#that was the most tense drive to work I've ever had in the summer

[miraclewoozi]

DRIVE. - l.c

DRIVE -- or, the night you realise it's actually very hard to stay mad at the guy who shows up at your house, throwing stones at your window on a Thursday night, to try and fix something that was your mistake in the first place.

pairing : chan x fem reader. content : fwb > lovers. angst, smut (MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT), fluff. more or less in that order. they’re both dumb as hell. not explicitly put in any detail but this was written with a more 70s vibe in mind so feel free to bear that in mind when thinking of the car/tech/styles etc if u like. w/c : 7.8k warnings : lots of swearing. it’s all a big fuckin misunderstanding because i am a whore for that. weed & alcohol mentioned (neither party is drunk or high at the time of this taking place). mentions of past cheating (neither mc or chan are the cheater). some pov switching because i said so. let me know if i've forgotten anything. proofread exactly once so if there's a typo, no there isn't. SMUT TAGS UTC.  notes : dino. get the fuck off my ass. i’m so serious i am not strong enough to handle the very real feelings i have for you. go away.  notes 2.0 : i listened to halsey’s drive for some inspo for this & took that as the title, so feel free to give it a listen if you want!

SMUT TAGS : dom!chan. car fuckin', making out, hair pulling, grinding/dry humping, fingering, finger sucking, dick riding, marking/scratching, unprotected sex (make good choices), overstimulation, multiple orgasms. praise. chan calls reader ‘baby’ & ‘sweetheart’. he’s a BIG talker during sex (sorry).

You’re not stupid. You heard his car pull up outside your house almost an hour ago. 

Since then, at random intervals ranging anywhere between thirty seconds and five minutes, there have been clinks of a thrown stone at your bedroom window, a piece of the gravel that lines your driveway. Each time, it makes your jaw tense, makes your fingers tighten in the bedsheets you pulled all the way up to your chin in a foul mood at 8pm. It’s been the same now for almost two weeks — you’ve been getting home from work, showering the day away, eating your dinner and retiring to your room as early as you possibly can. Your roommate tried to find out what was wrong around day three but you very promptly shut her down — she’s since learned that the best she’s getting out of you currently is a dismissive wave of your hand or some kind of a grunt. She joked one evening that it was like she’d adopted a teenager; you scowled so violently that she went to her room. 

Hardly any of your other friends have seen anything of you, either, despite the fact that several have come knocking to check if you’re all right. 

You’re very much not all right, as it happens. This is perhaps the most upset you’ve ever felt, and that’s going quite some way. The angriest, too. It’s worse than when that middle aged woman threw her entire bucket of popcorn at your head when you gave her salty instead of sweet, and you were picking kernels out of your hair for the rest of your six hour shift. It’s worse than when your nasty supervisor ‘forgot’ you were in the bathroom and ended up locking you inside the cinema overnight, because you didn’t have your own set of keys to get out and the people whose numbers you remembered weren’t answering their phones. 

It’s somehow even worse than when a summer crush from a few years ago broke things off by telling you that he already had a girlfriend back home and that you were basically just a means to pass the time and get his dick wet. God, and you thought that was the lowest you could possibly be.

Here you are, though, so far beyond all those things it would be comical, if it didn’t hurt. Chan has really done a number on you, and you’re not sure how you ended up getting so emotionally involved in your situationship with him that this is what you’ve been reduced to. For days now, you’ve been swallowing back tears of frustration (both with yourself and with Chan), rolling around in your bed night on night, unable to get to sleep because all you can think about is him.

Him, and the way he sounded genuinely horrified when his friends asked about the ‘movie girl’, and he laughed, ‘God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen’. It was impressive, how quickly your face fell, in no way aided by the squealing giggles that rang through the house as a very, very drunk girl came running out of the living room and shut herself in the toilet, drowning out a chunk of the conversation you were listening in on. Somehow, it hurt even more when he went on to say ‘besides, there’s… someone else’. 

And when you have managed to drift off after hours of staring at the walls and the ceiling, hearing those words on a loop on your fed up brain? Of course he’s been in your fucking dreams, too.

In your defence, all you were trying to do was use the mirror in the hallway outside the kitchen he and his friends were standing in, readjusting your top to cover the hickey that he had so kindly left on your collarbone just the night before. It wasn’t as though you sought him out to listen in; it was a coincidence. And okay, fine, maybe you should have walked away when the conversation turned to the topic of Chan’s love life. Maybe you should have not crept closer and held your breath to be able to hear them all better. Maybe, even, you should have stayed around long enough to ask what he meant by it then and there instead of hopping in a taxi and going home without saying goodbye to anyone. 

Hindsight really is a beautiful thing.

Never gonna happen. Well, Chan seemed quite happy to ignore the fact that it already had happened. Several times. At least four of those being in the very car currently on the street outside your home. The car he’s used on countless occasions to drive you up to lovers’ lookouts in the dead of night, letting one of his many mixtapes play through the tinny speakers, where he’d kiss you breathless and cradle your face between his palms, as his fingers would delicately explore beneath your clothes, as his broad shoulders would slot between your thighs, as his hips rol–

And maybe you aren’t stupid, but Chan seems determined to prove that he sure as hell is. He came to pick you up from work the day after the party like nothing had happened, and couldn’t figure out why you said you would rather walk home in the rain than get in with him and stormed away without any further explanation. Then, he showed up on your doorstep on the morning of your day off with your favourite coffee and a breakfast bagel, asking if you could talk. He still didn’t realise what he’d done to upset you, so you slammed the door in his face. Finally, just earlier today, he ran after you in the mall, persistent as you’ve ever known him to be, and laid a hand on your shoulder when you didn’t turn around to just the sound of his voice calling your name. 

You pushed him off so hard he almost fell over. 

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?!” You had barked, shrugging your shoulders to try and realign your jacket. “I don’t want to talk to you. What’s not clicking?”

His face resembled that of a scolded pet when he took a step back and frowned at you. “I just wanted to–”

“I don’t care what you want, Chan,” you spat. “Give it up. I’m done.”

You could see the desperation swimming in his eyes as he scrambled for what to say and your heart felt like it was being weighed down all the way into your stomach. You supposed that was the part of you that was causing all this ache in the first place, and further that it was to blame for your current state of misery. But you steeled yourself and stood your ground nonetheless. He wasn’t going to win you over with puppy eyes and a pout. Not this time.

In his silence, you only then noticed how hard your breaths were coming, each slow and long but still dangerously unsteady. You lowered your voice, top lip curling at him as you muttered, “You’re embarrassed of me enough to lie to your friends? Fine. I don’t give a–… but shit, next time, tell a girl that to her face instead of behind her fucking back.”

It’s been seven hours, and you keep replaying the last thing he said to you as you stormed away (how his voice got quieter when he realised you weren’t turning back; how he sounded so hoarse, so sorry). 

‘I’m sorry if I hurt you - I— I never meant to.’

If. If. If. Were you not making it completely fucking obvious that he had, most definitely, hurt you? Part of your brain is even now starting to go down the route that he’s doing this on purpose, that it’s some twisted sort of damage control, that he hopes maybe if he plays dumb for long enough, you’ll forget what you were mad about or maybe start to second guess what you heard. But if that’s what he thinks, he obviously doesn’t know you very well at all. That’s never going to happen. 

Hell, for someone you were being so careful to keep in the appropriate lane in your head, Chan really has you thinking yourself in circles. You’re sick to your back teeth of him, and his stupid voice and his stupid smile and his stupid –

Clink.

Stupid. Fucking. Stones.

A groan loud enough to definitely catch the attention of your roommate sounds from deep within your chest at this interruption to your spiral and you finally, finally concede. Whatever argument he’s so clearly longing to have at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night? Fine. He can have it. If it means he backs off for good, you’ll give him his one last ruck.

You pull the window open none too gently and lean enough through it that Chan comes into view. He isn’t even looking up, you realise, too busy sifting through the driveway trying to find his next little projectile, and you hiss his name to get his attention. It startles him so much that he drops the indiscernible bundle in his right hand. He blindly scrambles to pick it up, those big, earnest eyes gazing at you as if you’re floating in midair before him.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You ask him, trying not to raise your voice too loud but at the same time, needing to generate enough volume for him to hear. He holds the bundle in both hands, now, and they catch the light of the lamp by your front door. Flowers, you register, squinting to try and make them out, your brows furrowing so much that your forehead hurts. 

Black dahlias.

You choke back a laugh. Ah, the joys of fooling around with the son of a florist. Are they all so damn dramatic? (Or does he just know that they’re your favourites?)

Whichever it is, you tell yourself that’s not going to work. You won’t let it. Through gritted teeth, you say, “go away. I’m serious. I’ll call the cops on you.”

He shakes his head, begging as he steps just a little closer so his face is more visible in the amber light too. “Please–” he hurries, biting his bottom lip. “Please, don’t– just… tell me what I did. I want to make it right. Please.”

He never begs like this. In all the time you’ve known him, you swear Chan has said ‘please’ to you fewer times than you could count on your fingers. Which is by no means a bad thing — that’s just always been the very comfortable nature of your friendship, and later, the -with-benefits tag that you ended up sticking on the end. 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and fighting not to shiver in the cold nighttime air. Note to self: don’t do a Romeo and Juliet in the middle of the fucking winter without layering up, first. “What does it even matter?”

“What do you mean, what does it matter?” He asks, looking down at the bunch of flowers in his hands, then back at you. “I-... you know I’d never hurt you. Not on purpose. Please, just… if I did something–”

“There’s someone else,” you echo, fed up with his pretending. He’s a fair actor, you’ll give him that – he might even have been able to convince you, if you hadn’t already heard the other half of this tale he’s doing his best to spin in his favour. 

His face screws up, thinking he’s misheard. It’s his turn not to understand now. If you’re telling him you’ve met someone else, he’s got questions, because you’d promised to be open and honest with each other if that ever happened, so that you could call things off and go back to being just friends without it becoming a big deal. That was always supposed to be a calm conversation, not… whatever this is. You talked about it, right at the start. But… those are the words you’re saying, aren’t they? And why would you be mad at him if you were the one whose circumstances had changed? 

“What?” he asks, finally. “What do you mean?”

“God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen. Besides, there’s… someone else!” You raise your voice without really meaning to, before swallowing hard and glancing back inside your room. “You said that, Chan. Don’t piss me off by coming here and pretending like you didn’t.”

Chan starts to look like he’s trying to figure out an algebraic equation in his head while only having half the required information; his eyes fall down to the gravel, his lips move without any sound coming out of them, his features tighten until there are definite lines between his eyebrows. Then, it clicks. The lightbulb moment. He slaps one hand to his face and shakes his head furiously, and you just know he’s going to wake up with an ache in his neck tomorrow because of it.

“Oh fuck,” he curses. “No, no, no, no, no – that’s not–”

“What did I just say?” You spit down at him. “Don’t piss me off–”

“Listen!” He shouts, and you gesture with your hand for him to lower his voice, interrupting his flow of thought and rendering him silent for a moment. “Fuck, please. Come down here and talk to me. That’s not what you think it is.”

You’re in every mind to slam your window shut and leave him out there in the cold. It would work if you got out your headphones to drown out the sounds of him trying to get your attention, which you have absolutely no doubt in your mind that he would do. And maybe then he’d get the hint; maybe then he would understand that you’re not just some pushover who he can just pick up and play with when it suits him. 

But he’s still holding those fucking flowers like they’re a lifeline, still looking up at you without a single lick of anger on his face. Not stress at having been discovered, which you would have expected him to be swimming in right about now. He looks… kind of beside himself, as if nothing could possibly be worse than what you’re threatening to do.

All this, for you? It just doesn’t make sense. 

“Please,” he says again, quieter, weaker. For the first time, you pick up on the hint of a shiver in his voice, and you swallow. Whether you’re gulping back your pride, or your resolve, or the last remnants of your sensibility, you don’t know. 

Does he deserve for you to hear him out? You’re not sure.

But does he deserve to be stuck out in the cold in just his stupid leather jacket and a pair of jeans? 

With regret, you think, no. He doesn’t.

All you give him is a scowl before you disappear from view entirely, pulling the window closed and drawing your curtains again. Faster than you think you ever have before, you throw on a sweatshirt over your pyjamas, grab your keys, and hurry down the stairs as silently as you possibly can. 

He’s stood in exactly the same place when you edge outside and pull the door closed behind you. Up-close, you can see the tiredness on his face: this is a man who has exhausted himself in worry, you think, and yet he still smiles a little when he sees you in full. He still holds the flowers out for you to take. He still purses his lips and blows out a stuttered cloud of air. Nervous, and not in the way you think he ought to be. So when you walk straight past him and don’t take the dahlias out of his hands, instead standing by his car and waiting for him to unlock it for you, you start to feel overwhelmingly guilty. 

Chan is many, many… many things. But he really isn’t this good of a performer, no matter what you’ve been telling yourself all week. For God’s sake, why is it so much easier to be angry at him when he’s not standing right in front you?

You slip into his passenger side as he fumbles to set the flowers down on his backseat again, and he joins you up front just a few moments later. His hands are shaking when he sets the keys into the ignition. His whole body is. When you cast a real look over at him, the tips of his fingers are pale and his lips are lacking their usual rosy, pink hue. Your own teeth are chattering despite only having been truly exposed to the cold air for a matter of seconds; you dread to think how frozen he must be.

“Are we driving?” You ask to break the silence. Since he got into the car and fiddled with the heating settings to try and warm things up a little, he hasn’t said a word. It’s awkward. It’s horrible. You already miss the comfortable way you’ve been able to sit for hours together, barely talking, just watching the lights of the city and the cars travelling through it. 

You already miss him. Which is a strange thought, seeing as he’s only about ten inches away. 

“If– if you want,” he says, stuttering through the frost in his lungs. “We can go—...”

“Drive, Chan,” you say. It’s not just because you want him to stop falling over his words – which, to be fair, you do. Chan has always been very confident, carrying himself with the air of someone who knows exactly their worth. It’s one of the things you treasure about him. So this? Is fucking weird. But a big part of it is that you know his car will heat up faster if it’s in motion, and right now, you think maybe he’s at risk of losing a finger or two if he doesn’t get some circulation back.

He steps on the gas and the car pulls away from your home. It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his car without there being some sort of music playing, whether that’s historically just been the radio or a tape he put together with the help of one of his older friends. (The tapes that always had your first initial on them. The tapes that he never failed to ask your opinions on when he dropped you home – as if he’d compiled them with only you in mind.) The silence feels jarring and you can hear every rumble of the engine, every squeal of the brakes he definitely needs to get serviced. 

But the car does warm through, and you sigh out relief as the bones in your hands move a little easier, as your fingers curl and uncurl to less resistance from your taut muscles. Chan feels it, too; his body relaxes, his breaths stop coming out in fractions, his face gets some colour back. The timing feels a little less awful when you finally say, “go on, then.”

Chan glances over at you as he drives down an unlit street. Only for a second, like he’s checking you’re still there, before his eyes train back on the road. He’s going to one of your favourite spots. It isn’t a lookout – it’s somewhere completely shut off from the rest of town, hidden by the trees near the railway tracks, somewhere you’ve never had to worry about being seen or heard. Maybe he’s anticipating a screaming match. Maybe he’s expecting something else. Maybe, even, he just cares about how much you love it there. 

“I didn’t know you heard that conversation,” he starts, sheepishly. You want to roll your eyes, reach over and thump him, ask if that makes what he said okay, but you don’t. You stay looking out the front windscreen too. Waiting. “I… all right. I was out of my ass drunk.”

You click your tongue, pressing it afterwards against the inside of your cheek, but again, you stay quiet.

“I don’t think you heard what you thought you heard, though,” he goes on to say. “‘Cause– ‘cause it wasn’t…”

But you can only be quiet for so long in the face of this mess. Especially when he’s apparently working towards a doctorate in beating around the fucking bush. “I heard you tell your friends that it was never gonna happen with ‘movie girl’.”

Chan’s face brightens, and you can’t help but wonder what on Earth is wrong with this man. Why does he find that funny? Why is his chest moving like he’s trying not to laugh?

“And you… thought you were movie girl,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Okay – shit. I’m sorry.”

You look at him properly, now, as he indicates to the right and takes the turn that leads him down the lane to your spot. “What are you talking about?”

“I get it,” he says. “You work at the–... but you’re not movie girl. Not that movie girl.”

“Stop talking in riddles before I get out of this car, Chan. It’s too late for this shit.”

He holds a hand up as if to apologise and settles back against the head cushion, suddenly looking far more comfortable than he did thirty seconds ago. He clears his throat, running his tongue over his lips, before sucking in a breath and letting himself go on.

“You’re not movie girl,” he says again, successfully clarifying nothing. “There’s this chick I used to dance with — years back, before… God, when we were in school, like, forever ago. She moved away when we were sixteen.” As he talks, he reaches your destination and sets the car into park, before he unfastens his seatbelt and turns to face you. You do the same, shifting your weight to tuck one leg up beneath you, and with your undivided attention, he goes on. “I ran into her recently. She’s back in town now, I guess. It was like, two weeks—?”

“I’m gonna be all-over grey by the time you finish telling this story,” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “Can you please give me the short version?”

“Not if you want it to make sense,” Chan shrugs. Begrudgingly, you let him keep talking. “She said it would be cool to hang out, maybe catch a movie or do lunch or something — and look, I didn’t know she was asking me on a date, I thought she was just being nice, y’know? Trying to be friends, but… you weren’t working that day, it was when you had that… that stomach thing going on? And I brought you the soup my mom made, remember?”

You nod; of course you remember. At the time, you wondered why on Earth this grown man’s mother was making you food — you asked yourself whether he’d told her about you, or if she thought it was for someone else. In the end you decided he must have just been bringing you leftovers. But you’d been too worn out to start asking questions; instead, after you’d eaten, you let yourself fall asleep with your head in his lap as he patted your hair and hummed his favourite songs. You hadn’t let yourself think too deeply about it since. 

“Anyway. We were sat watching the movie and she, uh,” he glances down at his lap, tips of his ears burning pink. “She put her hand, sorta, on my thigh? And then I was like, shit, I didn’t read this right, like… at all. So I moved it off and she took the hint — and after it ended I said to her, you know, I was flattered, right? But I wasn’t interested. And then I went home and got that soup and—… yeah.”

He came straight to see you. To look after you. Hell, you didn’t even fool around that night; in retrospect, it was all uncharacteristically domestic. And slowly, the pieces you’ve spent days struggling to fit together start to fall into place. It makes sense. The only question that remains is do you believe him?

Well, tell a lie. 

There is one more. 

“You said there was someone else,” you add quietly. 

You’ll die before you admit it, but this is secretly the part that was hurting you the most. 

You can’t even look him in the eye, right now; your cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of even caring. As much as you want to tell yourself that the only reason you’re pissed is just because of the dishonesty, you can only stare at yourself in the mirror and point-blank lie so many times. Someone else. You hate it. 

Just the thought of him seeing somebody else, taking them out on dates, smiling at them, laughing with them, kissing them the way he kisses you, touching —

A shiver runs the length of you and you cross your arms, thrusting your sleeve-covered hands under your armpits. 

Chan takes a deep breath in and exhales it slowly, like he’s blowing smoke out of his lungs. “There is,” he admits, nodding slowly, avoiding your eyes, too. “There is someone else.”

“When were you going to tell me?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t respond straight away. You don’t notice, but eventually his eyes do land back at you; it’s only when he clears his throat to get your attention that you look at him long enough to realise he’s quite deliberately staring. His lips are lifted on the right in a lopsided smile, his eyes soft as he reaches across the seats towards you. You stare blankly down at his hand until he wiggles his fingers, and you think briefly that this is the most fucked up ending to a situationship you’ve ever been through. 

You drop one of your hands down and let him hold it, though, staring at his face as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and you wait for him to finally say it out loud. For him to announce that he’s fallen for somebody and that he can’t see you anymore. To put the nail in the coffin. Don’t tell me their name, you think. I don’t want to know anything about them. Please, just don’t.

“For someone so frustratingly smart, you’re really fucking dumb,” Chan says, finally, swallowing around his words and squeezing your fingers. Whatever stoic expression you had forced onto your face at the start of this conversation dissolves into irritation and you snatch your hand away from him again, letting his own fall and collide with a thunk against the handbrake. 

“Oh, sorry that I didn’t realise you were sneaking around behind my back when that’s the one thing we promised we wouldn’t do,” you snap. “God. The only stupid thing I’ve done here is get involved with you in the f—”

“You’re the someone else.”

Oh. 

Oh.

“I’m—?”

“You.”

The admission hangs heavily between you, as does your nonsense, unfinished insult. Neither of you really know what to do with yourselves except sit perfectly still and try to somehow deal with your increasingly dry throats. When Chan moves, it’s only to turn down the heating dial when his cheeks burn a bit too hot; you appreciate it, in part due to the bead of sweat currently running down your back, but you don’t say so. 

“You could have started with that,” you say weakly, wrestling with all your strength to keep even some of your cards close to your chest. It’s not working though. Your attempt to conceal your elation is a bit like throwing a single leaf on top of a bison and calling it camouflage. 

Chan commits to laughing, finally, your sentiment breaking him too. Now, you do crack that smile, albeit mostly just at the sound that comes from him. It’s bright and airy, lighting his whole face up as he drops all the way back and leans against his car door, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I was trying to build to a moment! It’s not my fault you hit every branch of the anti-romantic tree on your way down.”

“I am not anti-romantic,” you scoff in protest. 

“Yes — you are.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“No, you’re just an idiot.”

“Says she who didn’t realise her fuck-buddy had feelings for about six months, Jesus.”

“Chan—” You start, your voice laced with a playful warning. 

“Here I was thinking I was making it completely obvious,” he rambles on. 

“— oh my God, just shut up and kiss me.”

“Dropping hints left and r—” … “Huh?”

He stops short a fraction of a second after you finish, stumped and silent, frozen with everything but a little buffering symbol above his forehead. Kiss me, you said. Chan, […] just shut up and kiss me. All right, you’ve asked him to do that before, but not like this. Not as if you’ll wither away should you not get a taste of his lips this instant. It takes him some time to process it, but he does move in first, eventually. The way he always does, closing the distance between you like he’s been shot out of a cannon, one hand either side of your face, crashing feverishly against your mouth. 

Every now and again, he’ll be happy to let you take charge and set the pace: mostly just if he’s feeling lazy or especially generous. Tonight isn’t one of those times, however. He holds you and kisses you possessively, like you’re his, like this is how he finally gets to lay claim on you, licking between your gasp-parted lips after he moans straight into your mouth. He’s spearmint sweet, edged with that one cherry flavoured chapstick he stockpiles as he grins up against you, rolling his body fluidly with every separation for air, every changing angle. 

He pulls your sweatshirt up over your head and throws it down into the footwell on the passenger side, straight away hurrying to kiss you hungrily again, hands cupping your neck. His tongue is in your mouth once more, there’s no way you could possibly differentiate your breaths from his: you’re one, in every way you can be with your clothes still on, but it’s not enough. 

“Want you,” you whimper as he nips at your bottom lip and pleasure rushes through you from head to toe. 

“You’ve got me,” he groans with his eyes still closed. “I’m all yours.” 

“No,” you insist, whimpering when his cute little nose drags across your cheek until he’s pressing hot kisses to your jawline. “I— fuck—”  He suckles on the sweet spot below your ear and your spine tingles, head tilting to give him better access. “Chan, I want you.”

Chan settles back from you, his usually bright, sparkling eyes now darkened with desire. All he gives you is a singular glance sideways, but you know exactly what he’s suggesting. You nod, breathing deep, biting the inside of your cheek; he turns off the headlights and it’s all systems go. 

There’s a rush to scramble into the back of the car. Chan takes the keys out the ignition and climbs through the gap in the seats; you opt for the less hazardous approach of getting out of the vehicle entirely and re-entering it instead. Not that it bothers him — no sooner is the door closed behind you, Chan’s hands are on your hips and he pulls you on top of him, your leg knocking the dahlias off the leather and onto the floor in the process. You gasp and glance down but he averts your attention with two fingers under your chin, guiding you to look back at him. 

“What? You think this is the last time I’ll bring you flowers?” He asks, capturing your lips as he leans up to you; at the same time, his hands drop low and he starts to slide open the buttons down the front of your pyjama shirt. “Baby, m’gonna get you so many more.” 

You sigh at the affectionate name, at the change in its use; until now, Chan has only called you baby while he’s buried inside you, bruising you inside and out with sharp thrusts and rough-gripping fingers. But as much as you can feel him growing hard against the inside of your thigh while you try to get comfortable, one knee planted either side of his hips, you can’t help but feel as if this time, it means something different. 

(He’s had feelings for six months: it always meant what it does, now. You know that, deep down.)

Somewhere in amongst the never-ending sloppy kisses and constantly travelling hands, you manage to strip both his jacket and T-shirt off him and you’re pressed bare-chest-to-bare-chest with Chan, feeling every little hitch of his breath in his lungs, every thump of his heartbeat, every tiny increase in the temperature of his skin. Your desperate search for friction between your legs has you rolling your hips down against his hard-on, drawing grunts and making him squeeze at your tits when you rock against him the right way. His head eventually drops to your chest and he replaces one hand with his mouth, freeing his fingers to slide down the front of your pyjama bottoms. 

It’s honestly rarer for Chan to get straight to the point than it is for him to tease you a little first, so when he flattens his palm against you and brushes his fingertips over your already aching clit, you let out a squeak of surprise. He shivers, releasing your nipple from between his teeth for a moment; once he’s collected a little more arousal to ease the friction, he continues to rub at the bud, slowly building the pressure inside you.

“No panties?” He asks, struggle clear in the roughness of his voice. 

“I was in bed,” you gasp, eyes rolling back. It’s for the best that it happens out of pleasure, really, because you’re not sure you’d be able to stop yourself rolling them in exasperation at his remark otherwise. You shuffle a little, lifting yourself up on your knees more, breath hitching when he uses the newly granted space to dip his hand lower and press a finger against your hole. “Please, Chan — this can’t be comfy— just…”

“S’fine” he argues, shaking his head, despite the fact that the angle of his wrist is actually kind of painful, right now. The truth is that he can’t bring himself to care: not when he can smell your fabric softener on the shirt still hanging off your shoulders, the shampoo in your freshly washed hair, all so pretty mixed with the damp scent of your desire. Not when you clench around him as he slides his finger in and out of your cunt. Not when he could get you to soak all the way through these pretty satin pants. 

Your arms snake around his neck as he dips a second finger inside you to join the first. The way your thighs tighten around his hips could — should — be embarrassing, the fact his sturdy lap holds you open enough for your pussy to be toyed with even more so. You almost always do this too music, too — for what might be the first time ever, you can hear every single wet sound your body makes, every hitch of your own breath, every grunt he gives even though he’s not the one being pleasured. 

You don’t even realise how you’re rocking up and down against his hand until Chan licks from the base of your neck to your jaw, smirking over your pulse point and says, “gonna ride my cock this good too, baby?”

And if it was anyone else talking to you like this, you would be embarrassed. Mortified, at being so needy you’re here doing all the work for him. At the cry you give as he splits and scissors his fingers to stretch you out. But instead? You feel another rush of arousal drool out of you as you press your nails into his shoulders and nod, bouncing harder and watching how his bicep tenses up solid with the effort of keeping his arm steady for you to use. 

“Wanna,” you gasp. “Want it so bad, Chan—”

Despite your pleas for this to move further, when his hand pulls back out of the elastic of your waistband, you feel like you could throttle him. The urge ebbs away when his soaked fingers press to your lips and he quirks an eyebrow at you, though — you end up suckling them clean, licking up every trace of your own slick. You lock eyes with him as you do, slumping on your thighs so your drenched core sits right over his tweaking length, the seam of your pants giving just enough friction to your clit for it to feel good as you grind down on him again. 

“Get those off,” he instructs, trying to sound hard and dominant. Which would work, perhaps, if his voice didn’t crack in the middle of the sentence. “Now.”

Even though you’re overcome with a need to tease him, the desire you have to be split open on his length outweighs it, so you do as you’re told and hold it in for later. It’s not easy, but you manage to manipulate yourself in his lap to work the satin down your thighs and past your knees. He helps you tug them the rest of the way past your ankles and feet, shoves them onto the floor — Chan’s hands settle back on your hips and yours skim down his stomach at the same time, fingers grazing over the little hairs that trail from his bellybutton down into his jeans. 

“Can I?” You ask, playing already with his belt buckle. 

He hums assent and you slip it all the way open, tugging as he moves his hips underneath you so you can pull it free from the loops. Between you, you manage to get his jeans unfastened, to pull both them and his boxer shorts down over his ass and to his knees; finally, fucking finally, his cock sits pretty and leaking and free between your stomach and his. It’s getting cold in the car now the heating isn’t on, but you’re already burning up in anticipation for him to ruin you; the way his abs ripple as he takes his shaft into his hand and strokes himself a couple of times to prepare tells you he’s in the same boat. 

It’s like clockwork, from here. You shift into position as easily as you settle into bed after a long day. Chan rubs his tip through your folds, feels the warmth of you and hisses through his teeth with fluttering eyes. Just like always. This never changes. He can’t ever get enough of that first feeling of his cock against your pussy: it’s like the first hit of a blunt, like the first sip of a cold beer, the first full-body stretch early in the morning. He’s sure it’s what arriving at the gates of heaven must feel like. 

You sink down onto him slowly, fluttering around his tip and stilling to give you both a moment to get used to the feeling. He’s thick inside you. Thicker than his pretty, dainty fingers have ever been able to stretch you enough for. Even as wet as you are, you still need to suck a deep breath into your lungs before you can relax your hips further and let your heat swallow him all the way to his base. 

Chan’s head is tipped back in pleasure, he’s biting his lip at the sting of your nails pressing hard into the back of his neck. He loves it, though — loves how the pain shoots in waves down his spine, how it tingles in his brain, how he knows you need to anchor yourself this way or you’ll lose control. He kneads at your ass as you sit against his thighs, listening to you whimpering at how deep he is inside you.

“So fucking tight around me still,” Chan groans, focusing all his willpower into keeping his hips down on the leather beneath him. “Shit, baby — you feel so good…” His neck softens and his head drops forward again as you start to move, rising and falling over and over. He kisses your throat and down to your collarbones while you work up to a rhythm, sliding his palms up your back, hugging you close to him. 

He isn’t even the one putting in the hard work, but within minutes of this, his soft, fluffy hair clings to his forehead. A light sheen of sweat makes him radiant under the moonlight breaking through the trees. He’s breathing heavily, the top of his toned chest painted a soft pink — you don’t think he could possibly look prettier. Not until he cups your jaw with his hands and you look upwards: you land on his smiling face, those plush, swollen lips, his devilish but sweetly glittering eyes. The sight of him, looking at you like you’re some kind of Goddess, makes your pussy tighten and your tiring hips stutter. You slip your pyjama top all the way off your arms and curl your fingers into his hair, meeting him in an open-mouthed kiss, through which you’re both just beaming. 

You’ve never kissed him this much. When it all started out, you sort of had a rule against it, but now? Neither of you can stop. As he starts to fuck up into you, taking the reins and letting your burning thighs rest, he keeps your face steady with his hands and freely allows his lips to slide against yours. It’s not refined. It can’t be. Not with how hard and fast his movements quickly become, not with the onslaught of curses and moans and babbled praise coming from the both of you. One particularly sharp thrust makes you yelp out a squeak of his name and he just swallows it down, making a point to keep aiming for— and hitting— that same spot inside you. You’re a mess. 

He could do this all night. When your orgasm bubbles inside you and he starts pinching at one of your nipples, sending you over the edge, he’s nowhere near finished. Even though your cunt massages at his length, throbbing and pulsing through your climax; even though your voice is so high by now that only dogs can hear you; even though you nearly collapse on top of him with almost all your weight in his lap, and he has to work twice as hard to keep this going, he barely slows. He definitely doesn’t stop. 

“You can gimme one more, right sweetheart?” He asks, grunting into your neck. “Always feels so fucking good when you come.” You choke up an ‘mhm’, to which he responds by slipping a hand between your bodies and down to where you’re connected. His thumb presses against your clit again — not moving, just applying enough pressure to make you stutter when you say his name. 

Your thighs are still twitching when you try to lift yourself a little, try to meet his movements as he chases his orgasm too. The “problem” with Chan is that his stamina is otherworldly. You couldn’t keep up if you wanted to. 

“Relax,” he says, tensing his jaw, doing the opposite himself. “Fuck — lie down.”

It’s pretty cramped and hard to move, but you lift yourself off him and only slightly lament at the sudden emptiness between your legs. There isn’t time to get too upset, however: moments after you get comfortable on your back, Chan shoves his jeans the rest of the way down and stands with one knee planted on the seats, lifting one of your ankles up to rest it on his shoulder. He slips back inside you easily then, gripping around your calf to keep you both steady. From the word go, his pace is relentless. You scrabble around for something to hold onto but the entire car seems to melt away; you ball your hands into fists at your sides instead, your eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

“Mm-mm. Look at me,” Chan hums, tightening his grip on your leg. “Wanna see those pretty eyes.” 

You obey, opening your lids to look up at him while he pounds into you hard enough to make the car shake. Over, and over, and over, and over. Rougher. Faster. For how long? Who even knows. All you’re truly aware of is how good it feels. How the windows grow foggy with the  steam of your laboured breaths. How his sweat mingles with your own. 

When his fingers on the other hand get reacquainted with your clit, when he bites down on his bottom lip, when his thrusts start to get messier and more erratic and the veins in his arms start to bulge out, you know he’s getting close. He doesn’t need to tell you out loud. The smirk he wears speaks for itself. 

“Where d’you want it, baby?” He asks you, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. 

“In— mmh, in-…side me—” you stammer, hips jolting as you near your second orgasm to match his first. “Please, Chan — want it all…”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah—”

Well, he must’ve been holding himself back something spectacular, because a few thrusts later you watch all of his muscles contract as he tips over the edge, and you go hurtling with him. It’s all so much. All your nerve endings feel like they’re on fire and your vision starts to blur at the edges; it’s not long before you have to close your eyes to shut one of your overworked senses out, completely. Your muscles are sore. Your throat hurts. Even your lungs ache. 

God, he hasn’t gone that hard in so long, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You can barely speak — it’s going to take you a week to recover from this, minimum. 

He stills deep inside you, feeling his cock throb with the last pumps of his release. Your leg slips off his shoulder and your foot lands down with a thud onto the car’s (thankfully clean) floor; he bends forward to kiss you, still breathing heavily against your lips. You’ve come over completely boneless and reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair again feels like running a marathon at sprint pace. You’d fall asleep right here, right now, if you could, but with sweat cooling rapidly against your skin, you know that’s probably not up there as one of your finest ideas. 

“You really think getting involved with me was stupid?” Chan asks, nudging your nose with the tip of his own. He’s never been less serious than this in his entire life, which stops you feeling too bad when you lightly slap at his rock solid chest and try to push him off you.

“Yes,” you lie, attempting to reach to the ground for your pyjama shirt while he grips your chin and attacks you with tiny little pecks all over your face. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

(Chan chuckles to himself and thinks that he’s quite happy to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, really. He can stay that way, as long as you promise never to stop.)

thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed it - likes, feedback, comments, reblogs are all so appreciated.<3

#dino smut #lee chan smut #dino x reader #seventeen smut #svt smut #svt x reader #kpop smut #j writes. #* #this description is ass we're gonna pretend it isnt. ok THANKS bye <3

[justonemorewallflower]

Fic Tag Game!

I was tagged by @iamfandomcrazy

Thank you! I was hoping I'd get the chance to answer these!!

How many works do you have on AO3?

24

What's your AO3 word count?

92,829

What fandoms do you write for?

On AO3, Wednesday. I only have Wednesday fics posted on AO3 but elsewhere like Wattpad I have some Harry Potter and Stranger Things. I do want to start posting some Ronance on AO3

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. Condolence (Wyler, 339)

2. Jealousy (Wyler, 274)

3. Freckles (Wyler, 251)

4. Bitter Coffee (Wyler, 227)

5. The Beach & Realization (Wyler, both tied at 219 kudos)

Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I try to respond to all of them albeit sometimes I forget or procrastinate to do so

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably In The Middle Of The Night or Death's Goodbye. I haven't finished A Pain Worse Than Death yet, but that will have a pretty angsty ending too

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

A Night To Remember, Realization, or Welcome to the Family

Do you get hate on fics?

Nope, not that I know of! Most of the comments I get, if not all, are positive

Do you write smut? What kind?

Yes, I do. I got into it too rather recently (back in summer) as I did a kink bingo writing event. A lot of it is kinky, obviously lol. Beyond that I'm not sure how to explain it cause they each vary/are pretty different from each other. Some are really out there/dirty and others are more tame, just depends on the fic

Do you write cross-overs?

No. I wrote a bit of one in the past for Narnia x Harry Potter, but I never did anything with it and I haven't written any since then. Unless you count Omegaverse, no

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I think so. I remember someone asking me at one point if they could translate one of my fics but I never checked to see if they actually did so I'm not 100% sure

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not really. I've helped other writers with ideas for their fics and they have helped me with ideas for my own but that's the extent of collaboration I've done for writing fics

What WIP would you like to finish but doubt you ever will?

Oh God, where do I start? I'd love to finish A Pain Worse Than Death but low-key don't know if I will. I also would love to finish some other AUs I have in my drafts like my Wyler Circus AU and my Wyler Goody Two shoes/Rebel AU, as well as some Ronance fics I have in my drafts

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Honestly, probably Wyler. But beyond them I also adore Ronance (Robin Buckley and Nancy Wheeler) and Shirbert (Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe)

What are your writing strengths?

Grammar and I like to think I'm decent at descriptions and characterization

What are your writing weaknesses?

Tense! I always subconsciously switch between past and present tense and it drives me insane!! It's something I always have to go back and fix/check for. And maybe dialogue, sometimes I struggle with that. As well as just finishing projects before starting a new one lol, I always have like 500 million drafts all at once that I'm working on

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I think it's fun to do sometimes but I don't do it much and if I do I try to do a language I am partly fluent in (like Spanish) or do a lot of research beforehand to ensure it's as accurate as I can get it

First fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter I'm pretty sure

Favorite fic you've ever written?

Maybe Coffee Memories (I really like the characterization in this one) or A Pain Worse Than Death (the angst is just so delicious) or Scars Never Leave (I like the sort of hurt/comfort of this fic) or Safe Haven (it's the only Madwheeler fic I have and I like the angst and tone of it but I wrote it several years ago so it needs updated a lot) and then a lot of ideas that are just in my drafts

What fic would you want to rewrite one day?

Condolence because the first half of chapters are very short and lack content and I'd like to fix that, to try and make chapters more similar in length (like at least not like a 400 word chapter then a 3000 word chapter right after each other, yk) and Safe Haven (it's alright but could use some work to be more consistent in its plot and so it would work better, I'd just like to update it with my more recent writing style and knowledge since it's a few years old)

I tag @cosmic-lullaby @katwitchwriting (sorry if either of you have been tagged already!!)

#tag game #fic tag game #my fics #my wips #wips #wip #my fic writing #my ao3 works #my ao3 fics #my ao3 #ao3 writer #ao3fic #ao3 link #ao3 #wyler #wednesday netflix #ship #stranger things ships #fandom ships #ships #my ships #lgbt ships #ronance #dramione #harry potter #stranger things #my writing

[mr-stingkey]

long ass personal post incoming!

okay so as you might have guessed i'm a traumatized little baby. fortunately between therapy, medication, and time passing i feel like i've pretty well "gotten over" most of the traumatic events of my life. like i still get triggered occasionally but i don't feel like my trauma controls my life nearly as much as it did before.

well! there is one notable exception. so, when i was a kid, i went to the same summer camp 9 weeks over the span of 10 years. i loved it. i got super close to people my age which was super hard for me anywhere else as a shy, autistic, gender nonconforming little weirdo. i loved being outside and getting way more exercise than i would otherwise. being away from my parents. camp activities. as i got older, being recognized as a camper who keeps coming back. i loved camp stuff in general. so what else would i have done besides begin working there as an adult?

it was hard. bad pay for doing childcare nearly 24 hours a day 5-6 days a week. few breaks. just exhausting and stressful. but i still loved a lot of it despite all of that. i loved getting close to the other staff, helping campers find joy in all the parts of camp i loved as a kid. but my third summer all the stress and exhaustion started getting to me. on top of that, i was depressed. i was working harder and getting fewer breaks than ever before because my bosses saw me as dependable. and i was. i did what i was asked without complaining, at least not to my bosses. at the same time, i also became less of a stellar employee. i made bad decisions. when i was questioned about some of these decisions, i told the truth. (i know now i should've lied. i am pro lying to your employer. fuck work.) i was subsequently fired the last day i was thinking about working anyway.

boom - trauma. i was told and believed i was part of a family, and i was just as quickly kicked out of that family without a second thought.

when i got home and what had happened truly hit me, i took down all the camp stuff that had decorated my room, put it in boxes, and hid it under my bed. (it's still under my bed.)

i was extremely angry at the man who fired me. i had been going to camp for years before he had even heard of it, much less began working there, and he had the audacity to fire me for things other counselors were doing as well. after this happened, i understood why people murder their bosses after they get fired. but i wanted desperately to work at camp the next year, even if it meant i had to work under him. the next summer, i asked to work again and was rejected. i didn't try that hard to convince him to let me come back, though. i was terrified of him. i was miserable all summer - even more depressed than last year. awful summer. i also got broken up with, which made everything worse, but that's another topic entirely.

this summer rolls around. i'm medicated now. i feel much better about life. i'm not employed (sigh), but i have other things keeping me busy - namely grad school right now. wednesday afternoon, i dropped my cousin off at camp. i wanted him to experience some of the joy i had when i was his age. and he did. today i went to pick him up. i regret that. i should've just kept studying for the test i have today. wednesday i was fine - i was there only briefly. today i stayed long enough to get triggered. on the 20 minute drive there, i remembered how shitty my last year was and how awful i felt because of the actions of my bosses and myself (though more so my bosses, obviously) and got extremely angry. when i got there, i calmed down - i enjoyed seeing some of the people i met during my time at camp. the longer i was there, though, i became tense and nauseous. i wanted to leave early. i should have - my parents were also there to pick my cousin up and drove in a separate car. (i assumed i was picking him up, not them.)

anyway. now i feel like shit. i shouldn't have gone there. that wound is very obviously not healed, and i just ripped it open again. i would be okay with never going to camp again. the 13 years of mostly positive memories are tainted and may always be. i think i just need to think about camp as little as possible, at least for a while. and especially keep those boxes under my bed.

#stingkey says

[rahleeyah]

For the record I did make it to the office but if this rain doesn't stop I might be sleeping here 😬

#that was the most tense drive to work I've ever had in the summer #there is!!! so much water on the roads!! #guy next to me hit a huge puddle and the water completely blinded me and i just had to be like 'Jesus take the wheel' for a few secs #thank God I've got good tires #but like. it's not even 8 am. #if this goes on all day the creek is gonna jump the banks and i literally don't know how I'm gonna get home lmaoooo

[ifwallscouldtalkkkk]

"Look, I'm not gonna kidnap you" - Michael Clifford Oneshot (COLLEGE)

Female reader × Michael Clifford

Mentions of alcohol, slightly tipsy (consensual) interactions, swearing, SMUT.

____________________________________

You miss your bus home after a night partying with friends. Luckily, you meet a guy willing to give you a ride home, and his playful pinky promise to not kidnap you somehow convinces you to accept.

The smut in this story is fairly short. This was my first ever attempt at writing fanfic back in 2018, and I was a bit scared of sounding stupid

____________________________________

Your shoes clacked as you ran on the cobblestones. You were so close to the bus station that you could see the bus driver flicking a cigarette butt onto the ground and leaving the embers glowing on the dark cobblestones, before taking his seat behind the wheel. You picked up your pace even more and frantically waved a hand in the air, hoping that you could cut ahead as the bus made its turn around the station back and onto the road. You cursed under your breath, mentally labeling yourself an idiot for staying at the party a couple of extra minutes to say your goodbyes to a friend who was too preoccupied with shouting random answers to the ongoing pictionary game to even hear you.

You skipped every other step on the small set of stairs to reach the platform, and when you reached the corner where the bus would turn, you started jumping up and down and waving in a feeble attempt to get the driver to stop and pick you up even though you weren't technically in the pick up zone. You could see him seeing you, it was a clear summer night and thus barely even dark! But the near empty bus didn't stop. The driver probably saw you as an entitled child who was too drunk to be on time, and maybe he was at least 25% right.

”Fucking bastard” you squeezed out through clenched teeth as you stomped around in a little circle with your head thrown back in frustration. Calling your parents to drive an hour in the middle of the night to come pick you up and let you off at your dorm was not ideal. You knew that they would do it for you, not wanting you to walk the 6 miles home. No, this was definitely not your plan, but maybe it was a bit irresponsible to plan to take the very last bus for the night. You stomped one last time and breathed out deeply.

”What the fuck are you doing, girl?”, someone called out in a humored undertone.

You swiveled around and your eyes landed on a car parked a short distance away, at the designated pick up- drop off parking area. The boy whom the voice belonged to leaned out the open window of the driver’s seat, with his arms folded and propped up on the edge of the window. His smug smirk felt hurtful in your frustrated state, but it brought you back to reality somewhat. You could admit that you probably looked like a child who didn't get a pony for christmas – and to be honest, you felt the same amount of betrayal.

”What a fucking jerk!”, the guy in the car yelled when you didn't answer. ”Where ya heading to?”

You donned a tortured expression, brushed out your skirt, picked your bag off the ground, and started walking home.

You heard the lone car start and you put a bit more speed in your step. It soon pulled up mere inches from you anyways.

”Come on, you're not seriously walking home? You obviously live a ways away since you were supposed to take the bus”, he said with the same amused tone in his voice.

”I'll be ok, and you're probably wanting to get home yourself”, you said, trying to politely reinforce the idea of him leaving you alone

”Look, I’m not gonna kidnap you, I pinky promise”, he chuckled at his own words but continued when you kept your eyes locked straight ahead. ”Girl, I’m guessing that you live on campus, and that's like a billion miles away. I’ll drop you off all gentlemanly at your doorstep and tip my imaginary top hat at you as I drive away, never to be seen again.” You stopped walking and he had to jerk his car to a stop along with you.

”The fact that you know that I live on campus is not very reassuring”, you replied.

He rolled his eyes and let out a little laugh. ”That bus-” he pointed down the road that your planned ride home had disappeared along a few minutes earlier ”-goes straight to campus. I just dropped my pal off here to avoid driving him all the way to the uni, but looks like I’ll have to go there now anyways.” You looked him in the eyes. The way he spoke elicited a strange amount of trust, and although a couple of piercings and a questionable hair color for an adult could be spotted under his beanie, he didn't seem like bad news. ”Look, the door doesn't even lock properly, I wouldn't even be able to kidnap you!” he demonstrated the faulty lock on the passenger door. You had to smile at the enthusiastic way he presented it.

”You promise you won't leave serial killer notes in my mailbox?” He lit up even more at your reply.

”Promise”, he said. You swung your bag up on your shoulder and reached for the door. This was in no way the wisest thing to do in the situation, but you were already overwon by his goofy charm.

You climbed in and kept your gaze forward, feeling the boy's eyes on you, and you caught yourself subconsciously holding your breath. You caved and looked at him when it became clear he wasn't going to drive forward before you gave in.

”Seatbelt.” he said with a parental tone. ”Can't have such a pretty girl making unsafe choices!” It wasn't as funny of a comment as his facial expression suggested, but he really knew how to lighten the mood. ”Michael.” He stretched his hand out to shake yours formally. You replied with your name and a firm handshake. ”Oh girl, with that grip, no one could even dream of succeeding in kidnapping you" he said, laughing at your overly stern behavior.

”I just hate limp handshakes", you smiled, rummaging around in your bag after a snack. ”Damn it I left my granola bar at home”, you muttered under your breath.

”Oh uh, I've got a bag of peanuts somewhere…” Michael trailed off, reaching over to the glove department to rummage through his own stuff. His warm hand grazed your bare knee while reaching and you tensed up at his accidental touch.

”Dude, eyes on the road!” you exclaimed and he chuckled in response.

”I thought risk taking was a theme tonight – oh wait, here they are!” He plopped a bag of salted peanuts in your lap.

”Wait, you're not allergic, are you?” he asked. ”Some risks are not worth taking.”

”No, I love peanuts, no worries”, you poured a handful out and put a few in your mouth. After a night consisting mostly of liquor and dancing around, something to eat felt heavenly.

Michael asked you a couple of standard questions about your studies, and you gave all the standard answers.

”I kinda miss studying. Never thought I'd say that." Michael smiled. His hand dipped down into the bag in your lap to get some peanuts, getting dangerously close to between your thighs. You stumbled for a few seconds.

”Um oh, ok really?” His behavior was so unlike anyone else you knew. He was so daring and sure of himself, but he felt so warm and fuzzy in contrast. Maybe the previously ingested alcohol skewed your judgement, but you couldn't help but find this stranger utterly charming.

”Yeah… I'm on the road a lot nowadays for work", came his reply.

”Oh, what do you do? Uber driver for college girls who can't keep track of time?” You saw one corner of his mouth pulling smugly upwards at your joke.

”Uh no, I'm in the music producing business.”

”Huh, that's fun. I wasn-" you didn't finish your sentence as a deer jumped out onto the otherwise vacant road from between a few bushes on the side of the long stretch of asphalt nearing the campus grounds.

”Oh shit", you heard Michael exclaim while swerving a bit and stepping hard on the brakes. The deer stared confused at the headlights before scurrying off towards the other side of the road. ”You ok?!” the boy asked between quick breaths. Your breath was labored too, but your eyes and mind were mostly focused on the male hand that had instinctively been placed protectively on your thigh while braking. Michael unfastened his seatbelt and leaned closer when he didn't get an answer.

”Uh, yeah…” your eyes now focused on his light, green, worried eyes.

You just stared. You didn't mean to, but you didn't make an effort to look away either. He had gotten so close. His left hand was on your upper arm in a protective manner, and his face was just inches away from yours. You didn't mean to stare, and you most definitely didn't mean for your eyes to briefly flicker down to look at his lips. He noticed. He must have noticed given the way you were both so focused on each other.

”Wa-", you began, but didn't finish the sentence. To be honest, you couldn't even remember what you were about to say. Your eyes flickered down again, when your vocal cords failed you.

‘Shit!’ Your mind blasted out inside your own head, but Michael didn’t pull away, or look alarmed. If anything, his brow furrowed deeper, all the while he was trying to calm his own breath. After a couple more sharp exhales his grip on your arm tightened, and he pressed his lips to yours quickly, as if he was taking a running start. You kissed back automatically before you even registered what was happening. You tensed up and felt Michael’s grip loosen as if to retreat. 'No no no', you were not gonna lose this moment. No way. To signal that you were on board with what was happening you brought your hand up to his neck. ‘He can't stop now’, you were aching for him to continue touching you.

He got more involved in the kiss in response, and your other hand found its way up to the back of his neck too. The hand that had previously resided firmly on your arm now fell to your thigh and snaked its way to the back of your knees, pulling you closer still. Your voice had given up any sort of attempt of self control, and a short moan escaped your lips. The man reacted to your premature excitement and his right hand fumbled to find your seat belt button. In a surprisingly smooth motion for the situation being, he simultaneously pushed his own seat back from the steering wheel, and pulled you onto his lap as soon as the belt let go of you. Both your hands braced against Michael's chest, while his own hands pressed into your sides. Your fingers curled to grip his shirt, and his fingers mimicked yours by curling too, his nails digging into you. You could feel your pulse going crazy. Michael's heartbeat was probably also going off the rails, because he lifted you off of him a couple of inches so that he could grow more comfortably in his pants. He looked you deep in your eyes the entire time and let out a lengthy exhale.

“Girl, I don't even know what to do with you.”

He grabbed your ass to grind you into him. You let yourself angle your head back in reaction to your core finally being stimulated, and Michael straightened up his upper body to nibble at your neck. You helped him by moving your own hips along with the rhythm, but his hands still stayed firmly on your ass. When you couldn't take it anymore, you reached down to unclasp his belt, but your fingers fumbled more than you intended. You hadn't noticed how much you were shaking in excitement before now.

The stranger turned lover stared into your eyes patiently while you unbuttoned his jeans, but as soon as you managed to slide them down his thighs he pressed you hard against him, almost as hard as he pressed your lips together. Your underwear starting to become soaked from the thought of what was to come. Michael shifted his underwear down to meet his jeans. His hands couldn't decide where to rest, alternating between your hips, your chest, and your neck.

When focusing on your hips, his fingers on one hand slid up ever so slightly underneath the hem of your underwear, and his touch left you grinding harder into his thigh. You could tell that Michael knew how wet you were, your panties practically gliding around. His fingers found your hemline once more, and he slowly let his fingers follow the leg seam downwards. He let two fingers slip between you and the fabric to rest right outside your entrance for what felt like several minutes, but then inserted them forcefully when your whimpers became more desperate. He groaned too, from getting to feel you from the inside and knowing what pleasures it gave you. As if this didn't feel explosive enough already, his thumb joined his other fingers and circled your clit carefully.

You felt your cheeks turn red from the blood rushing fast through your body. Feeling sparks in your lower stomach already was not something you anticipated. Michael seemed to understand though, because he stilled you from assisting his fingers’ movement. He had stopped his movements too to make sure you would focus on his face. The look of his eyes as he kept them locked on yours was piercing and the icy-ness of it felt amazing on your hot cheeks. He held one hand deep inside of you, and the other on his own throbbing organ. He slowly replaced his two fingers with his cock, letting you get used to him gradually. You sank down, and the pain of stretching was miniscule compared to all the pleasure in the air. Once Michael was sure that you were comfortable with him, he elevated his hips just enough to push your limits. He finally let out a well kept-in moan. The subtle hip movements turned more and more intense until the point where you could tell you would end up with leg cramps in a few hours. The car wasn’t gigantic by any means, but you found ways to make do. With your hands behind your back, you could hold onto the steering wheel for support, with the added benefit of letting Michael’s hands roam over your torso freely.

Eyes watering, heart pumping, and legs trembling, you could feel your orgasm coming closer. Both your moans blended together into an audible mess as the electric pulses took over your body. After your release, your body relaxed heavy against the steering wheel.

A long, loud honk sounded out before you could get the chance to lift yourself off in horror. ‘Oh shit.’ The motion of lifting yourself off and plopping down in the passenger seat again wasn’t graceful, but it was at least fairly quick. You sat paralyzed holding onto your seat as a dog barked loudly at the sudden interruption of the usual peace and quiet. A lamp lit up in a house a few hundred yards away. It took a minute, but Michael finally chuckled - his hands rubbing his face. You cracked a smile too, but your stiffened posture would take a few minutes to get rid of. Michael clearly had a more easily relaxed personality than you.

The back of his head lay on the head rest, and he let it fall to one side to turn towards you. The same all-too-humored look that he had when you missed the bus was painted over his face. He didn't say anything, and neither did you. Words didn't really help in this predicament. He just pulled his pants up to waist level again and turned the car keys. You two drove in silence the few minutes left to reach campus grounds.

He crawled to a stop outside of the main dorms, and turned his head lazily again. You had quickly gathered your stuff in your hands as he pulled in, and you got out the second the car stopped.

“Well, uh… Thanks for the ride”, you said politely.

“You’re welcome”, he replied just as politely, and with a rare sincerity.

You raised your palm up in a subdued goodbye as you took a few steps backwards, and then turned around to walk away. Your shoes on the asphalt click-clacked loudly in the silent summer night. You reached for the door handle, the cool metal feeling sobering in your grip.

“HEY!” a word sliced through the silence.

You spun around on your toes quickly.

“Hey girl!” Michael continued when he knew he had your attention. He was leaning out the rolled down window again.

“I know where you live!” The grin on his face almost bursting by the seams.

A huge smile immediately spread across your face too.

ifwallscouldtalkkkk MASTERLIST

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[tinyyoungblood]

midnight in prague | tom holland

summary: you play MJ in far from home and when filming gets too stressful, you and tom sneak off from set to explore the city of prague at night while also talking about the idea of running away together

pairing: tom holland x actress!reader

word count: 1.9 k

warnings: a bit angsty but mainly fluff, one (1) violent metaphor, language 

a/n: i highly recommend listening to the song, it’s absolutely beautiful, sets the mood and inspired this story. used some of the lyrics as dialogue. enjoy! 

song/inspo: Canada (ft. Alessia Cara) by Lauv

↳ masterlist

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“That’s a wrap, guys!” The crew cheered weakly, lacking the usual enthusiasm. Not moving from your spot, you meekly pumped your fist in the air in mute joy. To say you were exhausted wasn’t just an understatement, it was a big truck that rammed and then dragged you through the empty streets of Prague. You’ve been up since 9 am and the enormous clock, that had surely become the focal point for everybody, almost signaled three hours after midnight.

Your scene partner was even more drained than you. Tom was barely twitching a limb—only a hollow shell, containing the last remains of his wiped-out energy.

With his head rested on yours, you believed he was dead asleep and lightly poked his side to wake him up. But he only reached out and held your hand in a loose grip, arms dangling between your bodies. “I’m awake,” he murmured, and you were sure he was talking in his sleep.

“Tommy, wake up,” you said gently and wrapped your arms around his torso, letting him engulf you in a warm hug but he didn't budge, “You’re compressing my brain, Tom.”

Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes fluttering open to scan your face but only a second later did he realize that insomnia had caused him to believe your teasing for once. You couldn’t help but pout at the prominent exhaustion on his face. Footsteps on cobblestone and the movement of heavy filming gadgets made up your surroundings but you focused solely on Tom and the guilty look on his face. No words were needed for you to know that he was still sorry for something that he had no control over.

It wasn’t his fault that the weather conditions pushed the night shootings back and it certainly wasn’t his fault that cars were constantly driving over the bridge that you were filming at, forcing you to quickly jump to the side, only to shuffle right back to restart the scene.

But this was Prague and he was Tom. Much like his character, he had thoroughly planned a romantic trip for both of you and after weeks of gushing about it, he was sure he could make it work but something would always come up and push his plans into hopelessness.

At this point, he had accepted his fate but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t sad every time he looked at you and mad every time somebody said “action”. He loved his job and was forever grateful but for fuck’s sake, was it too much to ask for to spend some alone time with his girlfriend?

Just when he was about to open his mouth to apologize to you, you locked his lips with yours and he melted into the kiss, tense shoulders dropping. Releasing his lips with a soft plop, he sighed with a small smile, but his eyes still held sadness. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that the others were already walking toward the van to drive back to the hotel to fall into a restless sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to let Tom go to bed like this.

Your mind flicked to back home where you had naively envisioned your trip to Europe to be completely different—free and without a care in the world. You knew you were here for work, but you didn’t expect to have this many obligations that added to the constant pressure of having to deliver the perfect scenes. The world was counting on you to not fuck this up.

You sighed and looked down at the river. The water reflected the vibrant yellow streetlights and brought you a sense of much-needed peace and tranquillity. Tom watched you curiously as your eyes marveled at the scenery.

Your head whipped back to him and now you were beaming at him, a glimpse of mischief dancing in your eyes. “Let’s get out of here.” Tom blankly stared at you and blinked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “What?”

“I’m saying,” you dragged out and let go of his torso to swing his arms excitedly from side to side, he squeezed your hand, “this is our last night in Prague! We’ve been looking forward to this for the longest time, do you really want to miss it? Come on, we can sleep on the plane tomorrow. Let’s be carefree for once.” Your soul was fueled with sparkling joy and you forgot about your exhaustion. “Let’s be free.”

Tom took a second to contemplate your words before a wide grin broke out on his face and he nodded eagerly, surrendering to bliss. “God, I’m obsessed with your brain sometimes.”

With your hand still in his, you pulled him with you, excitement shimmering. Crossing the Charles Bridge, the two of you slipped away and entered the night you had dreamed of.

Golden lanterns on the side of the houses marked hidden but absolutely breathtaking alleys and for the first time on this trip, it was quiet and serene. Your eyes couldn’t stop darting everywhere, taking it all in with the deepest admiration. It was like you were falling in love with the whole world.

You had a bounce to your step and Tom couldn’t contain his bubbly feelings at the sight of you. He didn’t really understand what switch of yours was suddenly flicked for your spirits to fly this high, but he didn’t need to. He missed spending time with you. Back in the States, both of your schedules were packed and barely allowed a fleeting glimpse but now, the girl of his dreams was buzzing with happiness while the streetlights highlighted her glowing face and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t treasure every moment.

The darkness made the town appear like a secret fairytale village with its colorful houses and narrow passages. Your soft chatter lingered in the warm summer air and every time a giggle left your lips Tom’s heart filled with more love for you, warming him from within. With his adoring gaze, he spun you around. Your dress flying up and you stretched your arms upward, enjoying the carefreeness with a broad smile. You felt like you were floating, feet barely touching the ground as the both of you were dancing to no music.

Drunk with happiness, both of you laughed as Tom pressed your back against a wall. With his hands caressing your hips and your foreheads pressed against each other, your heart throbbed with profound joy, something you haven’t felt in a while.

Adrenaline and happiness consumed you, so much of it that you nearly forgot to breathe but you didn’t need to as Tom’s lips were already on yours. You pushed off the wall, sealing the tiny space between you and he deepened the kiss. Your heart almost broke with joy. Pulling apart, it left you breathless again and you were certain nothing could ever wipe off the stupid grin on your faces.

Arms swinging, the two of you continued your fairytale walk and ended up at the Charles bridge again where you had started off the night. Still high on emotions, Tom pulled you with him as he swung his legs over the rim of the bridge and gestured for you to follow. You didn’t hesitate and sat next to him, legs dangling over the river. You rested your head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around your small frame as you overlooked the sight in front of you.

Your voice was delicate as you spoke, cautioning into the silence, “I really needed this. It's almost like I've been stuck at home forever.” Tom was playing with strands of your hair and you knew he was deep in thoughts.

Again, you watched the dancing streetlights reflection on the water surface but this time it didn’t bring you peace. You had your night and that was all you wanted. So why did you feel a pinch of sadness at the simple thought of heading to the hotel, settling into your bed and calling it a night. You didn’t want this night to end and you knew Tom also dreaded having to end this feeling.

So the question he asked next wasn’t a surprise to you in the slightest—it resonated with you.

“What if we move to Canada?”

He sounded hopeful. Musing about taking on the world in a different way than you both already did but he knew you two were in no position to be bold and just not give a damn. It was neither in his nor your power to be selfish. A sudden breeze left goosebumps on your exposed skin, but he dreamingly gazed at you with vulnerable eyes and you let yourself dream with him.

“We could bring Tessa,” you voiced, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “And your paintbrush and some candy,” Tom added, and awe transformed your face, eyes lighting up.

“I guess we’re lucky that we don’t need much outside of us, do we?” You chuckled softly and he shook his head with a sad smile on his face. He took your hand in his and started to play with your fingers, eyes looking heavenward. For the first time tonight, you noticed the endless stars sparkling from above.

“You know, when we film those movies...” He licked his lips and your gaze darted to his hesitant face. You weren’t sure if tears were brimming his eyes or if they reflected the deep water but they were glistening and you squeezed his hand to remind him that you were there. “...When they talk about those people in the movies who up and leave, I always think about how that could be us.”

He looked down at you, hands tightening around yours and now you were sure those were tears shimmering in his eyes. “That could be you and me.”

You didn’t answer and he didn’t need you to.

Both of you knew this wasn’t the heat of the moment talking. ‘Let’s get away from here and do our own thing’ wasn’t an option for any of you. Your thing was acting, you loved it from the bottom of your heart, and you wouldn’t be completed without that passion in your life and Tom—Tom was Spider-Man. Arguably one of the most recognizable cinematic characters in the world. Besides the fact that he couldn’t just quit, he didn’t want to either.

This was the life that you both chose. Unforgettable memories, unconditional support and overwhelming opportunities. There were also hours of press tours, draining interviews and nerve-wracking red carpets.

Your heart rate picked up at the single thought of it all but if tonight had taught you anything, it had taught you something deeply beautiful. Amid the chaos and pressure, amid the glamour and blessings, all you needed in the end was Tom by your side. He was the reason why you soared your highest heights and he was your support system when you plunged to the deepest depths. Gratitude flowed through you.

Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, letting it linger for a moment before you nuzzled your head back into the crook of his neck—brown eyes never leaving you. He returned the gesture by leaving a gentle kiss on top of your head, before resting his own on yours, pressing you closer into his body with a content sigh.

We are lucky that we don't need much outside of us.

* * *

wrote this at 5 am so it might be extra cheesy but i’m still too sleep-deprived to tell lol. i appreciate the hell out of feedback so feel free to leave me some and if you don’t, that’s okay too. thank u for reading, buh-bye! x

masterlist

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