”

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip and you nod, stilling as you adjust to his size. He’s a lot, but it’s a pleasant kind of pressure as he strains against your walls and all your sweet spots. “Can you… take a little bit more, hermosa?” Fuck, how does he have even more to give?

“Say stop if it’s too much,” Richard pleads. “Promise?” When you nod, Richard slowly plants his hands on your hips and pulls you down on to him, just a little, as he bucks his hips up, ever so gently. You cry out, your face contorting in disbelief and your head arcing to the sky as Richard fills you to your limit. Meanwhile, Richard is studying your face with gentle concern, feeling it out, checking you are comfortable, letting you slowly reconfigure your insides to the shape of his girth and length. He’d never hurt you. He’d simply never.

And, even though he has filled you all the way up, it feels so good.

Richard stills under you, until you are ready. His fingers trail tenderly over your thighs and belly and breasts. Over the mound of you. Your legs are shaking, folded and clamped down around his hips, and you’re not sure that your weakened limbs have the strength to allow you to rise on his length. But damn it, you will give it a valiant try.

“I need to move,” you beg, even though you are in the position of control, and Richard looks up at you with big pretty eyes, and God, he’s buried in you that you can feel him all the way in your guts. You gasp, whimper, as, gingerly, you rise up, feeling the fullness and drag of him against your walls as you start working and undulating against him, feeling out all the angles which feel best and…

Fuck there are no bad angles.

As you melt, become molten, Richard is your stiffness and he gives form to your boneless, bodiless flesh. You are full, all the way up. You are so full and it could feel urgent and dirty, having his cock deep in you like this, but it… doesn’t. It feels… Fuck. It just feels…. right. You can only describe it as a caress, as he comes to be held safely and tightly inside you, and you begin to move slowly, wanting -somehow- to imbue each drag of him over your walls with the care and affection you feel for him. The adoration you feel so deeply; as deeply as he’s buried in you. Deeper.

“Richard,” you plead, and you hinge forward at the hips, until your chest sinks down to his, your lips on to his lips, and as you undulate on his body you cling to him. Bury your face and your tongue and your hopes and your dreams in him, as though, if you plant them deep enough you can take root and call him home. As if you are a fruit and you need his ground to grow.

In turn, he holds you, arms wrapped around you, fingers caressing your back, moustache scraping against your cheek, your lips, your neck as speaks honey into your skin, nourishing you with sweet, wholesome praises. And, when he’s content that you can take him, when you’ve shown him how you can, Richard starts moving too, working in tandem with you as your bodies roll and heave together.

You show him not only that you can, but how much you enjoy taking him. There are sounds of pulverised fruit, leaking over him, his cock pushing your juices out of you, as though there is no room inside you for anything else but him. And, as your tightness surrounds him, his arms surrounding you in turn, he bestows you with simple yet jewelled praises, calling you all the beautiful names under the sun in both of his tongues.

It’s sweet, and it’s slow, and you both embody tenderness, all caressing fingers and lips and sugary, grateful noises. Clutching hands and arms, drawing the other closer, deeper into this tangle. As he stokes you, you can barely stand these sensations. You can barely comprehend something so pure and so perfect.

He glides into you now, your slick everywhere, your sex increasingly loud and obscene as his beautiful cock is suckered into your wet, liquid heat. As you quicken your pace, Richard’s mouth settles over your shoulder, teeth lightly gripping your flesh as he stifles a moan into your skin. Then, his breaths are billowing gusts fanning over you, and you can guess that he is trying to bring his approaching release under control.

By this stage, you are overwhelmed, your legs spent and tremoring, and you can barely rise and sink on his length anymore for shaking. You have become weak for him, practically liquid from this slow, torturous build. You need Richard to be your stiffness and your joints. You need to be a fluid thing beneath him, or else, you think, you will perish.

“Lie down for me, bonita?” Richard whispers sweetly, so attuned to you, and, seeing, as you flounder with need, your full weight almost limp on top of him, that a change of position is in order.

He draws out of you with a shudder and rolls you, carefully, his own body following and chasing yours. Richard’s weight settles pleasantly on top of you this time, and, as you fumble into position you spread your legs for him, wrapping your thighs and arms tightly around him. You hold him close to you, your hands cradling his head, fumbling through his grizzled curls, now mussed wild tendrils falling around his face. Then, ever so gently, dipping to kiss you sweetly with that assured tongue, Richard re-sheaths himself, sliding easily inside you now with a divine caress of skin. He feels overwhelmingly good. He feels like heaven reaching inside you to kiss your soul and you pray out loud, your moans greeting his kiss.

The angle and the pressure like this is something else, the press of Richard’s soft stomach and hips and the driving of his cock pushing you pleasantly down into the mattress, your body given a little bounce from the springs which helps you set a perfect rhythm together. You are moments away from unravelling, already, as Richard pistons in and out of you, over and over, a glorious pressure building as you are wrapped up safely in the warmth and scent and sound of your sweet, perfect man. You are lost in the feel of him, both of you clammy and breathy and sheening with sweat as you writhe and combine; and fuck, you want to unravel. You need to.

You want to unravel so you can bind yourself to him with more than this ephemeral tangle of limbs. You want to get lost in him, in a way that makes you feel found.

“I’m going to lose it for you, Richard. It feels too good. I... can’t take it. I… It’s too much. I’m… Harder. Deeper. Please.”

Richard is spurred on by your praises, his pace becoming quickened, his thrusts slightly harder. He sinks into you with vigour, though not with any need to dominate or take from you, you think. Simply as an expression of the overwhelming need to be closer. Deeper. More held by you. To hold you in return. It’s not close enough, even as you hold him tightly in your arms. You are so greedy for him that you don’t think you could ever get enough, even as it’s all too much.

You moan. You moan like a sob. Like a plea. Like a prayer. And he shushes you. Soothes you. He shushes you while he’s buried so deep in you -burying himself so deep in you- that you are fucked wide open. There’s something so pure and yet so wicked about the contradiction of his gentleness and this huge, undeniable force in your centre. You feel that he has crawled so deep up in you that he can never leave; and you want it that way.

“Can you take a little more, hermosa?

Fuck. No. Can you? But, yes. Please, yes. God yes.

“Yes. Please, Richard. Give me everything. I want all of you inside me. Need you.”

He thrusts his hips forward. He’s been holding out on you.

“Ohhhh, just like that,” you plead, voice ragged and your moans escalating, both your bodies slick with sweat now as you tangle together. “Right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, Richard! I need. Unnggg. Fuck. Need you deep inside me, just like that. Please don’t stop. Don’t stop!” You plead desperately with him -as if you even need to bargain- your teeth clamping down on your bottom lip and your hands reaching for him, tugging him closer to you as he drives his length into you over and over, pressing you harder into the mattress as you sucker him into your tightness.

His lips sink to the column of your neck, that moustache grazing you there, his own rich sounds of pleasure reverberating against your skin, his voice humming so close it sinks into your bones.

“N-never want to stop,” he gushes hoarsely into your skin. “Always want to be inside you- feel you wrapped around me, preciosa.”

His words are sincere. Earnest. And, with his words, and the repeated drag of his perfect cock, and his warmth enveloping you, you finally cry out, omitting a wracked, disbelieving moan as your pleasure pulses through you; toes curling, head thrown back, body jerking and spasming beneath him. This is an orgasm which keeps on giving, deep and strong; waves of bliss rolling through you whole body. A star bursting out from your centre. A flood. Quite literally a flood, intense and urgent and everywhere, and you look down at yourself. This is something else. Something more. A bigger heaven. You hear a new sound even, and you look down, realising that Richard’s cock has you squirting all over him, your release gushing and sloshing wet between your bodies as he continues to thrust into you, coaxing you through your peak and deepening your earth-shaking orgasm with every single movement.

“Ohhhh fuck... Richard-” you cry out, in what can only be described as awe, almost sobbing with ecstasy, your legs violently twitching and trembling as they wrap more tightly around him “-no-one’s ever made me do that before!”

Despite his gentleness, his control, this flood seems to overcome Richard too, and his thrusts become sloppy, as though he can barely stave off his release long enough to keep going, his body going near limp over you for a moment. You even swear he gets harder and bigger and deeper -if that was even possible- when he realises exactly what he made you do. When he realises that you soaked him. Flooded him. Your liquid and your juices shining on his stomach and coursing down his sturdy thighs.

You worry for a moment- you wonder whether he minds or if he likes it, as your release coats his skin and the tangle of sheets, but you needn’t worry for anything more than a moment. In response to your deluge, Richard looks at you as though you are a divine being, and, if you thought he seemed dishevelled with need earlier, this is something else. He’s undeniably into it. Indeed, as he takes in the sight of you below him, bared and writhing in ecstasy amidst a tangle of wet sheets, he stutters moans into the air, his thrusts become more determined, his cock pumping into you with refreshed vigour.

“N- never done that b-before?”

“No, Richard. Fuck. You made me-”

“-I’m going to make you do it again,” he purrs, and it is not a command at all. He never loses his characteristic gentleness. It is half a plea and half a promise, his sincere as ever. “Do it for me again, Bonita,” he coaxes, and he sounds thoroughly levelled by you. He sounds like he can’t get enough of you.

Fuck. You don’t know if you can...

“You can do it, baby. Please. Soak me again.”

You don’t think you can, until Richard is talking to you like that, with profuse, sugared pleas, and until he is hitting you exactly where you need, how you need, all over again.

You practically scream with it, weep with it, curse with it, sending a hoarse, high-pitched crescendo into the air, the keen punctuated by quickened, spent grunts Richard expels into the air with each deep, thick, purposeful thrust into you. You don’t think you’ve ever felt a more assured cock.

You don’t think you can, until-

When you gush over him a second time you are more prepared for it. Prepared enough to watch as you spill over him. Prepared enough to catch the positively awed, sunken expression which spreads over Richard’s face. To appreciate the sound of your release squirting over him and sloshing, wet in-between your bodies, liquid slapping against the roundness of his soft stomach as he thrusts into you faster; more urgently. This time -how can he help it- Richard comes undone with you; and, suddenly it seems everything is liquid, like a flood.

You can feel him fill you up, can feel his hot seed pulsing all the way from the base of him and coating your walls with thick ropes of cum as his hips stutter, burying his length into your heat as deep as he can go. He goes practically limp on top of you, hips collapsing into yours, and you feel him filling you -once again- to your limit, as the motion drives him just a little deeper, just a little closer. Meanwhile, you twitch and shudder and writhe and clench through your aftershocks with Richard still balls deep inside of you, barely able to comprehend the new heights of pleasure you have reached together. Awed, by the way your bodies are speaking like they’ve known each other for years too - despite that this is their first encounter.

There’s this wetness. This wetness everywhere; inside you, on you, under you, and for several moments you feel you too could be liquid, melting and pooling and coursing from the bed. Becoming vapour and evaporating from his hot, sweat-slickened skin. You might, if it wasn’t for Richard - his weight settled on top of you in a pleasing crush. His head settling in the crook of your neck, his length still inside you, his tongue laving to bury itself in your mouth too in a desperate, haphazard motion. He means to bury himself in all ways he can, you think, and you let him. You let him become your stone heart, as you are nothing but boneless, bodiless flesh; an oiled thing beneath him like pulverised, spent fruit - all your juices squeezed out.

You coil your limbs fluidly around him, and you engulf his sturdy form with your softness, holding him at the centre of you. Still buried -softening too- in your centre. Held in this intimate circle of your arms. Becoming the centre of your universe.

You bind yourself to him. You become his. His fruit.

Still panting, spent, hot, Richard rolls off you then, his stiffness gone and his body boneless now too, his stomach and his thighs sheening with a concoction of wetness. His smooth, hairless chest slick with sweat. He collapses beside you, but he immediately reaches for your hand and presses his body to your side. Immediately checks that you’re alright, as you truly become corporeal again, flitting down from heaven and into his arms; a conduit of heaven too, you think.

Now, what the… hold up a damn second. What did this sweet man just-

You gush. You gush for him in words now that the old relic of language and (almost) coherent thought has returned to you, your voice still breathy and discombobulated. “Richard. Richard? Richard! Fuck me. That was... I need you to know that was... Fuck. Phenomenal. I’ve never. In my life. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never... Oh my God. I can’t feel my face. Was that... good for you? Was it...? Fuck. Sweet man.”

Richard chuckles fondly at your near-incoherent babble of words, drawing you into his chest and cradling you like you are a precious thing – the most precious thing.

“It was perfect,” he whispers, satin soft, through a disbelieving breath, and his words make your heart flutter and your stomach tumble pleasantly. Richard’s soft sounds continue, as he whispers sweet names and gentle praises into your hair, kissing everywhere he can reach to punctuate his words, and smoothing his fingers in nonsense shapes over your skin. Hermosa. Bonita. Preciosa. “Everything was perfect. You’re so perfect. I’ve never... I’ve never had someone take care of me so well, princesa. Thank you.”

You can hear it - the flood of emotion in his voice, and, at his admission, his praises, the rush, tears pool in your eyes. It seems he has yet more water to drain from you as a patter of tears course over the bridge of your nose and settle in the hollow of his chest. However, it is not sadness, but joy, you realise. You are thoroughly overwhelmed by how held you feel. By how happy you feel. However, when your eyes brim over and you sniffle, Richard cranes his head down towards you, pulling you up from him so your eyes can meet his.

He looks momentarily devastated. “What’s wrong? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“No, sweet man. Not at all. It was perfect for me too,” you are quick to reassure, and, as you shuffle on to your stomach, propping yourself up to gaze into his eyes, Richard runs a solitary thumb across your cheek. You ache with the tenderness of his touch. “Just... I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that either,” you admit, and his eyes shine gently at you, misting over with pure, unadulterated adoration. “I’ve never felt so-”

Loved.

Loved, you realise you want to say, but that would be ridiculous, right? This is your first date.

Who said anything about love?

Still, you realise that is the truth of things. That is exactly how he made you feel. Richard was so tender with you, so present, so sensual, so connected. So… right. Had you made him feel this way too? Will he let you take care of him again?

You want to. You so desperately want to. Want to protect him, care for him, laugh with him. Rest your head on the soft pillow of his stomach as he holds you close to him.

He has taken care of you so well, and you don’t want him to stop.

Please. Don’t stop.

Still, as you silently contemplate all of this, Richard simply bundles you firmly into his chest. if you are unable to find the right words, at least he is able to find the gesture. And so, the need to clean up forgotten, the cloying wetness of your skin and the sheets seemingly not bothering him, you languish against him, safe and warm and held.

“Did it feel good?” he asks, after a few moments of comfortable silence. “When you… um…?”

“Squirted all over your cock? Hell yes.” You interject, able to find the words for that at least, filling in the blank for him and laughing gently against his skin. You weren’t able to turn the act into poetry, not yet, your words clumsy and crude, but you didn’t exactly need to. The whole act felt like poetry already. Poetry written on your bones. Etched into your heart.

When he flooded you.

“Maybe you can write about it,” he suggests, and you can hear the cheeky, playful smile dancing on his lips.

“Richard Alonso Muñoz,” you scold, teasingly, your fingers dancing equally playfully over his smooth chest. “Is that what you want me for? You want to be immortalised in poetry? I don’t think you’re as innocent as you let on, are you?”

“I’m not?” he chuckles warmly.

“You read erotic poetry and trashy romance novels… and you fuck like that.”

Make love, like that.

You still cannot move beyond crude words, but in your heart, he makes the words come easily.

“Truthfully, it’s... not always like that,” Richard admits. “It’s… only like that with you.”

Once again, his sincerity has you speechless, and it is all you can do to hold him close to you, as tightly as you can, your eyes squeezing closed and a soft smile tipping your lips. He holds you in return. Holds you in this perfect moment.

“It really did feel good though. It was… I can’t even describe it. My body feels likes a… fucking… limp, wet noodle.”

The laugh he emits at your words is music. “Wet noodle? Aren’t you supposed to be a poet, darling?” Oh, he’s teasing you now? This sweet man is teasing you?

You gasp, mock affronted, and jab him playfully in the stomach with your finger, in the spots you remember he is ticklish. “Rude!” you exclaim, and he jiggles joyously against you. When the laugh dissipates, leaving only smiling, appled cheeks, silence once again enfolds you like a warm, comfortable blanket.

“I was thinking,” he begins softly, after a few moments of laying together. “We could go to the farmer’s market tomorrow. The one with the cider donuts. We could take Lady.”

You can’t answer right away, can’t find the words, and it is all you can do to tug in a slow breath. Your hesitation evidently has Richard worrying again, and he rushes to fill in the blank space with his own insecurities. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice brittle. “I assumed... because I want to, but... but maybe you’re not thinking that you want to see me again...”

You pull back. Urgently moving so that you are face-to-face with him on the pillow, his body following yours on to his side too, like a magnet. You cup his face again, with your tender, open hand. You look him in the eyes. Those sweet, expressive, cola-coloured eyes. Your heart is shining for him, and it feels rubbed until it gleams.

You examine his tentatively hopeful expression. You get the sense that this man falls hard. Falls quickly. He’s in love with love, after all. You, on the other hand, love slow. And so, even as it breaks your heart that you can’t yet say the words aloud, you deflect. “You want to know what I’m thinking, Richard?” He nods. “I’m still thinking about how you turned me into a wet noodle. You should be the smuggest Adonis this side of Midtown - how on earth are you playing that one so cool?”

Richard’s face pinches a little, his gaze dropping from yours, lashes fluttering.

“It was perfect,” he agrees, in a small voice. “But, I guess, I’m not as… surprised as you are.” You shake your head slightly, in mild confusion. Wanting him to elaborate. “I always imagined you would be perfect.” He blinks shyly, and attempts a masking smile. “I don’t know if you thought the same way about me.”

A terrible lump swells in your throat. Your chest tightens.

It’s time to speak. To make your words a little more like poetry.

But it’s scary. It’s hard. You know that now.

“That’s not quite it, sweet man,” you begin. Realisation sinking heavily through you, drawing your brow down with it. Richard searches your face, encouraging you to go on, expression open; pretty eyes big. And, although the words are hard to say, they are easier. The words are easier around him. “Honestly, Richard? I think, you’ve always been perfect. I just didn’t want to realise it. I didn’t want to notice you,” you confess, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Why?” Richard encourages, a knot in his brow now too as he smooths his thumb earnestly over your cheek, breath bated. His touch is like the path of a match against its counterpart box; it is a little thing, which threatens to ignite something far larger.

“I…” you sigh out some of your tension and nerves with a billowing exhale. “I suppose… because I knew. That as soon as I saw you, there would be no going back. I must have known deep-down, that if I saw you, that I… I could love you so quickly.”

Richard swallows. “Is that… not something you want? Love?”

“It didn’t used to be. I… didn’t used to believe I deserved it,” you reveal, tears balling in your eyes as all of your deepest fears and secrets loosen and rattle inside your chest, gradually being shed and needing to find their exit.

“And now, preciosa?” Richard asks, gingerly smoothing a hand over the crown of your head, dipping a moustached kiss to the centre of your forehead. “What do you believe?”

Now? Now, it is different, and a cautious smile slowly claims your lips - even as your cheeks are wet by tears.

“I’m thinking, Richard Alonso Muñoz, that… That nothing would give me greater pleasure than accompanying you to the farmer’s market.”

Your words sound flippant, perhaps insignificant, but you can tell, from the way Richard’s eyes pool with a subtle, brewing joy, that your true meaning is abundantly clear to him. So, in mutual celebration your lips press together in a crush, smile lines radiating across his face. When he pulls back though, a gentle, playful heat seemingly overtakes him. “Are you sure about that, bonita?” he asks in a fond, teasing tone. As his chest shakes in a rich, gleeful chuckle, you perfectly catch his meaning too.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, with a giggle, as he slants his hips forward, pressing his already hardening length against your thigh. “Maybe there is one thing that could give me more pleasure.” You tick-up a suggestive eyebrow. “Want to remind me?”

“Please,” he purrs, just as broken with need as before. “My beautiful, wet little noodle.”

At his ridiculous new pet name -which you only have yourself to blame for, honestly- you squeal brightly, expelling musical peals of laughter into his open-mouth as he surges to kiss you, the act imbued with deep affection. He kisses you until the laughter pleasantly dissipates, your bodies suffusing with a resurgent heat, as you tangle together all over again.

As Richard holds you, every so tenderly, you are overcome. Your loneliness? It has never felt so far away. You hadn’t realised how much you needed somebody to love. You hadn’t realised that someone was him. You hadn’t wanted to admit it. But, oh, you are realising it now. And, you are never going to forget it.

“Kiss me again,” you plead into the air.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Everywhere.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he responds, affirmatively, and with relish, you feel his moustache graze the column of your neck. Somehow, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of that feeling.

As his lips crush to your again, you note how he tastes. A combination of your sweet, nectar-like juices, and the subtle tang of sweat he has kissed from your sex-flushed skin. He tastes like a salted peach. He is pure poetry, you think. You’ve never tasted anything quite as sweet, and you’ve never experienced such a flood. And, now that your deluge of joy is through -your happiness instead streaming steadily- it no longer feels heavy. It no longer weighs you down.

You want to love him, and be loved; and, you will.

What’s more. You deserve every bit of it.

It’s the little things. One by one. And then, suddenly, there it is. There’s everything; in your arms.

#Richard Alonso Muñoz #richard alonso munoz x reader #the letter room #Richard Alonso Muñoz x reader #Oscar Isaac

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