enchantedinfinity

Latest Posts by enchantedinfinity

this series was so good!!

FINAL ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, fluff, sssmmmmmuuuut (fingering, oral fem receiving, p-in-v unprotected (do not follow their footsteps) you get the idea), mentions of staples in head. 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god. also i didn’t feel like waiting until 6pm est to post this so here’s an early last chapter? happy friday? sorry if there’s mistakes alright godspeed.

WORD COUNT 10.4k. alright. no one say anything. it was originally around 5k but like the ptputss final chapter, i couldn't let that happen. hope you enjoy this scrap.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER motion picture soundtrack by radiohead

Sarah is usually a pretty good roommate.

Despite growing up with cleaning services and maids and private chefs, she's always done a good job at tidying up after herself. Dishes are rarely left in the sink (you two normally have a truce of doing the dishes the morning after a night out, rather than dealing with them in your drunken splendor), communal spaces such as the kitchen, living room, and bathroom are, for the most part, always crumb-free and organized, and you'll even take turns cooking for each other on occasion. The two of you have fallen into a nice routine in terms of sharing your own space.

However, Sarah has little to no concept of privacy.

Especially now, as she pounds on your door and yells your name as if there's a fire.

"Why the fuck are all the condoms all over the floor?!"

It takes you a full minute to realize what's going on, where you are, who you're with.

The sliver of sunrise pokes through your sheer curtains, audaciously shining into the room and into your eyes when you momentarily prop yourself up on your elbows and squint. You blink blearily as your senses slowly start to come back to you: the sunrise indicating an early morning, the lingering scent of your body wash littering your skin, the increments of knocking on your door, and the warmth of Rafe right beside you.

He stirs not only from Sarah's loud voice, but from your movement, and you watch him endearingly frown, eyes still screwed shut as he paws for you with the quietest groan, as if the notion of you being away from him in a time like this is offensive. Once his hands find your body, he's gripping whatever he feels first — in this instance, your lower hips — and curling his fingers into your flesh and pulling you tight against him, so tight that you're no longer propped up on your elbows and instead trapped in the confinements of his arms.

You blink from the jolting movement, heart skipping when he lazily slots a leg in between yours as if the gesture is second nature.

Sarah calls your name again.

"I don't care if you have someone in there!" She yells, slightly slurring as if she's just gotten in for the night (morning?). "If you don't answer in five seconds, I'm coming in."

You stiffen in Rafe's arms.

Fuck. Holy fuck.

You think for a brief second on the implications of her walking in right now, and seeing the two of you cozied beneath the sheets after months of telling her that he's the blueprint of a guy you'd never want to be with. A flicker of panic rises in your chest at the thought of seeing him, her fucking brother, laying in your bed like he was made to be here and, apparently, successfully scoring with the girl he's been talking to her about for ages.

The attempt to free yourself from his hold fails, and he only nuzzles further into you.

"Hey," you whisper hurriedly, "wake up."

"I can hear you!" Sarah accuses from the other side of the door. "Five, four-"

You pinch Rafe's abdomen, and your quest to see if he's ticklish falls short as he barely budges, instead humming low and baritone and un-fucking-fazed at the fact that his sister is about to walk in on you two right now. While you can practically hear your own heartbeat, you can feel his beating in a slow, syncopated rhythm, relaxed more than ever despite the premeditated headache you're both about to endure.

"Three!"

Rafe doesn't even open his eyes, using his other senses to simply feel you. He gently nudges his nose against your temple, inhaling deep as his lips find your hairline to press a morning kiss, and he does it delicately enough to avoid the area with the staples. Warm hands splay on your back and waist, mapping out the bareness of your skin and nimble fingers settling under your shirt as if he has every right (he does).

If your roommate (your friend, the sister of the guy you have in your bed right now) wasn't inducing a mild panic on your part, you'd surely swoon over the simple act.

"Two—"

"Sare," Rafe mutters and the baritone of his voice vibrates against your skin, loud enough to get the counting to suddenly stop. "'T's too early for this shit."

Utter silence from the other side of the door.

The implication almost makes you burst out laughing. Almost.

Because you think at how out of left field this must seem to her right now, especially if she hasn't been to bed yet and is coming down from her drunkenness and roll. The two of you have been M.I.A. all night, not even charging your phone and his being somewhere amongst the city in someone's back pocket, so you figure they've spent a long time trying to figure out where you went.

Also because it's Rafe. Her brother. Sleeping in your room after all this time of threatening him with death if he so much as looked at you wrong. Being in your sacred space that you only let few people enter. Staying together behind closed doors after she discovered enough condoms to last a lifetime littered across the floor.

Sarah doesn't even say anything, and instead you hear the bedroom door creak open.

You can't even look at her if you tried, because you're helplessly taut to Rafe with your face buried in the crook of his neck. You can't even turn and shoot her a sheepish look because he simply won't let you, he won't let go, simply holding onto the moment just a fraction longer. Not that you necessarily mind, because — for starters — you're comfortable and warm and he smells very nice, and you could really get used to waking up like this: pressed up to him and peppered with an influx of affection that you aren't sure you deserve.

All you can do is idly lay, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck as you can only imagine the look on her face as well as his. You can picture it: his lazy, shit eating grin and her furrowed brows and incessantly blinking eyes. The image only progresses in your mind when his hand rubs gently up and down your spine, but you figure it's less of an affectionate gesture and more as a possessive stake in his claim of you, almost to rub it in her face.

"Good mornin'," Rafe drawls out, as if he's taunting her. "Fun night?"

There are a few moments of silence between the siblings, and you can only roll your eyes at his proud demeanor. Prick.

She speaks probably after staring between you two for all this time. "What the fuck? I mean, like, what the fuck?"

He only hums, and when you try to turn over onto your back so you can look at your friend, he actually lets you. But not without his hand smushing between your back and the mattress, not that he necessarily seems to mind at all because he doesn't pull it away, nor does he remove his other hand that splays audaciously on your hip, nimble fingers skimming the waistband of your sleep shorts.

The look on Sarah's face is quite literally what you pictured: her brows furrowed yet eyes wide in disbelief, her hand still lingering on the doorknob as if she's been petrified at the sight before her. She's still in last night's outfit, hair a bit mussed and mascara shadowing the slight bags under her eyes, yet she looks more awake than ever as she blinks her gaze between you and her brother. Finally, her eyes settle on you.

Her words are immediate. "Did he pay you?"

Rafe snorts as you reach your arms up, stretching long like a cat and yawning as if you've worked a twelve hour shift. "Only offered to pay off her student loans, 's all."

Sarah narrows her eyes at her brother. "Shut up." Then, she looks back to you. "Did he?"

You find the gall to roll your eyes, even though your heart is racing and your expression is sheepish. "Is it that hard to believe?"

"Yes," she retorts instantly, apparently in the mood to deprecate her brother's dignity. "He's only been obsessed with you since move-in, and it's made him dumber than usual."

"I'm right here?"

Sarah ignores him completely. "I can't believe this is actually happening. I totally called it."

Your face flushes, and you're really, really grateful that you're not facing him right now.

Unfortunately, she’s right. Sarah has been (not) subtly rooting for you and her brother to get together ever since you first threw him a scowl, ever since Rafe’s brows flung high in surprise when you — instead of ogling and swooning over his introductory flirtation — simply looked him up and down, scoffed, and carried on with moving your stuff into the apartment, ever since Sarah doubled over laughing at her brother’s shocked expression. He obviously wasn’t used to that working, and she got the biggest kick out of your no-bullshit attitude.

Ever since that day, the very first time you and him met, Sarah’s been praying to all higher beings to get you two together.

When he’d leave a room, she’d raise her brows at you as if to say “So?” and your answer was always the same: an eye roll, a snort, and a “Yeah, right” that transcended time and space. When you dislocated your shoulder and were retelling the story later to all your friends, she asked three different times to clarify that it was Rafe — the guy you wouldn’t let touch you with so much as a breath — who carried and brought you to the ER (at the time you ignored the giant fucking grin she shot her brother, who glared at her to relax). Every single time the three of you ran errands or went out and about in the city, Sarah always accidentally asked you both to accompany her, telling you it slipped her mind that he was coming along.

Your answer was always the same, consisting either of an eye roll, a groan, a snide comment, or all of the above in one go. She knew that the possibility of you ever being with him was slim to none, yet always subconsciously rooted for the best case scenario for her brother, which would be ending up with a person like you.

So now, as she looks between you and him cuddled together in a way she never thought possible, it’s obvious to tell she is thoroughly confused, yet elated.

“Okay, well,” she starts, failing to suppress a giant grin, “next time you want to rob me and John B of all our condoms, just ask.”

God, if your face wasn’t burning before, it’s definitely on fire now.

“Yup, okay,” you say quickly, “thanks so much. See you later!”

Rafe laughs next to you as Sarah takes one last fleeting glance at the two of you, before slowly retreating from the room and closing the door behind her. From the hallway, she makes a noise of excitement, a squeal? Something along those lines, and you don’t have the vicinities to study the sound since she’s already gradually getting quieter, retreating to her room with a door slam.

Silence is met between you and him for a beat, two, three, before his thumb starts rubbing gentle circles on the bare skin of your hip, just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. It sends goosebumps shooting up your arm.

“Mornin’, Star,” Rafe muses low, almost cautiously.

You wait a few moments to look at him, letting your gaze linger on the door before slowly lulling your head to tilt towards him. The sight of his hair sticking up in a million different directions nearly makes you snort, but the noise dies in your throat when you really notice how pretty he is right now: bleary eyes, tousled hair, a smile so gentle it would’ve made your knees weak if you were standing. He’s so close, closer than ever, and with the rising sunlight backlighting his features, you wish you had the capacities to take a picture, to capture this moment and save it for the books.

Apparently, you stare for too long, because with each second passing, his smile augments.

It takes you a stupid amount of time to find your voice. “Hi.”

His gaze flickers up for a moment, to where the staples lay hidden in your hair. “How’s your head?”

You go to answer, you really do, but his arm that was trapped under your back is slithering itself out, and soon his hand comes up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers ghosting over your hairline with such delicacy that it short circuits your brain.

“Mhm?” He prompts again at your silence.

You blink stupidly. “T’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe doesn’t really like that answer. Well, you assume he doesn’t because he frowns, eyes lingering on the wound for a few moments longer before settling back into you, bright blues boring into yours with such unnerved intensity that you squirm. Instead of looking away, instead of rolling your eyes and settling on something else, you hold his gaze, and it never dawned on you how pretty his eyes really are, an alluring bright blue.

The words blurt before you can stop them.

“You still have me.” Your voice is impossibly quiet. “By the way.”

It's nothing fancy, no grandeur gesture or announcement. It's a soft spoken promise etched in the basking sunlight under lavender scented sheets, sheets that smell of him already. The words are simple, yet they hold a heavy insinuation about locked off parts of you, parts of you that you never let anyone see or feel or experience.

Yet it's how you say it, sweet and soft and laced with as much honey as a morning voice can have, but also firm and certain as if they hold their own, stand tall without a pillar as their foundation. Perhaps it's enough, at least for now, because even though it it isn't a monologue of any sorts, it's confirmation. It's hope.

Rafe swears he's never heard anything better.

His grin is lazy and relaxed, gaze soft and unnerved as he peers at you as if you've hung the stars yourself. His hands press a little firmer into your skin, simply relishing in the privilege to hold you, to feel you, to open yourself up to him as you never have with anyone before. An overwhelming sense of pride swells in his chest, of possession, because you're his. After what felt like a bedtime story, a far away fantasy, a dream, you're finally his.

His voice is saccharine. "Thank you, baby."

And the moment's ruined, at least the lovey-dovey part of it, because you can't help but scrunch your nose and feel your lip twitch at his words.

"Did you really just thank me?"

All he does is hum in affirmation, not even caring that you're practically laughing at him. He'll be fine if you jab at him until the end of time if it gets you to smile at him like this. The thought of forever with you makes his heart skip, and he attempts to mask it by leaning in, lowering his face into the crook of your neck and placing gentle kisses on your soft skin.

You feel a shiver up your spine as his fingers gently skim over the bare skin of your tummy at the same time he peppers kisses. "Sarah said since move in."

Another hum, and this time he's sucking a particularly sweet spot right under your jaw.

It makes you let out a low sigh, but you're not letting him distract you. "You've liked me since move in?"

I've loved you since move in, he almost says.

Instead, he settles on, yet, another hum.

Your hand flies to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the ends of his hair in a way that makes him emit a low groan. It's baritone against your vocal cord that sends warmth immediately to your core, the sensation of his body heat against yours, his lips, his nimble fingers, it's all too much, too teasing, too cruel if he still pushes you away with the fear of your injury.

"Rafe," you say in a hushed tone, embarrassed at how it's borderline a whine.

"Mhm?"

The vibration tickles your neck, and you attempt to hold onto your remaining piece of dignity as you manually shut your mouth to refrain from further humiliating yourself. Instead, you practically writhe beneath him, a hand coming up to grasp the back of his that shamelessly explores your stomach, squeezing once to emphasize your need without explicitly saying anything.

But, of course, Rafe isn't the type to let that slide.

You want to smack him when you feel him grin against your neck.

"You're insufferable," you manage to mumble.

He chuckles against your neck, low and audacious. "Sorry, baby." He doesn't sound the slightest bit apologetic. "What d'ya need?"

The words feel foreign on your tongue, words you've thought time and time again yet never had the gall to say, to speak into fruition, to submit to someone else in such a way.

"I want you."

The sigh that emits from him is guttural, deep from the back of his throat and almost needy at the sound of your words. It's dreamy, almost, as if you'd just set a nice, hot plate of his favorite meal right in front of him, ready to consume and exactly how he likes it. You figure he has been dreaming of this, dreaming of you beneath him and begging for him like a bitch in heat.

Rafe says your name almost painfully, his kisses and fondling coming to a halt.

But you groan, already knowing what he's about to say. "No. No, I literally feel fine."

He says your name again, almost in warning.

You ignore it. "It doesn't even hurt." It does a little. "Stop acting like I'm in a full body cast."

Rafe sighs gutturally, but not like before out of lust and instead out of annoyance, as if him withholding the act of sleeping with you is a giant inconvenience to him, especially when you try and push back. It's bad, really bad, timing, and sure you could wait a few days until he feels as though you're somewhat better, but, frankly, you don't want to. You assume he doesn't want to wait either, but is trying to be better, more gentlemanly with you.

You even go as far as throwing your dignity out the window.

"Please?"

The single word feels strange coming from you, as you've always hated the notion of begging for anything, especially for dick, and especially when the dick is attached to a guy like Rafe Cameron, a guy who's all flirt like it's a sport. And it's something he never hears from you, always double-taking when you add it to make sure he's heard you right.

But right now, he hears you loud and clear. And it kills him.

Rafe takes a beat, digesting the severity of your request and internally battling himself on the morality of the situation. Eventually, what feels like eons when in reality it's only been a minute, he pulls back from you, propping himself up on an elbow so he can stare down at you.

His eyes search yours for any uncertainty, any doubt or shroud of pain in your pretty features. But you give him nothing of the sorts, only peering up at him full blown with lust and need. You can tell he's thinking, the gears in his mind working overtime as he stares at you, eyes flickering from yours to the area with the staples.

"Here's the deal," he starts quietly, yet firm enough to get you nodding eagerly already. "I'm doing all the work."

You frown. "But—“

Immediately, his hand comes up to cover your mouth, palm pressing firmly to get you to shut up real quick. "No. You're gonna lay here and look pretty, and that's all you're going to do."

You're reluctant. You want to engage, to touch him freely, to be able to move to his mercy. You want to give back, to jerk him off and make him squirm just as he has to you, to love on him in the way he deserves for taking care of you all last night. The last thing you want to do here is lay still and offer nothing, not after what he's done for you, how he's made you feel in these past few hours, how he can make you feel from here on out.

It hardly seems fair to him. You're not concerned with yourself.

But all of that flies out the window when you feel him pressed against your thigh.

The breath nearly escapes from your lungs, your need suddenly tenfolds when you understand just how big he is, just how hard he is from a bit of kissing and folding from his end. You haven't even touched him yet, you've only simply said please, and he's ready for you yet patiently prolonging his need to check in on you.

"And at any point your head starts hurting," he continues nonchalantly as if his cock isn't pressing against you, "I'm stopping. Immediately. Understand?"

You blink at him, barely registering his words because you can't get over that this is happening.

"Star." A warning.

Stupidly, you find the ability to move again when you're nodding against his hand, anticipation bubbling in your stomach as your eyes meet. His brows are slightly furrowed in seriousness, blue eyes still bleary from just waking up. His hair, ridiculously, is still incredibly messy, yet as endearing as the sight is, you are seconds away from jumping his bones.

But you need to play this coy, need to behave so he'll indulge your (and his) wishes without any mishaps with your wound.

Rafe removes his hand. It sits idly on your ribcage.

"Words," he demands, fingers twitching with anticipation.

You nod anyway. "I understand." Your lips twitch. "Now, since I'm not allowed to move, can you kiss me or what?"

His mouth is on yours before you can even finish the sentence, and he swallows your words with a low mmrph, a hand teasing up your ribcage under your shirt to rest under the swell of your breast. Instantly, you're gripping his knuckles and moving his hand up so he can shamelessly fondle you where you want him to be, and at the feeling of his cool ring brushing over your nipple, you sigh into his mouth.

Rafe nearly reciprocates the sound, emitting a groan as he feels your hand leave his, instead bracing on the ridges of his abdomen and trailing down his shirt. It isn't until your fingers are skimming the waistband of his shorts where he's wincing, almost as if he's in pain.

"What'd I say, Star?"

You pout with faux innocence. "But I want to."

He nearly scoffs at you. "You'll have plenty of time for that later. For now, sit pretty and lemme eat you out, yeah?"

Your heart skips a beat as you try to rack your brain for the last time someone's eaten you out, more so the last time someone has offered to do so. The excitement outweighs the curiosity.

It's usually a pity reciprocation, as in you blow someone first, they eat you out after or the next time you see each other, or they don't even offer at all. You rarely even finish from it and have faked it more than once, but you know the stories surrounding Rafe Cameron. All of them say the same thing: he knows what he's doing. You're more than willing to find out.

"You want to?"

He scoffs again, nearly offended that you'd think he wouldn't want to. "Only been thinkin' about doin' so for ages."

His mouth is on yours again and you whine quietly, but it leaves as soon as it came before he's kissing your jaw, moving to your neck, descending down your body.

"Been wondering how you taste."

Biting a sweet spot on your neck.

"I think about you every fucking night."

Sucking one of your nipples through your sleep shirt.

"Fuck my hand to the thought of you 'til I'm seein' stars."

Kissing the flesh of your stomach as his fingers dangerously hook under your waistband. And from this angle with his face hovering at your hips, Rafe peers up at you, still searching for any uncertainty or flickers of pain.

"Can I, baby?" He asks, voice saccharine.

You're thrown for a loop, caught off guard by the obscenities of his comments (that you're not even sure he knew he made) that starkly contradict the softness of his tone asking for permission, peering up at you with a sliver of innocence that doesn't match the words he previously spoke, as if they were on his mind for ages, as if they were his second nature.

All you do is nod, blinking down at him.

He doesn’t like that. “Words.”

“Yes.” Your response is immediate. “Yours.”

Rafe lets out a shaky breath that tickles your stomach. “Gonna make me finish if you say stuff like that.”

“Isn’t that the plan?”

All he does is shake his head, shutting you up immediately when his fingers hook under the waistband of your sleep shorts and yank. Your breath hitches and, with a blink of an eye, you’re bare below the waist to him.

The shorts and underwear are thrown carelessly over his shoulder. “Plan is to fuck you right back to sleep,” he murmurs low, almost to himself as he stares at your cunt. “Sound good?”

His breath fanning over your core sends a chill down your spine, and you assume you’re glistening with need with the way his eyes almost darken at the sight of you, legs slowly spreading open and hooking over his shoulders as if you’ve done it a thousand times before. And he settled right in, one hand slithering up your chest to fondle your breast as the other ghosts over your cunt, his index and middle finger spreading you open achingly slow.

Your back arches. “Rafe.”

“Mhm?”

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, eyes glued to the way his fingers slowly disappear inside you.

You realize he’s not doing this to torture you, but to make himself actually believe this is happening, to soak in the moment that he’s been dreaming to experience. Here you are: cunt to the wind and begging for him, and he can’t get enough of it, of you. He’s seconds away from losing his mind, especially when you let out breathy moans when his fingers completely bury in you, curling in that sweet spot that has you whining so pretty he nearly finishes from the sound of it.

His eyes hungrily dart between his hand disappearing into you and your face, brows etched in pleasure and lips parted all hot and bothered. Slowly, so achingly slowly, Rafe pumps his fingers in and out, almost leaving your cunt entirely before slamming back in. His thumb, experimentally, rubs firm circles as to where he thinks your clit is.

He misses once, twice, but once he finds the spot that makes you let out a ragged moan, he doesn’t miss again.

A hand flies to his hair, tugging the messy strands harshly yet he pays no mind to it, completely and enamoringly bewitched to the sight of your glistening cunt taking his fingers so well, stretching open for him, inviting them with your warmth as if they were meant to stay buried in you. But he’s starting to get jealous of his hand, jealous of the way it gets to fuck you and his mouth doesn’t.

Without a word, Rafe lowers himself completely between your thighs.

His tongue feels like nothing you’ve experienced before as he eats you out like a man starving. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Selfishly, his fingers leave your cunt so his mouth can have you all to himself, groaning at the sweet taste of you as if it’s been paining him that he’s never gotten to taste you before. When his nose brushes your clit, you writhe pathetically beneath him, so much that his arm flies up to press down on your hip to stop you from moving, even though you continue to attempt fucking his face against his iron grip.

With a particularly firm brush of his nose against your clit, your hips practically buck up into him, and the coil gradually starts to build in your core.

“Fuck,” you breathily moan. "You're so— And I can't— You just— Fuck."

You sound like an idiot. A wriggling, babbling idiot as your mind tugs you in a million different directions, constantly distracted by his mouth, his moans, his fingers that re-enter your cunt and aid his tongue in a way that flips you sideways. You aren't sure what way is up right now, and your fruitless attempt to speak fails miserably, irrevocably rendering you speechless as the added combination of his mouth and fingers and thumb pressed firmly on your clit leave you moaning his name as if it's the only word you know.

His hips stutter into the mattress, both of you rutting like bitches in heat as he can tell you’re getting close. It’s all in the way you tug his hair a little tighter, arch your back a little higher, moan a little louder. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, a prayer, an incantation that renders you completely enamored with him, his touch, his mouth.

Especially when he groans into your cunt, the vibration only spurring you on further.

"Oh my god," Rafe murmurs into you, almost without meaning to. "You taste so sweet, Star."

All you can do in response is writhe, feeling the familiar coil start to build.

"Even better than I imagined," he rasps, inches from your cunt as he hovers for a moment, eyes darting between his hand fucking you and your face. Your head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of him, him, him. An unoccupied hand slithers up your ribcage under your shirt, reaching the swell of your breast and kneading the flesh. The ice sensation of his ring against your nipple only augments the pleasure.

And suddenly, it's bearing too much. His fingers plunging in and out, in and out, in and out, curling into the sweet spot inside your cunt over, and over, and over as his thumb presses firmly on your clit. It's the spot he hasn't missed since he found it, rubbing circles counterclockwise that make you practically see stars. His other hand pinching your nipple and shamelessly fondling the flesh as if he has every right (he does). His breathy moans fanning hot against your cunt as he stares abashedly.

"Never gonna get used to this," he curses, almost pained. "There isn't a fucking day that goes by where I don’t think about you."

The coil builds.

"You make me crazy and you don’t even know it. Wearin' my shirts thinking they were Sarah's, walking around in fucking nothing and lookin' like a fucking sin."

And builds.

He lets out a breath. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you like this, so fucking pretty underneath me."

And builds.

Rafe can tell, because you grip his hair a little harsher and grab the hand that's on your breast, almost as a way to ground yourself to the moment and make sure you don't fly away in pleasure. Your hips squirm and buck into his hand, chasing a high you can already tell is different from the rest. He's decided that you've never looked prettier: laying flush and moaning his name like a prayer.

It nearly snaps. "Rafe, you're— I'm gonna—"

"I know." His voice is saccharine. "Let me hear you, baby."

His mouth is back on your cunt, and the added sensation of his tongue aiding his fingers sends you over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing to your core and searing hot from the waist down. You come with a strangled moan, a sound that goes straight to his dick as his hips stutter into the mattress, lapping and suuuuuuuuucking the orgasm straight from you.

The low groan he emits vibrates your nerves as he eats you out as a starved man, the noises lewd and straight pornographic as you ride out your high against his face. Your hand that grips his hair is pushing him further into you, further burying his mouth into the spot you need him the most as he laps up every last drop. The act does little to faze him, instead spurring him on to moan into you, the sensation reverberating throughout your waist and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your legs shake around his head and your chest heaves when you slowly come down, blinking the white spots from your vision and, momentarily, coming back to earth. Rafe continues to lick and suck and clean you up, claiming every last drop as he's always thought about doing, mouth still buried between your thighs and even going as far as licking his fingers dry of you.

When he mouth eventually does leave you, he doesn't pull away without placing a chaste kiss over your swollen bud, moving to decorate your thighs in pretty purple hickies and kissing up your body, smoothing your shirt up past your ribcage to take a breast in his mouth. The sensitive bud has you subconsciously arching your back up into his touch, not even realizing you do it as you still fight to come back to earth from the stupidly earth-shattering orgasm.

Rafe eventually makes his way up to your neck, sucking a quick sweet spot before moving to your jaw, then finally your lips.

When you kiss him, the breath momentarily leaves your lungs as you taste yourself on his lips, dazedly smiling from the haze that he caused. Your hand paws at his chest, settling on the firmness of his abdomen before trailing lower, and lower until your fingers are dipping under the waistband of his shorts and boxers in the blink of an eye.

Before he can pull back like he did earlier, your fingers nimbly find the base of his cock and skim down his length as if you're admiring the topography of a map.

Rafe instantly folds.

"Shit," he mutters, a mix between a moan and a whine as he rests his cheek against yours. "You can't just—"

You squeeze his cock for emphasis, causing his hips to stutter forward.

Rafe curses. "Star, oh my fucking god, oh m- You can't keep touching me like that, holy shit."

Of course, you don't listen, and continue to slowly jerk him off. He lets you for a few moments, caught up in the sensation of how nice your fingers feel wrapped around him, thumb smearing the pre-cum from his tip down his length that nearly sends him over the edge. The indulgence lasts maybe fifteen seconds, perhaps twenty, before you're squeezing particularly hard again.

His hand grips your wrist instantly. "You— I can't— You've got to—"

"I gotta what?" You feign innocence, nearly grinning and how he groans in response. "I wanna make you feel good."

"Fuck, you are," he rasps as if it's been ripped from him. "You make me feel so good all the time, baby. You don't even know it."

Pride shamefully swells in your chest at the anecdote.

"Then let me right now," you practically purr. "Please?"

Rafe grips your wrist tighter, actually stopping your movements for real this time. "No."

"No?"

He scoffs, but it comes out shaky.

"I'm not finishing in my fucking pants the first time I'm with you."

He ends the sentence with your name, a word he rarely uses, yet a word that invokes a visceral reaction from you every time he does. It almost makes you whine, almost. Yet, you actually don't know if you do or not because you're so blinded by lust that he could be whispering the secrets of the universe and you'd have no idea. Revealing the ingredients to his famous chocolate chip cookies. Spilling confidential documents that contain the cure to immortality. You'd have no idea.

And you also have no idea where this newfound eagerness is coming from, knowing damn well you've never begged for dick in your entire life.

"Then be with me," you practically beseech. "I'm yours."

Rafe curses at your words, taking a beat, two, before pulling his head back to look at you, to really look at you, his pretty blues boring into yours that are so blown with lust they nearly look black. He searches your expression for any teasing regard, anything to make him think that you're just saying that to get laid.

But you're not. You're pulsing for him, heart beating in tandem with his as if you were made to sync up. The urge to arch into him, to forever be molded to the sculpture of his body, is so devastatingly strong that it nearly pains you. The realization is horrific enough, but you truthfully can't find the energy to care or dwell on the sanctions of your dignity as you peer up at him, certain and bleeding with need for him.

"Mine?" He asks, and the clarification is detrimental.

You oblige. "Yes."

His gaze flickers to the crown of your head, to the wound. "But—"

"We'll go slow," you assure instantly, cutting off what you know he's going to say. "I want you. I don't want to wait."

He's dreaming. He must be. Because how'd he get so lucky to have you underneath him telling him how much you want him? Touching him in a way he only fantasized about? Needing him in the same way he's needed you for a year? The second he's inside you, is he gonna wake up and realize it was all a figment of his imagination? Left to succumb to the hypocrisies of his mind and move back to square one?

How could you not be a dream? Especially when you look so pretty and sound so sweet and feel so heavenly?

Rafe would be stupid to say no since you asked so nice.

So when you tug at the end of his shirt, this time he doesn't second guess the implications of your intentions and aides your act, gripping his shirt by the collar and carelessly pulling it off. You take a long second to glance at his chest, chiseled and crafted by a higher being, before your fingers are back to his pants. When you slowly start to tug his shorts and boxers down, he lets you, eventually letting you get down to his pubic bone before he's leaning back to fully kick them off.

Shamelessly, you stare at his body fully bare to you, and you nearly scoff at the audacity of him actually having a big dick. It's one thing for a guy to act like he has one just for all that smack talk to fly out the window when it's revealed to be small, but it's a completely different thing when the dick matches the attitude. And for him, for Rafe Cameron, to be both a cocky prick who happens to be well endowed is perhaps one of the audacious things you can think of.

Although you barely have time to comment on his size before his hands are all over you again, pushing the material of your shirt up to your sternum until you eventually get the hint to slightly sit up so he can slide it up over your body. You hiss when your breasts are fully exposed to the cool air, and a flicker of excitement (nerves? Whatever it is) sparks when you realize you're both bare to each other, exposing one another to the simplest of vulnerabilities one can share.

"You're beautiful, Star," is all he says before his mouth is on yours.

You kiss him back and paw at his chest as if it's a lifeline, clawing to pull him closer as if he isn't already molded to your figure. He hovers over you and when his cock, hard and aching and beautiful, brushes against your hip, you both moan into each other's mouths, him from the sensation and you from the anticipation.

Rafe's breath hitches, and the air completely leaves his lungs when you wrap your hand around him again. But the way you grab his differs from before, as earlier you were firm and needy, whereas now you hold him delicately, a wordless promise that you’re ready for him, all of him, at any time.

His hand grabs the back of yours. “You okay?”

You nod immediately against his lips, heart racing as he guides your hand that’s holding him down, down, down until his length is slipping through your folds, and you swear that Rafe fucking shudders from the feel of it.

“Holy fuck.” His forehead gently rests against yours, staring down at your almost connected bodies. “I’m not even in you yet and you already feel so fucking nice.”

Your hips buck into him, eliciting a sharp breath from him. “Then be in me.” You hate how pathetic you sound. “Please.”

However, the words are music to his ears and he could bust right here and now from them. “You don’t need to beg, baby. I have you. Always will. I got you.”

His words are saccharine. Soft and delicate in a tone only reserved for you. It’s his version of a declaration of love, an indirect promise that he’ll be here, he’s it for you, he’s all you need. The words are full of life and hope, and you’re eternally grateful that he embraced your need instead of poking fun, and you realize it’s because he needs you just as bad as you need him in this given moment. He has no room to tease. Nor do you.

And when he does slip inside you, the feeling is indescribable.

Rafe’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever had. And he can definitely tell based on the sharp breath you take when he’s halfway in. Although he’s careful with you, gradually pushing in when you give him the green light and immediately stopping when you visibly react, and as much as you appreciate the time and care, it’s so achingly slow, so much slower than you need him to be and he’s teasing you without even realizing.

When he’s completely buried in you, pubic bone to pubic bone, you feel so irrevocably full in a way you never have had before. You can feel his cock twitch inside you when you moan into his mouth at the sensation of being completely succumbed to him, the feel of him, all of him everywhere at once.

“You okay?” His ask is immediate.

“Yes.” Your hands slither up his chest to grip his shoulders, to attempt to find something to ground yourself too. “Feel so full.”

He almost finishes just from that. Almost. And thank god he doesn’t.

“If you don’t start moving,” you shakily warn, “I’m gonna—”

You’re interrupted when Rafe rocks into you once, moving centimeters further into you before pulling out almost completely. You nearly curse at him again, yell at him for basically leaving your cunt until he’s thrusting back in faster than you anticipated. Your nails become talons in his shoulders, indenting crescent moons on his smooth skin and forever etching your mark, your claim.

“You’re gonna what?” His grin is wide and breath shaky, peering down at you with not only amusement, but pure admiration. “Kill me?”

“Shut up.”

Of course, he doesn’t. “You’re all talk, Star, you’ve been sayin’ that forever and you’ve never once tried.”

You moan when he buries in you deep, so deep, it brushes your cervix. “You’re—You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you let me fuck you nice.”

“Who said you do it nice—?”

The words are ripped from your throat when his thumb comes down to press on your clit, and the irony of that plus your previous words is comical. Especially when he grins so fucking wide that it sends you nearly into psychosis, arching your back to further press your chest to his.

He preens as his thumb rubs circles on your clit. “That qualify as nice?”

You want to kill him. You want to smack that stupid smile off his face. Yet you want to kiss him and yank him closer at the same time. The Jekyll and Hyde emotions make your brain feel all fuzzy, and for a moment, all you can respond with is a low moan, almost in annoyance yet dripping in pleasure. You can’t help it— he feels so fucking nice inside you, nicer than you’ve ever had before, rocking in and out of you as if it’s what he was put in this earth to do.

“You always this mouthy in bed?”

The attempt to keep your last shroud of dignity before he makes you a blabbering mess fails.

Rafe thrusts into you a little harder, a warning. “Always this mouthy with you.”

“How flattering.”

“Can’t help it, was made to worship you, baby.”

“Am I su-supposed to thank you?”

He grins at your stuttering, eyes shamelessly watching the way your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts. “A bit of appreciation would be nice.”

You hate that you’re getting close to finishing. In the time that you’ve known him, you’ve been building up walls and closing yourself off to the possibility of getting your heart broken by him. You told yourself that the day you let Rafe Cameron in is the day of rapture, of when all hell breaks loose, of when you finally lose your mind.

Yet his words, his touch, his pretty eyes: it’s all too much. The attention is too much, especially on your clit and how he manages to push himself deeper so delicately that it reaches regions unknown, hitting spots you didn’t think possible and rendering you speechless even further. You hate how he is fucking you nice.

“C’mon, Star,” Rafe muses low, yet there’s a slight strain to his voice that indicates he’s just as fucked out as you. “Tell me how good it feels.”

You don’t want to. You want him to eat that shit eating grin and, for once, be humbled. His ego is too big, too audacious, and you know that he’s only saying this because he knows it’s true, he knows how good it feels, he knows how badly you crave and respond to his touch. He only knows because he feels the same regarding you.

And for once in your life, you secede.

“Feels good.” You let your eyes flutter shut to try and mask your embarrassment. “Feels so good, Rafe.”

You hear him moan. His rhythm stuttering.

“But don’t let it get to your head,” you manage to add, nails scraping on his back as you feel a familiar jolt to your core.

“God, you’re a fucking dream,” he albeit whines, the teasing demeanor dropping immediately as he folds his cards to your hand. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

The coil builds in your lower stomach.

“You’re so— And I’ve been—” He’s a fucking mess, and you figure he’s close, too. “Fuck, you’re perfect, so tight, so warm, I’m— Shit, baby, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You’re right there with him, one hand scratching up his neck to grip at the ends of his grown hair, tugging like a bitch in heat to get his lips to hover over yours. And when he does, when Rafe’s mouth brushes yours, you yank him closer to kiss him as your orgasm builds. The kiss is barely a kiss as you both pant into each other’s mouths, breathy and needy and whining as the lewd noises coming from your connected bodies spurs you on further.

“Yours,” you manage shakily, orgasm moments away.

His is too. “Mine.”

And you both finish like that: needy and flush and pathetically encapsulated by the feeling of one another. Your nails indent crescent moons in the smoothness of his muscles, scratching fresh red marks along the porcelain skin while he moans pornographically into your mouth, brows pinched in pleasure as you feel him come hot spurts inside of you.

The intensity is tenfold from your earlier orgasm. It’s searing hot from the waist down plus the added sensation of him irrevocably filling you up in a way you didn’t know you craved until this very moment. Your back arrrrrches into his chest, to fit the mold of his body rocking ferociously into yours as your chests conduct heat from the friction. Your legs hook impossibly tight around his lower back, pulling him tighter than you thought possible by crossing your ankles and using that leverage to bring him closer, to bury him further into you.

The sound is obscene. The lewd noises coming from your simultaneous orgasms plus the shameful moans that escape both your lips. It’s filthy. Downright pathetic. Yet so utterly and completely unapologetic that you can’t find the capacities to care. You can’t even tell which way is up right now, hips bucking desperately into his to chase the high and relish in the feeling of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

Your ears have been ringing, body on the verge of floating, senses so incredibly dulled by the ferocity of your orgasm that you don’t realize he’s been speaking the whole time, riding out his high with his words that could come across as prayer.

“—love you, oh my— Never letting you go, never gonna fucking— Oh my god— Oh my— Can’t believe you’re mine, all mine, Star.”

“Yours,” you manage to repeat, breathy and moaning and so fucking pathetic. “All yours. Always.”

That just makes him whine into your mouth. Literally. His hips slam into you over and over and over as his cum gushes out of you and spills onto freshly washed sheets but you can’t find the gall to care, not when he feels this fucking good, not when you feel this fucking great, euphoric on the sensation of him surrounding you. He’s inside you. On top of you. All around you. It’s intoxicating yet alluring. You’re captivated, and your high has never hit harder.

You see white spots momentarily, all the bundle of nerves rushing south so quickly that you’re left with your brain as mush. Feeling your eyes roll back, your hips have a mind of their own as they rut in tandem with his, both of you riding out your highs together in solidarity as everything starts to numb.

Chest heaving, you slowly start to come down from the intensity as your vision slowly regenerates and your hands soon stop shaking. Your thighs, however, are a lost cause hooked around his waist, trembling and shaking his body with the ferocity. He comes down, too, thrusts gradually slowing down as he pumps the rest of his load into you, cum dribbling out of your cunt and down your thighs onto the lavender scented sheets now stained with him.

“Holy fuck,” he rasps when he stops moving, stops thrusting, stops coming, still buried to the hilt inside you.

His cheek is warm against yours. “That was… I’ve never.. You really…”

You’re a blabbering mess, that much is obvious, especially when the spots stop blurring your vision and your body stops trembling as much as before. And as if the moment couldn’t get intimate enough, his hand is leaving your clit (eliciting a low whine from you) and trailing up your stomach to your shoulder, skimming down your bicep and wrist to engulf your hand.

His fingers lace with yours like muscle memory, squeezing once, twice, three times.

It dawns on you right now, in this very moment, that he said that he loved you.

The words had been so sudden, came and went so quickly that you barely registered them in the moment as you were caught up with the intensity of your simultaneous orgasm. But you heard them, felt them roll off his tongue as if he’s been itching to say them for so long, with such ease to them that you figure it’s been sitting docile in his brain and waiting to be revealed.

But he doesn’t register them. Not outright, anyway, and you are thoroughly shocked at how easy you’re taking it.

Love has never come easy to you. Not until you met Sarah and your friends. Family weren’t reliable and home friends were caught in the past, so you’ve been reaching for a version of love you thought you deserved. But then you realized it’s more than blood and childhood obligations to tether yourself to, and more about connection, care, respect. Sarah and your friends made you come to that realization. Yet Rafe makes you believe them.

You’re about to say something, about to address the words and respond with something stupid.

But Rafe slowly pulls out of you, your combined fluids making an audacious mess at the action, as he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hand still laced in yours as if he’ll float away he lets go.

“Oh my fucking god,” he eventually curses, chest heaving. “I didn’t even use a condom.”

You can’t help but laugh. No, cackle.

Because that was the catalyst for the night’s mishap. You needed condoms, he left to get some, you fell in his absence, he discovered you too late. It was your attempt to be good, to be safe and responsible because you always are. But, of course, you were too caught up in the pleasantries of having him, needing him, craving him.

You squeeze his hand without meaning to. He doesn’t mind, lulling his head to the side to stare at your profile.

“So much for being careful,” you muse lightly, voice hoarse. “And so much for changing my sheets.”

You feel his bright blues boring into you as you stare at the ceiling. He boyishly laughs, a sound that is music to your ears as he squeezes your hand back in a way that makes your heart lurch, especially now that you know his true feelings, feelings he doesn’t realize he exposed in the heat of the moment.

“My bad, Star,” Rafe says with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. “I’ll make sure your sheets live to see another day.”

All you do is hum, feeling airy and spacey in the rising sunlight as his hand is warm in yours. When the mattress dips beside you, you don’t flinch or crack a joke or freeze, but rather lull your head to the side to invite him into your space.

And he accepts the invitation, propping himself up on his side to practically peer down at you, taking the hand that isn’t in yours to cradle your face so delicately, so carefully, that your heart skips a beat. Especially when his blues bore into your eyes and gaze on you with a softness that augments the lovey-dovey feeling that you so desperately hate.

“You okay?” He asks for the umpteenth time tonight.

You nod against his palm, figuring that being vulnerable couldn’t hurt. After all, he’s seen you naked and bleeding and crying and still hadn’t run away yet, so you assume that he’s in it to see all your faults, unfazed by the ugly parts of you that you rarely let people see.

“Yeah,” you murmur gently. “Are you?”

Rafe can’t help but snort at your concern. “Baby, I’m on fuckin’ cloud nine right now.”

You manage a grin.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he adds, leaning in before you can protest to place a soft chaste kiss on your lips. “Stay here and look pretty.”

He’s leaning back before you know it, hand leaving your face and body leaving your vicinity, the warmth leaving with him. You watch groggily as he slips his boxers back on (after standing idly for a moment to look and see where they went) and momentarily exiting your room. The first thought that comes to mind is that you should cover up, you should attempt to appear halfway decent before he comes back to try and gain back an ounce of your dignity.

But the urge never comes. You simply wait for him.

Rafe reappears seconds later, a warm damp towel between his fingers as he sits on the edge of the bed. Flinching when the towel meets your thighs, he cleans up what he can with the utmost delicacy that you’d think he’s handling fine china. And to him, he is.

When your eyelids hang heavy, you catch a glimpse of him smirking, almost to himself, as he finishes up wiping you clean.

You try to frown but you think it comes across as a smile. “What?”

All he does is hum gently. “Told you I’d fuck you back to sleep, that’s all,” he muses, clearly pleased with himself and your fucked our state.

“Rafe.”

“What? I’m a man of my word.”

When you try to stand on your own, he’s there to take place a guiding hand on your elbow, helping you find your footing like a baby fawn. Rafe grabs you your robe when you beckon for it, sliding over your body and maneuvering into the bathroom to use it and do a very, very quick version of your night routine (good morning, world). In the midst of you re-entering your bedroom, you find him just finishing up replacing the (now damp) fitted sheet with a clean (dry) one you had in the closet.

“Found a spare set,” is all he said about the matter, and instead helps you out of your robe to feel you bare again.

You crawl back into bed, nearly sighing at how inviting it is as you flip onto your back. Through sleepiness, you watch him make sure the towel and sheets are in your hamper before allowing himself to relax, wasting no time easing back into your bed and settling in next to you as if he was made to lay here, as if the mattress is already molded to his figure, as if you already haven’t designated that side of the bed to him anyway.

His hand slithers across your tummy, laying rest on your bare hip bone under the sheets and pulling you taut to him. You’re yanked away from your usual spot and held flush against his chest, inhaling his scent like a freak and letting the atmosphere lull you to sleep.

One of Rafe’s hands cradles the back of your head, the other tracing the vertebrae up and down your spine.

“Later,” he says after a long silence, “when we’re feeling okay, I’m taking you out.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You are?”

His response is immediate. “Yes. Dinner. Dessert. Fuckin’ go-kart for all I care. Whatever you want, Star. Wanna show you off ‘nd show everyone you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low and baritone and so casual as if it doesn’t rattle your brain.

Still, you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t remember you asking,” you tease, seconds away from sleep. “Is this your fool-proof flirting tactic in action?”

He snorts, and it makes his chest bump impossibly closer to yours. “My tactic wasn’t all that fool-proof. It took you a year to notice.”

You preen, even though he can’t see it. “Had to keep you humble, Cameron.”

Your voice is impossibly soft, so genuinely fucking happy that he can’t even poke fun. Not while you feel so nice in his arms, anyway.

“Mhm, Star,” he drawls out. “Speaking of humility, we’re adding a new law to the friend constitution.”

You already know where he’s going with this, and groan against the soft skin of his neck.

“Rafe—“

“No one is allowed to shower in extreme temperatures while a second party isn’t present,” he recites formally, not even bothering to apologize for cutting you off. “I’m proposing that at the next town meeting.”

You manage to roll your eyes. “That’s excessive.”

He probably senses it. “It’s necessary. Your injuries make up at least half the list.”

“Semantics.”

“Never leaving your side from now on,” he murmurs casually, “and if I do, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap.”

The thought pathetically excites you, biting your lip to suppress a wide grin that he wouldn’t even be able to see anyway. You smooth your fingers over his abdomen, simply taking a moment to appreciate the close proximity, how he opened his heart to you on a silver platter and irrevocably make him yours.

“That a promise?”

He hums, as if he has all the time in the world to indulge, as if it’s obvious that he’d be serious. You’re his now, how could you forget? Especially when his arms hold you close and his knee slots between your legs, latching to you, claiming you in a way no one ever has before. It’s absolutely intoxicating, thrilling, allured to his scent and his touch and him, him, him.

You think you love him. You’d be stupid not to.

And you think he has some sort of idea, especially when you subconsciously pull your head back to stare at him, heads sharing the same pillow and faces inches apart. You simply stare at him, admire the strength of his jaw and the slope of his nose, how his laugh lines are accentuated when he smiles in the slightest, the blue of his eyes boring into yours, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

This is how you come down: bones exhausted from the night before, mind turned to mush by the injury and how he’s made your head spin with every flirtatious comment, every confession, every genuine act of love, compassion, care. You fall asleep in his arms and he falls asleep in yours, lulled by the cadence of his heartbeat and his soft, sweet nothings.

You think you say you love him, you aren’t sure in your practically asleep state, but when he pulls you a fraction tighter in his sleep, you let yourself relax. You let yourself be loved by him.

salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes sorry for the LAME ending hope u enjoyed the series!!! thank you for all the support this has been super fun to write. also NOT CONDONING DRUG USE okay thanks!!!!

love frat rafe

thought i wouldn’t find out?

pairing. frat¡rafe && reader

content. fluff. suggestive content/thoughts. language. blood. violence(?)

summary. you’re the designated ‘frat girl’, but when rafe’s ‘brothers’ start getting too close, he’s gotta remind them who you belong to psa i have nooo clue about frats so i just used names i found on the internet (yes, i’m in college and still have no idea about them)

“so i told the idiots at kappa sigma that they can suck my dick! i’m not working with them for the annual formal, and if they wanna run their mouths to whoever the fuck’s in charge– i really don’t give a damn,” was the first thing you heard as you walked through the door of rafe’s frat house, pi kappa phi. him and some other ‘brothers’ were scattered about in their messy living room. it was friday afternoon, so they were all just hanging out before frats opened at 11pm. almost all of them had a beer in their hand, including rafe.

he turned once he heard the sound of the door, a smile subconsciously forming on his face.

“there’s my girl,” he said, moving his arm up, waiting for you to take your place next to him. his eyes panned over your body– cropped white t-shirt with a jean skirt, and some country looking belt that hung off you, proving it was just for looks– his eyes landed on the pack of beer in your hand. it was pretty customary for you to bring drinks for the weekends– not for the parties– just for him, and the other guys.

he rested his arm on the back of the couch, telling you to put it in the refrigerator– as if this wasn’t routine.

once you returned from the kitchen, you took your spot in his arm. he craned his head to give you a quick kiss on your cheek, moving his mouth to ghost over your ear.

“how you doin’ baby?,” his voice was low, almost slurring as if he was a bit tipsy– he wasn’t, you knew that he was just getting started.

“‘m good,” you nuzzled into his touch. after a long day of classes, rafe’s presence was calming. it grounded you in a way you craved throughout the stress of your day.

he continued to talk to the guys in the room, his fingers rubbing little circles into your soft shoulder with the hand that was slung around you. your head rested between his chest and the under part of his arm.

“be right back,” he said to the other guys, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek before wandering somewhere in the house.

you suddenly felt a lot of eyes on you. you were used to these guys, but something about this exact moment felt… uneasy. you didn’t make it known that you were slightly uncomfortable though. you knew who you were– you knew how crazy your boyfriend was. they wouldn’t try anything if they knew what was good for them.

“so, y/n… long day?,” jake asked with a smirk before taking a swig of his beer. you knew all of them– unfortunately– it’s not like they were all bad, just a majority. jake included. you tried to hide the discomfort in your face. you thought you were doing a good job…

“dude. what’re you doin’?,” cam butted in before you could answer– apparently your discomfort wasn’t that hidden. he was one of the only ones without a beer in his hand, and he was probably your favorite of the guys– besides rafe, of course. he was the nicest, and he never really made you feel out of place, or uncomfortable. he kept all the other guys in check when rafe was gone– mainly because he was rafe’s right hand man, and his best friend.

“jus’ askin’ pretty girl how her day was,” his smirk still glued to his face, turning from cam back to you, still awaiting your answer.

“cut it out jake,” his tone was serious. you just sat there awkwardly, but you wanted jake to know he didn’t bother you– even if he did.

“no, no cam… it’s fine,” you began, a fake smile on your face, “my day was long. jus’ happy to come home to rafe, y’know?”

jake was clearly tipsy, maybe even already drunk. that’s the only thing that would explain the next words that came out of his mouth.

“rafe… rafe is a little bitch. wouldn’t know a pretty girl like you if it hit him,” cam gave you a look– should i jump in?– you shook your head gently, intrigue plastered over your face. you wanted to see how far jake would go. the other guys surrounding him watched him with bated breath as if he was actually making a valid point. it almost made you laugh.

“bet he can’t even make ya cum… ya ever need a real man you come to me sweetheart,” the words made you cringe. did he really think shit like that would make you… what? swoon? cam’s jaw was slacked, in utter disbelief of what just came out of his ‘brother’s mouth. you went with it– kind of.

“well, jake that is a very kind offer, but i gotta tell ya…,” you stood up from the couch, moving toward the chair he was sat on. you leaned down, right in his face– close enough for him to not just hear the words you were about to say, but feel them too.

“you shouldn’t be concerned about me getting off. rafe’s got plenty of photo proof of that,” your smile was evil, challenging. just as you moved away from jake’s face, walking back to your spot on the couch, rafe reentered the room.

“what’d i miss?,” he was clueless, you knew cam would try and tell rafe, but you didn’t want to cause even more of a scene. you weren’t jake’s biggest fan, but the things rafe would to do him if he found out were… probably illegal. and it’s hard to run a frat from jail.

“not much,” you shrugged, plopping yourself back on the couch. the look on cam’s face was just pure confusion and shock. jake’s on the other hand… well, his was just shock. you smiled to yourself while rafe made his way to sit next to you.

—

the house had so many bodies, loud music, flashing lights that would make anyone’s head spin. you were currently fighting your way through the crowd of people to get to the bathroom. once you closed the door behind you the music was a little more muted, giving you some peace. not for long.

“so i told her– if she wants a real man she can come to me. probably come for me, too,” jake’s agitating laugh could be heard from the other side of the door.

“so she got all up in my face– hot as fuck– told me not to tell rafe. that i’d be hearing from her real soon,” whatever group of people he was talking to began ‘ooo’-ing and laughing. little did you know, cam was in that group– observing. you stayed in the bathroom until their voices faded away, giving you a clear to exit.

you needed to find rafe.

luckily, he hadn’t really moved from the spot you left him in, but once you saw rafe, cam came into view too.

cam was turned away from you. you could see rafe’s face, and he was furious. his face was basically turning red, jaw locked, eyes wide and narrowed at the same time. you watched his hold on his beer bottle tighten, knuckles turning white.

even over the noise in the house, you could hear the sound of rafe’s bottle thud against the counter, followed by a “fuck no. oh, he’s fucking dead. they’re all dead.” he was about to walk away, leaving cam to himself, before his eyes caught yours. suddenly, rafe was right in front of you– towering over you.

“we gotta talk,” was all that he said before grabbing your hand, and dragging you upstairs into his room. he closed the door behind him. most of the noise was muted now, giving you a chance to talk privately.

“what did cam tell you?,” you weren’t scared of rafe when he was like this, but you were still a little concerned. he looked like he could break just about any and every thing in his room right now.

usually rafe would play mind games– ask you what you thought cam told him– but he was in no mood right now.

"told me what that jackass jake said. ‘bout how i couldn’t make you cum?,” breathless laughs were breaking up his sentence, like he couldn’t believe what he had to repeat right now.

“told me what you said…,” he leaned toward you. you swallowed hard, big eyes looking up at him. you weren’t sure how he was going to take you basically telling jake that he had explicit photos of you on his phone.

“‘nd as hot as that was…,” he began, smirking spreading across his lips, “i gotta ask– why didn’t you tell me, babe?”

“‘s not a big deal, rafe. y’know how jake is…,” you started before he cut you off. backing away from you as if he was astonished by your answer.

“yeah. i do. that’s no excuse f’r him to say the shit he did, and then go around tellin’ people you’d actually leave me for him. actin’ like you’re gonna hook up with him behind my back,” how the fuck did he know about that?

“tryna tell people my girl would go anywhere near his tiny dick. it’s laughable,” he ran his palm over his mouth like he genuinely couldn’t stifle his laugh.

“rafe…”

“no, no. he wants to play that game? we can play that game,” suddenly he grabs your wrist again, dragging you downstairs. you didn’t know what he was doing, but before you could process anything he cut the music off. everyone in the house either complaining, or looking around confused. rafe’s loud voice was the next thing to reverberate through the house.

“HEY! LISTEN UP, ANYONE WHO DOESN’T LIVE HERE– TIME TO GET THE FUCK OUT! PARTY’S OVER, ALRIGHT?,” his voice boomed in your ear, making you flinch at first. after some frustrated groans, and some ‘what the fuck’s, people began to flood out of the house.

your confusion was evident, staring up at rafe– his hold on your wrist still there, but looser now.

“what’re you doing?,” you whispered to him, his eyes not moving from the crowd leaving the house.

“don’t worry ‘bout it, baby,” he mumbled back to you before walking away from you to close the door as the last few people trickled out.

“rafe, man– what the fuck?!,” jake was walking up to rafe like he was trying to intimidate him– obviously he wasn’t. the look on rafe’s face was lethal. all rafe’s ‘brothers’ gathered around him, everyone confused except cam. not that he knew what was going on, but he did know rafe, and whatever was going on wasn’t going to be pretty.

you were still stood where rafe left you– just a few steps behind him.

“my bad bro… jus’ got some things i wanna address,” rafe’s tone was dripping with sarcasm, and a sense of humor. jake tried not to seem worried, tried to have a poker face, but you could tell he was sweating under that dingy baseball cap.

“something so important you had to kick everyone out, bro?,” one of the other guys questioned. rafe didn’t answer, just gave him one look and the guy was backing off, hands up in surrender.

"jake… anything you wanna tell me? actually, anything any of you wanna tell me?,” rafe didn’t sound this serious most of the time, so the guy were rightfully scared– well, guys minus cam.

“man, i d’know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” jake tried to just shrug it off, make rafe think he was crazy for this.

“don’t know what i’m talkin’ about?,” rafe had that classic fake confusion on his face, walking closer to jake, getting in his face to utter his next words.

“just figured a real man would own up to what he did before i made him own up to it… take some responsibility y’know?,” he almost whispered. he squinted his eyes with a fake smile on his face. the whole room went deadly silent, and jake’s face was nothing short of entertaining.

"you are a real man, right? at least– that’s what you told my girl,” his aggravation was starting to break through his facade. jake just stood there– he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to come back from this.

"lemme ask you somethin’… how many people left this house tonight under the impression that my girlfriend was gonna hook up with you behind my back? hm?,” he was furious at this point. it was one thing to speak that way to you in the first place, but run around and lie? tell everyone rafe cameron couldn’t keep his girl satisfied? oh, his blood was boiling. you just stood still where you were. when rafe got like this there was no stopping him– it was no use, and you knew that.

jake was grasping at straws at this point, “listen man, i don’t know what y/n told you… but it’s a lie. okay? i didn’t say shit to her, rafe. and i didn’t say shit to anyone else.”

“jake… jakey boy! how stupid d’you think i am? you really thought i wouldn’t find out? as if the rest of this story wasn’t humiliating enough– i’m almost offended,” rafe had turned his back on him at this point, giving you that evil smirk one more time before quickly turning on his heel, and punching straight into jake’s nose.

a loud crack! sounded through the room, jake’s hand immediately coming to hold his bleeding– probably broken– nose, bending over in pain, droplets of blood hitting the floor. rafe leaned down to get on his level.

“get. the fuck. out. i see you anywhere near this house, myself, or my girl again. you’ll wish i had just killed you tonight,” he spoke quietly, but his message was clear as day. jake quickly exited the house, but not before muttering a quick ‘you’re fucking insane cameron’.

rafe shook his hand out, moving his fingers to combat the pain from direct contact with jake’s bone.

“oh, and just so everyone’s clear… i’m goin’ easy on those of you who let him say that shit– those of you who gassed him up after he said that nasty shit to y/n. you’re on thin ice, yeah? say shit like that to my girl again, and you’ll wish i only broke your nose.”

© 𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐆𝐅.   est. 2025

TAGS .ᐟ @yktayy9669 @drewsswifeyy @drewrry @frankoceanluvr11 @dearestmillls @icaqttt @lynoriax @hpboysslut2707 @stoned-writer @angvl3tears

The Sound of My Voice

Based off this request:

Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.

Word count: 2.2k

Content warning: cursing, mentions of smoking.

Y/N arrived at the festival grounds at 12:17 PM, her right hand gripping a paper cup filled with black coffee, her left clutching a crumpled setlist. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt, the temperature hovering around 95°F. Roadies, their shirts drenched in sweat, darted between stages. Multiple soundchecks filled the air with a mix of drum beats, guitar riffs, and microphone feedback.

Y/N's gaze fixed on the large LED schedule board. Her name appeared in bold letters, slotted for 8:45 PM - her debut as a solo act at a major festival. The sight of it twisted her stomach into knots. She took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

A woman in a black polo shirt with 'STAFF' emblazoned on the back approached, her brunette hair escaping a messy ponytail. "There's been a cancellation," she said, her voice strained. "The headliner dropped out. We're scrambling for a replacement."

Y/N nodded, her eyes scanning the festival grounds. Technicians scurried about, carrying cables and equipment. A forklift beeped as it backed up, hauling speaker stacks. She took another sip of coffee, the liquid now lukewarm.

"We're thinking of a reunion set," the staff member continued, her tone shifting to excitement. "Your old band. The demand is insane. It would be—"

Coffee sprayed from Y/N's mouth, droplets splattering the asphalt. "What?" She coughed, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

"It makes perfect sense," the woman pressed on, oblivious to Y/N's reaction. She counted off on her fingers. "You're all here. Your solo slot could be expanded. It'd be—"

"No," Y/N said immediately, and the word cut through the air. "Not possible."

She felt the pressure building behind her eyes, the past unraveling around her, an old wound reopening. She saw them on the schedule all lined up after her, the names like ghosts, haunting the crisp paper. Her certainty wavered as the whole situation unfolded in her mind. Sarah, Mitch, and most of all—

Harry.

His name sent her emotions spiraling. He was the reason. The fight. The chaos. The way everything fell apart in the end. Now, he was here, and the shock of it ran through her like lightning. She'd been so wrapped up in her nerves, so focused on taking this next step alone, that she hadn't even considered that they might be at the same festival. She'd thought there would be space, distance, time before she'd have to face them again.

The organizer was still talking, but Y/N couldn't hear her anymore. She was already being pulled back to that last fight, when everything they'd built had crumbled. A hotel room, voices raised until past midnight, until they couldn't shout anymore and were left staring at each other in silence and exhaustion.

Sarah and Mitch smashing through the minibar. Harry outside smoking.

She remembered the click of the door as she left.

She hadn't laid eyes on him since the band fell apart, since they both fell apart. That night, everything crumbled in a fight that left words suspended in the air like haunting echoes. The organizer continued, "It's a logistical miracle, honestly. The others already agreed. We just need you."

The dressing room's walls closed in. Y/N perched on the worn velvet couch, arms crossed. Mitch's tousled hair bobbed as he grinned. Sarah's laughter rang out. Adam, the once-temporary guitarist now a fixture, leaned against the wall. Their voices intertwined, swapping stories of wild nights and tour mishaps. The air reeked of sweat and anticipation.

Y/N's stomach churned. Her bandmates' easy rapport grated on her nerves. She glanced at Harry, who stood in the corner, silent and brooding. His presence set her teeth on edge.

"Remember that time in Denver?" Mitch said, eyes gleaming. "When Sarah accidentally set off the fire alarm?"

Sarah snorted. "God, don't remind me. We had to evacuate the entire hotel at 3 AM."

"In our pajamas," Adam added, smirking.

Y/N's fingernails dug into her palms. The memories flooded back - not just the good times, but the bitter arguments, the sleepless nights, the crushing pressure. She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"I need some air," she muttered, pushing past Harry to reach the door.

The hallway stretched before her, a cacophony of sound and movement. Roadies hauled equipment. A guitar tech tuned an instrument nearby, the notes discordant and jarring. Y/N leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

The door creaked open behind her. Harry stepped out, his imposing frame filling the doorway. Y/N's heart raced. She turned, meeting his gaze.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Y/N's throat tightened. "Fine," she spat. "Just peachy."

Harry's jaw clenched. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Look, I know this isn't ideal-"

"Ideal?" Y/N scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"We need to make this work," Harry said, running a hand through his messy curls. "For the fans, if nothing else."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend you care about the fans. This is about your ego, same as always."

Harry's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth to retort, but a stagehand interrupted.

"Five minutes to showtime," she called, hurrying past.

Y/N and Harry locked eyes, the tension between them electric. Without a word, they turned and walked back into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind them.

But today, everything was different.

Because Harry was here.

His presence electrified the air, making Y/N's heart race and the small room feel claustrophobic. They hadn't spoken a word to each other. Across the room, she felt him tuning his guitar, tension visible in his rigid posture. The space between them was thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. They both pretended this was an ordinary gig, but beneath the surface, they knew there was a sea of unfinished business.

"Alright," Mitch clapped his hands together. "Setlist. What are we doing?”

They tossed around some ideas, including the obvious hits that still got radio play. For a while, it felt safe. Easy.

Then Adam mentioned the song.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. In her peripheral vision, she saw Harry shift, heard his soft exhale.

Unspoken yet understood, it hung in the air like a shared secret. The song wasn't just a melody; it was their anthem, born from the chaos of their lives.

Harry finally broke the tense silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't have to do that one," he said, the words heavy with an unspoken tension.

Y/N's head jerked up in surprise. It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and his tone sent a jolt through her chest.

Sarah interjected, her gaze darting between them. "It's what the crowd wants," she asserted, her voice unwavering.

Harry remained mute, the weight of his silence hanging thick in the air.

Y/N steeled herself, lifting her chin. "Fine," she declared, her voice edged with resolve. "Let's just get it over with."

The atmosphere was heavy as they began. Their initial try was a disaster. Mitch sighed. "Alright," he remarked, "that was terrible." Y/N buried her face in her hands.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "No shit."

The festival grounds were teeming with people—thousands of fans crammed against the sturdy barricades, their voices a deafening chorus of screams and songs, each one surrendering to the magic of the moment. Y/N stood under the intense stage lights, gripping the microphone tightly. She used to revel in this sensation, the electric energy coursing through the air, the exhilarating rush, the way the music drowned out everything else around her. But tonight, it was different. Because he was here.

Harry was just a few feet away, his guitar slung over his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like stepping back into this world was easy. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the tension between them, simmering beneath every note.

The first few songs went fine. They hit their cues. Their harmonies were technically perfect. They moved around the stage as they used to—carefully choreographed chaos. But there was distance. They didn't look at each other or acknowledge the weight of the past pressing against the present. The crowd loved it, but Y/N knew better—they weren't really performing together.

Y/N's pulse halted as a wave of recognition and excitement swept through the crowd, amplifying the noise. She instinctively turned her head towards Harry on the other side of the stage who was already watching her—their eyes met for the first time that night.

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words. A mutual understanding was there, along with a disquieting dread. Yet, beneath it all, an unshakeable yearning existed, a pull that was both comforting and terrifying. The cheers became a distant hum as she tightened her grip on the mic. The opening notes hung in the air, sharp and clear. There was no turning back now.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a steady breath. This is just a performance. Just another song.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been just a song.

The first verse was hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the words settle on her tongue before they escaped her lips.

“I told myself I’d be fine without you…” As she sang, the words felt like a shield, keeping him at bay.

Her voice cut through the noise with deliberate sharpness, each syllable carrying composure and defiance. There was a rawness she couldn’t hide, even though she tried to mask it with control. Yet within that steadiness lurked something else, something unrestrained and impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure if he could hear the truth under her voice, but she could. And it terrified her.

Harry’s fingers flexed over the guitar strings, his knuckles paling from exertion. He seemed to ground himself in the music as he came in on the next line, his voice low and measured, contrasting her tremulous tone.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care.” He sounded convincing enough. But she knew him too well. She knew how he sang when he was trying to believe his own lies.

She opened her eyes and for the first time all night, really looked at him—looked at him as if she could see past their constructed barriers. The moment held them captive, fragile yet fierce. Her heart pounded in her chest and throat like a tidal wave. The way his lips shaped the words as if he still felt them. His tense shoulders, as if holding something back. His eyes, dark and unreadable, burning into hers.

The air between them thickened, charged with raw emotion. Each lyric was a dagger from the past, every note a fresh wound ripped open anew. By the time they hit the chorus, restraint had vanished, leaving raw passion in its wake.

"You swore you’d never leave me— But I watched you walk away."

Propelled by an invisible force, Y/N surged forward, not even aware of her movement until she was right there, invading his space.

Harry stood his ground. His voice dropped to a deeper, more resonant timbre as he sang the next line, his gaze unrelenting.

"You said you’d never forget me— But I knew you would someday."

The words hit. Like a challenge, like an accusation, like something too real to be ignored. His intense stare made her breath hitch. Her conflicted expression caused his fingers to tighten around the guitar. The tension cracked, spilling into the next verse.

It wasn’t just a song anymore. It had transformed into a battle, a clash of wills wrapped in harmonies, cloaked in melodies of nostalgia. It seemed like something they could simply walk away from once the music stopped. But deep down, they both knew the truth. This confrontation wasn't over. It had never truly ended.

The song ended, but the intensity of the moment hung in the air. Y/N stood too close, breath ragged and quick, adrenaline surging like wildfire. The crowd's screams were a deafening roar that barely pierced her consciousness.

Because Harry was right there. His gaze met hers, eyes dark and unreadable, filled with an intensity she couldn't understand. His fingers clung to his guitar as if it were his only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

The silence between them stretched into tension, hanging for a fraction of a second too long before the next song erupted, a tidal wave of sound that forced them apart and broke the spell.

The rest of the set was a blur.

By the time they played the final song and took their bows, Y/N could barely remember a second of it.

All she knew was that she needed to get off this stage.

She turned the second the lights dimmed, ignoring Harry's hesitation before he followed.

The moment they were backstage—hidden from the crowd, away from the cameras—she whipped around.

“What the hell was that?”

Harry barely had time to stop before she was in front of him, eyes blazing.

He scoffed, yanking his guitar strap over his head. “You tell me.”

“Oh, don’t pull that shit.” She snapped. “You—”

“What, Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

Her heart pounded.

She didn’t know if it was from the show or him.

“You were looking at me like—like—”

“Like what?” His voice was lower now, rougher. He took a step closer. “Like I meant it?”

Her breath hitched.

Because he did.

And she did, too.

And that was the problem.

She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I did?”

“You sang that song like—”

“Like it was real?” His voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. “Because it was, Y/N. It still is.”

She felt it like a punch to the chest.

Anger, confusion, want.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

His expression flickered—just for a second—before he stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake it off.

“Right,” he muttered, voice hollow. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You pretend it never happened.”

Y/N’s hands clenched. “And what do you do, Harry? You throw it in my face? Make me relive it just so you don’t have to be the only one still stuck in the past?”

His eyes flashed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you actually faced it instead of running every damn time.”

She froze.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The tension was thick, suffocating, too much.

She could hear the others in the dressing room down the hall, feel reality creeping back in.

But in this moment, it was just them.

Same fight, different place.

Same pain, different years.

Silence fell between them.

There was nothing left to say.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Everyone tag me in angsty stories🙏🏼🙏🏼

me when I reach the angst part of the angsty fic that I specifically chose for the angst

brb. i have to reevaluate my life.

HELLO???

starting to think i have a type

unfortunately no one will top rafe cameron for me.

this man is taking over every fibre of my being and i HATE IT

i want control over my own mind again thanks!

the backwards hat is the best thing i’ve ever seen

Déjà vu II

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Warnings: 18+ / Smut

Description: Things get heated (due to backwards cap hotness) after the preseason game between the Bengals & Packers

Time/Place: August 11, 2023 / Cincinnati, Ohio

A/N: This is the follow-up to Déjà vu

Inspo pic: Getty Images (edit)

You lean against the wall in the stadium tunnel, waiting to give Joe a quick hug after the game before heading home. 36-19 had been the final score; it was the first preseason game, though, so no need to panic just yet.

You smile to yourself as you let your mind wander to earlier in the night; watching Joe put in work doing throwing drills and running wind sprints had everyone in high spirits. You could feel the collective sigh of relief from Bengals fans when they saw their QB1 looking so good just two weeks after the calf strain. Joe wasn't 100 percent yet, but he was getting better by the day.

Then later during the game you were hit with a sense of déjà vu watching Joe on the sideline looking like walking sex. Something about him wearing the earpiece and stalking around frustrated when the offense wasn't clicking was just hot as hell. The backwards cap was the cherry on the eye-candy sundae.

You're still contemplating that last thought as you raise your head and lock eyes with Joe striding toward you, still wearing the backwards cap that had you squirming in your seat all night. Your stomach does a somersault at the look on his face. "Hey," you greet him with a smile as he reaches you, grabbing your hand and pulling you deeper into the tunnel, giving you a wink when you raise your eyebrows at him. "Where are we going?" you mutter, your eyes going wide when he ushers you through the vast locker room and into one of the treatment rooms, the door barely shutting behind you before he's got you pressed against it. "Damn," you whisper, dropping your bag and sliding your hands up his muscular chest as his mouth captures yours, his hot tongue plunging inside to tangle with yours as you cling to his broad shoulders.

After a few minutes you finally come up for air. "Is the door locked?" you breathe, dropping a hand down to tease him through his slinky shorts. "No," he answers, "there's no lock on the door, but we've got about five minutes before a trainer comes in to do my treatment." You immediately snatch your hand away from his crotch and give him an exasperated look. "Five minutes?"

"Yeah," he chuckles, giving you a sheepish look just as someone knocks on the door. You grab your bag and step aside, smiling at the trainer who enters the room as soon as Joe opens the door.

"Oh sorry!" the trainer chirps, his face going crimson as he looks back and forth between you and Joe. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No problem," you soothe. "I was just leaving." You give Joe a smile and lean in close. "See you at home," you whisper. "Make sure to wear this backwards cap." You run a finger over the snapback strap adorning his forehead before heading for the door, throwing a quick glance over your shoulder as you walk out, the sight of Joe biting his plump bottom lip practically seared into your brain as you head for the exit.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

An hour later you're standing in your kitchen, freshly showered and wearing skimpy lace panties and one of Joe's t-shirts, your body humming with anticipation as you pour a glass of pinot noir and take a sip. You had nothing but water at the game, and you need just a little something to take the edge off as you wait for Joe to get home.

You open the fridge and pull out a bowl of red seedless grapes, tossing a couple in your mouth and damn near moaning at the combo of sweet, cold grapes chased with a swallow of lush, plummy wine. You repeat the action a few times before your ears perk up, your entire body reacting to the sound of Joe coming in the garage door.

He hits you with a panty-dropping grin when he rounds the corner. "I'm still wearing the backwards cap," he purrs, walking straight up to you as you offer him a grape. "Good boy," you praise, a pulse of arousal sizzling through you at the look in his eyes as he opens his mouth for you. "Mmmm, juicy," he moans, holding eye contact as you pop another grape in his mouth. "You got anything else juicy for me, baby girl?"

You can tell from the cadence of his speech and his body language that he still has some pent-up frustration from the game, from not being able to get on the field and unleash hell on the opponents. "Maybe," you tease, biting your lip and giving him a dirty grin as he backs you up against the kitchen island, his hands sneaking under your t-shirt to settle on your waist just as his mouth crashes down on yours.

A few minutes into making out -- with one of his big hands caressing your breasts and the other making a beeline for your crotch -- his phone rings, both of y'all going completely still as he breaks the intense kiss to glance at his phone. "Shit … it's Coach," he grumbles, nibbling on your neck as you take a deep breath. "You better answer it," you whisper. "He wouldn't be calling this late if it wasn't important." Joe nods and makes a stank face as he grabs his phone. "Hey Coach," he quips. "Yeah, I can talk for a bit," he continues, rolling his eyes dramatically.

You squirm out of his grasp and head for the stairs, giving him a loaded look just before you vanish out of sight. You walk through the master bedroom into the en suite bathroom, quickly splashing cold water on your face to cool down your heated skin; as you pat dry with a towel, you consider rubbing one out since you're frustrated as fuck and Joe's conversations with Coach Taylor usually last a while, especially if they're talking schemes and strategy.

You're still pondering the idea when Joe strides into the bathroom, his eyes locking onto yours in the mirror like a heat-seeking missile. "That was fast," you whisper, tossing the towel to the side as he walks up behind you. "I told him I'd talk to him tomorrow," he mutters, unclipping the clasp holding your hair up, burying his nose in your hair and taking a deep breath as it tumbles down over your shoulders.

He nestles his erection against your ass while making eye contact with you in the mirror. "Real subtle, babe," you chuckle, lifting your arms so he can slip your t-shirt off. "Do I need to be subtle?" he asks, the raw lust in his voice causing a gush of liquid heat between your thighs. "No, sir," you breathe, watching closely as he whips his t-shirt off, accidentally taking his cap with it. You bite your lip as he slowly reaches for the cap, running his long fingers through his tousled hair a few times before easing the backwards cap back on his head. "Now … where were we," he growls, his deep voice tickling your ear in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together to try and ease the relentless throbbing in your core; his hot gaze immediately flicks down to your crotch as he reads your body language. He licks his lips and lifts his gaze back up to yours, giving you a smile so dirty you feel it in every pleasure point in your body.

"What do you need?" he asks, lazily teasing your nipples while dropping open-mouthed kisses against your sensitive neck. "I need to cum," you grit out, squirming and whimpering as he continues to tease you. "I've been on the edge ever since I saw you in that damn backwards cap tonight."

"You like this look, huh?" he asks, checking his reflection in the mirror before spinning you around to face him. "I love that look," you whisper, your pulse kicking into overdrive as he drops to his knees at your feet, quickly sliding your soaked panties off before wrapping both hands around your waist to lift your ass onto the countertop. "How do you like this look?" he purrs, spreading your thighs wide and maintaining eye contact while licking a long stripe from your ass to your clit. "Yeah … don't stop!" you urge, leaning back against the mirror and resting your feet on his broad shoulders while he follows orders, devouring your clit and pistoning two fingers inside you, hitting your g-spot over and over until you come undone, your cries of pleasure still ringing in your ears a few minutes later as you gasp for breath.

He stands up when your core finally stops squeezing his fingers; he removes them and gives them a thorough suck, moaning deep in his throat when you clasp a hand behind his neck and pull his head down, licking your essence off of his lips before sucking his tongue into your mouth. "My dick is so hard I could hammer nails with it," he groans against your slick lips. "I got something else you can hammer," you purr, gasping when he quickly picks you up and spins you around, your feet barely touching the floor before he bends you over, shoves his shorts and underwear down and buries his cock in your slick heat.

You both groan as your core clamps down hard at the sudden intrusion; he holds himself completely still for several seconds, the sensual feel of his heartbeat throbbing deep inside you drawing a whine from your lips that immediately has him thrusting, shallow at first then full, deep thrusts. You rise up onto your tiptoes and grind back against him, your hard nipples tightening even more as they slide against the countertop, the marble providing a cool contrast to the heat radiating off of Joe as he hits a steady rhythm.

"Feels so fucking good, baby," he grits out, "look at me." You raise your head and meet his eyes in the mirror, biting your lip hard enough to hurt as he drops a hand down to tease your clit. "You like that?" he purrs, giving you a feral smile when you nod your head, your breath fogging up the mirror as you gasp and pant while he continues to ride you hard.

You eventually drop your forehead back down onto the countertop, almost too stimulated to hold eye contact as he expertly pleasures you, drawing whimpers and moans from your lips while lavishing dirty praise in that toe-curling raunchy voice. "I need to see your face," he mutters as he fists a hand in your long hair, wrapping it around his palm a couple times before tugging just hard enough to raise your head off the countertop; his eyes hold your gaze in the mirror for several seconds before he spits on your lower back, your breath catching in your throat as you feel it slide down between your buttcheeks. He quickly releases your hair to chase the spit with his thumb, following it all the way down to tease the edge of your hole as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, pinching your clit with his other hand, his icy-hot eyes locked on yours in the mirror when your climax hits.

You scream his name as the coiled tension inside you unleashes like the crack of a whip; he grabs your hips and tilts your ass up, your feet leaving the floor as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm, the sound of your flesh slapping together and the lush, wet sound of your drenched core as he pounds into you seemingly magnified in your ears as he follows you over the edge, the hot spurts of his climax making your walls spasm harder before finally tapering off.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thirty minutes later you and Joe step out of the shower, your legs still trembling as he helps you dry off before picking you up bridal-style to carry you to bed. He lays you down gently before joining you, his damp hair slicked back as he gazes down at you in the dim lighting.

"You kinda like the backwards cap, huh?" he teases. "You know I do," you answer, rolling your eyes playfully at his cocky grin. "That was a little déjà vu, right?" he asks, nodding at the bathroom door as he continues. "Having raunchy sex while watching in a mirror with one of us wearing a hat."

You smile when he waggles his eyebrows at you. "Yeah, but you look way better in the backwards cap than I do in the cowboy hat."

"No way," he argues, leaning down to drop a kiss on your lips. "Agree to disagree," you giggle, yawning before snuggling against him as he pulls you close.

I have a soft spot only for mikey.

Fly Away

Michael Berzatto x Reader

You're a family friend of the Berzattos and you're invited to have fun at their annual Christmas dinner. You think you still harbor feelings for Carmy, but as the evening progresses, you feel something for his brother.

Genre: friends to lovers, former crush on carm, really everything w carm is mostly platonic, unrequited stuff, insecurities, age gaps (reader and carm are 25, Michael is 38), takes place in 2017, takes place in S2E6, lots of angst, anxiety, some fluff, no use of y/n (you have a nickname: Birdie)

Word count: 11k

There’s a bauble and trinket everywhere you look. Festive, Christmas spirit seems to ebb from the very walls of the Berzatto household– and you would be remiss not to compliment it vocally in some way.

Donna is clearly waiting, teetering on a response from you as you take everything in from the front door. And you know how she reacts if you don’t say things in that perfect, supportive tone that she so desperately thrives off of.

“Wow, Mrs. Berzatto!” You clasp your hands, trying not to seem too cloying or ironic. “I love what you’ve done with the house. Such an eye for details.”

“Oh, stop.” She giggles, and lightly taps your shoulder as she takes your coat and hangs it up in the closet. 

“No, really. I wish my house was so… Christmassy this time of year.” You shrug, knowing that your dad isn’t the festive type after divorcing your mother.

“Aw. Well, we have love to spread here.” It’s a strange unseen sympathy coming from Donna, and she pulls you inside, and you take off your shoes, shuffling around in your socks and your comfy, hopefully chic, green loose turtleneck sweater. “Except you might have to wait a bit, because some of these fuckers are late.”

There’s that bitter tone you remember from Donna. You don’t really care for that– you tend to have an avoidant personality especially with how your own mother acts sometimes– and she yells out for Carmy and Mikey to greet you.

“Boys! Birdie’s here!” She calls from the stairs, and you suddenly feel self conscious.

Ever since your dad, a former co-worker and friend of Cicero’s, starting taking you as a teenager to these Berzatto hangouts, you have always had a eye for Carmen. It was hard not to be, seeing this bashful, slightly angry, awkward boy, around the same age as you, with dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. You felt like sometimes, he really, really listened to you, and that was all you needed.

You wish you could be there for him too. 

It’s something you’ve never acted on, never bothered to actually approach him about– he always seemed so absorbed by his own thing.

You relished in the fact that he never had a girlfriend. You felt secure in that, because he just seemed safe. And it’s not like he would’ve been mean about rejecting you if he knew– you were always close to the Berzatto siblings. You were Bear and Birdie, ready to head out on a walk together, while the adults gossiped and drank.

Of course, you haven’t seen him in about… two years now. Around after he left to his apartment, and did his chef-education-training (you’re a bit vague on the details, honestly), and ever since then, as far as you know he’s slowly been doing what he loves. He does text you from time to time, but you’d be overstating those texts’ importance if you pretended it really quantified a relationship.

Mikey clambers down the stairs, wearing what looks to be pajamas, or very chill homebody clothes, and he raises his arm in a big, Italian gesture.

“Oh! Is that little Bird I see?” He exclaims, and pulls you into an eager hug. Maybe a little too eager– you think it’s almost as if you’re comforting him as you hug him back, his face coming down onto your shoulder, as he encapsulates you– and he pulls away, grinning.

He actually looks really good. You don’t know when you started thinking that Mikey was good looking, but it’s true– he has a certain, rough around the edges appeal that you find yourself drawn to.

“Merry Christmas. You’ve been keeping away from us.” Mikey points as you, intended as a stern remark, but you snort.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas. I’ve been busy with work and law school, Michael. I’m not a kid anymore.” You resist the urge to comment on his beard, and then do it anyways. “Are you sure I’ve been keeping away? You’re the one with a hermit-ass beard.”

“Oh… they grow up and just start taking shots at you, don’t they, Ma?” Mikey places his hand over his heart, as if he’s wounded, and Donna shakes her head in agreement, before heading back to the kitchen, already seeming annoyed about something. “Beards are fashionable in 2017, Bird. Maybe come back to our current time– no reason for you to start dressing like a grandma already.”

You scoff at that, pointing at your sweater. “It’s semi-formal, c’mon! It looks nice. Respect the gathering’s rules.”

“It’s my house, babe.” Mikey leans in with maybe a little too much comfort, his eyes shining with some warmth, mirth even, and you don’t exactly pull away– the guy is like thirteen years older than you, and even if he does kid around, play up an older brother thing, you’ve started feeling like he’s restraining something more as of late, maybe some primal level of attraction that he knows better than to mess around with. You know that the feeling is kind of mutual– but you really don’t know how to quantify it. “I’m man of the house, and I say you should wear something that maybe, uh, shows off the pretty twenty-five year old that you are.”

The last part of this sentence has you swallowing a little, and you feel your face turning warm, and Mikey himself looks embarrassed that he’s said it, that he’s given a bit of evidence to your theories– he seems to brush something off, inside himself. 

You have never thought you were all that. You’ve always been pretty sure you should be glad that you’ve gotten by without having to worry about your looks. The idea of wearing a nice, somewhat revealing dress to the Berzattos’ house has you cringing, because you know it would just be… bad. 

“I’m not–” Mikey scowls at himself and you can visibly see himself fighting something, looking a little anxious, and you tentatively grasp his forearm.

“I know what you mean. I’m not offended.” You smile slightly, making the effort to calm him down a little, because you would never want Michael to beat himself up over you (he really seems to do that as of late and you know you’re not worth the trouble), and he nods and inhales. “You look good, too.”

“Right. Right on, Birdie. You can do what you want, anyways. Not up to me.” He seems to really dial back some of what he said, and before you can respond, Carmy walks downstairs.

“Hi. Hey, Birdie. Merry Christmas.” He says, kind of quietly, and you find yourself somewhat happy to hear him say your nickname again. Carmy looks especially nice– deep blue has always been his colour, it brightens up his eyes– and he has slightly longer hair than you remember. 

He leans in for a brief but firm hug, and glances at your eyes once, before looking towards the floor again.

Mikey nods and proceeds to exit to the kitchen, and you’re left with Carmy grappling with what to say.

“How have you–”

“How’s law sch–”

Carmy coughs awkwardly, and you find your face turning warm as he looks towards you.

“Sorry, Bear.” You let him speak, hoping not to scare him away. “How’s everything? You okay?”

“Yeah. Uh… well, I’ve been training at Copenhagen?” He furrows his brows, runs his hand through his hair. “Just learning as much as I can.”

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Your curiosity is piqued– you didn’t know he was in Denmark, much to your disappointment– but you want to pry more of an answer out of him. He doesn’t seem interested in talking about it more than that. 

“Sorry. Sorry. Stupid answer, there’s just not much to say.” Carmy shrugs, and then realizes suddenly that you’ve been standing at the foyer of the house for quite some time now, which isn’t very polite or inviting of him. “Wait, hold on. Let’s go sit inside and talk.”

Carmy makes some offhand comment about how you need to speak up sometimes and stop being so nice and accommodating to idiots like him, and you snicker, knowing that this is the Carmy you remember– snarky, ready to fight people on sometimes, even if he is a little weird and bashful. Although he’s short– he makes up for it with his resilience.

Carmy leads you through golden-lit hallways, a certain pepperminty, pine tree scent seeming to overlay the entire house, and there’s bushels and wreathes and mistletoe everywhere, and somehow even more baubles, ornaments, trinkets, knickknacks, all gold and red and warm tones that do make you feel a little fuzzy.

Carmy sits you down in the living room, on the sofa, and you’re next to him, and you place a foot under your knee, trying to feel casual. Not freaking out about him sitting right next to you. Weirdly enough… you don’t think you feel anything anxiety inducing. 

Perhaps you’re just getting more reassured of yourself with age. 

“So? How is Copenhagen, otherwise? I know Denmark is really interesting, but you’re probably busy with chef stuff, huh?” You prod just a little further. Just out of your own personal curiosity to see how far Carmy will go for you, and he nods. “Any friends?”

“Ah…” Carmy winces a little. “Can’t say if he’s a friend yet, but there is this guy that’s out of this world with pastries. I don’t know if I can meet his standard on that.”

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes. “Bear, you make my dad cookies all the time. Or, well, you used to. You can’t be that bad at it, considering that he always eats all of them.”

“Oh, really? Fuck, man.” Carmy looks at you in disbelief, settling more into his corner of the couch, closer to the tree, but looking more openly at you. You feel yourself cower a little under his watchful gaze. “I didn’t know your dad enjoyed them that much… I would’ve made more. Did you ever try them?”

“Hm?” You were getting lost in the details around Carmy– the dark blue shirt, the little bits of stubble around his jaw, the tattoos peeping out from under his long sleeves– and you nod. “Ah, I tried a batch around the last time you gave him some. I think it was… macadamia, matcha, white chocolate? Really good.”

Carmy is unreadable, his eyes flickering from the ground to your eyes– you think maybe you’ve embarrassed him a little– but he thanks you. “Where is your dad, anyways?”

“Ah. He’s got the flu, and he was kind enough to not want to infect you guys.” You admit. “Even though he was trying his best to walk over here from our house.”

Carmy remembers that you live in the neighbourhood over. You two used to hang out a lot during elementary and high school. He kind of missed you– something he’d never say out loud, but Carmy knows friends are few with him, and you were always a good friend to him growing up. You were always a comforting presence for him– you never asked him for too much, and he could tell you were being careful to do so. No pressure.

You just became really busy with law school, and he became really busy with chef stuff, and now you’re both… you both just lost touch. He feels bad about it– bad like he always does, with former friends and acquaintances from high school that he’s accidentally ghosted and lost– but at least you don’t seem to be annoyed about it. 

He thinks it’s probably because in this case, you pulled away just as much as he had to.

“How’s law school, anyways?” Carmy counts the years in his head. “You’ve either just finished or you’re in your final year?”

“I’m in my final year.” You stretch out your arms, looking eager. “It’s a lot of work– I’m only here because I’m lucky enough to have a bit of a break in the winter months, and I’m ahead on my courses. But, uh… I don’t know. It’s fun.”

“Fun? Wow.” Carmy grins a little. 

“What?”

“I don’t know, Birdie. Fun is more… fucking, I don’t know, fireworks or something? Drugs, maybe, yeah.” Carmy watches as you laugh, and laugh, at what he’s said, and again he’s never really sure what’s so funny about what he’s said, but he likes to hear you laugh.

“Clearly you don’t know either.” You snort, and lightly punch his arm. “When did we become workaholics?”

“Probably when we became, uh, adults and entered the workforce.” Carmy states, and you wrinkle your brows.

“We’re not really in the workforce yet, but–”

“What, really? C’mon. You’re a fucking receptionist or some shit, right?”

“Business administration specialist.”

“Yeah, there you go. That’s work, especially with all the school you have to do.” Carmy shrugs. “But what do you really want to be, then?”

“Oh, we getting into dreams, then?” You cock an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you cared that much, Bear.”

Carmy, for some reason he can’t detect, turns a little red. “No, of course I do. We’re still friends, right?”

“Acquaintances.”

“For real?” Carmy looks back at you, affronted, but you have a little smile and he knows you’re teasing. “Oh fuck you. Stop it.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You shake your head, giggling a little, glad to have so easily fallen back into a comfortable, friendly banter. “Of course we’re friends, it’s just that… I always thought very highly of you, Carmen, and I can’t always be sure that feeling was returned. You know? I assumed that you’d be out doing sophisticated cooking in big, upscale restaurants, and the rest of us would just be reading about it. Forgive me for feeling a little behind it all.”

“No, no, no. You got it all wrong, Birdie.” Carmy half-laughs at how you put him on such a pedestal. “You were always the one doing real work, as Mom would call it. You’re the one who’s actually smart and good at arguing, debating– that’s a real skill coming from me, because I just yell fuck at everyone and hope it works. I always thought you were the impressive one out of all of us.”

You snicker, but you’re actually quite pleased with that, and you feel your heart warm at his praise. “Ah, that’s so sweet. Thank you. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been surviving off of ramen and convenience store food for the last month. I can hardly make the time to cook efficiently.”

“...” Carmy shakes his head. “That doesn’t make me feel better. You’re gonna eat good food today then, I hope.”

Almost as if on cue, Donna calls for Carmy to come help her with something– and you’re left sitting as he tells you that he’s going to hear about your dream job when he gets back.

/

Fifteen minutes later– Carmy is still MIA, and you’re starting to get a little hungry. 

You know it’s rude, but luckily Michael comes by and asks if you want a snack.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” You ask, and Michael snickers.

“You’re the same girl that can eat a whole number four combo at the Beef. I’m pretty sure you were hungry before you got here.” Michael jokes, and you blush in embarrassment.

“Oh my god, stop it.” You shake your head. “Anyways, yeah. A snack would be nice.”

Michael gives you a wink that strangely has you a little twitterpated, before you shake that off. He comes back a few minutes later, chewing on something himself– and he hands you a bowl full of Italian sausage stirfry.

“Thanks, Michael.” You smile up at him, and he nods, trying not to smile too much back at your gratitude, but he likes how you take a bite and look super relieved, happy with the food. He’s always loved giving food to people– taking care of them. Especially you, for some reason.

Michael heads back to the kitchen, and Natalie comes by and takes his place.

“Birdie!” She hugs you tightly, and you hug her back, equally happy. “Oh my gosh, if I knew you were down here I would’ve come by ages ago!”

“Aw.” You beam at her. “That’s okay, Nat. I’m happy to see you too.”

She’s off ranting about how Pete, her husband, is late, and how she can barely manage everything going on, and you’re sympathetic. You know Nat gets more of a harsh treatment from Donna, and you tell her that you’re there if she needs a person on her side.

“Oh, Birdie. I couldn’t do that to you. Even if you are amazing at talking, Miss Lawyer-to-be.” She lets you continue to sit down in your corner of the living room, as she heads off to check on her mom– maybe pour out some alcohol.

 Carmy comes back in, slightly powdered with flour on his forehead– and he sits back down, sighing, as he drinks a glass of water.

There’s the slightest air of awkward tension still– even if you and Carmy have fallen back into your old ways, he still keeps a slight distance, one that he’s grown into, and you feel that you have to break the silence. You don’t know if he’s just tired or if there’s some level of irritation of having to deal with all the holiday bullshit, but you take a guess it has to do with Donna.

“That bad?” You grimace, and Carmy matches your expression.

“That bad.” He shakes his head. “She always gets a little woo-woo around these fucking events. Like, I never wanted her to do all of this– but she insists and insists and doesn’t know how to let go of the, uh…”

“Hubris.” 

“Yes. Hubris.” Carmy sighs, glad you still have the perfect word for everything. “Whatever. Anyways, haven’t forgotten. Hit me with your dream.”

“Okay, it’s going to sound a little weird, but, um… I’m really interested in becoming a labour relations lawyer?” You feel almost too much glee at the fact that Carmy remembered, and you see Carmy bite his lip, a little confused, so you continue, hoping you don’t sound like too much of a fucking nerd. “Meaning to help employees get out of their shitty situations with wages, working hours, benefits and fight for their rights. Union stuff. I don’t know, just feels like everyone is struggling with this nowadays… might as well push forward and try to help them out.”

“Wow, now that you’ve said that, it makes a lot of sense.” Carmy blinks. “I mean, uh, it’s not just that you’re good at arguing– you always go for the justice part of things. Remember when Michael and Sugar were arguing about cleaning the basement?”

You do remember that. You suggested dividing up either equally or by who owned what, and they eventually came to an agreement based on that. Michael wanted to dip because he was older, and Sugar thought it was demeaning to ask a girl to clean.

“Or when Lee said that women can’t think analytically, or what was it… mathematically?” Carmy laughs as he watches your face turn angry again.

“Yeah. I especially remember that. I told him to think about Ada Lovelace and to shut up.” You wince. “Maybe not the most mature thing I’ve ever said. I don’t think that’s such a great thing… sometimes I don’t know when to let go of arguments.”

“It’s alright, it was funny.” Carmy plays with his fingers. “That being said, I think you’ll be good if you choose to be that. A labour relations lawyer. You’re smart, and god fucking knows we all need the help. You should check out how many chefs get fucked over because they work at places for the prestige of doing so.”

“Damn.” You make a mental note of that, feeling embarrassed over how much praise Carmy has freely given you. “Is that going to be you?”

“Doesn’t matter if it is. Sometimes you gotta do what you can.” Carmy doesn’t really give you a clear answer, and you feel bad for him. Bad that he’s still stuck in that mindset.

/

You can hear people hooting and jeering near the stairs, as you walk around the house, exploring a little. Tiff was grateful that you visited her for a brief moment– she told you being pregnant was not all it was cracked up to be– and now you’re just on the upper floor, near the stair railing, on your phone.

You’re not really one to eavesdrop, but you hear– you believe it’s Mikey and Richie– they’re chanting “Claire! Claire Bear!”

Your stomach drops, as you hear them hoot about how hot she is, whoever this Claire girl is– how stacked she is, apparently, the banging body she has, the glasses no longer ruining her appearance– and although you know it’s gross men talk, there’s a small, sad part of you that wants to be perceived as attractive, too. 

Still, even as you find yourself frowning and turning away in disgust, you can’t stop yourself from listening.

You remember her. Claire, one of the neighbours down the street. Went to the same high school as you and Carmy. She was really something, someone of note if you remember the popular kid cliques correctly, but she had largely gone unnoticed by you, and it wasn’t for any reason in particular. You can’t be close with every person in high school.

But still– you feel jealous. Just a teeny bit. What was so different about her?

Sure, she was a nice girl. But weren’t you? You arguably had more history with the Berzattos, and yet… it’s as if you’ve simply blended into the wallpaper, their assortment of home decor and furniture. You’ve always been here, and so you don’t stand out.

You might never stand out.

You can hear Carmy trying his best to argue against them, asking them what they did, telling them to fuck off with their teasing– but he sounds sheepish, embarrassed, righteously mortified in the telltale way one would be when they have a crush, and you feel sick. 

They’re heaping compliments on her. You know what they mean when they talk about her like this– she’s the clear, obvious choice, probably closer to the family, more interesting, more affectionate, a genius. You don’t really know Claire that well, but apparently, she’s perfect. And you know you, in your silly frumpy sweater, in your attempts to dress up– you are not. You feel humiliated that you even believed Mikey when he said you were pretty– he was clearly complimenting you just to be nice. 

You weren’t even an idea in their minds, not for Carmy, anyways. You don’t even think Carmy is capable of seeing you like that now, and it’s with a crushing blow that you realize you were holding out hope. Mistaking familiarity for affection.

It’s a rookie mistake. One that you thought you were self aware enough not to make, because you’ve always known Carmen Berzatto was just out of reach for you.

You wait for them to leave, and come down the stairs, running into Carmy as he groans in annoyance.

/

Carmy says he needs to wipe some of the flour out of his hair, and you let him go upstairs, not really wanting to look at him, doing everything you can to make your way back to the living room unnoticed. In the meanwhile, Michael comes back and flops into Carmy’s seat on the sofa, next to where you sit, sullen.

“Hey, Birdie.” Michael starts, and you can’t read his tone, and you’re a little annoyed with his fake-nice attention. “Why not sit with me, the Faks, Michelle and Stevie? They’re really good people, I promise.”

“How do you know I’m avoiding people?” You snap back, maybe a little too aggrieved.

“It’s written all over your face, little Birdie.” He touches his knee to yours, and you bite your lip, swallowing your confusion, and Mikey enjoys the fact that you’ve chosen to wear a deep, brick-red Christmas lip colour. It’s hot– he doesn’t get how you don’t seem to be aware that you’re attractive.

He wants to kiss you. Maybe mess up that fancy lipstick and that sweet, annoyingly justice oriented, always-right character of yours. But he keeps it to himself.

“Don’t be antisocial. You of all people shouldn’t be alone during the holidays.”

“I’m not trying to be antisocial. I promise.” You shrug, trying to keep your emotions, that sinking feeling in your gut at bay– the last thing you want is for Michael to see you upset. “I was keeping Bear company, but I can come sit with you guys.” 

“That’s my girl.” Michael pulls you up by the arm, and you can feel your face warming at his choice of words– you like being in Michael’s good graces, even if you feel less than great right now.

Michelle, cousin of the Berzattos, has always been sweet to you. She’s impressive in her own right, and as you sit down in front of her and Stevie– she gushes about New York.

“Ah, that’s not to say Chicago isn’t impressive. Right, Birdie?” She smiles at you, not unkindly, and you feel happy to be included. 

“Right.” You shrug, knowing that the law firm you work at isn’t all that crazy. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re nothing special, not after what transpired just a few minutes ago, and you voice it. “It’s just okay.”

“No, c’mon. You work at one of the top fucking law firms in the city– you’re gonna make it.” Michael admonishes you. “Out of us Chicagoans, I mean, Michelle, before you take offense.”

“Yeah, Mish.” Richie echoes, popping up out of nowhere.

“None taken.” Michelle fixes her eyes between you and Michael– perhaps reading on something that you’re not even really sure how to understand, let alone explain– and she laughs. “Anyways, what was I saying? Right.”

She launches into a story about hating a woman who didn’t understand the Berzatto name. It’s quite funny– you find yourself laughing every now and then, the dull ache in your heart less noticeable, especially with how good Michelle is at telling stories, and somewhere along the story, Michael’s hand has stayed intertwined with yours, without you really noticing. You only notice when he lets go, and again– a pitfall in your stomach, wondering if Michael just feels familiar around you because there’s nothing to be attracted to and thus respectful of– and it’s such a stupid thought, but you still just know you want to feel wanted. You want to get a hold on yourself– remind yourself you’re not owed attraction and there’s nothing wrong with Mikey or Carmy seeing you as just a friend.

You realize with a start that you’re feeling confused about Michael, too. Was it just a weird quirk of his, calling every single girl pretty just for laughs? Could you even trust what he said? Why does Michael’s opinion of you feel way more pertinent and important than Carmy’s does?

You find yourself mulling over these thoughts, not sure of what’s going on around you, and you hear Michael tell the Fak bros, Ned and Ted, to shut up about California, which they do.

Donna starts screaming in the background, which causes you to turn abruptly. “Oh, fuck me!”

Michael turns and looks at you with some caution– he’s used to his mother’s outbursts, but he never ever wants you to face them. You don’t deserve that, you’ve probably never done anything to deserve it. Not like him.

Stevie gets up, much to the surprise of everyone around him. “Looks like Auntie D needs help, huh?”

“No, no, no.” Everyone tries to stop him, including you.

“What?”

Michelle pushes him back down, but he gets back up, resilient. 

Lee decides to comment in. “Let him, why not?”

“I’m sure she could use a few extra hands. I’m going.” He goes, and you stand up to follow, not willing to let an innocent person get dragged into Donna’s insanity.

“Wait, Birdie. Where are you going?” Michael holds your hand again, and you turn red at his action– a little angry, a little glum that he seems to care for you, and you can’t even be grateful for it. “Don’t throw yourself to the wolves. It’s not fucking worth it.”

“Not throwing myself– just want to make sure Stevie is protected.” You move forward, your face stony, and Michael lets go of you, sighing as he wraps his blanket around himself, wondering when you got all pissed off, but glad that you’re not so upset that you wouldn’t act all lawyer-y for Stevie.

Lee is glancing at him, while Michelle looks pleased as punch.

“What? What the fuck are these expressions?” Michael looks around questioningly, and Richie gives him a side glance.

“When’d you get all sweet on her, bro?” Richie gags a little. “Not that she’s not your type, but, uh–”

“I’m just being friendly.” Michael dismisses him, leaning back in his seat. “It’s the holidays, she shouldn’t be lonely.”

“Bullshit you are.” Richie sniggers, and Michael lightly shoves him.

“Yeah, I call bullshit too.” Michelle grins. “I can see it– you’re blushing.”

Michael groans, hating to be so obviously vulnerable in front of everyone. 

“Well I, for one, think it’s a huge, fucking catastrophic mistake.” Lee starts, and Michael feels himself blanch under the judgement of this guy. “You’re going to ruin that young woman’s potential if you go around messing with her.”

“Lee, she’s not that young–” Neil starts. “I think she can decide that herself?”

“Whatever. This one knows he isn’t right for her– always wants what he can’t have.” Lee mutters, and Michael feels that white-hot rage– the anger he feels bubbling inside of him as of late. 

He does his best to swallow it down, but a part of him knows that it’s true. As much as Michael enjoys your random visits over the past two years, he knows– you’re too good for someone like him. Too young, too selfless, too honest and good and pretty, and he feels an overwhelming wave of shame that he came so close. It’s like he just… doesn’t know how to be a good, responsible person, and it kills him on the inside that he could be so shameful, be so abhorrent and take advantage of you like that, and even if there is a tiny part of him screaming that it’s not so black and white– that you could be just as interested, of your own volition, in him as he is in you– he feels guilt. 

Michael is ashamed of who he is. Over, and over, there’s that feeling again– kill yourself– that he doesn’t know how to suppress, and he ignores it as he starts up a new story.

/

Natalie is tearing up as Stevie hugs her.

You came towards them in the midst of Donna yelling for Stevie to get the fuck out of the kitchen, and Sugar shushing him and shoving him away, and you now place a hand on her shoulder– clearly Stevie has it handled, somewhat.

When he lets go, she sniffles and you smile encouragingly, albeit a little sadly, and Natalie wipes away a tear. 

“It’s okay. It’s fine, it’s nothing. You don’t need to talk to her.” She starts, and you shake your head.

“I’m not going to. I can see that would make things worse.” You squeeze her shoulders, and Stevie nods.

“Yeah, Natalie. But we’re here. We’ll always be here if you want to talk.” He tries, and you smile at her– but something about Nat’s slightly upset, off putting expression, and Donna’s grumbling in the background– you feel your heart seizing a little at the tense emotions, so similar to your own, and you excuse yourself.

You walk until you reach the pantry, hot tears already working their way down your face. Every single negative emotion have come to a head, and you’re in terrible danger of having to explain things if you don’t get it together in under ten minutes or so.

You sit on the high table in the pantry, trying not to cry anymore than you already have, your head between your knees– but something about today has all your nerves on edge, and you know it’s because you put in some effort to come here, to see your dear friends, to look appealing enough, to be someone worth talking to, and now you feel as if they never really cared about you at all. 

You know these are lousy, immature feelings. You know you can be above them if you really, truly tried, but you let yourself sink into them further, because something about this environment is terrible and you just can’t let it go.

Even worse, no one has really done anything wrong. If this was a court case, you wouldn’t even have any evidence to make a claim. You’re simply confused, perhaps looking at things from the wrong angles– but the fact that you can’t look at this rationally makes you feel worse. As if you’re not as smart as you believed.

You don’t know how long you’ve been in here, when you hear someone shuffle into the pantry, next to you– it’s Michael.

He’s quick on his feet– you try to move away, let him grab whatever household ingredient he needed– but his full attention is on you as his eyes narrow, scanning your tear stained face and your hunched over body.

“Birdie?”

You can’t quite look at him, and you desperately try to wipe your tears, burying your face more between your knees. 

“Hey, no. Birdie.” He shakes his head, grabs your arms. He thinks it’s a little strange he’s had to cheer up two different people in the pantry, but he chalks it up to how his house always is. “What happened? Was it Ma?”

“No.” You sight and swallow down the sobs in your throat.

“Then what was it?” Michael’s eyes turn steely. “Fucking ‘Uncle’ Lee? Asshole. Told me I can’t finish any fucking businesses.”

“But… you run the Beef, don’t you?” You say, amid sniffles, entirely honest about it, and Michael’s eyes soften. “That has to count for something.”

“Yeah, little Bird.” He’s glad to have you here– he doesn’t care if it’s fucked up, not when you’re the only person on his side at this moment. “But why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

“I–” You shake your head, and feel your head hang heavy as you slouch over the table, and Michael leans over you, pressing your head to his chest, and you feel yourself crying silently into his shirt, as he shushes you and combs back your hair, his other arm caressing your back.

Michael’s not the best person– not the most comforting to be around– but he knows, by being an older brother, by being someone people want to be around, he knows how to make it count when he does give in to comfort. 

He just wishes he didn’t feel so goddamned depressed himself, so he would know the right things to say. He doesn’t want to be so useless all the time.

“Mikey?” You voice is timid. Small. 

He feels both elated that you would trust him with this, and devastated that he’ll never be good enough to deserve your trust. 

“Yeah, Birdie?”

“It’s so juvenile, but I…" You shake your head and decide to commit to it. "I wish I was pretty."

“Is that it?” Michael’s arm wraps around your shoulder as he squishes onto the seat of the table, next to you. “You think you’re ugly, huh?”

“I don’t think I’m–” You inhale deeply, and wipe away your tears again. “It’s not about being ugly. It’s more like an objective reality that I have to accept. I’m just not… I’m not anything special to look at.”

“Wow, kid.” Michael tuts and shakes his head. “Ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? That stupid fucking mantra, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s true.” Michael almost starts laughing, but you look so solemn and serious, he resists the urge. “You’re not ugly. You might not think you’re all that, but you don’t see what I see.”

Michael tenses, and you watch as he falters over how to explain.

Michael thinks you're so damn annoying with that ardent, sweet expression– even if your tears are staining your face, you still look so grateful to hear him say those words– and it just crushes him. It crushes him to know that you look for his approval so much, when he knows you're worth so much more than that.

He doesn't want to let you down. You and Carmen– he will never be enough for the two of you. 

"I don't– I'm fucking stupid, Birdie, don't listen to me." He swallows, but you're hanging onto his words and your face falls again. 

"But I can listen to you get all poetic about Claire, right?" You mutter, angry, and you get up to leave– but Michael grabs your forearm, and he's quite a bit stronger than you are. 

“Hey. That’s different.” Michael tries, but you shake your head, and you’re left sitting on the table again. “I was only teasing Bear. It has nothing to do with you.”

“I know.” You turn even more glum, and Michael is left feeling terrible, wondering what was so wrong with what he said. 

You’re silent for a moment– you know that you like Carmy, but something about telling Michael about it feels weird, like you’re pre-emptively rejecting him rather than Carmy by confessing feelings that are slowly disappearing– and you just don’t want to.

But you know you need to. You need to accept that Carmy would never see you that way.

“I just… for a really long time, I thought that I…” You fall to silence, again, and Michael is staring at you, hanging onto every word, watching your side profile shake as you try to gather your thoughts. “I really liked him, you know? I don’t even know why– maybe he was just the clearly available, safe option, and now that’s not even true and I feel like I’m mourning something that was never even real. How stupid and childish can I get?”

“Wait, Birdie–”

“And I just… I know I’m not like Claire. I don’t know what I got myself into. I don’t even really like him anymore– it’s just that the situation makes it so damn apparent that I am just average.” You huff out your words with an air of finality that even has Michael flinching a little, and he runs his hands through his hair, unbelieving of what you’ve said. “You can’t even say I’m not, Mikey, because I know how you talked about her and it was just so different to how anyone here has ever thought about me.”

“Birdie, shut the fuck up.” Michael breathes out really heavily, pinching his brows, thinking that he regrets everything he said and he wishes he could take it back. “I didn’t really– I was trying to tease Carmy, you know? It didn’t mean the shit you think it does. Hell, I would be way more serious if I was talking about you.”

He takes a beat of silence– should he read your reaction to that, or keep going? And he decides to keep going.

“You can’t just act like you can read everyone’s minds because you’re a lawyer, Birdie.” Michael says it with a slightly lighter tone, and his hand traces the small of your back as you lean against your knees, staring up at him. “Didn’t you learn about intent or whatever the fuck it was? In school?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You admit despite yourself, and Michael smiles but continues seriously.

“I don’t think that about Claire, okay? If anything, I’m fucking embarrassed you heard me talk all of that shit– that was just meant to be, uh, guy talk. I swear.” Michael swallows, feeling guilty that he still had to be so low about it. “I don’t– I care so much about him, I just went too far in working him up. I think it would be a good thing for him, right?”

Hurt flashes across your face– you still don’t think you like Carmy anymore, you just don’t know how to feel about someone else being portrayed as a “good thing.” But you inhale– you know part of getting over it is having to accept this, and you let yourself think and then nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I could see that.” You agree, and it doesn’t hurt as much since Michael is looking at you sympathetically. “I just… I want to be a good thing, too. Not for Carmy, just…”

“For someone?” Michael answers as you trail off. 

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Birdie. I’m gonna tell you something you gotta hear.” Michael has that determined look where you know he’s going to say something smart– he has his fleeting moments of wisdom even if he doesn’t believe in himself– and he goes for it. “I can’t believe no one has ever told you just to, I don’t know, fucking love yourself a little? Like, c’mon, you should be able to like yourself! You’re an incredible person and you deserve– you have the right to be insanely fucking confident and it’s so fucking annoying that you don’t see it.”

In the heat of his argument, Michael’s come too close again, and he can feel your breath on somewhere near his jaw or neck, and he has to remind himself to pull away again.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and Michael combs back a strand of your hair.

“Don’t be sorry. Just listen to what I’m saying.” Michael inhales, thinks over why he can’t do this himself– Tina always tells him to be a little easier on himself, but he just struggles– and he thinks that you look terribly cute so it’s just a lot easier to root for you. “Don’t do it for some idiot guy who will never really appreciate you, little Birdie.”

You can feel the conclusion of that sentence, even if Michael doesn’t quite say it: do it for yourself. Be there for yourself. Listen to the good part of yourself, rather than him.

“Oh. I guess that’s…” You swallow, taking it in, knowing the value of his words. “It’s true.”

“See? You know it.” Michael leans in a little too close again, his face a mere breadth away from your own.

“I think you’d actually make a fantastic lawyer.” You slyly comment amid wiping your face, and Michael blinks and then laughs.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’d get to see me and hear my advice all the time.” Michael mumbles a little over his words but to his surprise, you nod. 

“Yeah, then I’d get to see some idiot who really does appreciate me.” You murmur even more quietly, and Michael, feeling stupid, has a wistful smile on his face that he maybe has not felt in a decade. It’s so sweet– he thinks his heart is bursting with something. 

Maybe love. Maybe that jovial, Christmas spirit that seems to emanate as the food smells closer to ready, maybe what Carmen gave him as a kind gift, most likely the closeness he feels with you– not just being close in familiarity, more like– he can make out the little spots and freckles adorning your face, every single eyelash your still watery eyes have, the faint lines in your still-red lips, and it occurs to him that he’s too close. Somewhere during this talk, his hand has stayed around your back, and you have been tentatively tracing his right hand’s knuckles with your own thumb. 

Michael knows how it looks. If anyone was to walk in right now (and he’s sure Michelle or Richie have already put it together that the two of you have been gone for a while) they would assume you two are a couple.

He has a sudden air of regret– it’s not because he wants to reject you, he just… he struggles a lot with feeling wanted. He struggles with the standards that people seem to put on him. Michael has always known he’s not a good guy– he doesn’t know how to be the person that everyone seems to think he is. Carmen, Natalie, Richie, you– you all seem to think the best of him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He nearly had a breakdown watching Carmen look up to him so lovingly.

Before he can pull away– with another responsible refusal, telling you that he’s too old and washed up, and that you deserve the whole world and he is not enough to offer that to you– you gently but firmly grab his face, tracing his cheek, and he thinks it could be wrong– what if you’re just feeling all confused and willy-nilly about feelings because you’re displacing what you felt about Carmen, what if you don’t actually like him and you’re assuming that you do because of his clear attraction to you, what if you’re just feeling the moment and the sweet guidance he’s given you?

Tons of questions seem to flow from his mind, things that he wants to ask you, but Michael thinks fuck it, because you’re leaning in first and pulling him in and it’s something he would’ve never expected in a million years, that you could be just as attracted to him.

He kisses you maybe a little too hard– maybe it should’ve been softer, more gentle since you’ve opened up to him so much, but you kiss him just as eagerly back, and he doesn’t fucking care to be gentle anymore. He’s leaning over you and Michael knows he’s quite a bit taller, so he has to pull you upwards to really reach your lips, and the table the two of you are sitting on is quite small– it shakes a little and there’s not much room for Michael to really feel you.

Until you climb into his lap, because of course you do, and now you’re just tangling your fingers in his hair, and he thinks he can feel whatever migraine that the day’s events have spurred on him slipping away, and his hands wrap around the smallest part of your waist as he pulls you in, pressing his chest against yours. 

You feel like Michael’s beard tickles a little– but you don’t mind that. You weren’t sure until you did it that you’ve wanted to kiss him for a while. You feel like maybe you’ve actually been more attracted to him than you ever were with Carmy, maybe even just going for Carmy due to his aforementioned security. 

Michael groans, and he slips his tongue into your mouth, and you sharply inhale as his tongue roams around your own, and he knows he likes hearing you gasp when his hands come up under your sweater, just to feel your bare skin, and you pull away.

Michael comes in too close again, placing a soft yet firm kiss on the corner of your mouth, and you laugh at him, and it’s one of the best sounds he could hear. No longer are you all gloomy and sullen in the corner of the room– but there’s still an air of heat around you two, and he knows he should let you go before things go too far. 

“Consider that a Christmas present.” You murmur softly, tapping his face, genuinely smiling despite the smeared lipstick, and you clamber off his lap, and peek out the pantry. “I think you’re good to go eat dinner– let me just…”

You wipe the red lipstick from his mouth using the corner of your sweater sleeve, so not to leave evidence, and it’s an intimate moment that has Michael staring at your hand, to your eyes, and there’s something in his eyes– maybe sorrow, maybe appreciation, but most of all, tenderness, and he takes a silly, soft moment to just kiss your hand. You beam at him.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” You tease him, because you know that Michael has always had that look, and he stiffens for a moment.

“Ah… maybe around when you came back from graduating college.” Michael admits, feeling weirdly high and low all at the same time, but he questions you too. “What about you? Don’t tell me you just decided to kiss me right now. That would fucking… that would be too much.”

His heart falls for a split second– thinking about how again you could’ve just been having a little fling– why would you ever like him? He struggles to think how you could, even after having kissed you.

“No, no. I swear it’s not like that.” You turn a little red and play with your hands. “Um. You’re not like a rebound, Mikey, I just… I think I liked you ever since I started coming around more, maybe around last year? I probably just didn’t notice because I thought I was into Carmy. You know? Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Michael tries not to let the relief show through his face too much. “I thought maybe I was… reading too much into it. Putting pressure on you.”

“No, you’re good.” You shake off his concerns. “I don’t think that at all. I really do like you… might’ve just been obsessed with the idea of a childhood friend turning into a lover.”

Michael grins. “Well, who’s to say that didn’t fucking happen, Birdie? Are we not childhood friends?”

“Eh… kind of. You’re a bit old.” You give him a so-so motion, and Michael jokingly pushes you a little. “I’m kidding! This is more like– your friend’s hot older brother gives you a chance and it’s crazy and exciting and you just want to know more.”

You were half kidding, but you’re so honest about it, and Michael loves it, but there’s still that undercurrent of agony– he wants to just openly like you, too, but he doesn’t want to be such a fucking failure about it.

“I’m gonna just head to the dining table, I think.” You check your watch. “Gotta go think about this a little more– is that okay? Not in a bad way, I’m just overwhelmed with everything that’s happened today…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s okay, Birdie.” Michael presses a kiss into your hairline. He knows it is a lot for anyone to handle– getting over a crush you thought you had, realizing that you like someone else– he gets it. “Take all the time you need.”

“Okay.” You smile eagerly at him and then walk outside through the hallway, wiping your mouth so it looks less kiss-stained, and peek around so no one is looking at you. 

Michael feels a million emotions hit him at once, and he knows he has to cool himself down before explaining to everyone where you’ve gone, what’s happened– or he’s certain to implicate himself, and he can’t have that. 

/ 

It all goes to shit not even twenty minutes later.

You’re sitting pretty between Richie and Tiff, who seem to be a little bit… awkward, maybe arguing mentally about something you don’t completely understand. No one has really commented on your disappearance, but you’re sure it’s obvious based on how Michelle and Stevie are whispering and smiling at you.

Michael gets a massive, depressive episode right after you’ve left him. He can’t exactly pinpoint why– he feels like a creep even if he isn’t one. Hell, he only actually met you when you were nineteen– he was in a different state when you started visiting the Berzattos. But even if Michael ignores his potential, old-man creepiness… he also feels like you’re headed for so much more than he ever was, and he knows he’s holding you back if he does this. 

For once in his life, he just wanted to be happy. He just wanted to be wanted without the stigma of not being good enough. 

You, Carmy, and Nat. He knows you guys are on your way. Michael feels a pit in his stomach as he imagines why you guys all have to look up to him so much– he just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

He can’t ignore the feeling that he is just a major fucking loser.

That’s why Michael goes and gets high. He knows he’s making a mistake, and he doesn’t want to do something so disappointing– but he figures he’s already a disappointment anyways. He’s grateful you’re not here outside to see how pathetic he really is– how much he craves a hit just to feel a little less shitty. And yes, it calms him down as he feels the high of the painkillers exacerbate positive memories, like with you, Carmy, Natalie– but it still makes his anger, his depressive tendencies strong, too. 

When he sits down at the dining table– he’s not that intoxicated, but he knows it’s a little apparent on his face, based on the mild alarm on your own. You’re sitting just far enough from him for there to be plausible deniability, but still– you are worried about him.

“You good?” You mouth, and he waves away your question with an air of fake nonchalance. 

You don’t look convinced. You can see the red in Michael’s eyes, the general tension in his shoulders, the unnerving sense of resentment in his expression. You wonder what could have happened in the last ten minutes that you’ve been sitting at the table, why Michael decided to go and get intoxicated just minutes after kissing you.

Were you too much for him? Maybe.

You know Michael gets high. In fact, last Easter, you’re pretty sure he spent the entire time high on something– but you only vaguely know about his anger flare ups. About his negative emotions, the supposed depressive periods he goes through. You’ve seen him argue a bit with Richie, you know he’s gotten a bit harsh with Carmy, but you know he’s a bit more troubled than that. The whole family seems a bit troubled. Natalie has told you that much, and you have your experience with that– your mother and father’s fights are ones that still make you quiver to think about. But with Michael?

You don’t know how much you believed it, until now, because Michael always seemed kind of… like he always had the right thing to say. You almost feel like he’s in the right to get upset, because he’s had a hard time, with his family, some of his luck surrounding his career– especially with how Lee continually riles him up.

The table is formal and nice for a bit. Michael and Tiff converse about something, Carmy asks if you’re okay and you mostly are. Michelle asks Mikey to say grace, and he sounds resentful, again, of Lee cutting him off so often. 

Cicero, being the responsible uncle that he is, tries to push off grace to Stevie, who promptly rejects it, and Michelle decides to ease the tension by asking what the hell the seven fishes are all about. Lee, of course, gleefully answers, about the dutch potatoes and the bible.

Michael glares at him and throws a fork. A real, honest-to-god, heavy piece of silverware. It clatters on the carpeted floor– you feel yourself flinch, and you watch Natalie and Pete’s expressions crumble into the realization that Michael is not okay, and everyone seems to look towards him in fear.

“You see what you did, right? You already did that. You already bitched about the dutch oven.” Michael retorts at him, not completely coherent, and you can feel the lights glazing over– the Christmas tree, the wreaths and baubles, everything seems to lose focus in comparison to the red-hot anger that Michael is bubbling over with.

Cicero and Carmy try to call him off, but Michael isn’t listening, and you can tell– he’s in a place to be upset. It’s like a slowly proceeding car crash– as much as you don’t want him to do it, you understand why he’s going to. You feel like there is a bit of a double standard in place here– Cicero seems to want him to respect his elders, and Michael is being kind of childish, but you can’t say you don’t understand why.

Michael asks for Fak’s fork, in direct opposition to Lee’s attempts to play the father in this house. Despite Fak’s insistent refusals, Michael successfully takes it. Everyone speaks with the intent to stop him, and he’s too focused on Lee to stop.

You know you hate Lee too. But such a severe reaction, coming from Michael? It has you wincing a little. You want to pull him away– tell him to be the nice older brother you’ve always known him to be– but you know it takes time. You know it’s probably going to get worse. You try to catch his eye– and he can't quite look at you.

You have faith in him. You know Michael can do better than this– you just hope he can see it, too. 

Michael throws the second fork, and you feel regret in trusting him, again, because he’s making things bad but it’s almost as if he can’t help it. You catch Natalie’s eyes– she’s clearly disappointed, too.

Michael feels a sick sense of pleasure, as he often does when it comes to acting out his worst desires. But he feels a flash of anger with himself– is that what he did with you? Is he really this guy? He thinks that he is, he is a bad dude and he can commit to that role if that’s what’s needed.  

“Cousin, you’re scaring the normals.” Richie tries, looking at Tiff and you, but you’re still yearning to catch his glance– and Michael can only respond that it’s nothing, everything is fine, and you’re suddenly reminded of when your parents used to fight and how you used to have to be the middle man and convince them that things were alright.

Michael looks towards you this time– but you’re not looking at him. You have your hands neatly clasped in your lap, your eyes are focused on the set of candles in the middle of the table, and you look horribly upset, with your neck all tense as you wait for things to blow over, and he can tell– he’s fucking up big time. Stevie, Carmy, everyone is looking pained, and Michael can only think that he doesn’t give a shit. He wants to make Lee feel just as terrible as he does.

"You see– I can throw forks because this is our father’s house." Michael scoffs back, and there's real agony in his tone. “My father’s house.”

Michelle inhales. “We have lift-off.”

“Okay, you got everyone's attention, so go ahead, tell us a story we've all heard a million times already.” Lee spits out, barely holding back his own contempt for Michael, and Michael starts laughing as if everything’s alright. “Tell a story about how you're living with your mom and you're borrowing money off of her and any other sucker who'll listen to your bullshit.”

Everyone looks towards the table, feeling terribly awkward about Lee’s accusations– it’s not that it’s necessarily untrue, but there’s a hefty amount of his own assumptions, his own bias thrown in there, and you want to speak up.

“Lee, shut the fuck up.” Cicero looks absolutely pissed off at him, and you’re grateful someone has taken some of the heat off of Michael. It’s Lee’s fault, too.

“I’m sorry. I told you not to be a sucker, Jimmy.” Lee comments, and Cicero exhales, exasperated.

“Lee. That’s not really fair– you’re being too hard on him.” You utter through gritted teeth, and Lee’s eyes narrow on you. It's the first time you've spoken, and Michael glances at you– his eyes are bright and he genuinely looks sorry. Sorry he had to go this far.

“Oh, am I? Really, Birdie? I would suggest I’m not being hard enough.” Lee raises his hands, invites you to speak more, and you know that it’s not really your place to do so, especially because Lee and Michael seem to have a lot of history.

But you have your almost-lawyer tendencies, and of course you’re not exactly unbiased either, because you want to see the best in Michael– you want to like him. 

"Please, Lee… Michael's working on himself. You don't need to lie to him." You stare at him, and Lee’s face seems to turn darker with that. “I’m sure we all have our issues… it feels like a lot.”

"Is that what he's told you, Birdie?" Lee sneers at you, and you suddenly feel small. "He's a sick, fucking twisted man, and you would trust him, wouldn't you?"

He doesn’t go further than that– but it’s enough that you feel humiliated for being read so thoroughly. It’s obvious what he’s implying– you’re a silly little girl who doesn’t know any better. 

“It's fine. It's fine. Because this guy's nothing and he's nobody.” Lee points at Michael again, and his expression sours so much. You watch as Michael seems to zero in on what Lee’s rambling on about. 

Natalie shakes her head in little no-no motions.

“Hey… Petey… I just need to, uh… I need to borrow this for one second.” Michael’s got that nonchalant expression again, but there’s pain in his eyes, and there’s a clamour of everyone again telling Michael to stop, calling his name, trying to distract him.

"Michael. Michael. Please don’t do this. Hey. Hey. Hey!" Natalie calls at him, and you know she's just begging for him to leave it alone. “I love you. Okay?” 

You watch as Michael, holding the fork, just holding it, clear malicious intent in his eyes, tension building in the air and you feel a little sick, but his eyes are watering and he clearly doesn’t want to do what he thinks he has to.

“I love you too, Sug.” Michael says honestly.

Stevie giggles, Cicero de-escalates things further, and you think you see the light at the end of the tunnel, if not for the fact that Michael is still holding the fork. Still standing up, taunting him, acting like a big old child as Carmy rebukes him– and it’s really just two grown men beginning to get all macho and toxic about who’s tougher, who’s really the man of the house, and they start screeching at each other and you watch as Michael’s eyes glaze over with something, with Lee’s final insult that “he’s nothing.”

You watch as Michael takes his seat. He seems ambivalent, hard to read– he’s not meeting anyone’s eyes and you feel terrible about it.

Donna comes in and takes her seat– she seems rather drunk, too, and the last thing you need is more evidence that substance abuse is a bad thing– and Stevie starts the most wonderful prayer that still isn’t enough to dissuade Michael. You catch his gaze– he’s mulling over something, his eyes are watery, and you want to go over there and talk him down, even if that idea is unwise.

Donna cries over the prayer, and Natalie commits the most cardinal sin that she could at this moment: she asks if she’s okay.

You flinch with recognition as Donna starts screaming at her, about how she is okay and could a person who isn’t okay make such a gorgeous meal, and she exits the room in visible anger, and Natalie begins to hyperventilate, while Michelle tries to calm everyone down.

Donna throws a plate down on the floor, and exits the room continuing to scream– and there’s a beat of tense silence, full of angst and what-nows, and Lee decides to take initiative breaking that silence with a silly joke– almost in a paternal role, again, a hot topic between him and Mikey– and you watch Michael’s eyes start narrowing as he leans against his hand.

Michael throws the third fork.

It’s like every single nerve you felt, every bit of tension that was already in place, comes to a head as Michael starts going batshit, trying his best to attack Lee, while the Fak brothers and Richie are between them, and you can barely think straight as everyone starts screaming at each other. 

Tiff almost gets dragged into the chaos, and you're left shielding and comforting her from the fight. Pete and Richie hold Michael off and you're thankful– the last thing you want is to go up in there and get caught in the crossfire yourself. It’s genuinely a blur– you have no idea how bad things are getting until Cicero starts telling them to get the fuck out.

Suddenly, the wall of the living room bursts inwards, the Christmas tree getting dragged in the crossfire, and you realize with shock that someone’s driven a car inside.

Not just any car– that’s Donna in there, driving, and you think for a moment she’s dead. You can’t believe what’s happening– you can feel your heart hammering through your chest.

Michael runs towards the car, tries to open the front door, yelling and asking her what she did, asking her to open the door. She stirs a little.

Everyone else is standing there, in shock, not focusing properly on what to do, and you pull yourself away from the crowd of people, as they stare on in horror. You don’t want to be a part of this, but you are, and you know what a responsible adult would do. 

You go outside, into the December night’s cold air, and call 911. Specify for the firefighters and ambulances, because Cicero has a big thing against narcs and cops and you’re not getting into that right now.

Even though you’re freezing, and that’s what you should be focusing on? You’re in an incredible amount of despair because of what’s taken place. You hang up the call and feel exhausted by everything that’s happened, and you wonder if Michael really knows better. If he can be more than this. It’s not something you’re judging him for– but you feel terrible about his circumstances and you want him to get out of there.

Worse, you can’t help but feel a little upset with him. Because you know that Michael didn’t have to stoop that low– he chose to, and that’s what bothers you the most. He let his emotional responses dictate how he was going to act, and you know it’s hard to not be so provoked in this environment, but still: you are concerned and upset with him, and you know you need to take a step back. As much as it hurts you to stay away, you feel like it’s going to hurt even more if you intentionally stay around.

You wait for the ambulance and fire trucks to show up– you take a minute to direct them through the house, and then you trust that someone else has got it from there. Carmy, Natalie, Michelle, Stevie– they’ve got each other, they’re whispering about something, and you know where you’re not needed.

You grab your coat and leave, leave as silently as you can without interrupting everything that’s going on. It’s an strange walk home– ten minutes of you thinking about everything.

You hope next Christmas will be better.

/

Michael comes down from his high hard. Someone’s wrapped a blanket around him, and he’s sitting on the front porch’s staircase, wondering what the hell is going on. Donna’s apparently been taken to the hospital– and there’s a makeshift tarp where the wall has been crashed in. Everyone has gone home.

Where did you go? He has a moment of panic. Are you okay? Did he fuck it up that badly? That you would leave without saying goodbye? Michael can picture the disappointment on your face, and he wishes– he really wishes he was someone else.

He’s stressing really hard, his eyes are beginning to tear up. God, he knew he wasn’t really worthy of your attention– you’re young still, you have the whole world ahead of you– and he wonders if he can apologize. He wonders what he could possibly say to make it right. After such an insane situation, he can’t even blame you for taking off.

Natalie tells him, kind sister that she is, that you were the one to call emergency services. Of course you were– you have a strong head on your shoulders and Michael feels strongly that his family is in debt to you. And then you headed home, but Natalie doesn’t know why.

He does have your number. But he’s not going to call you, not right now– he’s not going to make a bigger mistake and fuck things up further. 

Michael sighs, and leans back. He doesn’t deserve to be happy.

i just finished narcos and have a javi obsession🫣

Somewhere to start - Chapter II: Lo estoy intentando

Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: A few little coincidences give you an opportunity to get to know Javi outside of work.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Warnings: Smut, flirting, fingering/mutual touching, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), protected PIV, smoking, forced proximity ish, Spanish translations at the end

Word count: 7k Rating: 18+ AO3

Javi was right. All you needed was, in fact, a refresher for Spanish. With his help, but mostly the textbook and dictionary you've spent your last three weeks worth of evenings with, your Spanish has gotten good enough to where you can read the majority of letters you receive with only a few breaks here and there to pull up the dictionary. 

You’re not telling Javi that, though, because the dumb little crush you have on him makes the words on the paper in front of you turn into an incoherent mess of letters when he’s in the room, and he always spots you looking at it like it’s your first day on the job, smirks a little, goes about his day, then pulls up his chair at five PM, ready to tutor. 

But to your dismay, you show up at work this morning to see Steve sitting in his chair again, back from Miami. Show’s over you think to yourself as you say hi to him and Javi, walking past them to find yourself a new desk in the corner of the room. You unpack your things and brainstorm, trying to think up another way to innocently flirt with Javi now that these Spanish lessons have nowhere to take place, not with the two agents working overtime most days, leaving Javi with no time for you and your stupid little problems. 

“Looks like we’ll have to move your tutoring session today,” you hear Javi say before pulling up next to you and leaning against your desk with his arms folded, subtly tilting his head towards Steve. It quickly dawns on you that he’s taking time out of his day for you, even now that he’s likely busy again, and it makes your heart race. “I’ll take my lunch break at noon, meet you here then?” he suggests, and you feel yourself perspire from his attention on you, dark brown eyes tracking your every move and looking straight into your eyes when you smile, shyly saying suena bien and try not to blush. 

-

“Nos ha llamado la atención” he says, tracing the words on the letter with his index finger, then looks up at you, “Dime lo que dije”. You look at him, blink a few times, look down at the letter again, narrow your eyes and try to gesture at your confusion. “Tell me what I said” he repeats, and you give him a sheepish smile, shrugging carefully. 

He tilts your chin up and whispers, “Gotta pay closer attention”, before his eyes flick down to your lips for just a split second, and back up. You can feel your face getting hot, hoping and praying you’re not visibly blushing as you look into his eyes. 

His hand is still under your chin, and he spreads his fingers to grasp your jaw and gently turn your face to the paper. “What does this sentence mean?” he asks again, and points to the top of the letter. “Th-.. Uhh” you stutter and look up at him again. 

He chuckles a little, looks up and down your face, and chews on the inside of his lip for a second before he gets up and takes a few steps over to a bookshelf, pulling out a dictionary and tossing it onto the table with a loud thud. “Look it up” he says and snaps his fingers before he sits back down, and you follow his orders, flipping through the pages and finding each word one by one, writing them all down in your notebook. 

“It’s been brought to our attention” you say slowly as you look at your notes, “Nos ha llamado la atención, nos ha llamado la atención”. You turn your head up and look at him, repeating the sentence, “Nos ha llamado la atención”. 

“Muy bien” he says with a smile, and watches you as you use the dictionary to translate the next sentence, picking up a few words you recognize from the previous lesson. 

-

You’re not entirely sure why Javi had to move your tutoring session, considering it’s five PM now and he’s still sitting at his desk, pouring over some documents, but you figure he has his reasons, not point in trying to prod. Everyone else has left and you're still there, all other offices are dark and empty, but you still have a stack of documents to go through before you can think about going home for the night, knowing more will pile up tomorrow. 

How is there so much paperwork? You can’t help but wonder if maybe you really are here just to file, if there truly are this many letters coming in that need to be read and sorted. It still doesn’t make a lot of sense no matter how you spin it. Why don't they have an intern? You look up when a thought strikes you - you probably didn't read the contract and now you’re actually a fucking intern and you just didn’t realize until now cause you spaced out so hard looking at that guy’s hairline. Shit.

“Come on, let’s go get something to eat” you hear Javi say, startling you a little and snapping you back from your thought spiral. He stands up and you stay seated, your head tilted up at him and your brows knitted in disbelief. “Now?” you ask, and point to the documents in front of you. “This is your work I'm doing, if you didn’t realize”. 

“Exactly” he says, pulling his blazer off the back of the chair before snatching the pen from your hand and tossing it onto the table, “It can wait”. You look at the letter in front of you, still not having much of a clue what it says, and slowly shake your head. 

“Javi..” you sigh. “I really need to get this done, it’ll just be another..”, you look at your watch and feel defeated already, “Hour, maybe?”. “You’re gonna stay here till almost six, unpaid?” he asks with narrowed eyes and a condescending smile. “I guess..” is all you have in response. 

“You don’t even know what that letter says”, he points to the document on the desk before folding his arms, his face full of amusement. “Yes, I do, Javi” you argue, knowing it’s a lie and that you’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes, a sudden influx of new words you couldn’t seem to familiarize yourself with flooding the page. “Tell me then” he says and raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side and waiting for you. 

You groan and squint at the paper, making out a few words but not nearly enough to figure out the sentence. “It’s something about a meeting, next week, with the ambassador” you say with your hands at your sides, shrugging a little. He cranes his neck for a second to look at the paper. “It’s about the embassy’s janitorial services” he says, dryly yet amused. 

You close your eyes and try to gather the will to argue, to translate, to work - to do anything, really. You glance around the room and, in the corner of your eye, you can see him put his hands flat on your desk next to you and lean over, hovering close to you. “Stop fighting me on this” he whispers, and you tilt your head up, catching his gaze.

You both stay like that for a few moments, half a smile tugging at the corner of his lip and you struggling to resist his coaxing. He glances down at your lips, then quickly looks back up, “Let me do something nice, you’ve done all this filing for me and I feel bad”

Then he tilts his head towards the door, stands up and straightens his jacket, and you scoot the chair back with a screeching sound before you rise, pushing off the armrests and looking at him unamused as you grab your bag and follow him out of the office. 

-

“What are you in the mood for?” he asks as you stand next to the cash register, looking at the menu and understanding all the words but getting so distracted by the scent of Javi’s cologne that you can’t think. “Surprise me” you say with a smile, what an amazing save, and he orders for you while you gaze at his side profile, lips parted and eyes wide. He looks so good in that collared, white t-shirt that it should be illegal. 

“So,” he says, interrupting himself to take a drag from his cigarette while he watches you take the last few bites of  your food, his already inhaled while you rambled about your life the past seven years and asked for advice on how to feel like less of an idiot at the embassy and in a new country. “What made you decide to work in.. Filing et cetera after all that time in school?” 

“I didn't decide” you say, covering your mouth and huffing a laugh with your mouth full, “I applied for a few jobs at the embassy, interviewed, they said I’d get one of three jobs”. You swallow and push your hair back over your shoulder, straightening a little in your chair. “And then, two weeks before I was moving, they told me I’d be doing admin work.. But I’d already made all the arrangements, you know? I gave up my apartment, took all these Spanish classes, bought plane tickets.. The embassy had already gotten an apartment for me. Figured it was better than staying in my hometown, even if I was just doing ‘filing etcetera’ as you so nicely put it”. 

He looks at you and nods as you talk, takes a drag and flicks off the ashes as he casts his gaze down for a second. “Angelina’s gonna get fired” he says, and looks off into the distance before his eyes flick back to yours. “The advisor?” you ask, vaguely remembering a woman in a pants suit you think might be her. 

“Mhm”, he takes one last drag and stumps the cigarette, “You're probably here to take over for her”. Your eyes shift a little side to side, and you can’t quite make sense of the very straightforward sentence he just uttered. “Why is she getting fired?” you ask, feeling like you shouldn’t even be privy to this information at all. 

He takes a breath and leans back, throwing his arm over the chair next to him, frowns and shrugs a little before he answers. “Doesn’t really give a shit about her job and it shows.. Nothing gets done in her department, always late, constant complaints lodged against her”. 

“Why me, though?” you question, genuinely baffled by his theory, “I’m just a lowly.. Office-admin-paper-person, I don’t know..”. He leans forward and over the table, scanning your face up and down, “Do you think they'd send some idiot down here and pay for their apartment, just so they can run around sorting letters for god knows how long, doing shit Murphy and I should be doing?”. He pauses for a second and tilts his head, “Come on”. 

There’s no fucking way, you think. Sure, you have the qualifications, you had an interview for an adjacent job that went well. Very well, actually, so well you were sure you’d gotten the job until the admin bomb was dropped on you and you assumed a better fit had suddenly swooped in and they changed their minds last minute. Why would they suddenly want you for this?

“How do you know? How-”, you shake your head a little and lean in, “Are you supposed to know that?”. “I can tell” he answers and clears his throat, “I sit in meetings with her and people from her department all the time. She’s had two strikes and they’re waiting for a third so she can get canned, simple as that”.  

Your eyes dart around the room a little, across the chairs and tables in the restaurant, the other customers, the trees outside blowing in the wind. Javi's eyes are on you the entire time, but he doesn’t say anything until your gaze travels back to him again. “Ambassador will want someone to take over immediately and”, he turns his hands a little, gesturing towards you, “There you are”. 

“Why me?” you ask with a grimace, waiting for a serious, legitimate reason you’d suddenly be getting this job, this much better job, more demanding and better paid, actually challenging, with real responsibilities. He chuckles a little and looks between your eyes, studies you a little. “You're capable, intelligent, organized” he says, “Good at talking to people, have your shit together.. Why not you?”

You don’t get the opportunity to answer before the waitress comes by and drops the check on the table. You reach over and grab it, earning you a dirty look from Javier. “You’re not paying” he says, almost condescendingly but with a hint of a laugh, and rips the check out of your hand. 

You roll your eyes, mutter thanks, Javi and lift your hand to your cheek, rest your elbow on the table and look out of the window, onto the street, while he pays for dinner. He drives you back to the embassy and you say goodnight, lingering for a little in front of the door to your car, him standing close to you, until someone drives into the empty parking lot and he takes a step back. You smile and get in, about to put your key in the ignition when it suddenly hits you that there’s a planned power outage in your building this week. 

Not this week, today. 

It also hits you that you got a notice regarding the outage under your door last week and had spent the evening translating it. You lean your forehead into the steering wheel and sit there for a few seconds, trying to figure out whether you should get a hotel somewhere for the night, when you’re startled by a tapping on the window, and you turn to see Javi standing outside. 

You roll your window down and he leans into the door, bending over until he’s nearly eye level with you as you shake your head and tell him about the outage. “Stay at my place tonight,” he says and taps the door, “We’ll go to yours and get your stuff, then I’ll drive you to and from work tomorrow”. You lean into the steering wheel again, weighing your options, but realize this is probably the safest, regardless of how inappropriate it might be. 

Javi unlocks the door to his apartment and nods for you to walk in first, and your eye is immediately caught by the large windows in his living room as well as the sizable balcony stretching from one corner to the other. “You have a balcony!” you exclaim, realizing you sound way too excited, and even though it’s dark out, you pad over to the glass and peer through it, looking at the city lights. 

“Yup” you hear him say, equal parts amused and confused. “Man,” you say as you keep staring out, “All I see from my place is trees, tops of buildings and flashing lights from restaurants on the street, not all this”. Javi gets on the couch and flips the TV on, clicking through the channels and landing on some sort of show while you look out of the window for another minute, then coming over to him and sitting down. 

“Free Spanish lesson” he says and glances at you, and you roll your eyes before turning to the screen and trying to understand what’s going on. You get comfortable after a while and find yourself understanding more and more, only catching Javi occasionally looking at you from a few feet away, out of the corner of your eye. An hour or so goes by before you start to yawn and look at the time, and Javi is quick to say that you can have his bed and he’ll sleep on the couch. 

“No, no” you say, waving your hand, “Don’t make me feel like a burden, Javi, I’m totally comfortable sharing your bed if you don’t mind it”. He tilts his head a little side to side, trying to look like he’s mulling it over. “If you insist” he says and flips the TV off, then helping you up and showing you where the bathroom is. You grab your toiletries and a t-shirt from your bag and head in to get ready for bed, listening to Javi brush his teeth in the kitchen sink while you quietly peek around in his cabinets a little, just to see if there’s anything interesting to find - which there unfortunately isn’t. 

Javi is already in bed, bare chested and stretching his arms when you come out of the bathroom. You smile shyly, walking around to the other side, unable to ignore his eyes following you as you slip into the sheets a respectful distance away from him. Two feet, maybe, it’s a pretty big bed after all, much too big for just one person. 

“Thanks for letting me stay over” you say, pulling up the blanket and sweeping your hair up over the pillow, trying not to look at him, knowing that the awareness of him laying next to you, both of you half naked, will keep you up for hours if you think about it too hard. 

If you think just a little too much about what he might be like in bed. How we might use his hands and lips and tongue on you, how he might feel inside you. You try to quiet your thoughts, try to breathe through your mouth so you don't feel yourself getting wet from his proximity. “Anytime” he groans and reaches over to turn the lamp on the nightstand off, “Sweet dreams”. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and lay completely still in the quiet, dark bedroom, trying to ignore the ache between your legs that rises every time you inhale and smell his cologne on the blanket right below your nose. You push it down a little, wrap it tightly around your chest, and you cool off for a second before you feel him shifting next to you and he throws his arm over his head. 

A whiff hits you as he groans quietly and settles - an unmistakable, masculine, musky whiff coming from under his arm, the inevitable sweat from merely existing in Bogotá combined with the cologne that’s been developing on his skin under the suit, which is already intoxicating enough without the added pheromones, making your core tighten at the scent.  

“I haven’t had sex in ten months” you suddenly whisper, and you wince as the words leave your mouth. How the fuck did that make it past the filter? A silence follows, and you’re not quite sure whether you prefer for him to have heard you or not. 

“Wha-, sorry, did you say something?” he murmurs. “I said I haven't had sex in ten months” you repeat, admitting defeat and feeling your heart thumping. “Is this-”, you can hear him shifting towards you but you look at the ceiling, unwilling to make eye contact. “Are you.. trying.. to seduce me?” he asks, sounding amused. 

“Javi..” you mutter, and he can probably sense how hard you’re rolling your eyes at him. “Worth a shot” he says, and you can tell he’s moments away from laughing. “I’m just telling you in case I crawl on you in my sleep or something”, you say, surrendering your hands with your eyes still closed, “Don't- don’t take it personally”. There’s another bout of silence, and you can feel your heartbeat all the way down in your stomach.

“Why don't you just.. Crawl on me now then,” he suggests softly, “Won’t matter if you do it in your sleep if you’re already here”. You don’t answer his question out loud, but you scoot over to him and lay your head on his chest, taking a deep breath and getting overwhelmed by the scent of him, making you jerk your hips a little and throw your leg over his to hide your reaction.

“Don’t take this personally” he mocks, and reaches around to lay his hand on your back, starting to stroke the skin that's been exposed from your t-shirt riding up as you shifted around. You lay still for a while, or what seems like a while, feeling his warm palm stroking you soothingly and molding to the curves of your back as you relax into his chest, inching your pelvis a little closer to him, noticing your panties make contact with his boxers, and trying to brush it off as just shifting around. 

His hand lowers a little, sweeps down to your lower back and keeps gently rubbing. You whimper a little at the touch and hope he didn’t hear it, but his hand stills at the noise, right above the waistband of your panties. You close your eyes again and try to somehow reel in your aching for more, take back the wetness that already soaked your panties and at this point is most likely dampening the fabric of his boxers. Hopefully he can’t feel it. 

He squeezes a little and your hips roll in response, your breath hitches, and you ask yourself where your self control went when you suddenly feel his hand wrap around your jaw before your head is tilted up, his lips meet yours, and he’s kissing you, parting your lips and licking into your mouth. Fuck, he's a good kisser.

Your hand quickly leaves his chest and your fingers find his curls, tugging at them and hearing him groan. His hand slips down, your thong getting caught between his fingers, and he pulls the lace covered string down until he reaches the swell of your ass. He covers as much of it as he can with his large hand, uses his grip on your flesh to move you subtly, pulling you up and pushing you back down so your clit drags against the wet fabric of your panties that have absolutely leaked onto his boxers by now.

Another whimper escapes, this one long and drawn out, into his mouth. “Let's take these off” he whispers, and you nod in response while he traces the top of your panties, making you shiver when his fingers pass below your belly button. He hooks two fingers into the strap and moves his hand a little back and forth again, brushing the back of his fingers along your hip. 

Your eyes have gotten used to the dark now, and the light coming in through those pesky venetian blinds illuminate him just enough to where you can watch him as he slides your panties down your legs, tosses them off the side of the bed, and comes back with a hand going up your shirt as he leans down to kiss you again. 

His palm brushes up against your firm nipple and he hums in acknowledgement, retracting his hand to bunch up your shirt and pull it over your head. “I gotta see this” he mutters and turns on the lamp on his bedside table, casting a warm light all over the bed, allowing you to see how intensely he’s looking at you. You could never get tired of those eyes on you. 

He lets his hand drag down your side as he licks and kisses along the side of your neck, takes in your curves, travels all the way down, as far as he can reach, and squeezes your flesh. He watches your eyes as he traces up your inner thigh, stops right at the apex, and ghosts his fingertips along your slit, seeing how your lips part and your eyes widen. 

“Ten months, huh?”, his voice is so raspy, so deep and dark, and it reverberates through your entire body when he speaks, “That’s a long time”. “Yeah” you whisper with a hint of a laugh. “You wanna keep that streak going or?” he asks smugly with his eyes trained on your lips. “Does it seem like I do?” you respond breathlessly, still half smiling. 

“Not really” he says, and plunges one finger deep into you. The moan you let you is embarrassingly loud and desperate, and he chuckles in response. “Fucking tight, though, huh?” he mutters while working in another finger. He slides them in and out, pausing deep inside you to curl them at the spot where you want him the most, your slick running down along his fingers and into his palm, and he kisses and bites your lower lip as you moan into him, unable to close your mouth. 

The sensation of his thick fingers is overwhelming after nearly a year of trying and failing to reach the crevice he’s so effortlessly rubbing now. “So good, Javi, so good” you whimper into his mouth, nipples hardening and pussy throbbing, desperately needing release. Then he kisses along your jaw and down your neck while he listens to your little noises, pushing his clothed erection into the side of your thigh. 

You pull at his waistband and he moves to retract his fingers, soaked and dripping, pulling his soft pajama pants off with one hand. You glance over as he leans down again and returns his fingers to your opening, slipping inside and curling. The blanket has slid off, down to the mattress, and he’s laying completely bare while his cock lightly bobs from how hard he is. 

He lets you take him in, pressing a kiss to your forehead while you stare at him, at the wet head, precome leaking from the slit and threatening to drip down, a few thick veins running from the tip, down his overwhelming length, reaching the thick base, covered by soft, brown hair. “Like what you see?” you hear him murmur against your hairline, and he chuckles a little when you nod. “Yeah” you say softly, and he hums a little before tilting your head back and continuing to place kisses along your neck. 

You reach your hand towards him as he keeps pumping his fingers in and out, landing on his stomach and sliding further and further down till your fingers comb through the patch of hair above his shaft and finally circle around him. You can’t even reach all the way around, and you gasp at the realization, dragging your fingers up to catch his precome, slick your hand and start stroking. 

The stifled moan he lets out as he licks the underside of your jaw sends shivers through you, and you can feel your clit swelling, so achy and sensitive. Your hand is getting slicker as more precome keeps dribbling out of him, turning you on even more and making you louder until he shushes you with a kiss, his tongue reaching deep into your mouth and your shared spit smearing across your lips. He retracts his fingers and licks off your juices as he looks at you, not letting you glance away. 

“Quiero comerte” he mutters to himself, “Taste so fucking good”. He shifts around so he's on his stomach between your thighs, and you notice a worry creeping up when you realize what he’s about to give you. “Should I maybe shower first?” you ask with concern, leaning back on your elbows and trying to close your legs, pushing against his hands holding you open “Sorry I’m so sweaty, I didn’t-”.

“Nah, baby, nothing to apologize for” he says with a calm smile, his eyes burning with desire, “Want you just like this”. And with that, he grabs your hips, pulls you closer to him and hooks his fingers over your thighs to spread you apart. You squeeze your eyes shut and dread his reaction to your scent and taste, your pussy having marinated in sweat all day under the soft fabric of your panties, the heat outside making it impossible not to come home with your inner layer of clothing soaked. 

He runs his hand up your inner thigh and pauses, uses his thumb to carefully pull your soft pussy lip to the side, and you tense with self consciousness as he gently opens you for him and runs his tongue up along one side, licking up all your accumulated sweat and gently brushing your clit when he reaches the top. He gives it a slow lick, almost like a wet kiss, and you moan softly, holding your breath.

You feel the vibrations of him groaning against your skin as he shifts to the other side, splays his hand across your inner thigh and pushes his tongue under your outer lip, dragging all the way from your opening and to your clit again, licking up a combination of sweat from the day and slick from him fingering you. 

He looks up across your body and waits for you to open your eyes, and you meet his gaze right as he covers your slit with his tongue and drags it up, kisses your clit softly, nips at your folds, then licks the crevice between your mound and inner thigh. Your breathing is shallow and your head is empty, all your attention occupied by the throbbing sensation deep within you, and your clit aching to be rubbed and licked until you come. 

He makes his way back, swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud and gives it a suckle, then dives down to push his tongue into your opening so far his nose is touching your clit, a soft whimper escaping you and your chest lifting, rewarded by his dark eyes tracking yours when he comes back up and sucks your clit up into his mouth, flicks at it, increasing the pressure as he squeezes your thighs and you fist the sheets on either side of your head.

“J-Javi, I’m gonna- ” you moan, breathlessly and soft, and he raises an eyebrow, maintaining his pace, covering your clit with his saliva, rolling his tongue and suckling while your own arousal leaks out of you. “I'm gonna come, I-ah” your sentence trails off as you come apart under him, walls pulsing and clenching, back arching off the mattress and your eyes rolling back as your mouth hangs open, gasping for air. 

He gently licks until your back hits the mattress, then kisses along your inner thigh and comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand and kiss your neck. “Get on top of me, baby” he whispers, his breath hot over your skin, giving you goosebumps. He sits up and shifts back, leaning against the headboard and watching you pull off your t-shirt as he reaches into his nightstand and grabs a condom, looking at you as he rips it with his teeth. You stare down at his cock, mouth half open and borderline watering as he rolls the latex down and and gestures for you to come to him. 

You shuffle over on your knees and he holds his cock up for you to sit on it, reaches out his other hand to wrap around your waist and pulls you closer. He tilts his head up and gazes at your lips, and you kiss him while you lower onto his length, whimpering against his mouth as he fills you. “La tienes tan dura” he mutters to himself, under his breath, and you gasp a little. “Javi” you scold and smack his chest with the back of your hand, interrupted by your breath hitching again at the sensation of his tip reaching the very end of you. “So you understand that but not what's relevant to your job, hm?”, he shakes his head in disapproval, “Dirty girl”. 

You roll your eyes a little, starting to wind your hips up and down, feel his hands running up and down your back and over your ass, while his cock fills you and rubs the sensitive little spot deep inside you. “You look so pretty all stretched out, mi amor” he says, grasping your jaw and neck with one hand and bringing your face close to his so he can lick inside your mouth and nibble at your bottom lip while he grunts and thrusts up into you, reaching the very end of your pussy. 

He keeps kissing the corner of your mouth, the underside of your jaw, your neck and your chest as you moan incoherently, tighten your core and roll your hips, feeling your clit rubbing against him and your eyes rolling back. His hips move with yours, pushing his length all the way into you, massaging your walls just right. You look down at him and he angles your head down so that your faces are almost touching. You pant into each other’s mouths and he starts smiling, picking up his pace just a little, holding your jaw and forcing you to look him in the eyes while you moan and squirm, your head cleared of all thoughts, your sole focus on how good he feels inside you. 

He leans over and grabs the pack of smokes on his nightstand, effortlessly slipping out a cigarette with one hand, sticking it between his lips and picking up the lighter, all while keeping one eye on you, as you lean back with your hands on his knees and move your hips. "You're enjoying yourself too much, cariño" he says, slightly muffled, and lights up while clicking his tongue, "Should’ve known you'd take advantage of my kindness". He groans as he throws the lighter back onto the nightstand and takes a drag, exhaling up and to the right while he gazes at you. 

You huff a laugh as you watch him through half closed lids, distracted by how he’s filling you to the brim, how his free hand squeezes the flesh of your ass so firmly it almost hurts a little, and his eyes follow your hips as they lift up, high enough for him to see part of his length slide out before it disappears into you again. 

“Fuck yourself on it” he says and takes another drag, “I have to take a timeout, you look way too good on my dick”. He exhales, and leaves the cig in his mouth so he has both hands free, running them down your thighs before throwing one arm over the headrest and leaning over towards the opposite side to flick the ash off into the small ceramic tray. You can barely hear what he’s saying, too overwhelmed by his size still stretching out your hole and putting pressure on your cervix, the movement of his hips burying him so deeply in your cunt you're unable to think straight. 

“Can tell you're close, angel” he coos, his voice sounding buttery smooth as he grabs your hand and brings it to your core, “Can you come for me?”. He returns his hand to your hip, and you follow his lead, licking the pads of your index and ring fingers then bringing them down to start circling your clit, feeling your stomach tightening and his tip nudging your most sensitive spot when he pulls you further down into his lap. 

He brings his hand up to carefully grasp your breast, smoothing his thumb over your sensitive nipple in circular motions, pushing you closer to your release as you look up at the ceiling and feel it starting to take over your lower half. You hear him grunting, breathing heavily, and feel his tongue on your nipple, licking and sucking it while you ride him.

It feels like he’s prodding at every nerve in your body as his hand on your back holds you close to him and your most sensitive areas are being stimulated, and you need to come so bad you could cry. “Javi, fuck” you moan in an uncharacteristically high pitch, your voice straining to get a single word out as you tumble over the edge, clenching down on him and digging your hips as far into him as possible. He pulls back, raises an eyebrow and smirks, calmly observing as you arch your back while you ride the waves of your orgasm. 

“So beautiful” he says and puts out the cigarette, kissing between your breasts while you come down. He places one hand on your back and lifts your thigh with the other, crossing his legs under you so he can lift up to his knees and lay you down on the mattress, his cock still fully sheathed inside you as he settles between your legs. “How do you feel?” he murmurs and noses your neck. “So good” you whisper while you push your heel into his spine, and he slips both arms under your knees, lifting your ass up into the air. 

He fucks you so deeply your hands shoot out to grab the front of his knees, preventing him from pushing in any further. Your back arches when you hear him moan, opening your eyes to see his face scrunched and his mouth half open, his gaze roving over your body as he grabs your thighs and pulls you back, letting your ankles rest on his shoulders. He pounds into you, hitting your g-spot with overwhelming speed, your moans getting more and more desperate until his thrusts slow and he growls with each one, burying himself in you for one final push, holding your hips and looking at you while he comes with a rough moan.  

He leans over you, lowering down onto his elbows to kiss your lips, then your jaw, then your neck, and eventually your chest, before he pulls out with a groan and discards the condom, pulling you up and onto him as he settles back against the headboard. 

-

“Let’s air the room out a little” he says with a laugh as he puts on his boxers, then picks up a cigarette, nodding towards the door. He waits for you to put on your shirt and panties, takes your hand and guides you out of his bedroom through the kitchen and out onto the balcony you were looking at earlier. 

He lights up as you lean over the railing and look down onto the street, comparing the view from his apartment to the view from yours. “Tutoring on Thursday?” you ask as you stand back up. “You only want me for sex” Javi says and rolls his eyes, “This is all just a ruse, baby”. 

“Javi…” you murmur softly. “Don't patronize me” he says, making you giggle. Nodding at the cigarette in his hand, you look up at him with a raised brow, “You mind?”. He gives it to you and you take a drag, exhaling slowly as you look out onto the city and feel his eyes on you. “I've learned a lot” you say, still looking out. 

“Yeah?” he asks and snakes his hand around your waist. “Mhm.. It's fun”, you look at him, not quite smiling but at the very least looking amused. “That’s good” he says, and pushes his hand into your back so you stumble into him and he kisses you, slowly and tenderly, taking back the cigarette and flicking the ash off. “You're a good teacher” you purr while watching him take a puff. “Lo estoy intentando, hm?”, he exhales. 

You look at him and blink a few times, feeling dumb. “I’m trying” he whispers with narrowed eyes and pushes your hair back over your shoulder, tilting his head a little. You roll your eyes at yourself, “People really lodge formal complaints about Angelina?”. He looks down at your chest for a moment while his hand slips down to squeeze your cheek, before he keeps talking. “You translated one, so..” he says and shrugs, “You tell me”. 

“I did?”, you grimace and try to remember what little you gathered during that lesson, too damn distracted to even read English. “Yeah, first lesson” he says, and watches you with amusement, “Or were you not paying attention?”. You giggle and tilt your head, biting your tongue between your front teeth, “Might’ve been a bit distracted”. 

“Fair enough” he concedes, then takes a drag, “I’m looking forward to her being out, hate to say it”. He exhales out into the air and you admire his side profile, watching as his eyes narrow and his gaze follows the lights from an airplane in the distance. “Is she that bad?” you finally ask.

“Nightmare.. You prepared for the amount of Spanish you'll have to know to take over?”, he looks back at you, and moves his hand back up to the small of your back, spreading out his fingers to hold you steady while he pulls you a little closer. “What” you say, not even as a question. 

“There's gonna be a decent amount”, he smirks while taking another drag. You look unamused as you snatch the cigarette back, leaning back into his hand. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve just been tutoring me so I can take over for her sooner and you don't have to deal with her shit?”. Javi tilts his head and looks at you, leaning in for a kiss you dodge, and he laughs at your disapproval. 

“Positive side effect, you could say..”, his gaze holds you hostage as you try to look annoyed, “But mostly I don't mind helping a damsel in distress such as yourself”. “Damsel in distress” you mutter, rolling your eyes and slapping his arm. “Nah,” he chuckles, “I like you, why wouldn't I wanna help?”. He looks at your lips, then your eyes, brushing his thumb along your skin. “I like you too” you say, biting back a smile. You gaze at each other for a moment, before you get shy and peek over the railing while he runs his hand up and down your back. “Seeing anything interesting?” he asks. “Eh,” you shrug, “Not really.”

-

Nos ha llamado la atención = It has caught our attention

Dime lo que dije = Tell me what I said 

Quiero comerte =  Want to eat you

La tienes tan dura = You get me so hard 

Lo estoy intentando = I try

i need some asap.

I refuse to believe that the Will Poulter fans haven’t written Luca fanfiction. I’ve see y’all… you’re too fast for me to believe that it’s taken four days.

loving carmen fics rn

nemesis

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

summary: you made carmen’s life hell in culinary school, except you had no idea. now he finds out you run a restaurant in Chicago, and he’s confronted with the emotions he projected onto you.

word count: 2.9K

notes: kinda got inspired by the lyric “I’m the sweetest girl in town so why are you so mean?” by lana del rey but this was prompted by this ask!!! anyway this starts off in carmy’s culinary school era and then goes to somewhere around the start of S1. this will def get a part two!!

warnings: cursing, slight mention of suicidal thoughts, angst

comment if you’d like to be added to the tag list for further carmen berzatto related content! 

You were like the average person’s depiction of an angel.

You were so incredibly good at what you did, excelling in every class they got, you were unanimously liked by everyone, always helping out your peers and taste testing, and for all he knew you probably fucking rescued baby polar bears in your spare time too.

You were perfect.

And he couldn’t stand it.

Lees verder

he is me.

#He’s just like me fr fr

SEXIEST MAN ALIVE?! DAMN RIGHT HE IS

rest in peace to the legend that is olivia newton-john.

i changed my mind this is funny lmfao

i love being sad

Can you do an Eddie x reader angst where reader is a cheerleader that has a MASSIVE crush on Eddie. She asked him out but because she’s a cheerleader he thinks it a joke and mocks her etc

a/n: hey sweetheartss- thank you so fkn much for all the love on my last Eddie post. This is sorta similar but a different scenario- hope you enjoy <3

warnings: kinda mean!eddie in the beginning obv, reader feeling humiliated, super mega fluffy cute ending!!!!

Nice fucking try - e. m.

—☕️

He was never at any of the games- which fair enough, why would he be?

Yet you couldn’t help the disappointment when you scanned the crowd for a specific mop of curls with no luck. You had practiced the fuck out of this routine and yet no one would probably be looking at you- they’d all look at chrissy instead.

It was like this often. You’d search for Eddie, and when you finally caught him, you’d sit and watch his sporadic movements and tales, admiring him from afar. He had sent a couple of sweet smiles your way; that was your only lifeline to him and you being a possibility. You were a cheerleader after all, and you knew how the basket team treated people like Eddie. You knew he probably thought the same of you but you were aching to prove him otherwise.

You had to do something about the way your heart was on fire for him, a bird beating itself to death in a cage, a moth around a lamppost- you couldn’t keep letting it burn until there was only ashes left.

You knew he had his usual hellfire club meeting today, and suddenly the routine you were doing was the least of your concerns- you even stepped on someone’s toes in the process but it didn’t matter. You were going for it. You were gonna give him the sweetest smile and the most sincere smile and ask Eddie Munson on a date, no matter what any of your friends thought. No matter to what depths your social status would go. You would risk it for him, you were head over heels after all.

After changing quickly while ignoring the annoyed look from your friends ‘cause of your routine slip up, you hurried to the hellfire club room.

Rocking back and forth in your converse, you leaned against a locker while fiddling with the strap of your gym bag. No sooner did the door fling open and several members left the room, mainly ignoring you or giving you a suspicious side-eye, except Mike who waved to you, since you knew Nancy. She was one of the few people who you trusted with your feelings about Eddie. When all had left, you stepped inside to see Eddie packing up from the campaign.

You didn’t say anything, heart suddenly in your throat and palms sweaty. The fabric of his white t-shirt was stretching over his back and he reached over the table, not yet noticing your presence.

“Eddie?” You asked softly, but he still jumped at your voice, a few dices clattering to the ground. The room was ominously lit, casting amber shadows over his pretty face.

“Uh, yes?” He asked slightly confused- suspicion already bleeding from his tone. He picked the dice off of the floor and continued to pack everything away while you stood.

“I uhm- well I don’t know if you know my name-“

“- y/n, yeah. I know.” He grumbled, not seeming particularly interested in what you had to say. You tried not to let it defeat the courage that had etched into your skin, dripping on your tongue.

“Was it a good… campaign?” You asked with a weary voice. You had secretly picked up a little starter guide to the dice game Eddie seemed so passionate about, to try and understand him better.

He scoffed. What kind of fucking foolery was the jocks up to now?

He didn’t even bother replying, knowing that wasn’t the reason you were here, was probably a fucking trick question already. You cheerleaders were like little heathens.

When he didn’t reply you felt your face flush in embarrassment- had you said something wrong?

“Okay well uh- I was wondering if,” you stuttered, fumbled over all your words as you kept fidgeting with your bag. The bird in the cage surely almost done for. The moth was growing tired.

“- if you’d like to do something with me sometime? Like hangout? On- on a date or something like that?” You asked. Your voice was breathy and the words came out a lot faster and unsure than you would’ve liked.

Finally he diverted his attention to you, his figure turning torturously slow, a finger raised in the air in front of him. “You’re asking me out?” He asked incredulously. He didn’t believe they would try such an old trick on him.

“Nice fucking tryyyy Princess,” he said loudly, voice dragging out the words- in case any of your friends were on the other side of the door laughing their asses off.

“What, you’d take me out to a nice dinner, laugh at my jokes and let me take you home to my scrappy little trailer? Is that what you want?” He laughed humourlessly, tongue rolling around his cheek while he stalked towards you.

“I- I mean that sounds fine to me?” You tried, voice more unsteady than ever. You couldn’t tell what was happening but the bird and the moth were lying helplessly in your heart and hot tears tickled the corners of your eyes.

“That sounds fine to you? I’m not falling for this shit, little witch. Run back to your friends, will ya?” He didn’t even spare you another glance as he finished cleaning the table and flung his leather jacket on.

You stood motionless, throat bobbing in an effort not to cry. He hadn’t just rejected you, he had completely misjudged you with no after thought- discarded you because of prejudices. You stormed out of the room with a horrible mix of rage and shame washing over you.

—☕️

“Something sick happened when all you little sheep left hellfire yesterday,” Eddie began as he placed his lunch tray drown dramatically. He glared over to the jocks table, surprised to instead find you sitting alone, sulking.

“What’s up?” Dustin asked curiously, biting into his apple.

“Little miss y/l/n tried to ask me out yesterday. Tried to humiliate me- but this mighty fucking game master didn’t fall for it,” he said almost proudly, digging into his lunch.

“Woah she asked you out? Was that why she was outside hellfire?” Mike said, voice borderline serious in a way that caught both Dustin and Eddies attention.

“Yes, so? Was expecting me to waltz right into that little trap,” he scoffed.

“Y/n asked you out? Dude she likes you! Seriously- I heard Nance and her talking about it a couple weeks ago in the car. She’s like over the moon for you, man.” Mike gestured around wildly to punctuate his words and their meaning.

Eddie stopped eating instantly, whatever was in his hand clattering to the tray as he looked over to your hunched figure again- head down, not eating, not talking.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck- please tell me you’re joking kid.” He tried desperately, looking between Mike and Dustin who didn’t waver at all. “Nope. No joke. Can’t stop talking about you I swear.”

Eddie buried his head in his hands.

A pretty, nice cheerleader had asked him out- had a fucking crush on him and he mocked her like that? Scared her away? The realisation hit him like a ton of bricks as he dragged his palms over his face and through his hair, reliving the whole experience yesterday; how nervous you had been, how you asked him about this campaign.

Before his mind could prepare him more, he jumped from his seat and ran through the cafeteria, nearly stumbling and drawing all eyes to him as usual.

You looked up, throat twisting into knots as you saw Eddie sit, literally, on his knees on the floor next to the bench where you sat in your solitude.

“Y/n-“ he said, almost out of breath. His eyes were so big and soft, so pleading and glossy, it touched your heart despite the way he broke it yesterday.

“Y/n I’m so sorry. I thought you were messing with me yesterday. Thought it was some kind of joke from your friends or- I didn’t- I didn’t know you meant it but Mike-“ he breathed again, pausing. Everyone was looking at the two of you, your eyes wide at his hasty, guilty confessions.

“Hey, hey-“ you said, placing a hand on his shoulder “-lets uh- go somewhere else, hm?” You tried, standing from the bench. He swallowed loudly before looking around.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” he breathed. When he looked at you then, he swore there was a gleam of something in your eyes.

It was hope.

You took his warm hand and dragged him out into the hall, ignoring the mocking from where your former friends sat. Where you used to be.

Eddie stuck his tongue out devilishly as you passed them before disappearing into the silent hall with you.

“Hi,” you said then, a soft smile splaying on your lips. It made Eddie’s insides flutter, knowing you were being genuine.

“Hey,” he replied with a huff, a broad grin adorning his features now too.

“I’m sorry-“ he began again but you cut him off quickly; his dramatic cafeteria gesture was enough of an apology to you, and you couldn’t even blame him for thinking like that with you being a part of the cheer squad.

“It’s okay, Eddie. I know I don’t seem like the type, but I promise you I- I think I really like you,” you confessed nervously, eyes darting around the tile floor “and I’m not friends with those dickheads anymore. Swear.”

The bird was beating around the cage, wilder and wilder and the moth dances excitedly around the bright burning lamppost.

“So the offers still- its still on?” He asked hopefully. You couldn’t possibly resist those puppy dog eyes he flashed you, the way his hands fidgeted with the rings adorning his slender fingers.

You nodded eagerly, not daring to believe any of this was really happening. “I’m not much for dinners, though” you added. He laughed. A warm sound you could see yourself getting very used to.

“Me neither. We’ll figure something out, hm?” He asked rhetorically, head tilting to the side to peer down at your hopeful face. Your expression made the guilt from yesterday wash away from his conscience, albeit slowly. God you were gorgeous, and he had half a mind to believe he was dreaming in this moment.

“It’s a date, then.” You stated. Before he could reply, you raised to your tiptoes and kissed his cheek gently.

A furious red blush crept up on his cheek and neck, his lips parted in surprise.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s uh- it’s a date,” he smiled, flustered as he squeezed your hand.

So damn gorgeous, he thought.

no but why haven't i seen a single eddie munson/patrick verona comparison yet???

like???? they literally have the same smile.

you give patrick longer hair and they're the same person.

also the obvious parallel between eddie saying "don't you big boy" and patrick saying "I'm sure you've thought about me naked"???

patrick doing his show singing and eddie walking on the cafeteria tables???

bad boys that are actually good guys???

istg i could go on forever.

i love this so much

Just the Two of Us

i've been doing a lot of asks recently, so here's a concept straight from my brain. it's very, very long. enjoy!!

Harry Styles was a thorn in your side.

You didn't even really know him, you knew of him. Both of you worked at the same boat tour company, but thankfully you gave tours on different boats. So why did he irk you so much?

Well, he was insanely attractive, for one, but he knew it and had no qualms using it to lure unsuspecting tourists into his charming little trap.

It really wasn't any of your business, and he wasn't even a tour guide on your boat, but you'd catch him sometimes if your trips happened to come into the dock at the same time, and you'd have to watch him shamelessly flirt with girls (and the occasional boy if the mood struck him). You'd have to watch as these tourists threw themselves at him, practically begging for his attention, and he was more than happy to give it to them. This was a job, not a bar, and Harry was just so smug about his popularity with tourists your age, and it was just so—

"Annoying! He drives me crazy, Paige," you said, falling backwards onto your little sister's bed.

She looked up from behind her book. You could only see the top half of her face, but that was all you needed to see to know she was grinning. "You know, for someone who hates the guy, you sure do talk about him a lot."

"Oh please. That is not what this is. People vent about the people they work with all the time."

Paige shrugged. "If you say so."

"I do say so," you said, narrowing your eyes at her.

You thought she'd let it go. You certainly had. The implication that you were...were interested in Harry was vomit-inducing. He was a player, and he did nothing to hide it. He used his tan, his muscles, his dark curly hair, his stupidly charming and dimpled smile to his advantage. You typically weren't the kind to harp on people's sexual activity, but getting a front row seat to Harry's flirting was exhausting.

"It's okay if you're, like, attracted to him, you know," Paige said, her eyes not once leaving her book.

"Paige!"

"What? He's hot. It's like a scientific fact."

You nudged your sister's knee with your foot. "You are fifteen. Stay far, far away."

"And you're twenty-three. You should definitely strike while the iron is hot, live a little," she said, closing her book and setting it down.

"I have lived. I've done plenty of living."

"I know, but ever since you came home, you haven't. I don't want to be the reason you don't have fun anymore. I mean, when was the last time you picked up a—"

"Paige," you said, sitting up on the bed to look at her better. "I don't regret being here. You're my sister. I'd do anything for you."

She played with the book's cover, not looking you in the eye. "I just feel guilty sometimes. You were living your life, and I—"

"You needed help." Patting the spot next to you on the bed, you urged Paige to sit next to you. Sighing, she got up from her beanbag chair and plopped down next to you. When she was settled, you let her rest her head on your shoulder. "I don't regret being here, Paigey."

"I know."

Your parents disappeared a few years ago, not that they did much when they were present. When you lived at home, Paige was your responsibility, and you took it on like any other challenge. You helped her with her schoolwork, you made her Halloween costumes, you took her to Father/Daughter dances. In your eyes, you were a family of two, and your parents were kind of just tenants living in your home.

And then opportunity struck. When you weren't raising Paige, you were competing in local surf competitions. And winning. After graduating high school, you were offered a sponsorship and invited to tour the world to compete. You initially turned the offer down, knowing you couldn't leave Paige behind. And perhaps it was selfish of you, but you really really wanted to go, so when Paige insisted that you go and live your dream, you did, but not before sitting your parents down and laying into them about how they needed to change their behavior or you would take Paige and never look back. And maybe that's what you should've done in the first place.

But things were good at first. You checked in on Paige constantly, flew home when you could, and even got Paige on a plane to visit you wherever you were when you could. Your parents were marginally better, but you would still send checks directly to Paige and not them, and paying bills from different time zones.

Were you surprised when you got a call from Paige's school saying that apparently your parents had been AWOL for weeks? Yes, but only because you thought Paige would tell you something like that and she didn't.

So you hung up your board and flew home, and had been taking care of Paige ever since. That was two years ago, and things were fine. You made enough money to get by, and even more saved up during the off-season for tourism. Paige sometimes voiced her concerns about you, but you were telling the truth when you said you didn't regret coming home. She was your first and only priority.

"Hey, what do you say to playing hookie tomorrow? I'll give you a marine biology lesson in person," you said. You didn't do it often, but sometimes you decided that Paige needed a life lesson and not an academic lesson, so you took her out with you on a day of snorkel watching tours around the Channel Islands.

You couldn't see her, but you could tell she was smiling. "You just need an extra set of hands again."

There was also that.

"Maybe, but it'll still be fun. And I'll give you some of my tips," you pressed. You gave her a small allowance, but she liked making a little money of her own too.

"Fine, but only because I know I'll get to see Harry at some point. Maybe I should see if he needs a hand."

It was a joke, obviously. One she knew would make you react a certain way. And you did.

"Gross, Paige. Stick to obsessing over boybands and teen vampires or whatever," you said, standing up from her bed.

You wished her a good night, then left her room, cleaning the house up a bit as you went. When you finally settled down for sleep, your thoughts were plagued by green eyes and dimples and colorful swimtrunks that complimented tan skin. Groaning, you put your pillow over your head, waiting for the torture to end.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

A week later you were at the marina, cleaning up the little speedboat you took tourists out on, you enjoyed the silence and sunrise. It was peaceful, a little chilly, but peaceful. At this hour, it was just you, your docked boat, and the ocean.

And then your peace was shattered by footsteps, footsteps headed towards you.

"Oh God," you muttered when you saw who it was. It was Harry and your boss Jackson.

"Boss" was a bit of an overstatement. He ran the snorkel tour service that you worked at, but he was also a close family friend. He was the one who taught you how to surf. He caught you wandering the beach one day when you were seven. You were an angry little thing, and skittish, like a stray dog. You were used to looking out for yourself, you trusted no one but yourself, and when Jackson came up to you, you were seconds away from scratching and kicking.

But he kept his distance and just tossed you a board. He didn't say much, only muttering how to paddle and duck dive and eventually push yourself up. It took a long time to trust him, but heeventually became someone important to you, someone you leaned on for help from time to time, especially when Paige was born.

Jackson wasn't like a father to you, you didn't want one of those. He was more like an eccentric uncle, one who promised to look after you and hooked you up with a job when you came home.

"Hey, Jack," you said, completely ignoring the man next to him.

"Y/n," he said. To this day, Jackson was a man of very few words. "Listen, I—"

"You're not gonna greet me?" Harry asked. He was grinning, like the fact that you didn't greet him brought him immense pleasure.

Not missing a beat, you looked at him briefly. "Hi. You were saying, Jack?"

Harry chuckled and shook his head, but Jack ignored it and continued. "Callie is out with a torn ACL and Gordon is doing relief work in South America, so we have to downsize this season. Harry's with you."

"What?"

"Try not to act so excited, Princess," Harry said, a very satisfied smile on his face. "I do happen to be one of Santa Cruz's best tour guides."

"Says who?"

"Almost everyone who comes aboard my boat."

Even that sounded dirty. "Was that before or after you slept with them?" you muttered.

Harry didn't even seem offended by your jab, only more amused. But before he could say anything else, Jackson cut in. "Okay, that's enough. What's done is done, Y/n. Let him help you prep."

He walked off before you could do anything, and then you were alone with him. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. "No, no. Ground rules before you try to hit on me. Which, rule number one: no hitting on me."

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Princess. You're not even my type," he said, but as he was saying it, he'd looked you up and down twice, his eyes zeroeing in on your chest.

Crossing your arms, you leaned against the boat. "Right. Rule number two: no little nicknames. And three: no flirting on my boat—"

"Your boat?" he asked, holding back a laugh.

"Yes. My boat. And on my boat, we don't flirt with the tourists. Got it?"

"Are you going to let me on your boat anytime soon? Or are we just going to sit around talking about your rules?" Harry's arms were crossed now too, but he still looked like you were entertaining him rather than setting boundaries. Instead of answering, you just raised your brows at him. With a scoff and a roll of his eyes, he said, "Yes, I got it. I didn't realize you were such a prude."

"Not a prude. Professional," you corrected, but his words struck a chord with you. You weren't a prude, not really, you were just careful, responsible. When you were on your own, traveling with all the other surfers, you were carefree, maybe even a little wild. But Paige didn't need carefree and wild, she needed steady and reliable, something your parents never were.

"Look, just—just no checking me out, alright?"

Harry shrugged. "Easy."

He said it like it was so easy, but you knew better. "I mean it, Styles. If you so much as dip your eyes below my chin, I will push you off this boat and leave you in the middle of the ocean."

His responding grin was slow, the dimples in his cheeks deep. "You got it. Now, what time is our first trip?"

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry Styles was a pain in your ass.

You didn't think he would listen to any of your rules, but you'd hoped. It lasted one tour. One. And by the second, he was smiling at tourists as he helped them with their rental gear, making them giggle and twirl their hair and pressing their boobs against his arm. It was hard to watch.

So you didn't. You drove the boat, you helped parents and their kids with their flippers and making sure their goggles didn't fog up. You passed out lunch and answered questions and resisted the urge to kick Harry off the boat when he let one of the women who was on a trip with her friend sit on his lap.

When no one was around was when he was the most tolerable. There was no one for him to flirt with, and since you virtually ignored him, he only had himself to entertain. And he bought you lunch occasionally, which was nice, because between tourist excursions and taking care of Paige, you often forgot and ended up starving by the time you made it home.

He was even kind of funny when you gave him the time of day, which was rare in the few weeks you'd spent working together. And as time went on, you started to just get used to his...work ethic.

You still didn't like him, but you didn't hate him either.

"Any plans for after our last trip to Channel Islands, ladies?"

You ignored Harry, figuring he was asking the group of bridesmaids on their way off the boat. You'd gotten used Harry and his behavior, but today it was just you, Paige, Harry, and a bunch of girls on a bachelorette weekend. He didn't even have to do anything, they were immediately all over him, which left you and your sister to do the heavy lifting. And now they were finally leaving, and you were ready for them to take Harry with them.

"Y/n," Paige said, elbowing you.

"What?"

"He was asking you."

"Me? What do you—Oh." Looking up, you saw that the bridesmaids were gone and Harry was in fact looking at you. It was the first time he'd ever asked you that, but perhaps it was because Paige was here and he was just being on his best behavior in front of her.

Shrugging, you said, "Not much. Pizza and a movie?"

"It sounds lame but it's really not," Paige said, looking at Harry. You tried to hide your laugh with a cough, but she heard it and elbowed you again.

"Not lame at all," Harry agreed, not seeming to notice the heart eyes your sister was staring at him with. "I was gonna go surfing if you wanted to join? I noticed boards on top of your car in the parking lot this morning, and—"

"We can't. Maybe another time?" you said. You had no desire to spend more time with Harry than absolutely necessary.

"Oh, can we please, Y/n? We haven't gone this summer, and the swells today were supposed to be amazing," Paige said.

Over the years, you'd taught Paige to surf. You hadn't surfed much since coming back to take care of her, but you sometimes went out and watched, giving your sister pointers and advice. The only time you surfed was before the sun came up when no one else was on the beach. It was how you centered yourself and found peace. And sometimes you were emotional about it too. You wouldn't change your life for anything, nor did you regret cutting your career short to take care of Paige, but sometimes you missed it so much tears sprung in your eyes.

Surfing was the one thing that brought you joy, that took you away from your parents. And you were good at it too, better than good. And sometimes when bills piled up and Paige was being a hormonal teenager and slamming doors in your face, you wondered what life would be like if you were still traveling, still competing. But only in the early morning, and after you paddled in and started your day, you left those doubts behind you.

"Not tonight, okay?" you said, suddenly tired. It was a long day of tours, and you were slowly developing a headache. You just wanted to go home, and you were not about to leave your sister alone with Harry.

"Another time then," Harry said, winking at Paige. She giggled and blushed, then helped you gather your things and get off the boat.

Paige grabbed your keys from you and ran for the car, letting herself into the driver's seat. She got her learner's permit recently and had been pushing you to let her drive ever since. You didn't mind, but you did grab the ceiling handle in the passenger seat anytime she made a left turn or parked between two cars.

"She's sweet."

You jumped at how close Harry was to you, but that only served for him to smile at you. Clearing your throat, you said, "Yeah, yeah she is."

"And it's just you two?" he asked.

You looked at Harry, trying to see what these questions were about. He'd never cared to ask you anything personal before, and you didn't know why he was doing so now. What was his game here?

"Yep. It's just us," you said. "See you tomorrow, Harry."

"Wow. You really don't like me, do you?"

You'd made about two steps before he spoke up again, and his words made you freeze and turn around. "Excuse me?"

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you, and you barely even look at me," he said. "I get that you don't like the way I live my life, but I'm sick of you judging me and treating me like shit. I'm a person with feelings, if you didn't know."

"I—"

"And I am good at my job, you know, despite what you seem to think," Harry continued. "If you ever bothered to get to know me, you'd know that I have a degree in marine biology and was a lifeguard before I started working here. I am competent and I can do this job just as well as you, if not better."

Your mouth just kept opening and closing, unable to form any words. You couldn't say anything because he was right, you did think those things. But hearing Harry say all of that to you made you flush with embarrassment. You never thought you'd be confronted about how you felt about him, and now you were incredibly embarrassed.

"I'm so—"

"No, if that's how you feel, that's how you feel," Harry shrugged, his shoulders straining against his white long sleeve shirt. "I just thought you should know you think a little too loud. See you, Y/n."

Harry walked off towards his car, an old beat up pickup truck with two surfboards sticking out of the bed. You were stunned, unable to do anything but watch him get in his car and drive off. When he was gone, you were finally able to move. You walked in a daze to your car, getting in the passenger's seat in silence.

"What was that about?" Paige asked.

"I—I think I've been a little harsh on Harry," was all you managed to say.

Paige laughed, a small and bubbling thing. You frowned as your sister continued to laugh, but she didn't stop, just kept giggling until you pinched her arm. "Oh brother, Y/n. You just realized that?"

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You thought things would be different, or tense, or at the very least awkward, but they weren't. When you showed up for work the next day, Harry acted like he hadn't called you out for being judgemental or pointed out that you didn't like him. It was like that entire conversation never happened. He went on flirting with tourists and you went on ignoring it, but you tried to keep your thoughts to yourself, remembering what he said to you: I just thought you should know you think a little too loud.

Harry got on your nerves, that didn't change over night. But you also realized that he was right. You weren't a judgy person by nature, so you didn't know why he got under your skin so much. He was just in your mind constantly with his stupid smirks and shorter swim trunks and dark tattoos. He frustrated you to no end, especially now because he hardly spoke to you unless it was about work, a normal thing for the two of you but it felt different now.

And then it hit you.

You were jealous of him.

He was young, maybe a couple years older than you, but you were both in similar places in life. But the difference between you two was that he had freedom you didn't. He got to live life as a young twenty-something while you were helping Paige with math homework and making payments on your parents' house. You would never blame Paige for stepping up and taking care of her, so maybe your subconscious directed the blame at Harry, who was everything you couldn't be anymore.

Sure, he could stand to stare at your boobs less when you were in your bikini, but he never made any lewd comments or sexual advances at you and kept his distance like you'd asked. And if you thought back hard enough, you recalled the tourists making the first move, Harry only reacting to their behavior.

You really were an asshole.

But you were also too proud to apologize. And scared. Harry wasn't rude to you on trips, but he did his job in relative silence, and you didn't know how to bridge that gap that had formed between you. So you just...didn't.

You did your job while he did his, and everything was fine, minus the ever-growing guilt in the pit of your stomach.

"I'm going to the sandwich place down the street. Do you want something before the next tour?"

You looked up from your phone. You'd been enjoying a bit of sun before your next tour group was supposed to show up. Harry had hardly said a word to you all day, and hearing his voice made you jump.

"Uh, sure. Just a turkey sandwich, please."

"Great. I'll be back in ten," he said, not looking twice before stepping off the boat.

Groaning, you leaned your head back. That was why you were so afraid to talk to him now. And perhaps it was deserved, but he hardly gave you the time of day.

You tried making yourself busy. Cleaning surfaces you'd already cleaned and checking the gas gauge even though you knew it was full. By the time you heard Harry's shoes slapping against the wooden planks of the boardwalk, your hands were shaking from nerves.

He'd hardly handed you your sandwich when you blurted, "I'm sorry."

"For...what? Exactly?" he asked, tilting his head curiously.

"You were right. About what you said about me. I judged you too harshly when I hardly even know you. I'm sorry," you said, more to the sandwich than to Harry, but in your defense he had a very intense stare.

"I...don't accept your apology," he said, which did make you look at him.

You'd never had someone not accept an apology before, and it felt weird. "Um...okay?" Well, what the hell were you supposed to do now?

Harry grinned and came and sat down next to you, his arm stretching across the edge of the boat, bringing the two of you closer than you'd ever been before. "Not until you go surfing with me."

"I'm trying to apologize and you're asking me out?"

Harry threw his head back and laughed, clearly finding your assumption amusing. "No, though it's cute that that was your immediate thought," he said, still grinning. "I just want us to be friends. We work together all the time and I hardly know you outside the fact that you have a sister and you're slightly judgemental. I want to get to know you. As a friend."

"Oh, well, um, I suppose that's fair," you said. In theory, you shouldn't have cared about being friends, but you felt bad for judging him so harshly, so you almost felt like you had to say yes. "But—Can I just ask why surfing?"

"Because I feel like I need a leg up on you, and I'm rather excellent at surfing."

Now look who was judging, you thought, but you just nodded. "Okay. When?"

"After work today? There's a great spot close by. It's called Steamer—"

"The Lane. I know where it is," you said. Once you were up for it, Jackson had you training there. To test your skills and to be noticed by the right people. The Lane was where a lot of pros surfed, and Jackson told you that if you wanted to be one too, you needed to not only see your competition, you needed to surf what they were surfing too.

"I'm sixteen," you said. "Aren't they all, like, adults."

"You'll get there," he said.

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

"Oh, so you've been?" Harry asked.

"Mmhm. I grew up here, so," you shrugged, not wanting to give too much away.

"Hey, would you look at that. Another thing I know about you," he said, and you couldn't help but match his grin. And damn it if you started to want to be his friend. "So you'll come? I promise we'll be square."

You didn't really like surfing around anyone else anymore, but you also wanted to make things right with Harry. "Yeah. I can't be out too late, though. I have to make dinner for Paige."

"Fine by me."

The two of you quickly ate lunch after that, only having a little time before the next tour began. You were surprised to find yourself excited about spending time with Harry after the day was over. And things were lighter between the two of you too. He joked with you on the tours, and you surprised yourself by joking back. Harry offered to drive the boat , and you let him while you went out with the group in the water, and when you came out, you didn't feel his eyes on you. Not once. Who knew that all you had to do was be open and honest to have a healthy working relationship?

Okay, that was a stupid question, but you were there now, and you were relieved.

At the end of the day, you and Harry cleaned up and put everything away, and when you walked to the marina parking lot together, he made sure you were still going to the Lane with him. You promised to meet him there, and when you got in your car, you took a deep breath. You were really doing this.

As you pulled out of the parking lot, you smiled to yourself. Harry had no idea what he was in for.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"So, you have boards, which means you're at least familiar with surfing, right?" Harry asked. He'd already changed into his wetsuit, and now you were the one trying not to openly stare. It just cut his figure perfectly.

"Uh, yeah," you said. You hoped he mistook your stuttering as nerves about surfing and not your dry mouth at seeing every inch of his muscles outlined by the wetsuit. "I—I know my way around."

"If you're nervous, don't be. I've been told I'm an excellent teacher."

That snapped you out of your daze. A small grin twitched the corner of your mouth. "Thank you. That's very kind."

"I'm a kind person. Not that you would know."

"Hurtful, but deserved, I suppose," you said, walking around to hide behind the side of your car to put on your own wetsuit. When you came back around, Harry gave you a once over. It was brief, but it felt...right somehow. And it gave you butterflies, ones that you definitely needed to ignore. "Ready?"

"So ready."

Harry offered to carry your surfboard for you, but you told him you were fine. He was actually very sweet now that you were away from work, giving you all these tips and pointers that you'd given to Paige when she started learning to surf. It was cute that he wanted to take care of you and make sure you were comfortable, but after you saw a perfect wave about to roll in, you couldn't pass it up. So, without even looking at him, you started to paddle for a wave you were sure Harry didn't even see.

"What are you—" he tried to ask, but you were already leaving him in the dust.

"I'll be back!"

And then you were off. Harry was a speck in your mind as the rest of the world fell away until it was just you and the wave cresting beneath your surfboard. You cut your board through the wave, riding it like it was second nature. And when you were getting close to shore, you jumped off, the safety tether tugging at your ankle a little.

As you paddled back towards Harry, you felt ten times lighter, like you were seeing everything in technicolor. That's what surfing did for you. It put everything into perspective, set the world back on its axis, everything just made sense when you were on the perfect wave.

Your smile was brighter than it had been in a while, and when you paddled back to Harry, it only grew.

"You—You're a liar. A dirty, dirty liar."

"I didn't lie," you said, sitting up on your board, your legs straddling either side of it.

"I asked you if you knew how to surf, and you said, 'I know my way around.' Liar!"

You giggled, like actually giggled. "It was very sweet of you to help. I didn't want to hurt your feelings or bruise your ego or anything."

"Bruise my—You really are something else, you know that?" Harry said, paddling closer to you. "I—I literally don't know what to say other than, uh, can you show me how you did that?"

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Surfing had kind of become your thing now.

You and Harry would go after you were done taking tourists out, you went out together and surfed. Sometimes you took Paige with you, sometimes it was just the two of you, and sometimes you even invited him out for your mornings on the water. He had somehow become a part of your life before your very eyes, and you weren't even mad about it.

Seeing him flirt with tourists was only mildly annoying to you, you bought each other lunch between tour breaks, and he constantly peppered you with questions about surfing—how long you'd been surfing, where you'd been, your favorite spots. It was like he suddenly needed to live vicariously through you.

"Portugal, for sure," you said, lying on your back.

"I can't believe you've been to Portugal. I can't believe your only worry was whether there would be good enough swells for a competition," Harry said, laying on his own board. He spoke like he was in awe of you, and it felt nice.

"It was...some of the best times of my life," was all you could say, too wrapped up in the past to think of anything else.

"So, why'd you stop?"

You shrugged. "Paige needed me."

Harry was quiet after that. It didn't take a genius to put the pieces together. You never talked about your parents, and it was just you and Paige.

"But enough about me," you said, eager to change the subject. "What about you? How'd you end up working for Jackson, Mr. Marine biology degree?"

"Oh you know me. Slept around, went to college, slept around some more..."

"Shut up, I said I was sorry," you said, splashing water in his direction. "And to be fair you do flirt with a lot of people."

"So, I'm flirtatious. Is that a crime?" he asked, but you could tell he wasn't offended. It wasn't like he could deny it.

"No, but you are deflecting."

"Only because you're so much more interesting," he said.

Sitting up on your board, you looked at him. "You're doing it again. If you want to remain a mystery just say that."

Harry shrugged, and you wondered why clammed up so much at the mere prospect of talking about himself. You weren't exactly incredibly forthcoming yourself, but you answered his questions, and you didn't know why he wasn't doing the same.

"It's just not that interesting. Moved to California for college, got my degree, fell in love with surfing, and realized I didn't need to be super wealthy to be fulfilled."

"So you just...give snorkel tours and surf. All day long," you said, trying to make sense of his lifestyle. He was like a younger version of Jackson, in a way.

"And have a lot of sex. Don't forget that part," he said, his dimples flashing as he grinned.

"Fuck off with that. I'm serious."

"And so am I!" Harry sat up and faced you. "Life's too short to worry about things you don't need to worry about. I just want to do what makes me happy."

"You sound like a former cancer patient or someone who had a near-death experience," you joked.

It was a joke, that's all it was, but from the look on Harry's face, it appeared you hit the nail on the head.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I'm such a fucking idiot! I shouldn't have said anything. You—You don't have to say any—"

"Y/n, it's fine. You didn't know," he said, but he sounded different. More guarded.

"It was still a bad joke. I'm sorry. I'll just, I'll just go."

You thought he would stop you, but he didn't. He wouldn't even look at you. So after another mumbled apology, you paddled back to shore, not looking to see if Harry followed you. He didn't.

You were more embarrassed than when he called you out for being judgemental. Things for the last two weeks had been good. You and Harry were getting along, you joked with each other, you hung out outside of work. Everything was just clicking, and now you'd gone and fucked it up.

When you got back to your car, you didn't bother peeling your wetsuit off all the way. You just strapped your board to the top of your car and hightailed it out of there, dreading coming into work the next morning.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry didn't show up to work the next couple days, which made you feel even worse.

Did you somehow send him into a depressive spiral? Was he okay? Did someone need to check on him? Certainly not you, and you didn't think it was your place to ask Jackson about it.

So you went out on the boat with one of the new hires. They were quiet, a little too quiet. You'd become used to Harry's low drawl and the giggles he elicited from tourists. It was like background noise, and now your work days just felt off. Somehow, you'd grown fond of Harry, and you missed seeing him every day. Something Paige had no issue teasing you about when you brought it up once.

Your new tour partner was nice, but he was quiet and shy, and you were also pretty sure he was afraid of you, though you had no idea why. You tried your best to ignore it for the sake of your tourists, trying to give them the best experience possible. You'd even enlisted Paige's help while Harry was gone. At least then you'd have someone to talk to. Except when she stepped on the boat and met Remy, she was completely smitten, and he suddenly had lots to talk about.

"Figures," you muttered, cleaning up after your first tour of the day. Harry had been gone three days now, and you wondered if he was scared of you too. It seemed you had that effect on people.

Halfway through the week, Harry returned. He was in much better spirits than the last time you saw them, and since you were pretty sure you didn't know how to hold an emotionally charged conversation, you kept your distance. You were amicable, but kept Harry at arm's length, which was hard once you realized just how much you missed him. He brought this energy to the boat that went unmatched, and you'd grown comfortable around him, but obviously he didn't feel that way about you.

And it didn't help that he kept his distance too, so much so that it was almost back to when you first started working together. You stayed on opposite ends of the boat, which was hard considering its size. And the longer you went without talking, the worse you felt. You'd said something stupid, but you didn't think it was worth icing you out over. You felt alone, isolated, drifting farther and farther away from everyone, despite being right next to them.

You spent a lot more time alone in the water, waking up earlier and coming home later. Paige could tell something was up, but she'd been spending time with Remy and his family, and any time she asked if you wanted her to stay home, you told her to go and have fun. "Don't worry about me," was your mantra these days.

Your loneliness led to irritability, a feeling you hadn't felt since you were young and walking the Santa Cruz pier by yourself. It was easy to slip back into old behaviors. If Harry could be cold, so could you, and you were probably a lot better at it, though you weren't sure that was something to be proud of. Not that he noticed, anyway. It felt like he hardly even looked at you anymore. That was something you'd wanted when you first started working on the same boat, but now you missed it. And damn it, you missed him. But if he was going to be an ass, you weren't going to bother.

It was another early day at the marina, but when you got down to where your boat was docked, someone was already there.

"What do you want, Jack?"

"We're taking the day off today. Come on. Hop in," he said, firing up the engine when you were close enough. You knew he would take off without you, but honestly a day off sounded pretty good to you.

You got on and sat down on one of the worn leather benches by the front of the boat. You kept your eyes on the horizion, watching the world come to life as the sun rose, lighting up the sky and slowly warming your skin.

Jackson drove for a while until the coastline was a mere speck. He made sure you were far enough from the rest of the world, but close enough in case you needed to get back to the marina for an emergency. When he cut the engine and dropped the anchor, he sat down next to you, enjoying the stillness.

"I haven't seen you like this since you came up to my kneecaps," he finally said, keeping his eyes on the water.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, even though you did. You'd been more impatient lately, and quick to snap at anyone who tried to hold a conversation with you. You were professional with the tourists, but just barely, which was probably why Jackson pulled you from work today.

"He got under your skin, then?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you repeated.

Jackson sighed. "Well, it makes sense. Both of you are stubborn and have very poor emotional intelligence."

"He doesn't want to talk to me. I'm not going to force someone to have a conversation," you said with a shrug. It was the truth, but there was also more to it than that, and Jack knew it too.

"I know you won't."

You went back to sitting in silence, and you were thankful that Jackson dropped it. You didn't want to talk about Harry. Not when the thought of that day out on the water was the only thing that came to mind. You realized you messed up with that stupid joke you made, but was that really worth completely ignoring you over? You didn't think so, but then again, what did you know? You were the least equipped to handle situations like that, situations that involved feelings. And you did feel for him, you just didn't care to define them, not when Harry wasn't talking to you. There was no point.

"I think I'm unlovable," you said out of the blue. It was merely an observation, one that you only felt comfortable saying around Jackson because you knew he wouldn't judge you for it.

"Well, that's a load of bullshit," Jack said.

"Is it? My parents never cared about me or Paige, I've never had a steady boyfriend, and it only took a couple of weeks for Harry to hate me."

"You're gonna sit there and tell me Paige doesn't love you?" Jack said, and you could see him shake his head out of the corner of your eye. "That kid idolizes you. You're her hero."

That's when the tears came. Because when it all broke down, Paige was at the center of your world. You were eight years apart, and she was very different than you in a lot of ways, but you loved her. And she loved you. And nothing would ever change that.

"You should've never stopped competing. It made you so happy."

Wiping a tear with the sleeve of your sweater, you shook your head. "You know why I had to stop, Jack. I had to be here—"

"And that means what, exactly? You retire for good? We both know there are plenty of competitions around here, Y/n. You could've taken Paige with you, but you're here, wasting away. Why?"

"It's not that simple," you said, shaking your head. "And I couldn't take Paige around the world with me. She was thirteen."

"And what about when she's eighteen?" Jack pushed. "Keep working for a washed up hack like me? I'll fire you if you do."

"I don't know what you want me to say, Jack."

Sighing, he rested a hand on your shoulder. It was the most contact the two of you ever shared, as he wasn't a huge fan of physical touch. "You feel trapped here, but you were the one who built the cage, Y/n."

"That's—"

What? Not true? You knew it was. You'd been hiding in your house, on your tour boat, in Santa Cruz, for the last few years.

If you couldn't be the best, you didn't want to surf, at least not competitively. And hearing that your parents all but abandoned Paige while you were having the time of your life in a new country every few weeks was a harsh dose of reality. Your sister never held it against you, but you felt like you let her down, like deep down you knew that your parents would never stay, and yet you left to pursue your dream anyway. Giving it all up to take care of Paige was your way of making it up to her. And you'd been stuck ever since.

"What do I do about him?" you asked.

"Who, Styles? You scare the shit out of him, probably for the same reasons she scares the shit out of you."

"Gee, thanks. Really helping me feel loveable, Jack," you said, frowning at him.

He shrugged. "You know what I mean. There's a lot more going on ther than you think, but I can't be the one to tell you."

You side-eyed him. "Why do I get the feeling you like being a keeper of all these secrets and wisdom?"

"It's because I do."

You and Jack stayed out on the water for a while before eventually heading back. You were in your head for the entirety of the trip back to the marina, taking in everything he'd said. For a long time, you'd been complacent, living in Santa Cruz and raising Paige. And then you met Harry, and suddenly you're a mess. It didn't make any sense.

You like him, idiot, you could practically hear Paige say. But why was that so terrifying?

Maybe because he hadn't really opened up to you, maybe because you didn't really know him, or maybe because you'd never gotten butterflies around anyone like you did around him.

But what was probably the most likely reason was that you knew he didn't like you back. You'd been mean to him, you offended him, and now he hardly spoke to you. If that wasn't rejection, you didn't know what was. And you'd been rejected by enough people in your life.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to apologize to him one more time. And if things were still weird, you'd just ask Jackson to find you another tour partner. He'd give you a hard time about it, but you'd put up with it.

As Jackson parked the boat and you helped him tie it to the dock, you'd made your decision. It was the safe choice, but it was all you could muster.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The next day you were back at work, only this time Harry had beat you to the boat. Normally you were the first one there, but you'd taken some extra time at the beach to relax your nerves. You had to talk to him, and you needed to prepare yourself for any outcome, whatever it might be.

"Hey," you said.

Harry looked up from where he'd been cleaning off snorkel goggles. "Oh. Hey."

Then silence. Neither of you said anything, but you didn't know what to say, how to begin.

"Listen, I—"

"I just wanted to—"

Both of you paused, apologizing for speaking over each other. You urged Harry to speak, but he insisted that you go first, so you swallowed the growing lump in your throat and tried to find your words.

"I'm—I'm sorry about the other day. I realize I was insensitive, and it obviously struck a chord with you. So, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Y/n. I told you that."

Frowning, you said, "Yeah, but I just feel like things have been off lately? And I couldn't help but think it was because of what I said or something I did. I just—I know we have to work together, and I don't want there to be any awkwardness. I know you, like, don't like me or whatever, but I thought we could at least be—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Back up. What do you mean I don't like you?" he asked. He looked confused, though you weren't sure why.

"You haven't spoken to me in weeks. I just thought—"

"You're a very intimidating person, you know that, don't you?" Harry said, taking a small step towards you. He was in a blue sweater and a pair of dark shorts, his feet bare as he stood on the boat.

Tilting your head curiously, you said, "I don't think—"

"You practically hated me when we first met, and it took me ages to get you to even...I don't know, tolerate me? And you're, like, drop dead gorgeous, so that made it ten times harder not to mess up in front of you, but nothing I did seemed to do the trick.

"And then all of a sudden we're friends, and it's great, and I find myself even more drawn to you than I already was because, like, fuck, Y/n, you're hot and interesting, and an amazing surfer, and I didn't stand a chance." He seemed to say all this in one breath, his chest heaving once he was done talking.

You didn't know what to say, or think for that matter. Harry thought you were gorgeous? "But—But you flirted with all those people right in front of me—"

"I told you, I didn't think I had a chance with you. You hardly even spoke to me at first," Harry said. "And, okay, so I like attention, and you weren't giving me any, so I saught it elsewhere, but it's just what I do to protect myself."

"Protect yourself? From what?" Harry sighed and ran a hand over his face. He looked tense, like having this conversation was causing him physical pain. "Harry, if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I just thought—"

"I had cancer," he blurted.

Your eyes widened. That was not at all what you were expecting, and now you had too many questions. "What? When? Wh—"

"Osteosarcoma on my leg. Right before I left for college. I had to defer a year so I could do all the treatments."

"I'm sorry. That couldn't have been easy," you said gently. You wanted to go to him, but he didn't seem like the type that wanted to be coddled or comforted, so you stayed put.

"Thanks. I'm all good now, but when I was...doing my treatments, I had a girlfriend and friends, and they all checked up on me until one day they didn't, and I was left to face it by myself. My friends had their own lives and my girlfriend couldn't handle seeing me so sick. Imagine actually being sick," he chuckled bitterly.

"My parents were a wreck, and I had to be strong for them, but I had no one. My friends abandoned me, I broke up with my girlfriend because she couldn't stand to see me like that, and suddenly I was very alone.

"So once I was declared cancer free, I flew out here for school, learned to surf, and never looked back. This is my life now, and I try to live it to the best of my ability." He took another step towards you, taking off his baseball cap so he could run a hand through his hair before putting it back on. "But you. I wasn't expecting you."

"Me? What did I do?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You didn't do anything, and that's my point. You just appeared out of nowhere and upended my life. I suddenly want to know about your day and where you go after work, I want to hear stories about your travels, I want to just lay on the beach with you. And that's just the stuff I feel comfortable saying out loud."

He had you blushing, but his last comment sent you reeling. Trying to keep your composure, you asked, "So you've been ignoring me because?"

"Because I don't want to get hurt again! I'm terrified, Y/n. I'm terrified of the worst happening and being abandoned all over again," he said, his fingers gripping his sweater hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "So I tried to ignore you and hope it went away, and then Jackson tells me I'm an idiot because I was kicking you while you were already down, and he knew that I was only putting off the iniveitable, because while I tried to ignore how I felt, my feelings only grew. So now I'm standing here like an idiot, wondering what your color is and if your lips taste as good as they look."

If it was possible, your jaw would be on the floor. Harry had more or less repeated back to you your own feelings, making you realize you were more similar than you thought. It also occurred to you that Jack had been a very busy man recently, but you decided that could wait. Maybe both of you being terrified wrecks would lead to messiness, but you didn't really care.

"I like orange. Like a nice, sunset orange," you said, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweatshirt.

You'd missed seeing Harry's smile, but now it was back in full force. He closed the short distance between the two of you, his hand slowly and carefully resting on the side of your face. "And the other thing?"

You shrugged. "I've never had any complaints."

"You are just—"

"Shut up and just kiss me already, Harry."

He didn't argue with you then, but he did take his sweet time.

Not that you'd ever admit to it out loud, but you thought about this moment a lot. And in your thinking, you always assumed that Harry would try to rush things, to kiss brusingly with passion in a way that made your toes curl. And they did, but for an entirely different reason.

He was slow, like he really was trying to determine the exact taste of your lips. It nearly drove you insane. His tongue traced the seam of your lips languidly, his free hand holding your chin to keep you in place.

And it was amazing, but you needed more. So you skipped running your hands through his hair for now and went straight for beneath his shirt, splaying your hands across Harry's chest and feeling the taught muscle beneath your fingertips. And just as you assumed, Harry's reaction was immediate. One hand reached down past your lower back and gripped hard while the other was in your hair. He used his teeth, nibbling on your lower lip and laughing lightly when you hissed.

Harry overloaded your senses, made you drunk on the taste and smell of him. His kiss made you see stars and his touch had you putty in his hands. It made you want to drag him off the boat and onto the bed of his truck, but you had work to do, there wasn't any time.

"God, working with you just got ten times harder, and I mean that quite literally," he said, hardly moving his lips away from yours. The implication alone sent shivers down your spine, but just for good measure, Harry pressed himself against you to show just how much a kiss had him reacting.

"Can we go somewhere? After work?" you panted, whining when he began to move down your neck, looking for the places that turned your knees into jelly.

"I'd be devastated if we didn't," he said, voice muffled from the kisses he was leaving on your skin. "You're gonna have to stay covered up, you know that right?"

You huffed a laugh, but you knew Harry was dead serious. All you said was, "We'll see."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

four months later

You were beyond nervous, your heart racing, practically begging to burst out of your chest.

During competitions, judges called out scores and what you needed to win, but you never paid them any mind, too focused on the task at hand, which was to find the next wave and surf the hell out of it.

Training for competitions again wasn't easy, but it was a challenge you willingly accepted. You realized that Jackson was right (about a lot of things) and you could get back out onto the competitive circuit, even if it was only local stuff.

Harry, Paige, and Jackson helped you train, but mostly Jackson, Harry and Paige were more of a support system, something you'd never had before. It was weird at first, but you welcomed it with open arms. It was a much better alternative to constantly being alone.

And Jackson could only take you so far. If you wanted to win, you had to believe you could, and for a while, you didn't.

That's where Harry came in. He motivated you, kissed away the wrinkle between your brows when you thought too much, and was a very big help in getting you to "relax." Whether that was in the back of his truck, on the boat after almost everyone left the marina, or your place when Paige was at a sleepover, all you had to do was look at each other, and you'd drop everything and be on each other in seconds. You used to think Harry's flirting was over the top and unnecessary, but now that you were on the receiving end of his bedroom eyes you were hardly ever able to say no.

But aside from all that, Harry helped you in the confidence department too. He made you realize that your dreams were still worth pursuing, and told you you were good enough when you couldn't believe it yourself. He revealed to you a softer, more vulnerable side that you'd never seen before, but he always told you that you brought it out of him. "We're in this together," he'd tell you, kissing the top of your hand or the side of your head, or your knee, depending on where he was next to you.

You'd thought you were okay with complacency, that you'd had your fun, and that you'd left it all behind you when you came home. But you found new adventures at home with Paige and Harry, who were also thick as thieves the more they hung out with each other. Harry seamlessly became a part of your lives, and you wouldn't change a single thing about it.

"Y/n, you won!"

"Huh?"

You were just stepping out of the water, your surfboard under your arm when Harry jogged up to you and Paige slammed into your side. She began to jump with her arms still locked around you, jolting you to the point of discomfort, but you let her.

"You won! You had the highest score of the day!" Paige said again.

"I did?" You looked over to the judges booth and saw that your sister was right. Your competition number along with the color of your rash guard was at the top of the leaderboard for your group. You'd won.

"You did, baby. I'm so proud of you," Harry said. Paige stepped aside so he could pull you in for a hug, and you rested your cheek against his shoulder, his skin warm from standing out in the San Diego sun.

You weren't traveling the world, but sometimes you and Paige, or you, Paige, and Harry made road trips along the coast to local competitions. It was fun and a way for the three of you to bond. In the last four months, you'd become something like a little family, a reality you never ever saw for yourself.

"You can relax now, you did it," Harry whispered so only you would hear. He knew how tense you got about these things, even though you'd pretty much gone undefeated since you started competing again.

Pulling back, Harry kissed your forehead and let go of you, telling you to go get your prize so the three of you could go and celebrate. You did as he said, splitting apart from Harry and Paige and smiling faintly as you heard your sister babble to Harry about all the stuff she wanted to see before you had to head home.

It wasn't the life you expected, nor was it the life you ever thought you would deserve, but as you stepped off the podium and into Harry's awaiting arms, you couldn't have asked for a better one.

✧ HARRY STYLES as Jack DON’T WORRY DARLING (2022) dir. Olivia Wilde

this movie is going to ruin me

all i have to say is holy fucking shit

this is so fucking cute. i’m totally not crying or anythingggg

Not Prick | Tom Holland

masterlist found here

pairing - Tom x reader word count - 1,877 warnings - language A/N - for the anon who requested x

summary - A fan gets a little aggressive with Tom at the mall, and he takes it out on the wrong person. But he’s a good guy, and when he realizes his mistake, he’s determined to make up for it.

Tom was having a bad day. There was no rhyme or reason. He was just cranky and tired and wanted to be home. Instead, he was out at the mall with Harrison. Apparently his favorite store was having a sale, and Harrison wanted a new pair of shoes.

“Why don’t you just order them online?” Tom had asked as Harrison all but dragged him out of his apartment.

“I gotta try them on and make sure they look good,” the other argued. Tom rolled his eyes but agreed to go. Now, they were out, and Tom was regretting it.

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why do i like being sad?

Torn Leaves, Broken Hearts (Tom Holland)

A/N: did anyone order some heartache? no? oh, well…anyways. i genuinely did think this idea would be a quick snap and go but…here it is 24 days later lol. i felt quite emotional writing this but i’m a bit unsure if it will be as heartbreaking for others as it was for me a.k.a if i successfully managed to translate the hurt i actually felt into words. lmao is it obvious i’m not too sure about this fic?? anyhow, i hope you guys still enjoy! ++ trying a slightly new format! is the small text difficult to read?? pls lemme know! <3

》 PAIRING: tom holland x female!reader 》 TROPE/GENRE: established relationship; fluff; angst 》 SUMMARY: most couples fight, you and Tom weren’t an exception. It started out as an argument, but when Tom lost control of his temper, he just took it a leap too far. 》 WARNINGS: starts very fluffy, loads of plants & planting, few sexual innuendos, soft!supportive!boyfriend!tom, heated make out (very brief), glimpse of carpenter!tom, argument/fight, angry!tom (not in a hot way), temper tantrum (not in a cute way), talks of golf, use of golf club (not in a good way) [i’m sorry in advance, i love golf!tom i promise], emotional/mental breakdown, heartbreaking angst (will vary per person aha), happy/emotional/resolved ending. 》 WORD COUNT: 18.3k+ (at least 5k she said ha what a lie)

✩ TOM HOLLAND MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

“Darling, I’m home!” Tom announced, placing his golf equipment down by the door to then toeing off his shoes. Treading deeper into the house in his sock-clad feet, his brows furrowed, wondering if you, yourself had arrived from work. “Love, you home?”

“Kitchen!”

Tom found you exactly where you said you were, but he was more surprised with the pop of various colors littered on the countertop. He took in the scent that greeted his nostrils, the whole kitchen smelling sweet, a bit citrusy, but all-around fruity.

“Whatcha doin, beautiful?” Tom murmured as he slotted himself behind you, arms snaking around your waist as he placed a tender kiss on your cheek.

You turned your head to look at him with an adorable pout, making Tom chuckle. Gladly obliging to your request, he leaned in for a kiss with a satisfied hum, heart softening, smile widening at the newfound flavor present on your lips.

You tasted like apples.

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i love them so much but am so jealous at the same time

I love how in love miles and keleigh are. I want that

i literally just watched a tiktok 5 seconds ago where she was like 'yes i have MT tattooed on my butt - and he has my initials on him too' WHAT A FLEX.

i also want to know where he has hers.. HA