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youandtom2 · 2 years

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Praise You Like I Should (CEO!Tom Holland) 18+

Summary: You were always a people-pleaser, desperate to do right by everybody no matter what they asked. Being an intern, your boss Jackson exploited your people-pleaser tendencies in a very unprofessional manner, and CEO Mr Holland wasn't happy about it... Themes: smut! little bit of fluff and angst, dom!tom and sub!reader, oral (m+f), major praise kink, sir kink, overstimulation, masturbation (alone) , slight jewelry kink w/c: 10k+

MASTERLIST

You look over the dimly lit hall before you, tables decorated to the nines with hand-folded serviettes, silver-ware suited for royalty, gleaming as they sit on a fresh white linen table cloth, surrounded by tall plum-coloured cushioned chairs. There’s about twelve tables dotted around the hall identical to one another, waiting to be filled by guests in about an hour or so. The room sparkles with the metallic colouring of birthday banners and balloons floating around the room, illuminated by the dancing, multicoloured disco lights.

The surprise birthday party you were instructed to organise is for Mr Holland’s business partner, Taylor. They’re each other's yin and yang, mixing together like oil on water but somehow they make it work. The informal Taylor bases his relationship with his employees on friendship and a sense of mutual equality, where the formal Mr Holland prefers professionalism and respect on top of trust. Nevertheless, both are equally respected as bosses and businessmen in their own right. It doesn’t necessarily mean you all prefer one over the other, but if you had to make a choice as to who you would rather hang out with, the answer is an obvious one.

As an intern, it isn’t exactly part of your remit to organise and host birthday events, but your boss, Jackson, ordered you to do it. Jackson’s notable within the workforce for several reasons; he’s outgoing, social, ambitious, confident, and is unofficially Taylor’s kiss ass. He appointed himself (ahem, you) with the responsibility of organising Taylor’s surprise party, not because he thinks he’s capable, but because he’s looking for recognition. What people don’t know is that he’s actually a lazy guy who has gotten himself drunk with the taste of superiority, abusing you as his own personal slave for favours both big (entirely consequential and out of your depth) and small (worthless and petty). Unfortunate to be his first intern, you’ve realised how gluttonous he’s become with you at his disposal how and whenever he pleases. However, being placed at the bottom of the pecking order, you’re not at liberty to say no.

Jackson’s not your favourite boss by any means, but by God he keeps you busy. It tooks weeks for you to organise the venue, the catering, the entertainment, the decorations, the invitations, most importantly the cake, and the little oddities that everyone forgets about like hand-written name tags and having straws at the bar. You’ve been working relentlessly and after weeks of stress, late and often sleepless nights, numerous phone calls and emails, cancellations and rebookings, tonight is the night that all of that can end. The curse of being a perfectionist and a people-pleaser can finally release its hold on you.

Just as you finish clarifying the itinerary with the hotel’s bar staff, you notice a dark figure walking through the entrance. Your eyes trail nervously from the black patent shoes to the white shirt peeking beneath the black suit of which belongs to Mr Holland. He has his tortoise shell glasses perched perfectly on his nose, reflecting the colours of the disco lights as he walks towards you, stoic and poised. A silent ‘fuck’ crosses your mind.

Being the CEO eight floors above you, Mr Holland’s face isn’t one that you see as consistently as Jackson’s. He’s at least 6 tiers above you in the pecking order, one of two to take superiority over a long line of directors, specialists, managers, supervisors and assistants before you. So you can hardly blame yourself when you start to feel nerves gathering in your chest, despite how well-respected he is amongst the workforce.

His eyes finally find yours and he clarifies your name. You can appreciate that he’s at least taken the time to learn your face. “You're Jackson’s intern, right?”

Wow. He knows you more than you thought. “Yes sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. I was just coming to take a look around. I’m normally part of organising the celebrations but this year I’ve been too busy.” He wordlessly waves a hand before weaving in and out the tables, reading each name tag as he passes by. You watch nervously as he inspects the room until finding himself in front of what you call The Shrine with folded arms, almost bursting at the seams. More simply, it’s a collage of photos of Taylor taken over the years pieced together in a mosaic standing on an easel, gathered and no less arranged by you, of course. Next to it stands an empty corkboard, waiting to be filled with pictures from tonight's celebration, provided by the pop-up photobooth beside it.

“Whose idea was this?” There’s a warm smile on Mr Holland’s face.

“Mine, sir.”

“And the handcrafted name tags?”

“Also me, sir.”

“I love it. It’s very creative.” You exhale loudly, relieved. The people-pleaser inside you starts to buzz, fluttering wildly at Mr Holland’s praise. “Did you…” His eyes squint narrowly, honing in on you. “Did you organise all of this?”

“Yes, I did. The venue and catering took some negotiating but once that was planned, the rest came with time.”

“Impressive.”

You’re about to thank him but you're interrupted by the obnoxious calling of your name in a voice that booms from the entrance of the hall. Jackson marches towards you and you stand a little straighter. He doesn’t notice Mr Holland standing in the corner of the room next to the shrine. Instead of Mr Holland announcing himself, which is what you expected him to do, he sinks his hands into his pockets and quietly observes from afar.

“I need a rundown--” Please, that would be great. “--and for the love of God where is the present I was supposed to get Taylor?” Thanks for getting me a present for him, I’ll pay you back.

Your answer is succinct and to the point. “I’ve left it in your hotel room; it’s a dinner reservation at Keens Steakhouse in New York. As for tonight, the bar will be open for guests when they arrive at 6:30pm, Taylor will arrive between 7:00pm and 7:15pm for his surprise, the buffet will open at 7:30pm and cake will be served at 8:30pm. Last orders are at 11:30pm and the curfew is midnight. Everyone has checked in and has their hotel room key, although Kelsey couldn’t make it tonight, so her room is spare.”

Jackson gives a gruff nod, mumbling something intelligible under his breath. He cautiously looks to the bar, then narrows his eyes at you with a pointed finger wavering in your face. “I need tonight to be perfect so I need you to be sober. No alcohol. Got it?” In other words, I can’t be bothered making sure everything goes smoothly so I need you to stay sober while I get shit-faced. You nod, pursing your lips angrily as he walks away from you without a final word.

With Jackson no longer in sight, the tension finally deflates and your shoulders relax. You hate that every interaction with Jackson is a test of your skill and knowledge, caught in a vicious cycle of having to prove yourself worthy time and time again.

As Mr Holland emerges from the corner of the room, it’s an observation he also confronts having finally witnessed Jackson’s true authoritarian nature. His eyes are fixated on the golden doors in a stare so firm it could burn holes through the metal, and just when he steps into the brighter lights of the bar, his overall demeanour changes.

His jaw ticks when he finally faces you. “Jackson’s keeping you on your toes tonight it seems.”

“He always does, sir.” You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, recounting the numerous occasions his brutal demands have worked you to the bone.

“I don’t think I appreciate the way he talks to you.”

“Oh I’m used to it by now.”

“So he talks to you like that all the time?” Shit. In truth, Jackson would never have spoken so harshly to you had he known anyone was in the room let alone Mr Holland, but that was his mistake. One you’re not sorry for. “Well, if he isn’t going to tell you what an amazing job you have done, I will. You should be proud of organising all of this by yourself, it’s not easy. Well done.”

Your chest swells with pride as Mr Holland pats a gentle hand against your upper arm. Finally, your first taste of positive reinforcement. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr Holland’s smirk quirks at the edges. His hands find themselves deep within his pockets once again as he coolly and oh-so-calmly exits through the doors.

~~~~

You are insomnia personified. As relieved as you are that the night is going exactly to plan, with the nervous anticipation over, you just cannot wait to get to your bed knowing that the stress is over. You have hours of sleep to catch up on, a stone of weight to put back on and friends and family to respond to, and without a single alcoholic drink to lift your spirits, you’re finding it harder and harder to keep the exhaustion at bay. Beyond the exhaustion, however, there’s a sadness hidden deep within your conscience and while you glance over the decorations you hung up as the melodic singing of ‘happy birthday’ rings in the air, it spreads. It’s clear that people are oblivious to what makes you so downcast on a celebratory night as they pass nothing more than a glance your way, but in all honesty, you much prefer it to be that way. You wouldn’t want anyone to see the tear building in the corner of your eye.

For now, you thrive on the compliments you’ve heard about the venue, the decorations, the drinks and the food, each and every one of them satisfying your perfectionist mindset. Okay, so what no-one knows you organised the party, and sure, you can oversee the fact that none of the compliments are directed to you in particular, because in the end, you’ve gained Mr Holland’s approval and that’s enough for you.

Well, it was enough until Taylor took to the stage for a speech.

“...and a special shout-out to Jackson for putting this all together for me. This is absolutely amazing, I couldn’t have asked for more.”

Your heart sinks in your chest and your ears instinctively drown out the clapping and cheering of the crowd around you, eyes set in stone as they watch Jackson accept the dedication so graciously that it makes you sick to your stomach. It takes every ounce of energy you have left in you to suppress the wobble in your lip at the sight of Jackson soaking up the glory like a sponge. Jackson taking the credit for your hard work was something you should’ve expected from him. After all, he is lazy and will never be willing to admit it, definitely not in front of Taylor. Still, the chase for recognition was always going to be a losing battle for you; you’re an intern for fuck’s sake, you are merely just a name and a face for most, unfulfiling of the protagonistic arc the people here want in their stories. Jackson, the kiss ass, makes much more sense being the hero than an underdog intern.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, accepting defeat.

You claim an empty seat at an empty table in a dark corner of the room, far from the crowd mingling on the dance floor and you remain there as the party continues into the night. The glass of tepid water looks pitiful in your hands, its lack of taste offering no respite from your sorrow.

With fifteen minutes until last orders, you begin counting down to the moment you can retire to your bed which you know won’t arrive until after you’ve cleaned up the hall. You’re jealous of some of the guests who have already decided to leave the party.

The chair to your right suddenly scrapes across the floor and you’re slightly taken aback when Mr Holland sits close beside you and abruptly rests an elbow upon the table, blocking your view of the crowd and demanding your attention. A cedarwood scent silently announces itself and you inhale it deeply, finding sanctuary in its presence despite how startled you are by it. Your breath is simply taken from you when he shuffles himself closer. He isn’t wearing his usual attire; something a little less formal, but likely to be just as expensive. With that expensive taste comes his expensive appearance: clean, styled, decorated admirably and booming with authority. A warmth starts to take a hold of you.

His movements are harsh and his body moves with brute intention, but behind those curls, his eyes hold sympathy, knowing what is upsetting you before it even spills from your lips. You try to fake a smile but he can see right through it.

“I thought it was you that organised the party,” he calmly states.

“I did. But because Jackson instructed me to plan a party means he takes responsibility for it.”

Mr Holland doesn’t waste a single second. “It isn’t right. It’s one thing to speak to you so rudely, but it’s another to take credit for your hard work, and I’m starting to believe that Jackson doesn’t value you as an intern as much as he values the superiority that comes with it, am I right?”

Anxiously, your eyes catch Jackson lazily hanging over the bar and demanding another drink. If Mr Holland were to know the truth, it would get Jackson in a lot of trouble and the people-pleaser inside you is screaming at you to just deny it all. Your skewed perception of professionalism means skipping over these things, something about snitching just seems so petty and childish, and that’s not the impression you want to give Mr Holland of all people.

Mr Holland’s stern voice brings you back. “You’re not answering to him now, you’re answering to me. Am. I. Right?”

You gulp. “Yes, sir.”

“I intend to have a word with Jackson--”

“Mr Holland, it’s okay, really--” You try to protest but he quickly rests his hand on top of yours, his warmth enveloping it completely, and your mind halts. Your heart flutters the moment his fingers curl just the little bit tighter, a compassion that says more than words could. It’s genuine, caring, but firm in a way that’s supportive, pledging to do right by you.

“He will apologise to you and let everyone know the truth.”

“Please, I don’t want to cause a hassle or stir anything in the office, I just want to do well. And what would it change if people knew the truth? It doesn’t bother me that much, honestly. Besides, you know the truth. That’s all that matters to me.” Desperately and without thinking, you twist your hand and your fingers interlock, returning the squeeze with a soft smile. Mr Holland tries his best to return the sentiment but you can tell the whole ordeal still troubles him and sits discontented by your side, a regretful sigh heaving through his lips. Soon, after a silent plea to let it go, he eventually sits level with you with a brighter sparkle to his eyes and instantly, the mood is lifted. You notice how his hand doesn’t leave yours.

“You at least deserve a drink.”

“I shouldn’t, I’m closing up tonight and I’m working early tomorrow.”

He scowls for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, facing issue after issue the more you expose Jackson’s true nature. “It’s Saturday tomorrow, you should be having a day off.”

“It’s laughable you think I get a day off,” you chuckle. The sad thing is, he thinks you’re joking. Jackson often sends you his overdraft of reports to complete over the weekend and has the cheek to deem you lucky that he gives you so much wisdom and experience. You can’t imagine Mr Holland being aware of this…

“Don’t be silly darling, everyone is entitled to days off. Even Taylor took a day off today for his birthday.”

Again, your scathing laughter meets his ears and he tilts his head, that skewed eyebrow lifting high into his forehead. “No offence sir, but with his position, he can afford to. I don’t think interns have that same benefit--”

“Of course you do, it’s company policy that everyone is entitled to a day off on their birthday.” Before you get a word in, he’s already pulling out his phone from his suit pocket. “Tell me when your birthday is so I can make sure you get it off, and I know when to get you a birthday present. Taylor too--”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

“We do it for all our employees, regardless if you’re an intern or not.” His calendar flashes to life before his eyes. “So when is it? June? July?”

Your mouth suddenly goes dry and it gawps like a fish, not a usual response to such an easy question. Your fingers knead together on your lap as the sadness once again materialises and Mr Holland quickly senses something is amiss.

“It’s…it’s today. My birthday is…was today.”

Mr Holland’s eyes widen with horror. It’s no less than a minute later that he finally replies. “And Jackson has you working?”

“Since 7am this morning. I had asked for my birthday off two months ago because I did actually read the company policies, but he said interns can’t request holidays because they’re not permanent. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“What?! For fuck’s sake…” Mr Holland twists his chair violently, its legs colliding with the table as he tries to face you more directly and leans forward, your knees slotting into the space between his. The wave of his anger has rolled back even higher in its tide and now, unlike before, there’s a vein popping at his temple. “Let me just make this clear, okay? Correct me if I’m wrong. You’re telling me that Jackson has knowingly denied you of your birthday holiday entitlement and instead had you plan someone else’s birthday just so that he can take credit for it, make you work through it and clean up after it as well?”

God. In his words it sounds so desperately sad. Up until this point, you were able to distract yourself from getting caught up in the tragedy of it all, but now there’s nothing stopping the gates from opening and wallowing in self-pity. Although your blurring eyes tell of your true emotions, the forced smile on your lips does everything it can to convince both you and Mr Holland that you’re not bothered by it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Mr Holland’s heart inevitably sinks. In that moment, he thinks of the cruelty behind Jackson ordering you to buy and wrap his present for Taylor when you have none to open. He thinks of you, alone, buying the candles of the birthday cake you wouldn’t be blowing out. He thinks of you, just hours ago as the crowd sings happy birthday to another person, blissfully ignorant of your sorrow. He thinks of the hours you spent working when you should have been with your friends and family. It’s all of the things you truly deserve, but have been robbed from you.

He reaches once again for your hand, now resting on your lap, and the tips of his fingers graze your thigh. You would be a fool to miss it. “Darling,” he sincerely murmurs, almost as quiet as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The fake smile takes lead and the rebel tear is wiped away. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault--”

“But it’s not okay. You…you didn’t even get to have a drink.” Damnit, your cheeks are wet again. “Did you at least get a break today?” Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO.

In fact, you spend so much time failing to not cry that Mr Holland assumes the worst. He takes in a long, deep breath and lures you into his embrace with a hand creeping up to the back of your head, and the second your forehead hits his shoulder, the dams break.

“I’m just so tired,” you sniff.

“You’ve been overworked, darling, that’s why.” His hand passes over your hair, gently cupping the curve of your head as he takes in every hiccup. His breath flows past your ears smoothly, broken up every few seconds with whispers of comfort. You feel horribly embarrassed, crying into the expensive suit of your CEO at the party you organised on your birthday: definitely not the definition of professionalism you are chasing.

“I’m sorry. I promise I’m not usually like this.” You retreat from his shoulder but the hand cupping the back of your head prevents you from travelling too far and you’re stuck, just inches from Mr Holland’s pitying eyes. He keeps you concealed from the crowd, but it’s not enough to hide from the burning glare of Jackson, his eyes drawing daggers at you from over Mr Holland’s shoulder. He’s somewhat frozen in a stupor, scarily steady for a man who was flailing over the bar minutes ago, but anger is a quick cure for intoxication.

Mr Holland’s voice sidles quietly into your ear. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Get yourself up to bed, I’ll deal with Jackson.”

“But--”

“I will not take no for an answer. Now go.” You shiver at the stern tone, appearing only as he turns to lock eyes with Jackson who’s faring a guilty look upon his face. As Mr Holland brings you both to a stand, he gently encourages you towards the golden doors and although you should be indulging in the relief of finally being let off, you can’t pull your focus away from Mr Holland’s cold stare that refuses to stray from Jackson. In the few seconds that it takes to walk from your chair to the doors, a clear, obvious shift in mood transpires, one that is felt by the entire room because now it isn’t just you that notices Mr Holland’s sudden decline in temperament. Evidently, everyone is quick to sense the tension. The crowd’s lively dancing now settles into an awkward shuffle and the singing dulls into hushed whispers because they know to never underestimate the seriousness of Mr Holland’s anger. It’s uncomfortable and intimidating, even more so if you’re the reason for his vexation and if that’s the case, you should be on your knees begging for his forgiveness. It’s the one power Mr Holland holds that Taylor, his business partner, his equal, doesn't possess. This is your first time seeing him exercise this power and it’s incredibly daunting.

The beat of your heels clicking their way up the staircase is a quick one, not daring to hang around the unease any longer. The fresh smell of washed cotton that greets you in your room winds you down and you don’t spare a second of reflection before you strip yourself of your stiff dress, blister-inducing heels, thick make-up and the heavy stress. You slip right between the sheets, ready to drift asleep.

The lights are switched off, your eyes are closed and your body properly relaxes. Yet inexplicably you can’t settle into your bed no matter how much you toss and turn. Rationale convinces you that it’s because you’re in a bed different from your own, that the mattress doesn’t have the mould of your body imprinted on it, and although it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, your inner conscience is telling you something else…

Flashes of memories made just half an hour prior spring to the surface and suddenly you’re watching yourself converse with Mr Holland again. But it isn’t exactly how you remember it.

For example, his hand is on your lap, gripping the curve of your thigh with his heat scorching through your skin when you know that, in reality, it was nothing more than a soft sweep. And when you both stood, you know he guided you with a gentlemanly hand, yet your dream sees his hand curving down the slope of your ass and squeezing the flesh. You have to refuse the idea of you shivering with arousal from hearing Mr Holland’s stern growl because truthfully, it was nerves.

Or…was it both?

You try to ignore it, but the seed has already been planted. Now all you can visualise is his fleeting touches, his soft voice praising you and calling you darling, the twinkle in his eyes as he sympathised for you, the caress of his hand through your hair as he comforted you, the way he cared for you, and fucking hell, the exhilaration of seeing him protect you so defensively when no one else did. His taut jaw, his clenched fists, his dark eyes, the pulsing vein at his temple, his eminence that commanded the room, the list is endless.

“F-fuck,” you stutter, succumbing to the pleasure of your own fingers toying with your clit. You don’t quite remember the exact moment your hand slipped beneath your underwear, too caught up in your fantasy of Mr Holland to realise. Regardless, the movie in your mind continues to play out and by now, none of it reflects any real events from tonight - it’s all purely fictional.

His hand slides up between your thighs. He dons a devilish grin because he knows there’s a whole crowd blissfully unaware behind him. An innocent gasp slips from your lips and it lures his eyes to your mouth, panting as he traces the letters of his name over your covered cunt as a sign as to who it belongs to. Overrun with anticipation, you bite your lip, feeling the pad of his finger slip beneath your thong and…

“Oh my god! Shit!” Your body seizes, curling into itself as your fingers dull to a small twitch between your clenched thighs. There’s a blissful moment where you ravish the hot rush of blood pulsing at your pussy, letting it bubble until it slows to a simmer, and only when you come down from your high minutes later do you fully realise what has just happened. Eyes split wide open, you rise from your bed.

You just masturbated fantasising over your CEO.

What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?

~~~~

The morning comes surprisingly quickly and the hotel's thin curtains don't fully shield you from the sun's glare. It’s bright, directly in your face and if you didn’t know any better, you would think that it’s spotlighting you because it knows what you did last night. As if you forgot…

The guilt still ruins your conscience and you feel nothing but regret; fantasising and sexualising Mr Holland’s kindness is just the pinnacle of everything you disagree with and it doesn’t exactly define the sort of professionalism you strive for.

Shaking it off as best you can, you refresh yourself with a shower and a harsh splash of cold water to your face, and by the time you open your laptop it’s 9am. There hasn’t been any emails from Jackson so far which you’re not too sure if you’re shocked by. It’s typical on a Saturday morning for Jackson to send you multiple reports with deliberately vague instructions that you would somehow have to decode and translate for yourself. But regarding last night’s events, perhaps he’s heeded Mr Holland’s words and decided to honour your weekend entitlements.

The white screen stares back at you, watching you nervously bite your nails as if you’re expecting a red notification to pop up, attached to an email from Jackson with hungover words. A minute or two passes by and alas, nothing. Not a word. In all honesty, you don’t have an issue with it, not at all, but it means that your routine is completely disrupted and you’re struggling to decide what to do with yourself. And without work, you have nothing to distract you from last night’s sin while it plagues your mind.

A new sweat arises and your cheeks flush with embarrassment. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, and that’s the part you think is the worst. Why did it feel so fucking good?

What brings you out of your self-loathing is three quick, quiet knocks echoing from your door in quick succession. Curious, you open the door and when you see who stands there in all his formal glory, you wish you hadn’t. Your heart immediately jumps to your mouth.

“Oh, Mr Holland--hi. I wasn’t expecting you…” Your words fade into a soft whisper when your eyes spot a small pink bag, its ribbon handles hooked daintily onto his fingers. Surely that can’t be what you think it is…?

He’s painfully quiet, a small smile painting his lips at what he sees; he’s never seen you dress so casually before and he wants to take a good long look at you, unsure of when he’ll see such a sight again. The weight of his stare burns holes through you, heating you from within.

Not a second later, he holds out the pink bag towards you and you forget to breathe.

“Happy belated birthday,” he gently voices. Your fingertips graze each other as you take it from him. For such a small, delicate bag, it’s certainly weighty and your stomach drops thinking about how much money he’s stupidly wasted on you…

“Thank you sir, really. You didn’t have to do that.” A nervous chuckle escapes your dry mouth. “How…how did you get this so quickly? It’s barely past 9 in the morning.”

“I have a few contacts who owe me a few favours. And I just felt so guilty about you missing your birthday. Sorry you couldn’t celebrate it like you should’ve.”

“Like I said, it’s okay--”

He shakes his head disapprovingly but surely, a taunting smirk begins to form. “Am I going to have to give you the same ‘talking to’ I gave Jackson last night to make you realise that it is definitely not okay?”

Yes, yes, yes, fucking yes. “No, no, of course not. Sorry, I suppose that’s just the people-pleaser in me.”

Mr Holland stands stoic before you, his head slightly tilted and his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes are watching you endearingly, drawing you into him, but everything else about him oozes something that makes you want to swallow a little harder. His confidence in himself is mildly intimidating and you wish you could feel the same. Just his being here creates a dizzying effect on you that you just can’t shake.

“You can think of this as a congratulations of sorts too.”

You tilt your head. “Congratulations?”

“Mh-hm,” his eyes flit over your confusion, a devilish, haunting smirk gracing his wet lips. “Congratulations on becoming a permanent member of Taylor and I’s company.”

Mr Holland admiring you be damned, you find yourself taking a step back in shock. “Are you…are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious, do you think I would lie to you?”

“Not at all, I just, I thought it was going to be Jackson’s decision. I am his intern.”

You aren’t a fool to miss the way his jaw ticks at the mention of Jackson’s name and all too quickly, a ferocious fire consumes his eyes. A small shiver cuts through your skin. “You don’t work for Jackson anymore because Jackson no longer works for me.”

“What?!”

“What did you think when I said I was going to deal with Jackson? That he was going to continue working for me even after finding out he was treating you badly? Or finding out that he orders you to do his work over the weekends? Or even when he blackmails you into doing jobs beyond your remit? How could you possibly think that I would let that sleazy bastard feed off my pay when I know he isn’t capable of the job? You’re far more deserving of the position than he is, far more deserving of the appreciation and beyond capable.”

“Sir, I…I can’t thank you enough. I’m very grateful. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“I know you won’t. Although I do sometimes wish you would’ve told me or Taylor about Jackson’s behaviour sooner. I don’t tolerate that kind of exploitation, not even for a second and you shouldn’t have either.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was just so caught up in wanting to do well that I would’ve done anything to please the company.”

“Maybe you should stop spending your time trying to please other people, and focus on pleasing yourself.” His face gravitates just a hairsbreadth towards yours and in quieter, darker words, he whispers… “You were certainly capable of pleasing yourself last night.”

You take a timid step back, mouth agape. You can’t think of anything to say, not when the ringing in your ears starts to resonate louder and louder. Shame swells like a disease and you can feel the bile rising in your throat. You are almost certain you didn’t hear anyone outside your room last night, how could he have possibly known?

“I…um…I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

He smoothly leans against the door frame, his wicked grin tells you that he doesn’t believe a word you say. Nevertheless, he explains, not to worsen how mortified he knows you already feel, but to reminisce of the surge of adrenaline and lust that coursed through him last night.

“I came by late last night to drop off your present. I didn’t think you would still be awake so I planned on leaving it at your door, and just as I bent down to place it there, I heard just the softest of moans—“

“I think you must be mistaken—“ An uneasy chuckle barely covers your tracks, leaving you just as compromised as before.

“I thought you might’ve been with someone, but I then didn’t hear any other voices, so I assumed you were by yourself.”

“Sir,” you squeak, intending to finish your sentence but you just don’t have the words nor the confidence to deny him of what he already knows. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights, exposed and vulnerable without the faintest idea of how to get yourself out of his commanding presence.

A million and one emotions rage through you and drown you in a fluster. Your feet shuffle nervously beneath you, slowly inching your way back into your hotel room as you sense yourself losing control over the conversation. With a mouth drier than the Sahara desert, there’s not much else you can do or say to avoid falling victim to both Mr Holland’s taunting and your own taunting; last night’s images playing out before you more vividly now that he resurrects them.

The subject finally diverges, but it doesn’t mean you're any more comfortable with it. “Do you know you’re the only one that addresses me as ‘sir’?”

You shake your head, eyes inevitably averted. You didn’t know that, you just thought it was professional.

“You never corrected me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I liked hearing it. Just as much as I liked what I heard last night. But I need to know,” he takes a step to cross the threshold of your hotel room. “Was there anything…anyone in particular crossing your mind?”

“There was…” His jaw ticks furiously and you instantly get the notion that denying him is simply not a choice here.

“Who?” He demands in that stern voice you’ve heard only once before.

One word sits on your tongue and you know that as soon as it breaks the silence, the professionalism you worked so hard to build up will crumble before you. But the risk is entirely worth it.

“You.”

Mr Holland’s lips part and releases a snicker as if he knew, and the curl of his smirk becomes dangerous. He lets the singular word ring out into the air, and the tension envelopes you both in a suffocating bubble until he finally speaks. “You…what?”

“You, sir.”

His chest rumbles with approval and you even feel its vibrations fluttering low in your stomach. Desire consumes you; a desire to know what he’s thinking, to know what he’s planning to do with that compromising information, to figure out whether he’ll respond to it in a way that satiates your more promiscuous desires like the ones that distracted you last night. You would give anything to see what’s going on inside his head.

Inexplicably, he nods towards your pink bag, easily brushing over your last conversation like it was nothing to him and it completely throws you off. “You should open it.”

It takes a second to drag your eyes away from him. You actually forgot you’re still holding it in your hands. The tissue paper rustles loudly as you reach in-- “Inside.” Mr Holland urges. With a short nod, you lead the way, allowing him to slowly close the door behind you with a gut-wrenching squeak and a thunderous boom.

The second the door shuts, the air becomes taut, strained and harder to breathe and you dedicate all your efforts into ignoring your last conversation just as easily as he had, but he’s standing right behind you and the warmth of his breath skates past your ear and it’s all you can think about. Even without disclosing what he now knows, the presence of Mr Holland alone would bring about such unnerving effects, so you don’t find yourself at fault for struggling to keep it together.

From the pink bag you pull out a small white and gold box, wrapped with yet another ribbon. Inside is a silver chain, light and dainty, but the pendant it carries is nothing alike. The reflection of the sun hits the circular-cut diamond, becoming iridescent as it hits your eyes. The stone is slightly on the larger side, bigger than any other necklace you own, but it sits perfectly in the balance of being flashy yet classy. Expensive yet tasteful. It’s a piece that you can’t price and that exact thought scares you.

“It’s beautiful,” you softly murmur. The chain cascades elegantly across your fingers, almost mesmerising to watch.

Your eyes catch his movement in the mirror in front of you and steals your attention away from the necklace. He holds out his hand by your side, soft but firm.

“May I?” You almost flinch as his words hit your ear, the ripple of your shiver continues for long after. As the chain pools in his hand, he is equally gentle, handling it with expertise while he lifts it carefully over head and rests the pendant tenderly in the dip between your clavicles. Its icy cold touch seers your skin, heat radiating with each grazing touch of his fingers as they clasp the chain together behind your neck. Once secure, you admire the way it shines brightly against your skin tone, eyes momentarily lost in your image until you realise that yours are the only pair looking back at you. Mr Holland remains engrossed with the curve of your neck, his proximity close enough to be counting the beats of your pulse as it thumps beneath your skin and for all you know, it’s elevating, thrashing harder and harder while you watch with wide eyes as Mr Holland presses his lips against it.

The second his lips meet your skin, his hands find your hips, holding you steady to prevent you from buckling. A numbing tingle shoots through your nervous system at the feeling of Mr Holland swiping his tongue across the reddening bruise he’s leaving behind. Every kiss is with purpose, targeting each and every sweet spot as if he had a map to each of their location: the peak of your neck that connects to your jaw, the sensitive spot just millimetres below your ear, the slight curve of your shoulder that sits beneath the chain. He instantly claims you, and you show no sign of resistance when you find yourself voluntarily tilting your neck, begging for more.

You finally meet his eyes in the mirror, realising how cavernous his blown-out pupils are; that if you search too far you’ll become trapped. “This…” he whispers, planting another kiss to your ear, his hands beckoning to the chain, “is the only thing I’ll allow you to wear while I fuck you.”

A shameless, breathless mewl whines from your throat and a rampage of endorphins consumes you. As the first piece of insight to his mind, you don’t get nearly enough time to let it process in your head before his clawing hands are tugging at the drawstrings of your joggers.

The small nip to your neck is a wake-up call. This is real and this isn’t a fantasy of yours, only that it will be a recreation of what had you orgasming last night.

“You know, I can be a people pleaser too.” His hand slips beneath your joggers, but refrains from slipping beneath your underwear. “I can please you in so many ways.” As a testimony to his words, his fingers trace over the silk of your underwear, catching your bud in its travels and a silent gasp bursts from your lips. “But not without earning it. Do as you’re told, and I’ll do exactly that.”

Your head falls back onto his shoulder, words vacant, eyes rolling.

“Are you listening to me?” The hand on your hip squeezes harshly and you jerk in his arms. You have never agreed to something quicker in your life.

“Yes, sir! Oh—”

“Good. Then you can start by closing those curtains over there.”

His hand slips fluidly out of your joggers when you force yourself away from the subtle torment. The light dims a little, however you think it’s more for privacy than for light. When your back turns once again, Mr Holland sits himself on the edge of the bed, legs spread and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Whatever it is about him in that single second triggers something in you; attraction, lust, sex appeal, or all of the above. Whatever it is, it compels you to give yourself in to him.

A messy mixture of want, need and unrelenting desire brings you to your knees before him. His eyes sweep over your face, examining, analysing, translating every desperate twitch. He can even see your lips parting where he spots the remnants of teeth marks from when you had nervously bitten them in hidden moments. Smoothly, the pad of his thumb brushes over your lip, tugging it into a pout because that’s what he wants to see; you, desperate, pouting, begging for him. It soon pops back into place, his hand now curling around your chin and pulling you closer. His own lips are nothing more than a breath away from yours and you think he’s going to finally kiss you, but annoyingly, he only allows you to feel the shape of the words as he whispers them to you.

“So what is it about me then, hm? What do I do that turns you on?”

“It’s…it’s stupid.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Let me rephrase.” The grip on your chin tightens and your noses collide. “Tell me what it is about me that turns you on.”

“Last night at the party, you were the only one that…cared. You made me feel like I wasn’t invisible.”

“What else?”

“You stood up to Jackson for me - you just looked so determined like you were unstoppable.”

He tilts his head in the other direction now, leaning in just as close, your breaths mingling together. You’re so desperate to feel his lips on yours. “And?”

“When…when you touched my thigh--”

“You were burning.”

“I was nervous--”

“Because of me.”

“Of course because of you. I was scared of disappointing you.”

A small snicker escapes him and leaves behind a wicked smirk. Two hands now firmly cradle your jawline and you think the moment has finally come. Why else would your heart be thumping in your chest?

“Not possible. I always knew you were a good girl. And I think you like being told that, don’t you? You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it. I saw that coy little look on your face the first time I told you how impressed I was. It was obvious that no one else had praised you like I did - you couldn’t keep yourself together. And I bet if I kept telling you how fucking sweet you are, and how much of an perfect angel I know you are for me, the second I slip my fingers into your tight little pussy, you’d be an absolute mess.”

Well, he’s not wrong. You’re already soaked.

“Please, sir,” you whimper. “Please just kiss me.”

Finally, finally, he pulls you in for a long, languid kiss, his tongue takes lead to taste every part of your bitten lips as they slot perfectly in between his, lingering longer with each time he captures them. The blood rushes so quickly through your veins you think you might implode, overwhelmed by just how good it feels that your hands suddenly grapple onto the cuffs of his shirt.

A satisfied hum buzzes against your lips, twisting your own into a small grin that unbeknown to you, Mr Holland could actually feel.

“Let me see you,” he demands, his hands plucking at the hem of your sweatshirt. When you don’t do it right away, a tight grip coils around your neck and stops the gasp leaving your mouth. “Do. As. You’re. Told.”

You’re baring your all for him (all except a diamond necklace) in a matter of seconds, standing before him as he leisurely leans back against the bed, resting on his elbows. Those predatory eyes roam your body, mapping out the shape and details, and imprinting them to memory.

“So fucking pretty…” He deliberately watches for your reaction and you crumble under the praise resulting in a mirthful laughter to shake his chest. His arms reach for your waist, luring you in with the tight grab of your hips until his lips sit just below your ribs. The heat from his breath hitting your skin makes you involuntarily wriggle, but he doesn’t allow for any movement from you, not unless he permits it. You feel his lips suddenly, trailing across your ribs and up your chest. “Do you know what good girls like you do for me?”

“What?” You breathlessly murmur.

“They get on their knees,” Mr Holland pauses to let you act on it. Now you’re looking up at him as his knuckle ghosts over your cheeks and he mingles closer. “They look at me right in the eyes and they beg me to give them a taste, to let them suck me off because they’ll do anything for a reward, even if it is just a few words of praise. So let’s hear you, pretty girl. I want to hear you beg me with that sweet, innocent voice of yours.”

You take a cautious breath. “I want to taste you so badly, sir. Please. Will you let me?”

“Hmm.” He purses his lips. Shit. It isn’t good enough for him and he spots the panic in your eyes. All of a sudden, you begin pleading in such a desperate, childish tone you didn’t know you were capable of. Even your lip begins pouting as the need to please him becomes so overwhelming that, unexpectedly, your eyes water, like you’re facing life or death. And he is the decider.

“Wait, wait, no, please, I want to make you feel so good, so, so, so good. I can do it, I promise, and I can be good for you if you let me. Please sir, I really need it. I’ll do anything.”

Mr Holland smiles and gently kisses you with approval, just the shortest of pecks of reassurance before he leans back and nods towards the zipper of his suit trousers, tented with the erection that’s pleading to be satisfied. You waste no time in unbuttoning, unzipping and pulling free his hard cock that almost dwarfs your hand and you stare at him with such bewilderment, a stare that is returned by a certain smugness, a confidence that has you licking your lips.

There’s a surge of instinct coursing through you and your brain convinces you that there’s nothing else you should be doing, that your whole purpose at this very moment is to do as you promise; to please him, to make him feel good, so when you hear his moans the second you wrap your lips around him, your heart flutters with fulfilment. It’s a sensation you keep chasing, growing stronger the longer you bob your head up and down his cock, every time his praise seeps from his lips, and you just about lose it when his fingers comb through your hair. You offer every trick in the book; swirling around your tongue around the head of his cock, sweeping it across the small slit to collect the small bead of cum, teasing him before taking him down your throat and gagging on him. Not too little, not too much. Consistency is key.

You’re not sure how much of an idea he has about just how dedicated you are in your mission to prove yourself to him, that you’re desperate to show how capable you are by what you’re willing to do; perhaps a horrible side-effect of having to constantly prove yourself to Jackson with each conversation, but with Mr Holland, there’s an element of belief and confidence: a contradiction between Jackson’s ‘I don’t believe you until you prove it’ versus Mr Holland’s ‘do it because I know you can’.

Mr Holland’s head falls back, his eyes closed, and falls into an eerie silence. If it wasn’t for his hand still combing through your roots, you would’ve thought he wasn’t satisfied with you. Still, you keep going, running your lips and tongue down his shaft and returning slowly back up again where you get a teaser of the bitter-sweet taste you’re vying for. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you’re undecided of whether you’re doing so well that he’s speechless, or you’re not doing enough that’s worthy of his praise. It’s hard to tell with his head tilted back, and you begin to lose faith. You’ve become so drawn into his voice and words that you feel lost without them.

‘You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it.’

“Sir,” you meekly voice, leaving a beat to suck on the head of his cock. “Am I making you feel good?”

The depth of his growl sends a spike of arousal straight to your clit. He spits out his words in a manner that’s uncontrollable. “Fucking incredible.”

His head finally lifts and his eyes pin on you, fully blown and dilated. “Look at you - oh fuck - taking me so well. Knew you’d be a good girl but f-fuck, I don’t know if I can hold it in any longer.”

You reply with a wanton mewl, your dopey, tear-stained eyes saying the words your mouth can’t. You need to do something that would push him over the edge, do something that would completely shatter his world, never to be forgotten. He’s already so close, and you're already dripping onto the carpet, and with one last final trick up your sleeve, you catch his eyes, sink yourself onto him until your nose bashes against skin, and fight through the gag. Teeth baring, you slowly, lightly, graze your teeth up his cock, ghosting over every vein that pulses, leaving behind the soothing aftercare of your soft lips. By your side, his thighs twitch and by the time you reach the head of his cock, an explosion happens.

Mr Holland swings forward, grappling onto your head as you drink down everything he gives you. His entire body tenses, trapping you into a headlock and just only for a couple of seconds do you feel yourself losing breath. It's slightly tense and panic-inducing but it doesn’t matter, because above you he’s panting heavily, enclosing his thighs around your head and holding onto you for dear life. It’s all the signs you need to know that you’ve done what you promised, you have proved yourself.

“Fucking hell,” Mr Holland pants. His grip loosens around you and your lips release him with a pop. The instant your lips are free, he claims them, humming into them with adoration. “That was…” A soft, tender kiss. “The best goddamn…” Then another. “Blow job I’ve ever had.” He kisses you for a final time with a smile laced through it, and rests his forehead on yours to give himself some time to catch his breath. “So good…” he breathes. “So, so, so good. Sweet angel. My sweet angel.”

There isn’t anything to describe the burst of achievement that swarms your chest when you hear those words and your cheeks inevitably heat under his hands. You’re smiling, obviously smiling and no matter how hard you bite your lips to hide it, the pull is too strong. You make yourself far too goddamn easy to read so when Mr Holland catches a glimpse of your reaction, he smirks, clearly amused, and simultaneously reaches down the length of your body until his hand finds sanctum between your thighs.

“Hmm, you’re soaked, darling. Don’t you think we should do something about it? After all, you’re earned your reward, and I’m dying for a taste of that messy, little pussy of yours.”

You release a shaky breath when his fingers start exploring. “Yes, oh god, yes.”

“Yes…what?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Better. Let’s not make that mistake again.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now--” In a vice-like grip, Mr Holland encircles your waist and your body burns against the rough cashmere of his suit. It’s surprisingly stimulating as he casually hauls you off your feet, but you would much rather the heat of his skin. Nevertheless, your back soon meets the soft cotton of your sheets as he lays you to rest on the bed, remaining shadowing above you basking in the sight of your naked, wanting body. The diamond that nestles deep into the base of your throat twinkles obnoxiously in his eyes and he almost grows jealous of the way it hugs your neck. However, it's a jealousy he can overlook as his eyes wander over the peak of your breasts and your glistening cunt, because he knows that they are all for him.

Mr Holland promptly sinks to his knees, placing his head in between your thighs, his eyes never straying from your cunt. There isn’t a moment of hesitation when he swings his arms to cross over your hips, dragging your legs effortlessly over his shoulders and diving, tongue first, into your cunt. It’s a complete invasion of his touch, his tongue immediately swirling around your clit with a careful, consistent pressure that deep down, you know will end you in minutes. The gasp is telling of your struggle to keep composed, gradually crescendoing into a moan as that amorous tongue descends down your slit, licking you up in long, fat strips. An urge in your hips begs for attention, wanting to raise higher to ease the tension building deep in your stomach, but you're trapped, locked in place with no routes of escape and you have to tell yourself that you just have to tough it out.

But it’s harder said than done when he begins slotting his tongue into your hole, tasting and caressing every inch of you he’s capable of reaching. Digging deeper and deeper, his mouth consumes the entirety of your cunt, humming into it to push you further over the edge. He knows you’re hanging on by a thread, but it doesn’t mean he’s willing to slow down. And just then, an evil, malicious thought spawns in his mind which he voices immediately.

“You’re not cumming until I say so. Understood?”

The feeling of you clenching to stop the impending orgasm has him chuckling. He knew you were close.

“Such a sweet, little angel. So obedient too, right?” He blows a gentle breeze onto your clit and you simply whimper in response. “Right?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Mr Holland has your cunt in his mouth again, salivating over its taste as he suckles on your clit, your folds, your skin, anything to lure out what he knows he’s going to get eventually, but it makes it twice as appetising when he knows your orgasm is only at his command.

Meanwhile, your heart stammers in your chest with each tug of his lips. Whatever sanity you have left to cling onto, you claw at it with desperate hands, fighting to hold up the wall that blocks the blood rushing to your cunt, holding your breath to stop the bubble from bursting, because fuck, you are ready to snap. You can’t help but notice how he’s taken a page from your book, pleasuring you at a steady consistent pace, not too much but not too little. Unsurprisingly, the result is the same but the conditions are far worse.

“Oh my god, please let me cum, I can’t hold it anymore.”

His grip only tightens, his tongue moves faster and his mouth gets hotter.

Your hands, of a mind of their own, decide to condemn your obedience and push at his arms around your hips in an attempt to get away. Despite his obvious strength, you somehow manage to get a microsecond of respite, but his mouth only sucks you back in again, murmuring only one word that runs laps around your head.

“Obedience.”

“I can’t, sir, please, I can’t h-hold on. Fuck!”

“Oh dear.”

“NO! No, no, no, no, okay, okay, I’ll do it, I can hold on. Just…please go slower.”

His dark cavernous eyes meet yours from behind his arms, unmoving even as he relishes the taste of your slick, challenging you for only a second before he thankfully listens to your wishes. Weakened, your head flops back onto the bed with a small bounce, eyes drifting shut as the feeling in your stomach calms and a small relief hugs your heart. It’s a small price to pay to lose the feeling of euphoria that was going to course through you…only if Mr Holland had let it or if your people-pleasing traits had failed you, none of which had actually happened.

The feeling deflates but the pleasure still lingers.

“You taste so delicious, darling. I could eat you all day.” Arousal jumps to your clit like a flash of electricity. “And you’re doing so well for me, how could I ever stop?” This time, it’s his tongue, soft and caressing. “And this pussy; so pretty, so fucking pretty, I could just play with it for days.” His finger begins circling your clit not too long after he spits into it. By now, you realise what he’s doing. He’s feeding into your need for praise that, along with the small touches and sweeping licks, builds you up just as quickly and suddenly as before, and once again you’re struggling to cope. “I know you can be such a good girl for me, I know you can do as I say, and you have no idea how much it turns me on when you do.”

“Sir…” You warn. He instantly recognises the desperation.

“I’ve got one last instruction for you, angel.” He sucks on your clit for just a couple of seconds, just to get you closer and closer to falling apart. “Cum for me. Cum in my mouth.”

“Fuck!” You scream as an endless stream of euphoria consumes you, hitting you in a sudden white wash of heat that riddles your entire body top to toe. You can feel your cunt clenching erratically, between homing an orgasm and suffering under Mr Holland's continuous lashings, it can't, not for one second, rest until either relent. You feel your own slick, hot and bothered, trickling down your ass but before it gets the chance to meet with the white sheets beneath you, Mr Holland sweeps it up expertly with his tongue, partnered with a primal growl of pleasure.

By the time Mr Holland has finished cleaning up every inch of your cunt and ass with his tongue, he proceeds to kiss his way gently up your body, not forgetting to leave your tits untouched and pinches your buds between his lips. You have just enough energy to cradle his head, allowing yourself the pleasure to run your fingers through his hair, moving with him while he leaves sharp kisses to your chest, your collar bone, your neck, ear and jaw, until once again, those hungry lips claim yours.

Still somewhat recovering, you purr quietly, content with the overall sense of pleasure, both of your sexual and people-pleasing needs.

Your lips slowly part. The kiss ceases but your noses brush off one another gently, still basking in the blissful, intimate aftermath of what's just happened. Your CEO above you remains, hovering over you with admiration in his eyes, running over your features as if it is the first time he's seeing them, adoring them all over again.

There's two words sitting on the tip of his tongue, hidden behind a smirk because he knows what he'll see when he speaks them.

"You're beautiful."

Of course, his prediction comes true. Your cheeks redden, your eyes roll away and your teeth sink into your swollen lips, muttering incoherently about it not being true but thanks him incessantly, but Mr Holland is too caught up in your coy modesty to rebuttal. It's just like the first time he complimented you, and he realises then and there that he's addicted to being the person that makes you shy, blushed, diffident.

Being a CEO, he does indeed posses significant power in the palm of his hand, obtained by hard work, dedication, commitment and sacrifice, but for him, there isn't a power stronger than the one he has over you and all it takes is a few, simple, praising words.

"We still have another three hours until check out."

Your eyes and ears perk up. "Sir?"

Cautiously, he shuffles above you, innocent until you feel his cock sliding into you and he relishes the catch in the back of your throat at the sudden pressure forcing its way fluidly into you. You're simply speechless, questioning if it'll ever end as he pushes every inch of him inside you, breaching and stretching the boundaries of your walls. Mr Holland snags your bottom lip between his teeth, harshly biting as a relief for the tight grip that surrounds his cock.

When your ass eventually meet his hips, you both release a groan in unison, breaths mixing and mingling until Mr Holland breaks the silence.

"You're gonna look even more beautiful when you're all fucked out and dumb for my cock, all with a diamond wrapped round your neck."

His hips snap back at a frighteningly fast pace and thrusts in even more aggressively. The pain is immeasurably exhilarating. Your thighs squeeze his waist, mouth agape without a single breath escaping.

"Think of this as a second birthday gift." Like before, he draws back and slams into you without mercy. "Do as you're told and you'll get your third on Monday in my office."

Somehow, your gut tells you that you won't have a problem with that. Not at all.

#dom!tom holland #ceo!tom holland #soft!dom!tom holland #sub!reader #tom holland smut #tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #smut #angst #peter parker smut #one shot #peter parker #tom holland one shot #tom holland fanfic #praise you like i should

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everythingelseisextra · 11 months

Text

Those Nights

Request: No. Description: On clear nights, you choose to leave your bed with Tommy and watch the stars. A miscommunication is made, and a new routine is born from it. Warnings: Language, sexual implications Word Count: 1356 Author's Note: Loosely inspired by @dearshelby's post on historical characters not being particularly Therapized(tm). I wanted to write a quiet fic about how Tommy might react to a small conflict. Of course, I made the reader character the world's best communicator, which I hope isn't too irritating.

You don’t sleep anymore. Not on clear nights like this.

The balcony opens onto ink, speckled with light, a midnight city pulled into the obscure blush of gray and black and faint yellows and oranges. Smog clears and suddenly you’re drowning in the ocean of a blackened world overgrown with pinpricks of light. You lean your head back and stare up, and you melt into the endless. Souls echo the world around them, and yours, on nights like these, feels like the day you fell in love. Clear and bright and hopeful, like anything is possible.

You wonder about the tunnels. About cave ins and claustrophobia, about the constant stench of stagnant water and the rot of feet stepping through it. About the ache of his back as he crouches to slowly kick clay, trying desperately to make it out alive, to survive another night. You wonder if it was overwhelming to finally breathe fresh air, to look up at an open world and know that, soon, he'll have to go back under. You wonder if the dead fear the sky.

As if on cue, the door to the bedroom behind you opens. You sense him before you see him. Exhaustion radiates off of him, so tired it feels as though he’s eating himself trying to rest, cannibalistic desperation. You close your eyes and feel his presence move next to you. He’s warm. Hot, even, as though he’d been sweating.

Silence hovers between you, perfect, cool and untouchable. It’s a quiet you have had to learn how to break over time, because he never will. So brave, and yet too timid to reach out, to seek some form of comfort or help, that you’re always the one to ask.

“Another nightmare?”

“Yep.” A pause. Still with your eyes closed, you feel him shift away from you, step aside on the balcony. The precipice of vulnerability. The space between you looms. “You were out here.”

“Enjoying the night,” you confirm, and open your eyes to look at him. Your heart sinks. He’s pale, even more so than usual, and the shadows under his eyes sink deep into his skin. Though he’s steady, face set in a neutral expression, you know better. There’s a slight puffiness to his eyes that tell you he’s been crying. More than a nightmare.

He nods. His jaw tightens, then relaxes. When he looks up, the stars reflect in his eyes, like sparks through the ice, burning despite the cold.

You decide to ask, to try to coax something like an explanation from him, to at least show him that you know him. “What else happened?”

“Nothing,” he answers immediately.

“No, not nothing. There’s something. I can see it.” You hesitate, then place a hand on the balcony railing between you, an offer. “I can feel it.”

“Always the empath, aren’t you?” His voice hardens, his eyes flick down to the city around you. Defending himself from your prying, shutting you down, tightening the hatches. You know this game, after years of being with him. And, although it’s a strange way of thinking, you know how to win it.

“I just know you.” You leave your hand there, holding onto the wood of the railing, fingers gently tracing the grain. “Not an empath. Just your partner.”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Tom, you sound like a child.” You hide a smile. It’s a good thing his pettiness and asshole tendencies make you laugh. Your relationship would have ended years ago if they didn’t. “It is my business if you’re going to sulk for days because I didn’t read your mind.”

He scoffs, then sobers. Quiet for a moment, staring down at his crossed arms, the fluff of his hair falling over his eyes. “I wake up from a tunnel and you aren’t there.”

Oh. You take a deep breath and stare out at the city lights, the little glints of heat in the Birmingham cold. You are fluent in his language, and it’s your job to translate him, put into words what he likely never will be able to.

“You felt abandoned by me because you were alone when you woke up.”

“Sounds fucking pathetic.”

“Sounds human. You’re human, remember?” You nudge his shoulder, trying to coax a smile from him and failing.

Again, his jaw tightens. There’s still something he’s holding onto.

“And… It scares you. Being alone in the dark again.” You shrug. “It makes sense. I’m sorry. I get wrapped up in the world.”

“I’m not scared of the dark.”

“I know you’re not. I think you are scared of being left alone again. After Grace.”

That was the last straw, apparently. He turns and starts back towards the bedroom, arms still crossed, walking with that hunter’s walk he’s developed over the years. You follow him and grab his arm, stopping him.

“Look, you need to talk to me. It doesn’t need to be much.” You pull his arm so he turns to face you. Blue eyes stare defiantly into yours, almost childlike in their anger. “Haven’t I earned that much from you?”

“You’re right. You’re always bloody right.” He almost spits the words, then calms, taking a huffing breath. “We made a promise. We said we’d be there.”

Defensiveness spikes in you, makes you open your mouth to retort, but you hesitate, think it through. When you do speak, the words land softly. You can’t engage with him, can’t fall to his level of accusations and insults. “I know. Sometimes I won’t be able to be there. I can learn, though. I can listen to you. I won’t leave you alone at night, then. I’ll just open the windows so I can feel the air. Is that an okay compromise?”

His eyes flick around you, taking in the nocturnal grandeur around you, the natural and unnatural starlight, the faint gray haze of the coming dawn. Finally, they land back on you, and he gives a slight shake of his head. “Wake me.”

“What?”

“On nights like this. Wake me. No need for a compromise.”

You smile a little. “You’d sacrifice your precious sleep for me?”

His expression turns sly, the closest he gets to flirty these days. His head tilts and he looks at you sideways, matching your smile. “Haven’t I already?”

You take him by the wrist and pull him towards you. “Yes. Would you consider wasting some more time with me tonight?”

His eyes drift, slowly moving their way down your body, drinking you in, and the cool night air flows around you, chilling your bones and contrasting to the faint heat on your cheeks. He pulls you in and gently, so gently, kisses you. You smile against him, one hand reaching up to hold him, the other resting on his hip. You sway there, then, when you can’t stand the earnestness of the moment, you gently push him back towards the bedroom.

“We can have some fun.” You smile at him, toying with the hem of your shirt, then the waistline of your pants. “Be good and go lie down for me, won’t you?”

Falling into the usual routine of him, for once in his life, letting go of some control, he steps back, eyes stuck on yours. “Yes, love.”

From then on, when the nights clear out and the moon shines through the cracks in the shutters, you roll onto your side and stare over at him. Eyelashes long, eyes moving beneath pale eyelids, dreaming, breathing slow and steady. The old tattoo on his shoulder that you consider the mark of a tragedy. Sometimes, you choose to let him sleep, curling into his side and drifting back off. But, mostly, you crawl on top of him, straddling him and slowly letting your weight grind down on him until he wakes. It’s gentle, and his sleep is deep, but when his eyes blink open, he looks up at you, and you watch his pupils slowly expand.

“One of those nights?” He murmurs, resting his hands on your hips, slipping his thumbs beneath your shirt.

“One of those nights,” you confirm, and lean down to kiss him.

#tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder headcanon

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assortedseaglass · 5 months

Text

🌟Wassail | Yuletide🌟

Tom Bennett x Fem!Reader

Summary: A minor indiscretion leads you to chaperoning the yearly children's wassail with none other than Tom Bennett.

Content: Fluff, Language.

Yuletide Masterlist

Spending the evening with a handful of excitable children and Tom Bennett wasn’t too bad, as far as punishment went.

You supposed your father thought the children, full of a night’s sugar after years of rationing, would tire you out with their boundless energy. Perhaps he also thought that Tom Bennett would scare you. A petty criminal that good, honest girls should be frightened of. Well, your father should know that you were far from good or honest. That’s why you needed punishing in the first place.

Word got to your father that you were seen in a compromising position behind the Capital Club with Willie Murphy on New Year’s Eve. You traced the source easily. Your father heard it from that busy-body, Mrs Browning, who heard it from her neighbour. The neighbour’s daughter just happened to be Minnie Goodman, Willie’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. The tale was a tall one, for in truth Willie Murphy snuck his hand up your skirt and you’d given him a smack. If Gossip Goodman wanted that creep all to herself, she was welcome to him.

“Hurry up you!” One of the little lads shouted at you as he made his way to the next house.

“Watch your mouth, Harry Tollet,” you said, coming to stand beside him and the other children. “You won’t be wassailing next year if your mother hears you talking like that to a lady.”

“My mum says you aren’t a lady,” Harry said, knocking on the door. A little girl beside him gasped. Before you could speak, Tom Bennett, who had been silent on the evening’s walk, stepped forward.

“You’ll get a clip round the ear an’ all if you keep on.”

Harry had no time to cower for the red door opened and the children sang a chorus of We Three Kings. Their tin cups were filled with mulled cider by the old lady at the door, and Tom ushered Harry away before his could be filled.

“That’s not fair-”

“Shoulda thought about that before you ran your mouth,” Tom shoved the little boy towards the rest of the group. “Best behaviour.”

One of the little girls whispered in Harry’s ear and gave Tom a wary glance. She smiled awkwardly at you and turned around as the next door of the street opened and the children began their singing once more. The house belonged to old Mr Preston, a widower who lived alone. His only son died in the war. He had no grandchildren. You watched, heart growing as the old man gave the children their cup of mulled apple and presented them each with a mince pie.

Silenced for a while by their full mouths, the children listen to old man Preston telling them tales of Christmases long ago. Enraptured, they forgot all about you and Tom. Thank Christ.

You smiled at Mr Preston and showed him your cigarettes, indicating the pavement on the other side of the street. He nodded knowingly and continued his tale.

Leant against the lamppost, you clicked your lighter and inhaled the heady smoke of the cigarette. Tom Bennett took out his own packets of cigarettes and placed one in his mouth. With his hands safely back inside his pockets, he swaggered slowly towards you, looking over his shoulder in a half-arsed attempt and chaperoneship. You snorted.

He came to a stop before you, clicking his heels together as though he were still in the navy. He looked down his long nose at you a moment, smirking. You weren’t rattled. He brought his long fingers to take the cigarette from your mouth and light his own with it. The end sparkled into life, the tobacco crackling. The low, orange flare of light illuminated his sapphire eyes, which were fixed on yours. That rattled you, just a bit. This was a man who made flirting an artform. He looked at your cigarette as he passed it back to you.

“Lucky Strikes? Very posh,” he drawled in his Manchester burr.

“Got ‘em from a Yank. Better than your filthy Marlboros. Bloody stink,” you took a drag and exhaled the smoke in his face. He didn’t budge, the smoke dissipating to reveal a fully born grin.

“Lucky Strike for a lucky strike?” Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be jealous,”

Tom puffed out his chest and sniffed the night air. He glanced over his shoulder. You smiled to yourself; you never knew it was so easy to hurt Tom Bennett’s pride.

Across the road, Mr Preston had finished his story and gone inside. The children were walking to the next house, some hand in hand.

“They don’t need us,” you nodded towards them.

“Nah,” Tom said. “War made them different. Self-reliant.”

You hummed in agreement.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

You stared at him, amusement tugging the corners of your mouth. Tom Bennett always thought so highly of himself.

“What for?”

“Harry.” He stated simply.

“But you didn’t do anything,” you laughed brightly.

Despite himself, Tom smiled. “Hold on-”

“Don’t think I could have handled a ten-year-old myself?”

Tom took a step up onto the pavement and, in doing so, brought himself closer to you. “Oh no,” his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “I heard you can handle yourself very well,” One of his hands slipped inside your coat to rest against the slope of your hip.

It wasn’t his hand that made you bristle. It was the assumption that you were easy. Sure, you’d had your fair share of flings, but you didn’t drop your knickers for any fella with a sly grin and foreign cigarettes.

You took his hand in yours, moving it from your waist and dropping it back at his own side.

“I’m only here ‘cause Dadda believed in a load of old hearsay,” You flicked your cigarette to the ground and stamped it out under your heel. Tom didn’t hide the way he stared up the length of your stockinged leg. “I wouldn’t touch Willie Murphy with a ten-foot barge pole-”

“I know,” Tom said simply, idle hands tucked back into the pockets of his jacket.

You stared at him, lost for words. No-one ever believed you. Seemed to think because you’d had three or four Longsight lads, you’d had the whole lot. “Really?”

“Yeah, course I do. He’s an ugly little bastard with more spots than I’ve had hot dinners.” You laughed. Towards the end of the road, the children were singing again, and the lamplights began flickering into life. “I didn’t try it on ‘cause I think you’re easy,” with another step, Tom was pressed flush against you. “I tried it on ‘cause I like you.”

Your smile of genuine happiness turned to one of mischief. “Tom Bennett, are you going soft?”

In the dim light, his blue eyes twinkled. With a wink, he stepped back and began his slow walk towards the gaggle of children. Falling into step beside him, you walked in silence but for the chorus of We Wish You a Merry Christmas and clack of your heels on the cobbles.

Gently, boldy, you tucked your hand into his. “Not so bad, is it, this punishment?”

“Not a punishment for me. Not a petty criminal anymore.” Tom said, smiling down at you and tugging you closer so that the kids wouldn’t see your entwined hands. “Nah, I volunteered.”

You stood still, mouth agape with amused shock.

“What?” Tom tugged your hand and you kept walking.

“You really have gone soft!”

“War’ll do that to you.” You bowed your head solemnly. “And the prospect of an evening with you.”

“Even with a headache’s worth of kids?”

“Even so.”

Finally back with decent internet! The last few days of Christmas are going to be heavy with uploads!

The usual suspects: @arcielee @targaryenrealnessdarling @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @ellrond @cyeco13 @babyblue711 @exitpursuedbyavulcan @humanpurposes @myfandomprompts @barbieaemond @anjelicawrites

#tom bennett #ewan mitchell #tom bennett x reader #world on fire #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan nation #hilde's twelve days of christmas

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inkelea · 6 months

Text

SKZ AS ANIMAL CROSSING PLAYERS! ✭

pairing: ot8 x gn!reader

synopsis: how do each member play animal crossing and how it made you grow close with each other.

genre: fluff. headcanons.

warnings: chan is a sweetheart<3, LINO’S PART IS CHAOTIC. in general all of this is very chaotic.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: animal crossing is so>>>> ik tmblr is full of 12 y/o but I hope you all know what new leaf is. you can see how I lost inspiration through the members😔, I’m still hoping it’s good. this has a lot of references to animal crossing as a whole (obviously) so if you’re not in touch with the game you might not understand:(

#BANG CHAN!

this man YOU ALL, THIS MAN.

he’s the good neighbor.

his animal crossing daily routine is: loading the game, eat three pieces of whichever fruit was the one that he got, and greet his villagers.

if you ask him about his no. 1 priority he’ll always answer the same: forming good and meaningful relationships with his villagers

you can argue with the possibility of that since villagers personalities start to get watered down in new leaf

BUT HE DOESN’T CARE

every day he talks with them and helps them with whatever they need

chan will go down in history as villagers no. 1 defender

“most important part of the game, without them there’s no game. that’s why new horizons is shit” HE’LL BE SAYING, EVERYDAY, WHILE THEY’RE ON TOUR

at least two hours of his day are spent on animal crossing without exception

don’t ask him how, he just does it

big on villagers lore, he’ll tell you everything there is to tell about tom nook’s evolution through the games

probably likes him too

so hear me out, maybe you were a staff member and heard the 4pm soundtrack, and AHHHH

since then you would get in petty arguments about which villagers are the best ones

you definitely visit the others town when he’s on break

you have dates where you see which one of the both of you can help more villagers under an hour

yea, you’re nerds like that:)

#LEE KNOW!

okay so these headcanons are about new leaf but…

you can’t tell me he wouldn’t play new horizons and be the trader

THIS LITTLE SHIT RIGHT HERE

he would be one of the ones who went crazy over raymond

paying ridiculous amount of bells to get him on his island

he would be on nookazon EVERYDAY

he’s a man of business

also on the stalk market

half of his island are rows of growing turnips. it gets to the point where villagers start to complain about it. he doesn’t care.

chan tells him to drop his “rebellious act” as he calls it

but he excuses himself saying it comes from way back

yes i am implying that 14 year old lino was already doing suspicious things on new leaf

TOTALLY TIME TRAVELS

and gets his turnips spoiled from doing it wrong…

BUT ANYWAY

you aren’t any better, you two meet when he’s looking to get raymond and you’re selling him

since then you get used to trade only with the other

aww, look at you, being criminal only with each other🫶🫶🫶

why can I see you holding a new horizons red lily cardboard cutout in a concert?

#SEO CHANGBIN!

and here comes the most normal person on this bullet fic

my guy here is so the escapist

!!!

he’s prone to stop playing the game for months only to come back to find his hair like a mess

(and he doesn’t have shampoodle yet)

(probably doesn’t have kicks either🤪)

by escapist i mean escaping from the real world and from playing the game

he loves the soothing feeling the game carries and gives him in stressful times, but he often feels too lazy to get in the game and do everything he wants to do

like.. fishing, catching bugs, looking for fossils… it’s too MUCH

probably doesn’t ever change outfits, entered in able sisters maximum five times

but that’s okay

it’s isn’t about the looks it’s about the friendships you make along the way💗

or that’s what you tell him

SO LISTEN

you met in high school, started dating and you introduced him to the amazing world of what animal crossing is

you try and get him to play wild world first, but it’s a nono for him

says the graphics are too ugly💀

you sigh, move on, and remember to be grateful for getting him to play new leaf

you still can’t believe he’s been playing for so long and still has kicks locked

he gives you the cold shoulder every time you mention it

you still send him texts every other week reminding him to log in

just for the sake of doing so and greeting his villagers

you’re lucky he loves you, if not, you’d be blocked already😘

#HWANG HYUNJIN!

we all know he’s a pretty good artist

and in animal crossing, he’s the artist too

OBSESSED WITH FURNITURE

type of person who spent the 7,595,800 bells to expand his house to the fullest

for what? to decorate it with everything his heart desires

yep, each room has a different aesthetic

OBSSESED WITH THE FROGGY CHAIR

went nuts when he saw its absence in new horizons

new horizons no. 2 hater

(first one is chan)

has beef with people who don’t care about their house appearance

THIS MAN SPENT YEARS MAKING HIS PERFECT HOUSE

just for a delusional person to tell him it isn’t that important

yes, you’re that person

your first conversation about the game is him rambling about his love for decorating and you telling him how you never really cared about how your house looked

OH BOY

he almost throws hands

he’s just VERY PASSIONATE, he loves what he loves yk

he steals your nintendo one day and decorates it as much as he can

you give him a big old smooch when you see it<3

#HAN JISUNG!

hannie💗💗💗

THIS ONE RIGHT HERE: the collector

he wants ALL

he spends his days catching bugs on the town, going after crickets that jump away from him

every day, without missing, he wastes 1,000 bells on going to tortimer island to try and get a whale shark so he can give it to blathers

no but seriously he does spend more time on tortimer island than in his own town

LOVES THE MINIGAMES!!

forces lino to play with him

(he sucks at the scavenger hunt tour)

he would enter the same house a million times to try and find the stupid object he has left

ANYWAY

when he found the t-rex skull..

he looked like he had just won the lottery

random fact but loveees gyroids

BFFS WITH BLATHERS

loves him so so much

spends hours going around the museum and reading every info plaque!!

tells the members little facts about dinosaurs everyday since then

has a blathers plushie🥰

YOU GAVE IT TO HIM!!!!

you met by a friend of a friend who does animal crossing youtube videos

ofc the blathers and brewster stans would end up together

your brewster plushie appears in the background of one of han’s vlogs and fans went crazy about it

little did they know it was a gift from him that you forgot in his house the last time you visited

#LEE FELIX!

our sunshine!!!

he’s the dreamer

and what does that mean you might ask

well, his whole animal crossing experience rests on dream addresses

luna best character!!

(as he says)

he loves going around other people’s dream towns. his favorite pastime fr

WAS ON ACNL TUMBLR IN 2015

you can still find his abandoned (but not deactivated) account in present day

doesn’t regret anything!

not even losing time entering more than five times every day in the town hall to try and find isabelle sleeping so he can have the dream suite in main street

it takes luna so long to arrive at his town😔

luna you’re making lix sad:((

but yea

big fan of dream towns

and so, you meet when he visits your dream town (you left your address written in some desk at school) and you become friends (in 2015)

DEVASTATED WHEN HE BECAME A TRAINEE

but everything was good again when he debuted and started playing again

you guys reconnected and started talking more again

AND started dating not much later:)

(long distance kinda hard)

you probably move to seoul

or maybe not, who knows…

#KIM SEUNGMIN!

the bully.

yep, you read that right

THIS MAN’S A BULLY

to who?

HIS VILLAGERS

type of player who’s least favorite villager is hopper bc he’s “scary”

like he doesn’t have his villagers traumatized himself

he wants his favorites on his town, and he’ll get them

he doesn’t care, he’ll do whatever is needed

knows every single way of getting ugly villagers out of his island

his favorite tho? probably pushing them into pitfalls

laughs out loud while they cry out in their little dialogue

knows every dialogue by heart

i swear this man has seen every single angry dialogue one by one

forgives the dog villagers from his torture🤞

HAS HIT TOM IN THE HEAD WITH A NET TOO MANY TIMES

oh you know seungmin is a wild life lover

AND YOU🫵

you’re as bad as him

you love to shit-talk about hopper (and some other villagers) together

will send each other photos of your villagers being angry

you guys would feel bad if it didn’t help you release so much stress

visits to the other’s island to meet the other’s enemies- villagers i mean

what can i say, you guys are just menaces in love

#YANG JEONGIN!

don’t let our maknae fool you

he’s no innocent angel

BABY BREAD: GONE

he’s the achiever

you know how this is about new leaf?

well, he’s an acnh player too

and you know what his goal is?

EVERYTHING

and not in the collector, han jisung, kinda way

we’re talking of EVERYTHING

he NEEDS to have those 4,059,999 bells at all times

terraforms like his life depends on it

and space to walk? he doesn’t know it, just like lino, most of his island is covered in turnips

he didn’t sleep until he got the street piano diy recipe

LIKE, HOW COULD HE?

very big fan on getting into fights with people online about new horizons awesomeness

he was raised by lino after all

HOWEVER

he did not get the trading villagers gene at all

doesn’t have time for that shit💀

more like the type of want EVERYTHING, but for himself

and for you<3

HEAR ME OUT, you meet at a gaming convention (acnl era)

before he became a trainee

AND YOU JUST CLICK

the time he saw you looking at animal crossing stickers with wide eyes and a big smile

he knew he had lost the battle

it’s tough but you are able to maintain contact

first as friends

and then as partners:D

he loves giving you stuff incredibly difficult to get in-game

and you love to send him letters thanking him for it💗

@mochamvgz

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aflame4goinghome · 3 months

Text

Illicit Affairs

d.r.w x reader

chapter iv

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: THIS STORY CONTAINS SMUT, MINORS DNI!!! swearing, flirting, fluff, jealousy, brief moment of general harassment, power dynamic; SMUT: fingering, touching, sexually implicit language, dirty talk, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), unprotected sex, choking, slight degradation, praise kink, biting, cum play if you squint, possessiveness, hint of dom/sub dynamic

A/N: This story is in collaboration with my wonderful, talented friends @gretavanstink & @childinthegardenn!! Go give them a follow and give @gretavanstink’s fics some love! Thanks for reading! :)

Listen to the official playlist on Spotify here!

chapter iii

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Midterm season has snuck up on you, you admit to yourself as you tap away at your keyboard. You sigh and adjust your position on the couch in Daniel’s office, propping your feet up and letting your back lean against the armrest. Your gaze flicks across the room to him, sitting at his desk lost in a stack of midterm papers from one of his classes, and you smile to yourself.

His eyebrows are furrowed as he skims through the current paper occupying his attention, twirling a red pen through his fingers absently. He lifts his eyes briefly, feeling your gaze on him, and smirks before turning his focus back to his work. You snuff a breath through your nose and force your own eyes back to your laptop, the cursor blinking steadily back at you from the screen.

Tucking your hair behind your ear as you scan over what you’d already written, you attempt to find your previous train of thought through the fog that has settled over your brain. You pinch the bridge of your nose and let out a groan, the words you had been writing now gone.

In desperate need of a break, you turn your attention back to Daniel at his desk, studying his features: his scrunched forehead, his focused gaze, his lips a taut line. Your eyes drift down, over his shoulders, down his arms, and settle on his hands, his fingers still twirling that pen effortlessly. His white shirt sits in stark contrast to his tanned skin, the sleeves rolled above his elbows as they always are and the top few buttons undone. After hours casual, he had joked with you when you’d stopped by after your final class of the day let out.

“You’re staring,” he says, not looking up from the page in front of him. Your cheeks flame pink and you swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry.

“Sorry,” you mutter, shaking your head. You stare blankly at your laptop screen, the blinking cursor seeming to mock your sudden inability to write. After zoning out until the words on the screen blurred, you snap your laptop shut, another groan of frustration rattling your chest.

Daniel doesn’t even feign interest in your struggles or boredom, too lost in whatever critique he’s scribbling to even hear you as you stuff your laptop back into your bag. You push yourself up off the couch, lifting your arms above your head to stretch. Your shirt lifts with the movement, revealing the sliver of skin above the waistband of your leggings, but Daniel still pays you no mind.

With a huff, you move to study the books on the shelf next to you, humming quietly as your fingers drift along their spines. “What’s your favorite period?” You ask, crouching down to look at the bottom shelf.

No response.

“Daniel,” you prod, standing and turning to face his desk. Still nothing.

“Professor,” your voice is sickeningly sweet.

“Hmm?” He hums, lifting his head slightly and quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Your favorite period of art?” You repeat, folding your arms across your chest and leaning back against the bookcase.

“Italian Renaissance,” he quips, his focus immediately snapping back to the paper as he turns the page. You straighten and drop your arms to your side at his short response, groaning and turning your back to him again.

“Problem?” He asks, indifference dripping from his voice.

You don’t respond as you pretend to be more interested in one of the philosophy books on the shelf. Daniel rolls his eyes and turns his attention from you again. You aren’t trying to throw a tantrum, but you've been working for 2 hours straight, you need a break. As you stand, you try to make yourself casual as you stroll around the room to stop behind his chair.

“I see you,” he says simply, his head down. You smile and rest your chin on his shoulder, turning to press your lips to his cheek.

“Great, I was starting to think I’d disappeared,” you tease, straightening behind him and resting your hands on his broad shoulders.

“No, but you were writing a paper,” he offered. “And I’m trying to grade these papers. Your class’ papers.” Your thumbs start to work slow circles into his muscles and he shifts. You smirk and lean down again.

“Take a break,” you suggest, your breath brushing his neck. A shiver. Another shift. And then a shake of his head.

“Y/N,” he warns through gritted teeth. “I need to get this done.”

You shrug off his dismissal and slide your hands over his shoulders, down his chest, letting your fingers graze the skin that peaked from beneath his unbuttoned shirt. Your lips find his neck, feather-light, and in one swift move, Daniel grabs your wrist and tugs you in front of him. You stand silently, but clearly pleased with yourself, and meet his stare.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, an unamused look marking his face. But he lifts an eyebrow as you straddle him, seating yourself in his lap. His arms snake around your middle and he lets out a breath.

“I need to focus,” he says sternly, but his voice softens slightly as he continues, “and you’re making it very difficult.”

You smile innocently and cock your head slightly. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

You can feel him, hard against you, and you fight to keep your smile innocent as you slip from his lap to kneel on the floor just in front of the hollow space under his desk. His eyebrows tick up, the first sign of interest in any of your antics, and he smirks.

“What?” he begins, sitting up and shifting towards the edge of his seat. “Not confident in your paper?” You roll your eyes at his implication and look up at him through your lashes as he moves his chair closer.

“I’m quite confident in my writing skills, professor,” you say, your hands resting in your lap. “I’m quite confident in many of my skills.”

Daniel stops in front of you, leaving you kneeling between his legs, and braces his elbows on his thighs to lean down to you. He stops just short of pressing his lips to yours, and meets your eyes.

“I’m sure you are, sweetheart,” he says, straightening and undoing his belt and pants. He shifts his slacks and boxer briefs down, just enough to free his cock, and slides the chair forward, leaving just enough room for you between him and the desk.

You smirk to yourself as he turns his attention back to the stack of papers in front of him and you reach up, wrapping your fingers around him and stroking lazily. Sitting up a little higher on your knees, you drag your tongue up his length and flick your tongue over his tip.

You grin as you hear him hiss a breath above you, fighting to stay focused as you lower your mouth onto him. Slowly, you take his full length into your mouth, his tip nudging the back of your throat when you pause. A groan rumbles from him as you slowly draw back, flattening your tongue against the underside of his cock.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, his feet shifting to make more room for you between his legs. His fingers tighten around the pen in his hands, your eyes catching the flex of his forearm.

You hum around him and brace your hands on his thighs, your fingertips pressing into him lightly, as you set a slow pace. Your gaze darts up again, catching him as he tosses his pen on the desk and leans back in his chair. Daniel drags a hand over his face as you flick your tongue over his tip, his hips bucking in response as he groans. His other hand finds its way to your head, tangling in your hair as he guides you to a quicker rhythm.

“My god, Y/N,” he moans. You feel the muscles in his thighs twitch as you take his cock fully into your mouth once more. Your eyes meet his, sending him a wink before he lets his head fall back slightly. Another moan echoes from him and his fingers tighten in your hair, his hips jerking again as you work him closer to his release.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart,” he grits, guiding your head down roughly as he spills down your throat. You lift your head and swallow, smiling up at him innocently.

Daniel huffs out a laugh and removes his hand from your head, tucking himself back into his pants. He turns his attention back to you and drags his finger along your jaw before wrapping his hand around your neck gently. You lean into his touch for a moment before he brings you up from your knees, into his lap again, and plants a kiss on your lips, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip.

“You’re fucking filthy, you know?” He teases, dropping his hands to your waist. You shrug and wink, your arms draped over his shoulders.

“I told you,” you begin, dropping to kiss him again. “I needed a break.”

Daniel rolls his eyes and shakes his head, a laugh rattling from his chest, before he eases you off of his lap. He stands with you, a hand planted on your lower back, and presses a final, quick kiss to your lips.

“Well, we’ve both had a break. Now,” he grips your shoulders and spins you to face the door. He lowers his lips to your ear and you can almost feel his grin. “Get out of my office, I have work to do.”

Your cheeks flush and you open your mouth to whine, but he swats your ass. You jump, gasping softly, and move towards the door, grabbing your bag from the couch and turning over your shoulder. You open your mouth to say something.

“Ah,” he tuts, standing behind his desk, arms folded across his chest, a smug look on his face. “Out.”

“Fine,” you groan, drawing it out as you make for the door. “See you later.”

“See ya, sweetheart,” he says, dropping his smug act and giving you a wave as he sits back down to his work.

· · ──────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You step out of your only Thursday class, the autumn breeze making you tug your jacket tighter around you as you stare at a text from Rose.

From: Rose🌹

Hey, a bunch of us are gonna go out for Halloween at Bleu. You in?

You sigh and start towards the art building just to swing by Daniel’s office. It’s a bad habit you’ve fallen into, stopping by on days that you don’t have his class, but it’s nice to have a place to go to study that isn’t the library or your room. That’s what you told yourself to justify it, at least.

To: Rose🌹

Ugh, I really need to finish a paper

You walk into the building, heading for the elevator, and you rub your temple, debating whether you can crank out your paper before Saturday.

From: Rose🌹

You can bring sexy professorrrrrr

To: Rose🌹

Say less

“Y/N!” You hear someone call from behind you, turning over your shoulder to see Stephen holding up a hand as he walks towards you. You force a smile across your lips, positive it wasn’t reaching your eyes, and wave back, dropping your other hand away from the “up” button for the elevator.

“Hey, Stephen,” you chirp, pushing your phone into your pocket. Your eyes glance over him, taking in his appearance, before meeting his gaze and adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “What’s up?”

“How’d you do on the midterm?” He asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, I haven’t checked,” you admit, letting out a quiet laugh. Stephen laughs and nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I thought I wrote an A paper,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess Wagner didn’t agree. I got a C.”

“Bummer,” you say, fighting the smirk that threatens the corners of your lips, and shrug. You glance at your watch, eager to get out of this interaction. “Well hey, I gotta-” You trail off as Stephen cuts you off, annoyance flashing across your face before you have a chance to stop it.

“So, are you going out this weekend?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. You shift in place uncomfortably and try to keep your face even.

“Um yeah, maybe,” you answer, hoping that maybe you wouldn’t run into him, with or without Daniel. “But hey, I gotta go. I have a paper to finish.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” he says, moving to leave but pausing next to you. “Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you say with a shrug and smile, pressing the “up” button as he walks away. Finally, you think, stepping through the doors as they slide open. You hit the button for the third floor and lean back against the wall, letting out a long breath as the elevator hauls you up. Walking out, you turn right and stop in front of his office. The door is open most of the way, but you tap your knuckles on the door anyways. Daniel looks up from his computer and a hint of a smile graces his lips. You fear your legs could give out just from that.

You step inside and close the door behind you, plopping into the seat across from his desk, crossing your legs, and saying, “Do you make a habit out of giving mediocre grades out of jealousy?”

“That’s quite the accusation,” he says, leaning back in his chair and studying the smirk that tugs at the corners of your lips. “I assume you’re talking about Stephen.”

“You should practice sounding less disgusted,” you giggle, mirroring his posture in your own seat.

“He earned the grade he got,” Daniel says, waving a hand dismissively and sliding a packet of papers across his desk towards you. “Just like you did. Great work, Y/N.”

You lift the paper off his desk and smile, flipping to the last page to see 98% scrawled at the bottom of the paper. “Only a 98?” You ask, feigning disappointment.

“You can’t rely on your other talents for perfect grades,” he teases, standing and rounding the desk to lean against it in front of you. You roll your eyes as your cheeks flush and he leans down to press a kiss to your lips.

“I have a proposition for you,” you offer as he pulls away. He straightens and braces his palms on the desk behind him, crossing his legs at his ankles and waiting for you to continue, one eyebrow lifted.

“Rose texted me when I was on my way up here to ask if I wanted to go out Saturday for Halloween, suggested I invite you,” you explain nervously, picking an invisible speck of lint off your leggings.

Daniel laughs and watches your face for a moment, his laughter trailing off as he realizes that you’re serious. “Oh, you’re not kidding.”

“I mean, you don’t have to say yes. It’s not a big deal,” you blurt out, your eyes dropping to your hands in your lap. When you finally lift your gaze to look at him, you see him smiling back at you.

“I don’t make it a habit to hang out with my students on the weekends,” he says, his words not easing the anxiety building in your stomach. “But I think I can make an exception.”

“Wait, really?” You ask, not attempting to cover the shock in your voice. “I was sure you’d say no.”

“And miss whatever sexy costume you have planned? Not a chance, sweetheart,” he says, pushing off his desk and returning to his chair. “I’ll be there.”

Your cheeks flare pink and you pull your phone out to send him the details. “You don’t have to dress up,” you say, huffing out a laugh at the idea.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he laughs, glancing at his phone as the screen lights up with your text. “I have to come into the office to do some work that day, but I’ll meet you there.”

“You’ll miss the pregame,” you tease, pushing your phone into the pocket of your bag. Your eyes sparkle as they meet Daniel’s and you smile, genuinely excited to go out with your friends and your… You shake your head before the thought can continue. No strings, you remind yourself.

“I’ll survive,” he says, noting the brief change of your face but not mentioning it. “Just let me know when you’re heading out.”

“Yes, sir,” you say with a smile, grabbing your bag and standing.

“See you Saturday, sweetheart,” he says as you reach for the doorknob.

“Bye,” you reply sweetly, opening the door and exiting into the hallway. Pausing in the hall, you set your bag on a bench and pull your phone out.

To: Rose🌹

Sexy professor is in!!

· · ──────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

“Did you schedule the Uber?!” You yell from your room, hoping your voice carries over the music thumping in the kitchen. Standing in front of your full mirror, you tug your pink satin jacket on and smooth your hands down the front, making sure it wasn’t fully covering the low cut black bodysuit you picked out.

“Rose!” You call for your best friend again as a song ends, turning to the side to inspect your profile; the way your black jeans hug your thighs, the way your curled hair tumbles down your back. With a satisfied but nervous sigh, you turn back to face the mirror, fluffing your hair with your hands. You bend down and cuff your jeans a few times before slipping your feet into a pair of black pointed flats, fastening the strap around your ankle. You smile as you stand, hearing Rose coming down the hall, and turn towards the door. She appears in your doorway holding two shots and grinning ear to ear.

“Holy shit, you look amazing!” She says, holding a shot out to you. You take it and tap it against the one in her hand before tossing it back, the cheap vodka burning your throat. You manage to quell your reaction to the liquor to a small shiver.

“Ugh, it’s Halloween! We couldn’t have splurged on the better stuff?” you complain after taking a moment to recover. “I look amazing? What about you?”

Rose winces as she takes her shot and giggles, “It’s the last of what we had left! We can open the better stuff now.” She turns to go back out to the living area and you follow her, feeling satisfied with your appearance. As you enter the kitchen, one of Rose’s sorority sisters, Lindsey, hands you another shot, which you gladly take, the burn less significant with this one. The bunch of you spend some time taking pictures now that you’re all ready and already feeling buzzed.

“Shit,” Rose blurts as you’re all about to take a third shot, looking at her phone. “Uber’s here!” You toss back your shots and rush out the door for the black SUV waiting in front of your building.

“Uber for Rose?” The driver confirms as Rose closes the door, the last one in.

“That’s me,” she says with a smile. You pull your phone out of your pocket and pull open your chat with Daniel, crossing your legs as you type.

To: Daniel🥁

Hey! We’re in the Uber now.

The driver starts down the road and you let your head fall back against the headrest, trying to calm your nerves. This is the first time you and Daniel are going out in public together, at least where people may know you and potentially what your connection to him is, and you’re understandably nervous.

The knot in your stomach tightens when you start to wonder if Daniel was going because he wanted to or if he just didn’t know how to tell you no. Your heart races when you start to consider whether you are breaking the rules or not.

All of those worries are immediately gone when the car pulls up to the club and you see Daniel waiting outside. The club lights reflect faintly off of his leather jacket, his white shirt stretches across his chest snuggly, and you realize this is the first time you have seen Daniel in denim.

Rose pushes open the door and shouts a quick “thank you” to the driver as you and the others follow her out of the car. You had been first in, so you’re the last to climb out and as you do, Daniel looks up. He tries to fight the smile that tugs at his lips when he sees you, but he loses the battle and his face lights up slightly.

“Hey!” You call out as you run up to him, his hands finding your hips as you crash into him gently. “A successful pregame, I see,” he teases, not taking his hands off of you. Up close you can see his necklace glint in the light, tonight paired with a second one, a small simple pendant. You roll your eyes and thump your fist against his chest lightly. You’re about to quip back when Rose finds the two of you.

“Hey-” she begins, but stops suddenly. “Oh my god.”

You wiggle out of Daniel’s grip and turn towards Rose, snapping your fingers at her as she stares between you and him. “Rose? Earth to Rose?”

��You guys match,” she finally says, smiling widely at you. You step back further from Daniel to look at his outfit again and you cover your mouth, trying to stifle the giggle that rises in your throat.

“What?” He asks, lifting an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

“You do look like a greaser,” you admit, your eyes sparkling as you look up at him.

“Unintentional,” he says dismissively, stepping closer to you and placing a hand on your lower back to nudge you towards the doors. “Come on, I need to catch up apparently.”

You can hear the faint smile in his voice and you look at him knowingly before heading for the entrance. The bouncer scans your ID and puts a “21+” wristband on you, stepping to the side to allow you inside. You pause at the edge of the crowd gathering near the bar, waiting for everyone else.

Daniel joins you at your side, his hand returning to your back. His outfit blends in with the crowd, but his uneasiness is obvious even as his thumb rubs lazy circles on your back. “Not your usual scene?” You say, nudging him with your elbow playfully.

He rolls his eyes and moves his hand from your back to squeeze your hip. “Careful, sweetheart,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear over the music. “I need a drink. What do you want?”

“Oh, you don’t have-” you say in protest, but he cuts you off with a look. “I’ll have what you’re having.” He turns away from you and weaves through the crowd near the bar to a less crowded spot.

“Who is that?” Lindsey says as she grabs your elbow gently. Your cheeks flush and you let out a nervous laugh.

“He’s a drummer I met at the beginning of the semester,” you say, not a total lie.

“Does he have any friends?” She jokes, dropping your elbow and giggling.

“He does, but I already called dibs,” Rose interjects, leaving you to join the line for a drink and dragging Lindsay with her when she sees Daniel coming back.

He hands you a wild berry seltzer and sips from his own as you eye the drink and then him, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t peg you as a seltzer guy,” you giggle, taking a sip from your can.

“Well I’m not gonna order a whiskey on the rocks at a club, baby,” he says, taking the moment alone to drop his lips to yours. You smile into the kiss, feeling your cheeks heat up. He draws back for a moment, looking you over, and the corners of his mouth twitch as he leans down to speak over the music. “You look beautiful,” he says, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the feeling sending a shiver down your spine.

“Thank you,” you say as he straightens, smirking down at you as you fight the urge to turn your eyes to the floor. You take a long sip from your drink and open your mouth to speak, but Rose grabs your arm and tugs you towards the dance floor. Your hand catches Daniel’s and you smile over your shoulder at him as you pull him to follow.

Your train of friends stops along the edge of the crowd near the wall, the bass rattling in your chest from the speakers, and Rose squeals as the song changes. “This is my favorite!” She yells over the song, stopping and pulling you closer as she starts to dance. You and Lindsey giggle and join her, your hips moving to the beat of the song.

Daniel sways slightly, sipping his seltzer and trying not to cringe at the music pumping through the club. His eyes follow the movement of your hips and you glance at him over your shoulder, a giggle bursting from you as Rose snakes an arm around your waist and pulls your attention back to her. When she turns her attention to one of the other girls, you turn to Daniel and grab his hand, pulling him closer.

“Loosen up!” You shout over the music, the alcohol warming your cheeks.

“Do you actually like this music?” He asks, leaning towards you. “If you can even call it music.”

“You’re insufferable,” you tease, laughing as you nudge his drink towards his mouth. “Drink and dance with me!”

He throws back what’s left of his drink and tosses the empty can into the trash nearby before giving you his undivided attention, wrapping an arm around your waist and pinning your body to his. Your breath catches in your throat and you look up at him, your cheeks bright red. He smirks as you move with him to the music and you sneak a glance over at the rest of your friends, who have either found their own dance partner or are dancing with each other. You breathe a sigh of relief that their focus is elsewhere.

Your own focus shifts back to Daniel, narrowing in on his hand firmly planted on your lower back, his fingers slipping under your jacket and splaying out against the fabric of your body suit. You bite your lip and look up at him with wide eyes as he nudges his knee between your legs, brushing against your center lightly before he loosens his arm around you.

“I’ll be back,” he says, leaning in so you can hear him and pressing his lips to the sensitive spot beneath your ear. Before you can speak he steps away, walking off towards the bathroom. You watch as he disappears down the hall before turning back to your friends.

Rose notices you rejoin the group and smiles, immediately ditching whatever guy she’d picked out. “Where’d your man go?”

“Bathroom,” you say, motioning in the general direction. “Stop calling him my man!”

“And you didn’t go with him?” She asks, giggling as you slap her arm lightly. “What? I thought bathrooms were your thing!”

“You’re the reason I drink,” you tease, sending her into a new fit of giggles as you down the rest of your seltzer and throw the can away. You turn to make your way towards the bar for another drink, but you stop when you see Daniel already there. He motions for you to stay with Rose and turns back to order you both a new drink.

The song playing fades out and American Girl by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers starts up. You and Rose spin to face each other and you squeal, grabbing each others’ hands and jumping to the song. It has been your song for years and anytime it comes on when you’re together you act like it’s the last time you would ever hear it.

“Well she was an American girl!” You both yell in unison, giggling as you wrap your arms around each other and sway with the song, still singing together. “Raised on promises!”

Daniel turns with a drink in each hand and pauses when he sees you and Rose clinging to each other. A soft smile forms on his face as he watches you dance and sing with your friends, the others joining you and Rose as you shout along with the song.

As the song ends and you and Rose squeeze each other tight, you see Daniel leaning his back against the bar with two drinks staring at you with a thoughtful look. Your cheeks flush and Rose lets go of you, telling you she’s going to get another drink before she bounces off.

Daniel pushes off the bar to join you, but he freezes after a few steps, his smile falling as he makes an effort to blend into the crowd. You lift an eyebrow in his direction and your eyes finally fall on the tall blonde making his way towards you. Your shoulders tense, understanding why Daniel was keeping his distance, but you let out a breath and relax.

“Y/N!” Stephen says over the music. You notice he has two drinks as he stops in front of you and you smile, stuffing your hands into your jacket pockets. “I noticed you didn’t have a drink, so I figured I’d bring you one.” He holds one of the drinks out to you and smiles.

“Oh, um,” you stall, glancing over Stephen’s shoulder at Daniel, whose eyes have not left you since Stephen approached. “I’ve already had quite a bit to drink. I should probably take a break.” You laugh nervously, trying to keep your expression cool.

Looking for any way to get out of this, you cast a glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with Lindsey and widen your eyes. She smiles and steps to your side, glancing at Stephen and raising an eyebrow.

“You just said you wanted another drink, didn’t you?” You tease, hoping she catches your drift. To your relief, she smiles and looks at the drink Stephen is still holding.

“Is one of those for me?” She asks, playing along, thankfully.

Stephen looks between the two of you, holding your gaze for a moment, and huffs a nervous laugh. “Yep, all yours,” he says begrudgingly. Not wanting to look like an ass, he hands her the drink.

“Thanks,” she pauses, not knowing his name.

“Oh, Stephen,” he says, taking a sip of his own drink.

“Thanks, Stephen,” she says, turning to go back to the other girls. “I’m Lindsey,” she says over her shoulder.

Before she can walk away, you lean into her ear to whisper, “Don’t actually drink it.” You didn’t think Stephen would pull anything like that, but better safe than sorry. She smiles and winks at you before turning away. You turn back to Stephen and smile innocently, his clear irritation almost worth the interaction.

“I don’t get you,” he says after a moment. You furrow your brow, waiting for him to continue. “All that flirting at the beginning of the semester, but every time I try to ask you out you find some reason to get out of it.” He crosses his arms and studies you as you fight the laugh that builds in your chest.

“Stephen,” you say, somehow managing to keep your tone even. “I wasn’t flirting with you.” You glance over his shoulder to where Daniel was, but you don’t see him. Letting out a breath, you manage to keep your panic off of your face. “I’m sorry if it came off that way,” you say, taking a step to move past him. “Excuse me.”

“No,” he says. Before you can get past him, his hand catches your wrist and he tugs you to face him. “We’re not done here.” You stare at him for a moment before you open your mouth to speak, but you hear someone else’s voice instead of your own.

“Actually I think we are,” Daniel says, holding one of the drinks in his hands out to you. “It’s just seltzer and cranberry,” he says as you take it. Your eyes flick down at your wrist, still in Stephen’s hand, and tug it from his grip. Stephen’s eyes drift between you and Daniel, his eyebrows raised.

“You two?” He says finally, trying to hide the shock on his face. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Daniel says as he steps in front of you slightly, his face stone cold.

“So this is how you get your grades,” Stephen says, stepping to the side to talk to you. “Not a genius, just a slut.”

You keep your face flat as Daniel steps between the two of you fully this time, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re done here,” he says, his voice low. Stephen opens his mouth to say something, but Daniel cuts him off. “Unless you want me to fail you.”

“You can’t do that,” Stephen says, staring back at Daniel.

“Try me,” Daniel challenges, raising an eyebrow. “What? You think I can’t make your grades personal too? Just hers?”

“Whatever,” Stephen says as he looks over Daniel’s shoulder at you and rolls his eyes. “It’s not worth it.” He shoots you another glare before turning and walking off.

You look up at Daniel as he scoffs, you can practically see the anger fuming out of him. Your eyes move to follow Stephen walk toward the front of the club and then go through the exit, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. You look back at Daniel, trying to gauge his frustration and plan your attempt to fix the situation.

“Are you alright?” he asks, rubbing your arms softly as he looks down at you with a look on his face that you can’t quite place. You write it off as just concern, but it feels like something more than that. Your mind wanders before you have the chance to think about it too hard.

Despite the short moment of fear that you felt at the thought of Stephen possibly exposing your relationship, you can’t deny that Daniel’s moment of possessiveness has started to cloud your judgment. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol coursing through your veins or the public display of jealousy over you, but the only thought going through your mind at this moment is that you need him so badly.

You step closer to him and wrap your arms around his neck, which causes him to immediately soften his gaze. You watch as his shoulders become less tense and he takes a deep breath before putting his hands on your waist. With a tipsy smile on your face, you lean up on your tip-toes to place a kiss on his lips, starting to giggle a little as you pull away to break the silence.

“That was kinda hot,” you say through your giggles, and he rolls his eyes at you. “Whatever,” he says, trying to suppress the smile that’s forming on his lips. You can tell that he feels the need to keep up his serious persona, but you can see right through it. He leans down to reach your ear, his lips grazing it slightly.

“Y/N, what the hell am I gonna do with you?” he whispers, squeezing your hip tightly. You smile wide as your little plan to get him home starts to work. You turn your head to face him and your lips hover over his for a moment. “You could dance with me,” you answer, your voice dripping in desire for him. His eyes pierce through yours as he licks his lips.

You don’t wait for his answer and just turn around, letting the liquid courage take over as a new song starts to play over the speakers. His hands grip your waist tightly as you start to move against him, feeling the beat of the song. You let your hands sit on top of his as your hips most to the music, and it starts to feel like you’re the only ones there.

One of his hands moves up to push your hair to one side, allowing him access to your neck. His lips ghost over your neck and you feel his breath against your skin, making your head spin. He starts to place painfully slow kisses along your neck and our hair starts to stand up on the back of your neck. A whimper almost leaves your mouth as you grind against him and feel his hard cock straining against his tight jeans behind you.

His grip on your hips tightens as he pulls you closer and you are flush against each other, feeling his need for you even more. He lets out a low groan against your skin as his lips attack your neck. You decide you can’t take any more and spin around quickly, practically jumping to capture his lips. Your hand grips the back of his neck tightly as you pull his face close to yours.

“Tell your friends we’re leaving,” he mutters against your lips. You nod quickly and he quickly pulls himself away, lacing his fingers in yours as he walks toward the door. Thank god he closed the tab earlier, giving you a quick exit. On your way out, you see Rose and the other girls at the bar. Rose immediately locks eyes with you and a smirk forms on her face. She nods at you and then turns to the other girls to seemingly tell them that you were leaving.

Daniel guides you down the block toward his apartment building, his fingers still intertwined with yours. The cold October air helps to sober you up, but not nearly enough given how many shots you did tonight. As he makes a few turns down different streets, you start to giggle to yourself over the fact that he’s practically dragging you to his apartment.

“Heyyy, you’re gonna rip my arm off!” you joke, pulling your arm back toward you as he stops on the sidewalk. His smile is wide as he places a short kiss on your forehead. “Don’t be dramatic, baby,” he says, taking your hand back in his and starting to walk again, this time much slower.

The wind blows harshly for a moment, sending a shiver throughout your body. This costume has a jacket, but the material is so thin that it barely makes a difference in this weather. Daniel drops your hand and you watch as he slips his leather jacket off, placing it on your shoulders. Underneath, he’s just wearing a tight white tee, showing you his arms for the first time. You thank him and move to tuck your arms into the sleeves to warm yourself up.

Your eyes fall to his arms again and quickly widen when you finally see it– a tattoo. There are darkened lines around his bicep with a symbol in the middle. You honestly didn’t take him for the type to have a tattoo, but it’s ridiculously attractive. Taking his hand back in yours, you start to laugh as you finally ask him.

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing to his arm with a smirk.

“Ah, it’s nothing, really…” he answers, turning to look at you as he continues walking toward his apartment. “Don’t look at me like that and expect some extravagant story attached to it, ‘cause there isn’t one,” You raise your eyebrow at him, urging him to tell you more. He chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“I got it during grad school… I’d never gotten one before and one of my buddies was going to get one and asked me to tag along. I just thought, “I’m 24, what do I have to lose?” he says, shrugging, looking ahead as he turns another corner.

“What is it?” you ask curiously.

“It’s an earth symbol with a moon phase inside it– my birth sign is an earth sign, and the moon is the phase on the day I was born,” he says, almost mumbling.

You can’t even attempt to hide your surprise in your drunken state, and he can see it on your face. You start to giggle a bit at the idea of him getting something so specific tattooed on him. He still continues to surprise you.

“What? I was always somewhat into that kind of stuff, so I thought it could be cool. The moon phase part was my sister’s idea, though, I can’t take all the credit.” You laugh at his defensive tone, you suppose you hit a nerve.

“It is cool, Daniel. Really. I’m just teasing you,” you say, smiling up at him. He laughs to himself, stopping in front of what seems to be his building. “I think it’s sexy, actually…” You smile widely as you look up at him, and he just rolls his eyes. You can tell that he’s trying to suppress a smile at your compliment, clearing his throat before answering.

“Right, whatever…” he jokes, walking you toward the door and letting you inside.

The building seems quite old, giving a sort of vintage vibe with a mirror in the lobby and an old chandelier. You walk over to the elevator and wait for it to arrive– you’re surprised that a building this old has an elevator, but you suppose it’s required at this point. You’re relieved though since your tipsy ass would probably not make it all the way up those stairs.

Still holding your hand, he walks you into the elevator and presses the number for the 8th floor. His thumb starts rubbing against the back of your hand softly as the elevator rises to his floor. You turn your head to look up at him with a smile, which he returns before leaning down to kiss you, lingering only for a moment before the elevator doors open on his floor. He leads you to his door, reaching his hand into the pocket of the jacket you’re wearing to grab the key and unlock it.

You follow him through the door and he hangs his keys on the key holder mounted on the wall, which looks like a guitar amp. He shuts the door behind you and locks it, then slides off his shoes and picks them up to take them to his bedroom. Of course he keeps his shoes in his room. You slip off your shoes and leave them by the door, then take a look around the living area.

You look to your left and see his couch, which is a dark gray color with wooden legs. There’s a worn wooden coffee table across from it, filled with a few books and coasters. You walk further into the room to find what seems to be a music corner– there’s a record player on the left wall, a rack on the right with a few guitars, and then a piano on the back wall against the window.

The record player seems old, adding to the vintage look of the room. There’s a shelf of vinyl on the left of it, completely filled. You can feel his presence behind you as you look around, so you turn to look at him. “This is so cool,” you exclaim, smiling at him and then turning back toward the record player. “Where did you get this? My player is so modern and lame compared to yours.” A grin grows across his face as he walks closer, putting an arm around your waist.

“It was my dad’s growing up, he gave it to me when I first moved to Detroit,” he says, resting his head on your shoulder from behind you. “Still plays perfectly, too. But I’ve had it refurbished once or twice, of course.” You nod then walk away toward the other corner.

There are three guitars on stands against the wall, two acoustic and one electric. You’re not very knowledgeable about guitars, but they look like they’re very high quality and expensive. Next to them against the rear wall is a wooden piano, which you move to approach and get a closer look. It seems old as well, but clearly well taken care of. There are a few booklets of music on the top of the piano, along with some separate sheet music. Above the piano is the windowsill, which has a few small plants resting on top of it.

“Do you play at all?” you ask, turning around to point at the piano. He nods, walking over to stand next to you. You smile wide, and he can tell that you’re plotting something. “Soooo, can you play me something?” He rolls his eyes, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“No,” he says sternly. You pout your lip and look up at him.

“Pleeeeease?” you plead, trying to use the ‘puppy eyes’ method to convince him, hoping that he can’t resist you. He laughs but shakes his head, though his façade is fading.

“No, sweetheart. Not tonight,” he insists, brushing a piece of hair out of your face. You pout a little more, looking up at him through your eyelashes, but he isn’t having it. “Right now, I need to take you to bed,” he says. He pulls you closer and you bite your lip, remembering your moment in the club. The piano can wait.

His lips finally find yours again as he backs you toward his dark bedroom and through the threshold. You can feel him smiling against your lips as the back of your legs hit his bed and he lays you down on top of it, leaning over you. His hands move to slide his jacket down your arms along with your Pink Ladies jacket and he throws them to the floor before lifting you up and laying you down higher up on the bed. He leans up to pull his tight shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor, then captures your lips again.

Your hands run along his bare chest, chiseled and hard to the touch. You can feel him smirk against your lips as your hands reach further down, grazing the waistline of his jeans. You decide to test the waters and tease him, dipping your pointer and middle fingers in and touching his lower stomach. Your fingers brush against his happy trail and he lets out a deep groan at the touch, and you know you have him right where you want him.

He bites your lip hastily, eliciting a whimper from you before he slides his tongue past your lips, finding yours. As your tongues join together, he reaches down between you and his hands find the button of your jeans, undoing it and then sliding down the zipper. Daniel slowly slides your jeans past your hips and lets them lay below your thighs, deciding to remove your bodysuit first.

He removes his lips from yours to lean back on his heels and reach down to undo the clasps. His eyes are locked on yours, burning through you so harshly that you’re struggling not to hastily remove it all yourself and have him immediately. You can feel the lust radiating off of him as he undoes the first clasp.

“Love when you wear stuff like this… makes this part so much better,” he says, leaning down to place a light kiss on your now-bare thigh. “Lets me savor you a bit more.” His eyes find yours again as he removes the second clasp, then plants another kiss on your thigh, a bit higher this time. You let out a quiet whimper as his teeth pierce your skin slightly as he sucks a deep mark there.

He finally removes the third clasp and the material there separates, allowing him full access to you. He pulls up the fabric to reveal your black, lace thong, which barely leaves anything to the imagination. He sucks in a deep breath before leaning back again to pull your jeans off the rest of the way and toss them to the floor.

He steps off of the bed and rids himself of his jeans as well, letting them drop to the floor before climbing back on top of you. Your eyes nearly roll back in your head at the sight of his painfully hard cock straining against the tight material of his briefs. You reach down to grasp him through his boxers and he breathes out a low hum as he pulls your bodysuit up and over your head. With your breasts now on full display for him after being freed from your top, he curses under her breath before lowering himself over top of you.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “You are just heavenly.”

His lips attach to your neck as his hands explore your body, grasping at your breasts and then giving one of them a harsh squeeze. You throw your head back as you moan at the sensation of him rolling your nipple through his fingers. Your hands move to his chest and attempt to move further before his hand wraps around your wrist and stops you.

“Tsk-tsk,” he scolds, using his left hand to raise your arms above your head, resting atop the pillow. His left hand stays there, holding your wrists as his lips trail down to your chest as his other leaves your waist and trails up to your breast.

“Oh, God,” you moan as Daniel wraps his lips around your nipple, swirling his tongue around it as you throw your head back and a quiet whine leaves your mouth. Your arms squirm in his hold as his lips attack your breasts, sucking and leaving a mark or two along the way as he works his way down. As he gets to your lower stomach, his reach is limited and he removes his hand from above your head.

“Stay,” he says sternly, bringing his hand down to hold your waist as the other moves to your thong. You do as he says, leaving your arms above your head as his finger slips under one of the straps, snapping it against your hip. You whimper at the sting of the elastic against your skin and his hand moves to your center, his thumb brushing against your clit teasingly before he removes it. He reaches his thumb to move across the thin fabric against your folds, which is completely soaked through.

“So wet for me,” he whispers, his face only inches away from where you crave him to be. You can almost feel his warm breath against your throbbing core, desperate and needy for him. As his thumb grazes your clit another time, you feel like you can’t take any more.

“Daniel, please,” you whine, and he looks up to meet your gaze. Your eyes are practically watering, your desire for him becoming almost too much. A smirk forms across his face as he sees how fucked out you look, just for him.

“What is it, baby?” he says teasingly, placing a kiss right above the waistline of your thong. “Tell me what you need.”

“I want you to touch me- need you to touch me, please,” you say, your voice strained and needy. At your words, his fingers dip into the straps of the thong and slide them over your hips and down your thighs.

“You need me where? Right here?” he says as his finger glides slowly through your folds. You whine at his touch and nod your head vigorously.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” His hand moves to grip your thigh, squeezing tightly and sending your head reeling.

“Yes, sir, I need you there- I need you to touch me there, anywhere, please,” you whimper, tears forming around your eyes. A smirk returns after your answer, using his grip on your hips to pull you down closer to his face.

“That’s it… good girl,” he says before diving in and running his tongue through your folds, teasing your entrance a few times then wrapping his lips around your clit. His pace is dizzying as his tongue swirls around your swollen bud. One of his hands leaves your thigh and you feel his pointer finger dip into your entrance teasingly before sliding in completely. Your head rolls back as he curls it deep inside you and, by instinct, your hands shoot downward to wrap your fingers through his tight curls.

Before you can thoroughly feel his attack on your clit, he removes his mouth with a serious, dark look on his face. His hands wrap tightly around your wrists and raise them above your head as he moves to straddle your hips. His eyes have grown dark as he looks down at you. You stifle a moan in your throat at the sight of his visible anger, already getting aroused by whatever he might have in store for you.

“I told you to stay still,” he says, his voice deep and gravely, sending a shiver down your spine. His face hovers above yours as you stare up at him, unsure what to say and nervous to say the wrong thing.

“I was hoping that you’d be good for me tonight… it seems like you had other plans,” he says, licking his lips as he looks down on you. “If you want to act like a brat, then I’m going to treat you like one.” His hands tighten around your wrists and you let out a quiet whimper.

“Yeah, you like that?” he asks, raising his eyebrow at you. You bite your lip and nod as he stands up to remove his boxers. As he slides them over his hips and lets them fall to the floor, your jaw drops.

You hadn’t thought about the fact that it was your first time seeing him fully naked until right now, but it has you stunned. He is seriously beautiful– his toned chest, chiseled v-line, dark happy trail, strong thighs… Your eyes fall to his long, hard cock, throbbing against his thigh as he moves to hover over you once more. He’s gorgeous, and you can’t possibly even try to hide your need for him, especially given the alcohol still coursing through your system. You feel like you’d do anything he said, anything he wanted, just to keep being able to be with him like this.

“You look so fucking delicious like this,” he mutters, his lips racing to find the sensitive part of your skin along your neck. “You’re dangerous, baby…” You moan quietly as his lips attack your neck and you feel him line himself up with your entrance.

Your eyes roll back as he finally slides his cock into you, all the way to the hilt. He curses under his breath at the feeling of you tight around him before leaning his lips down to your ear. His now free hand moves to pin your arms above your hand once more as his hips begin slamming into you.

“You’re gonna stay right fucking there,” he groans, kissing your jaw roughly before his lips find yours. His right hand plants itself on the bed next to your head to hold him steady as he pounds into you relentlessly. Your head is spinning at the feeling of his tongue swirling with yours and his cock drilling against your cervix repeatedly.

He slides all the way out before slamming back in harshly. “Fuck!” you yelp, your hips almost stinging from the harsh pace. His lips leave yours and he leans back slightly and adjusts the angle, fucking into you deeper as his eyes pierce through yours. “Shit, baby, you feel so fucking tight around me,” he groans, his hand brushing your hair out of your face as he looks down at you. Absolutely fucked out, you feel a sudden urge that you just can’t keep in.

“Choke me,” you plead, licking your lips as you see the surprised but aroused expression appear on his face. “Please,” you add, your eyes locked on his as you yearn for his touch.

“God, Y/N, you’re fucking filthy,” he mutters as he moves his hand to wrap around your throat. He grips lightly at first, apprehensive from not wanting to hurt you, but soon he gets more comfortable and tightens his grip.

The feeling of his cock slamming against your cervix and his hand wrapped around your throat starts to send you over the edge, closer and closer to your orgasm. Tears start to form at the corners of your eyes as his pace quickens and his hand squeezes around your throat.

“I’m close, I’m gonna-” you moan out, unable to finish your thought as your orgasm crashes over you. It’s intense and strong, making you a blubbering mess as you come down from your high. His forehead falls on top of yours as his hand moves to sit on the back of your neck and his hips start to falter, so you know he’s not far behind you. In a slur of curses, you feel his cock pulse as he releases inside of you, coating your walls.

Both of his hands cup your cheeks softly as he kisses your lips softly, moaning softly against your lips as he thrusts a few more times inside of you, pushing his cum deep inside you. He removes himself from you and gets up from the bed to walk into his bathroom, grabbing a towel and soaking it in warm water. He walks back over to you, reaching down to help clean you up then throwing the towel back into the bathroom. He bends down and picks his boxers up off the floor, slipping them on before walking over to his dresser.

“Here,” Daniel says, tossing you a large t-shirt. In the dark, you look at the front of it and see that it’s an old band t-shirt– Foo Fighters. You slip it over your head and he walks back over to the bed, lying down next to you. You smile at him shyly, not knowing what to do next and hoping that he’d say the first word. He reaches over and swipes some of your baby hairs behind your ear with a soft smile.

“Stay,” he says, in almost a whisper. “It’s late, you look tired.” Your smile turns wider as you nod, then slip under the covers and lie on your side to face him. He takes his watch off, setting it on the side table then lying flat on his back and closing his eyes.

“C’mere,” he says. You slide closer to him and lay your head on his chest, placing your hand there. He wraps an arm around you and kisses the top of your head softly, breathing out a slow sigh then shutting his eyes.

Soon enough, your exhaustion takes over and your eyes slowly drift shut. It’s been a while since you fell asleep with someone like this, and it feels so comforting. You almost hate how easy it was to fall asleep with him, knowing that now you’ll never be able to sleep as well as when he’s there with you. No strings attached. It’s just one night together, it’s not like you’ll make it a habit. You won’t let yourself get too attached to him, you can’t. You don’t care about all of that right now anyway. All that you can think about now is the intoxicating scent of his cologne as you float off to sleep. You can worry about the rest later.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

chapter v

Thank you for reading!! Leave a reply if you want to be added to the taglist!

Taglist:

@peaceloveunitygvf @mackalah @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @spark-my-nature @dannys-dream @violetstarcatcher @demonrat444 @heheheheheheheurmum @theres-a-tvjoe @bladenotblaze @gardensgatekeeper @gretavanomens @whimsiliz @annavanfleet @highladyofasgard @gvfpal @ninab2 @jordie-gvf

#greta van fleet #gvf #greta van fleet fic #danny wagner #danny gvf #danny wagner fic #danny wagner x reader #danny wagner smut #danny wagner gvf #greta van fleet fanfiction #greta van fluff #greta van smut #greta van fic #greta van fleet smut #greta van fleet fan fiction #gretavanfleet #illicit affairs #spotify #Spotify

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awyeahitssam · 3 months

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My Writing Masterlist

Since I post on here far more consistently then on ao3 for reasons, I figured I would compile a list of my writing for those who don't like sifting through fandoms they could care less about to get to the good stuff.

Separated by fandom, and somewhat by trope.

Harry Potter:

Harry eats a God.

Harry just can't seem to stay dead. TW: Suicide, character death, frequent character death, torture, murder, disjointed snippets, discontinued + Harry dissociates. Connected, same warnings may apply.

First Encounters: Time loop, Voldemort-as-Quirrell visits the Dursleys and is less than pleased.

First Encounters: The first time Harry meets Voldemort, the man he's been trained to kill all his life, he's nineteen, and Voldemort recognizes him.

Prisoner Harry tells Voldemort about the Dursleys like it's a bedtime story.

Except for the incident, Harry really doesn't tend to talk a lot when he has a concussion. Stream of thought narrative, character injury.

Literally just Empath!Harry spoilers. Harry, at his trial, allowing himself be petty to an extent.

Harry gets drunk, pulled into Voldemort's mind, and decides he wants to share his good mood.

Tea shop AU. + more Tea Shop (weather) AU. + something actually Tea-based under the cut

Four of a Kind AU: Learning to kiss split-scene. Harry/Harry, referenced Harry/Horcrux + They meet. They kiss. What if. Voldemort/Harry + In the aftermath Voldemort/Harry

Kid Fic: Harry ‘dies’ as a child. Mentor!Voldemort, absolutely not a pairing ficlet.

Kid Fic: Harry and Voldemort’s kid lands in the past during a duel at the Ministry. Pre-Harrymort, Micah, not quite the kiss you'd expect.

Female Harry, world-jumping, rationally angry. Tom/Harry intended, if Harry will chill out on the murder.

Harry likes to feel pretty. Horcrux/Harry, Harry wears makeup, etc.

Tom and Harry jump through time to each other. Tomarry, growing up, fluff, brief kissing, Harry’s older

Dragon AU, I have a lot more of this one written, I should dump that some day. Harry/Horcruxes

Harry/Tom: pillow forts, soft angst, unresolved, broken promises

Harry's really fucking sick and tired of being told what the fuck to do.

Tom-after-Voldemort is the first person Harry has ever spoken to. Isolation, lighthearted, odd, old and forgotten.

Harry never imagines the effect getting a boyfriend would have on Riddle. Jealous Tom.

Harry messes with Diary!Tom

Harry and Voldemort have to complete a task based on the colour of the others' robes, for some reason?

Harry is kidnapped and wakes up in an incredibly comfortable bed. Voldemorts knows Harry is his horcrux.

Harry ruthlessly defends Hogwarts against encroaching Death Eaters. Sixth Year.

It's one paragraph guys.

Prompt-based: Tom possesses Harry when he's afraid. Hermione POV.

Prompt-based: Santa forgot about Harry, again.

Prompt-based: Tom watches Harry draw dirty, dirty things at church.

Teen Wolf, all at least peripherally intended as Stiles/Peter

Kid Fic + Genderbend + Time Travel: Stiles is in the past and nobody is raising Malia, so she sure as shit will.

Stiles has known about werewolves since he was nine, and now that he's off the college it seems his dad has gottten involved. No Hale Fire, Protective Stiles

The first thing Kate does when she comes back to Beacon Hills is kidnap Peter. Human!Alpha Stiles, eventual Steter, pre-slash

Stiles has the curse of obedience. Stiles/Peter

Flower shop AU! Ft. Petty Peter and insulting bouquets.

Peter says he hates Stiles. Stiles begs to differ.

Werewolf Stiles wakes up in the middle of Beacon Hills woods naked, and tries to keep it low key from there. Bakery AU, kinda. Peter/Stiles

First Encounters: The Hale pack summons Stiles to the past.

First Encounters: The first time Stiles meets Peter he is drunk. Stiles is a rude, very straight-forward drunk who steps all over issues like dead family and psychosis. It’s like he had a minefield map and is intentionally stepping on every trigger.

Stiles meets Peter in the hospital.

Stiles pulls back because he doesn't want Peter to mess up his dress shirt, not because he doesn't want the bite.

Stiles crochets magic shit. Fluff.

Negotiations go well.

Peter being the literal worst, holy hell, this hurts to read. Have some angst. Past-Stiles/Peter

Okay, my bad for that last one. Have some comfort. Crying, comfort, Stiles & Peter

Dragon Stiles is constantly underestimated.

Stiles beats Peter, sore loser extraordinaire.

Me acting like Stiles has shame for some reason.

Female Stiles gets forcibly genderbent and is not putting up with anybody's shit. Body dysmorphia, shitty friends, anger issues, sexism. Peter/Stiles

Female Stiles and Peter. Shower, soft.

Stiles writes smutty fanfic, as he should.

Stiles being a bad influence on his little self, ft Knowing Himself Too Fucking Well. Time travel AU, torture

Peter walks away.

Peter/Stiles, marking, one of the sexiest things I've ever written imo

Peter is dumb, stupid, silly villain.

Peter’s timing is about as good as Stiles’ filter. Dumb, stupid villain antics.

Stiles threatens Peter, /lh

Stiles is justifiably sad after a movie.

Tony Stark-centric:

Gen: Tony takes after Maria. Few people recognize a predator wrapped up in such Tony packaging.

Gen: Tony bantering with, and teasing, Peter.

Tony Stark uses the infinity stones.

Tony survives the stones.

Tony proposes. In public. In a way that undeniably affirms his feelings. Loki/Tony

Loki meets Morgan for the first time. Loki/Tony, kid fic

Hair Kink—I mean braiding! Aha, ha, ha… Loki/Tony

Female Toni doesn't take well to her children being threatened.

Soulmates? Tony/Loki

Rhodey gives Loki the shovel talk ft. Parks & Rec

Tony saves the day…?

Bleach / Time travel: Ichigo isn't supposed to be here.

The 100: Cage Wallace stages a coup before the forty-eight arrive. (Or: Dante Wallace dies before his time.) This changes everything.

Tagged: 10 Characters, 10 Fandoms, 10 Shorts

#My writing #masterlist #all snippets compiled #all but one #heheheh 😈

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justagirlinafandomworld · 11 months

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Title: Promise Me

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 500

Summary: No one is guaranteed a long life. Least of all hunters. Dean knows this and so do you. Still, you pull promises from each other to protect the sliver of happiness found together.

Warnings: Naked fun. Fluff. Angst.

Song Prompt: I Won’t Back Down by Tom Petty

A/N: Written for Round 3 of @deanwanddamons ‘s Rock SPN Flash Fan Fic Challenge. Thank you for hosting this challenge again, Sian! I’m stoked that I’m finally submitting something, I totally missed the deadline for the last two rounds. Full disclosure: this is nowhere near the original idea I had, but I think at its core this honors the theme of the song. Let me know what you think!

The sunlight filtered in through the smudged glass of the motel room window, splashing the white sheets in warmth. His hand lifted into the sunlight, calloused fingers moving through the beams in a slow contemplation. You lifted your hand to join his and soon those nimble fingers were caressing and playing with yours. Once your hands clasped, Dean moved them to wrap around your waist and pushed up to lean onto his elbow to stare down at you.

The golden beams now outlined his naked shoulder, his freckled face, and rumpled hair. He leaned down to press a kiss onto your lips and you hummed into his mouth, stretching your naked body into his so that soon the heat under the sheets wasn’t just from the morning sun.

“I want you to promise me something,” he whispered into your skin.

Nearly delirious with desire, you huffed and pulled back enough to look him in the eye.

“You’ve got timing, Winchester. Trying to tie me down when I would give you my first born…” you trailed off, eyes widening when you realized the words spewing from your mouth.

His eyes widened too, but the blooming grin promised nothing but mischief at your expense.

“I mean, if you want to give me your first born,” he began, but you were already rolling away from him. “We can start on that right now.”

“No, shut up, that’s not what I,” you cut yourself off on a groan and made to stand from the bed.

But Dean was quick to wrap an arm around your waist and yanked you back onto the mattress, it was a flurry of limbs and sheets, laughter and kisses. When finally, he had you pinned beneath him, legs astride yours, elbows by your arms, he brushed his nose along yours and hummed in content.

“Promise me you’ll keep living,” he voiced the thoughts that plagued him when he awoke. And kept his eyes shut as he did because he knew that if he looked into your eyes at that moment, he would lose his nerve and simply drop the whole matter. But he needed to know, now more than ever, that whatever happened to him, you would stay in this world alive and safe.

“No matter what happens to me, you don’t back down. You keep living. Can you promise me that?”

You wriggled your arm free and reached up to run your fingers through his hair.

“Dean, look at me, please.”

A shaky breath, but then he did. And it was as if your souls connected, eye to eye, heart to heart.

“I promise. If you promise to never give up. Come what may, Dean Winchester, you better fight tooth and nail to come back to me. Can you promise me that?”

His trepidation softened, eased away by the ferocity of your devotion.

“Yeah, I think I can do that,” he said with a growing smirk. He kissed you again and this time there were no more distractions.

#deanwanddamonsrockflashfic3 #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester/reader #dean winchester/you #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester drabble

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deinocheirus · 3 months

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4, 8, 15, 29 Debbie and pierce

I love the self perception art so cool. :)

4. What media does your character enjoy? (For characters in settings that aren’t modern Earth, could be media from their home setting or what they’d like in a modern Earth AU)

Neither Debbie nor Pierce are very pop culture savvy (due to Debbie's upbringing and Pierce's...Pierceness). Debbie likes reading and watching anything romance (whether fluff or..sensual), and listening to her collection of 3 CDs over and over again (This is Tom Petty's and ABBA's greatest hits + Fleetwood Mac's Rumours in human AU).

Pierce finds it hard to get engaged in fiction. She listens to radio friendly rock when driving and thats about it. She gets into poetry when she is older as well as videogames "against her will".

8. Has your OC ever had a crush on a fictional (to them) character?

Debbie absolutely, but i think it would often bleed into (weird) celebrity crushes. Pierce no.

15. How well would your OC do in a standard slasher movie?

Assuming that they are both human they would die extremely early. Debbie would accidentally get herself killed, Pierce would hear her scream and try to rescue her and also get killed.

29. Gun to their head, what is your OC’s fursona?

I you asked their canon selves (and explained to them the concept): Debbie would say shes a kitty cat and not think anything of it. Pierce would have no clue and would be assigned by Vireo to be a rhinoceros.

In a hypothetical situation where they ARE furries already: Debbie's sona would be a "Faerie mouse", a limegreen cartoon rodent with insect wings that looks like it came from the 90s. Pierce's would be a a seminaturalistic lioness woman.

#Debbie the gorgon #jovia pierce #asks

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lvndrlondonfog · 3 months

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ok so basically I saw your post asking for prompts and I have been thinking for days about cat good omens . again. let me explain

so a while back I wrote a super fucking long cat omens fic (long for me at least) where they’re stray cats, it’s called strays on the street, almost 60k words. BUT in my head is ANOTHER CAT AU where they are warrior cats ok idk if you’ve ever read those books but there’s hundreds of them and they’re about clans of cats who fight and hunt and fuck and it’s crazy and not child appropriate. I was reading cats get mauled and give birth graphically in 2nd grade but anyway I WANNA READ THEM AS WARIROR CATS OR WRITE IT MAYBE?? Cuz all I’ve written is this snippet from my notes app from weeks ago

/ “I’m sorry,” Serpentfang gurgled, his eyes rolling back in his head, his paws convulsing as he tried to reach for Angelwing. But the white tom stepped back. /

NO CONTETX NOTHING IDK WHAT

but anyway i also need more fanart and fic of crowley with greying hair. same with azi tbh but especially Crowley i want them growing old together in the sense that they don’t have to grow old but they choose to :) ))) also i want an au where crowley becomes Duke of hell post s2 just to send petty notes through heavens administration

SORRY MY ADHD DOES NOT LET ME HAVE A STRAIFHT LINE OF THOUGHT AJSSJDK anyway i am all for new tumblerers and if you have an ao3 or something id love to follow it incase you do write or post anything! <3 random ideas to shoot at ya: sailor aziraphale x siren Crowley, crowley pretending to date furfur post s2 to get supreme archangel aziraphale’s attention, muriel trying to get Crowley and aziraphale back together PARENT TRAP STYLE, orrrr yknow what sweet and fluffy aziraphale reading and drinking tea in south downs cottage while snake Crowley listens to him read aloud and sips from his cup with his silly forked tongue

GO CRAZY (and also be my mutual? 💍)

OH ABSOLUTELY. Warriors cats was my SHIT growing up, and sosososos many ideas I cannot thank you enough: I’ll link one of my fics below and I just started writing so they aren’t AMAZING but decent I think still!!! Ones about Angel Crowley finding inspiration for the entire universe after one (1) passing glance at a specific Angel and the other about Crowley struggling a bit after the fall, past angst but wings and fluff!!!

THOUGH I ABSOLUTELY GET ZERO STRAIGHT LINES OF THOUGH FELLOW ADHDER SO LEMME SEE IF I CAN RESPOND TO ALL OF THESE AKFKRLS

So basically I have also thought about warrior cats au before and BASICALLY

Crowley is a dark forest cat (kicked out like Ashfur) and Aziraphale is a Starclan cat!!!! Remember in the first books when they have to move from the original forest bc it was getting chopped down? Instead of moving, Starclan saw no way out of that and was like “what if they all just die instead than problem solved and we never have to worry about issues ever again?”

Crowley and Aziraphale are obviously like NO THATS A BAD IDEA and after an accidental meeting at the foggy border between Starclan and the dark forest, they are both elected by their respective forces to take over two clan’s medicine cat’s bodies and make sure that the 9 layers of Armageddon that Starclan is sending to wipe out the clans will go through. Instead, they try to thwart things while each dealing with clan life once again, and of course, shenanigans ensue!

Okay growing older I literally love the idea of as they drift further from their respective sides, they lose more and more of their ethereal powers, but it means they can be together and be left alone. While it’s a sacrifice that they’re both willing to make, it does come with some unintended side effects (mostly for Crowley; human bodies don’t tend to handle a million year free-style dives into pits of boiling sulphur too well) but they again find ways. Essentially a lot of fluff post-Armageddon’t and s2 in the South Downs Cottage????

And thirdly what if post S2, Crowley doesn’t really know what to do with himself but he’s PISSED. And there is no more “their” side, only Crowley’s side and he’s not exactly thrilled to be back alone. He has nothing else to do and he wants petty revenge, so he matched Aziraphale’s position as Supreme Archangel as a Duke Of Hell, mainly as an excuse to fuck with Aziraphale and make sure that Aziraphale won’t be able to forget about him any time soon, because Crowley certainly hasn’t thought about him.

AND TWO SPLIT ROUTES ONE ANGST ONE CRACK

1) With nobody left on Earth, Crowley and Aziraphale are out of the loop and before they realize it, the second coming had happened. Earth is dead, and Heaven and Hell are preparing for war once again. Meeting on the battlefields, each full of anger and with nothing left to go back to, what will happen? Either they fight and one accidentally wounds the other before they’re both like OH SHIT WAIT WAIT WAIT THIS IS STUPID MISTAKES HAVE BEEN MADE or one is hurt by the enemy side and found by the other; how do they stick together when no place is safe anymore?

OR NOT HORREDNOUS ANGST

2) Crowley finds out about the second coming, which he doesn’t think Aziraphale knows about, and vice Versa. Cue notes with ridiculous clues and stupid Spelling Things Out with random capitals to send a message, and completely obliviousness on both sides because they’re too desperate to get their own sides across that they don’t even stop to consider that the other may Also be trying to send a message. Cue increasingly grand gestures from both sides before Aziraphale shows up at Crowley’s office holding the Son of God, and they have to figure out how to stop the second coming while finding out ways to acknowledge the emotional damage they both still carry from their last meeting in the bookshop

Sailor x Siren writes itself: maybe shipwrecked Aziraphale finds Very Almost Miraculously Convenient things on this abandonded island that he’s trying to survive on, before one night he finds a certain someone repairing the broken boat little by little. They get scared off before they can talk but Azi leaves an offering back, and cue not-meeting-but-absolutely-communicating until actual meeting than bam! Eventually they both realize that there’s nobody getting him off this island and the ultimate choice for Aziraphale to drown and become a siren too, he takes the offer and is literally just held by siren!Crowley as he takes his last breath and a bit of suspense before BOOM REBORN HAPPY ENDING YIPEE!!

Than dating Furfur to cause jealousy, specifically knowing how similar the two can look, Crowley makes it VERY obvious that he’s complimenting and highlighting all the similar traits of Aziraphale but TO SOMEONE ELSE. Aziraphale refuses to directly confront but cue more and more aggressive signs from the heavens that try to break them apart that Crowley keeps spinning into good things. Aziraphale convinces Muriel child-of-divorce style to miraculously decorate the bookshop that Crowley had been living in to an EXTREME for Valentine’s Day, and Crowley spins it into ‘I did this myself’ for FurFur. Eventually, Aziraphale gets so spun up that he can no longer focus on the planning (or thwarting) of the second coming and gets so pissed with Crowley little shithead antics that he leaves the rambunctious 10 yo son of Christ at the door, with a small note reading something along the lines of ‘Fine, deal with this yourself than; PS this is Jesus!’ And the exact opposite silence, Crowley flailing to win Aziraphale’s good graces and communicate with him, handling Jesus, and dealing with some growing guilt after Furfur genuinely seemed to become attached. Not sure how this would end, but probably Crowley working through everything on his own, separate sides angst, alternating POV chapters, and they ultimately team up again to solve all the issues

Also for Parent trap Au: Muriel and the Bentley power-duo: Crowley’s depressed so Muriel can use the Bentley, and it drives Muriel places and hints at what to do next ect ect while Muriel figures out human stuff, romance, heaven, and after numerous failed attempts- a happy ending for the wonderous Mr.Fell and Mr.Crowley who had taken her in before!

Also Absolutely Dyslexic Crowley having pretended to just really hate books for the longest time, but Aziraphale eventually noticed that Crowley struggles to read menus and other stuff too- just poor eyesight and with knowledge being the root of the original sin, heaven found it quite ironic to block that in more than a few ways for the very demons who perpetuate sin! Confrontation, and eventually Crowley gives in and cue absolute fluff; Aziraphale reads and finds a new side of Crowley, who despite what he had spent many years convincing himself, actually ends up enjoying various things and even asking further questions and speculating and thinking about things (which Aziraphale is more than thrilled about to finally have someone to discuss with!)

Also I am currently on SOS Internet on the drive home, so I can’t risk opening a new webpage lest everything is risked but my Ao3 is LvndrLemonade! Top two fics are what I was talking about earlier and I will absolutely keep you updated on these ideas!!!!!!!!! Thank you for allowing me to yell I love all of tjeese sosososso much oh my god

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable #ineffable idiots #au #good omens au #fanfic #good omens fanfic #ideas #prompts #oh my god I’m so sorry this is so long #though not really sorry #GIVE ME YOUR FEEDBACK ARE THESE DECENT IDEAS PLEASE

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sunboki · 4 months

Text

You and Han Jisung are the ultimate best friends. While he’s busy nerding away, you’re filling him in on the latest and greatest drama. That’s until he brings up crushes. And I mean, what’re you supposed to say when he asks you that? It’s not like Jisung’s your crush… right?

📓 » Han Jisung x f. reader

GENRE┊non idol au, friends to lovers, (kinda) enemies to lovers, two idiots being oblivious, fake relationship au, highschool au, angst, fluff, slowburn

WORD COUNT┊5.1k words

PLAYLIST

WARNINGS┊profanity, lack of communication, childish pettiness, stupidity at insane levels

AUG’S NOTES┊valentine’s day with ji :(( take this as my tribute to hurting my own feelings with this fic 😭

THE BOYFRIEND STATUS TAGLIST — CLOSED

The first night of your downfall all started in mid-January.

All was well and had been going well, until it wasn’t.

You’ve known Han Jisung since second grade, starting with having to apologize for knocking over his castle and him proceeding to cry even louder in the sandbox, snotty in his red and white striped shirt.

You swear that shirt is still in his closet.

And when he was wimping away in a corner, you were the one that got him out of his shell. To this day you’re convinced you’re the first person to ever witness the true Han Jisung, who starts slapping things when he laughs really hard, who gets overly competitive during board games, who keeps hundreds of mind-blowing tracks he’s produced to himself, and who (you wouldn’t admit it) has one of the prettiest smiles in the world.

Freshman year of high school you met Jisung again in your Geography class.

Initially, it took you a moment to recognize his face, having changed quite a bit over the years. And certainly not a bad kind of change. Although, his nerdy personality was all the assurance you needed to figure out it was him, apart from that he switched to contacts, grew his hair out more, and looked, y’know, “older.”

Older as in: what happened to you? ..Why are you so attractive?

But you won’t get too far into that.

Through the years he tutored you. Jisung had a knack for studying since day one, and despite occasionally looking like he could pass as a dropout (usually the week before finals), no one else could maintain better grades than him.

So, on a night both you and Jisung were slouched over your desk, procrastinating school work by rating people at school from most to least kissable, he turns to you, face halfway illuminated by your lamp.

“Do you like anyone?” Your boba-eyed friend asks while you aimlessly scroll through your camera roll in search of the photo you’d been talking about, mumbling a quiet “of course” in response.

Jisung makes an unconvinced noise and clasps his hands together, leaning forward.

“No like, like like anybody.”

Finally escaping your ‘rating people’s kissing-capabilities’ headspace and now entering into your ‘is this the question i think it is?’ one, you wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans.

It’s a strange question, not a Jisung-question, and you find yourself growing increasingly nervous the longer he stares at you.

You’ve never even thought about it really, so why are you so sweaty? Why does your heart feel as if it may just beat out of your chest, why is your mouth so dry?

Questions.

Clearing your throat and secretly praying it didn’t give away your piling anxiety, you feign a roll of your eyes, tapping your fingernail on the cool desk.

God, why are you so nervous?

“Um, nobody, why?” You retort, ignoring the scrutinizing squint of his eyes watching you.

It’s never like this. You’re the one that teases, gets him all shy, stumbling over his words. So now you suddenly feel like Jerry and he’s Tom.

Abnormal.

“C’mon, there has to be someone you think is cute,” He whines, and before you can stop it one word smacks you upside the head.

You.

“It’s Minho!” You shout, hurried and barely audible as if trying to tune out your inner panic.

Han looks stunned.

Han as in best friend, not crush. Right.

What were you thinking?

“..Min.. Minho?” He phrases slowly, evidently surprised.

Being completely honest, you’re just as surprised as he is. Minho is attractive, sure, but never in your life did you consider him like that.

Oh how you wished you could erase all of this from ever happening.

It doesn’t make sense. Because it’s not like you’re into Jisung. Or are you?

Nope. Nuh-uh. You were just caught off guard and unprepared. Not to mention it was an unexpected question, that’s all.

Fuck.

You like Jisung. There’s no point of lying to yourself anymore. From the start of seeing him again, those “friendly” gestures weren’t friendly anymore, they were intentional, pursuing. Walking from class to class together, constantly checking your texts, meeting his eyes only to smile like fools.

“Yep. Minho. That’s the guy,” Cutting each sentence shorter than the last, you nod fervently, avoiding his gaze.

Both soaking in utterly hellish silence, the tension was likely seeping through the cracks in your door at this rate.

He really shouldn’t have ever brought this up, and you shouldn’t have said Minho. So on the bright side, at least you’re both at fault here in the grand scheme of things.

“..Alright then.” He shrugs and goes back to writing down notes, ignoring how the room feels a hundred degrees hotter and that every inch of your soul is drenched in a cold sweat, plagued with the situation you landed yourself in.

What has gotten into you?

Why Minho was the first name you said couldn’t be explained, and, with your amazing fortune, Minho happened to be Jisung’s friend in their shared engineering program.

Any name. You could’ve said any name.

Great.

“Psst!” You hiss, lingering behind the door, waiting for your victim to finally finish his day-long conversation with Mr. Hong.

Said victim (a.k.a Minho) delivering a venomous glare from the corner of his eye, you gesture for him to come nearer (much to his obvious dislike) once the coast had cleared. Thankfully, the classroom was a distance from Jisung’s, providing ample time to strike your plan before they joined sixth period together.

A plan that had been devised throughout the many hours you spent sleeplessly investigating your ceiling last night.

“I need your help.”

Wait for it. Here comes the questions.

“Is this about Jisung?”

Before you can open your mouth, he cuts you off.

“You got in trouble again, didn’t you?”

You sigh.

“I-“

“Are you pregnant?”

“SHUT— up.” Grabbing a strong hold onto your one opportunity to speak, you clamber both him and yourself into the nearest seat, dreading this experience the longer Minho stares daggers into your soul.

The idea is a stretch, but if the boy in front of you cooperates, at least a few bases might get covered.

“Minho, I need your help with Jisung.”

Anticipatory eyebrows (looking freaky similar to a cat) urge you further.

“Alright, first things first,” You huff, fishing in your bag prior to sliding the notebook in front of him. His eyes widen, breathing an esteemed “wow” upon reading each line.

“Rules For Our Fake Relationship”, The title reads in messy sharpie marker. A silly, first-grade clique idea, although, if wielded correctly, could very easily quell your.. “problem” for a bit while you brainstormed the next step.

Problem being, how can I make sure, at all costs, my best friend doesn’t know I’m in love with him?

“You really thought this one through, huh.”

“I do what I have to.” Cracking your knuckles and stretching your neck, you ignore Minho’s judgemental eyeball and begin setting down some basic rules.

#1 Under no circumstances should we ever kiss.

He seems to whole-heartedly agree on that one, pretty much gagging at the thought.

#2 No one but us is allowed to know this is fake.

The rest is history, so by the time you’ve reached twenty and he adds a “No acting lovey-dovey around me” rule, you realize you might as well make this a “Rules For Worst Enemies” list instead.

But just as you hand him the pen, awaiting his signature with an eager gaze, he deflates, popping the cap back on much to your displeasure.

“Before I sign my life away to your Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, you have to promise me something.”

“..Okay.”

Please don’t say your credit card, please don’t say your credit card please don’t say your credit ca-

“No matter how long this,” he gestures to your page-full of rules, “lasts, you have to find a way to explain yourself to him before Valentine’s Day, deal?”

Valentine’s day gives you a full two weeks to keep up your act, and as much as you want to deny and tell him that would technically break Rule #2, you doubt he’ll agree any other way. It’s Minho for goodness sake, you could throw a brick at his head and he’d wake up in the hospital the next day still remembering to feed his cats.

You’ll make an excuse.. or something like that.

Fine.

“Deal.”

Finally signing the bottom of the notebook paper, the bell rings for your next class to begin and your hand has already started to cramp horribly, a telltale sign your job here is done.

Stashing the illegitimate document in your bag and parting in opposite directions, your movements halt when Minho shouts your name, his flannel-clad form sporting a mildly smug grin.

“Hey! Don’t fall in love with me, okay?” He yells, and you make a disgusted face before both erupting into laughter.

After a rather ungrateful attempt of explaining your tardiness to English class, you drop your backpack down beside your desk, notifications buzzing with texts Jisung sent earlier today asking about where you want to sit for lunch tomorrow and your weekly tutoring sessions amongst other things.

A frown tugged at your lips.

You shouldn’t have lied, really really shouldn't have. So deep inside you hope; pray this’ll be your solution.

Fuck.

Jisung likes you.

Scratch that, he’s liked you. Liked you ever since fifth grade, when he skinned his knee wrecking his favorite captain america bicycle and you patched him up with multiple superhero bandaids.

So when he finds out it’s Minho you’re interested in, Lee Minho who in a billion years he didn’t expect you to be interested in, he’s astonished.

Because it’s not every day your best friend who you’ve been harboring the fattest crush on tells you she’s interested in another guy, especially not your other good friend, so he feels entitled to feeling a tad bit upset.

It’s not your fault and he knows it. You don’t know he likes you because he’s too much of a coward to say anything, do anything.

But somehow, in some majestic, all-knowing way, he wishes you had said his name instead.

Whether it was Summer Camp in middle school or all those times he’d sat behind you in Algebra just to talk to you, it was inevitable. Because before either of you knew it, he was falling in love, and apparently you were falling in love too; with someone else.

“Alright, and? Are you gonna tell me, y’know, why you like her?”

Awaiting the dismissal bell, he folded, desperately needing some kind of assurance. First person he usually went to was you, but that wasn’t possible now, since it’s not like he could simply run up to you and shout out his feelings, could he?

Duh, of course he could. Which is another reason why he won’t, and why he doubts he ever will.

Hell, merely talking to you on the phone whenever Minho passes by amounts to a mini heart-attack.

Instead, Seo Changbin stepped in, and in the midst of a barely occupied cafe, Han Jisung found himself spilling his guts. Spilling his guts as in: venting and brainwashing himself into thinking he could win you over.

“I mean, everything.”

His friend makes a hopeless sort of sound, head resting on his hand.

“She’s like…” Han forks a bit of the cheesecake, Changbin’s expression spurring his cynical seat-mate to continue.

“Cheesecake.”

The level-headed of the two chokes on his drink.

“..Cheese– Cheesecake?”

Han affirmatively nods. “And I love Cheesecake.”

Changbin rises from the table with a frantic Jisung in tow, pleading for his friend to hear him out.

“Look! Look wait, Changbin please-“

He swore the man’s eye twitched.

Although, they’ve known each other for four years, and he was quick thinking up a solution.

“I’ll work out with you for a month.”

He’s never seen a man sit himself down faster.

And as a result, their two hours of utterly senseless talk turned into short-lived (yet greatly appreciated) relief, filled with bits and pieces of advice granted by the matchmaker (Seo Changbin) himself. Plus, he made a good point in advocating you weren’t going out with Minho yet, right? Meaning, despite the possibility being sparse, he had a 1% on his side.

Rain pelted the campus upon his exit, the boy clambering his hood over his head, stepping a mere foot into the watery terrain for a text to vibrate his phone.

Usually he’d ignore it, but that was before he saw the number.

You.

Han stopped dead in his tracks, hoodie slipping off his head in the process—standing there, assailing droplets drenching his form, device clutched in a numb grasp.

Guess the relief wasn’t the only thing short-lived.

Y/N : You’ll never guess what happened Ji!! Minho asked me out!

Something about Jisung is different recently. You’re not sure if it’s an effect of your (fake) relationship, but he’s just.. different.

Distant.

Perhaps you should’ve expected it. This is the first time you’ve ever been in a relationship while being friends with Jisung, and the entire point of this after all is to keep your mushy feelings hidden.

But his entire “cold” persona was starting to get under your skin.

Yesterday he’d completely ditched you to talk to Chan, a fellow producer in the same class as Jisung which, might you add, never happened.

In fact, there was a time that your best friend had gotten so immersed in a conversation he slammed right into a pole. He still has a scar on his nose from it.

More so, a few months ago, leaning against the sink in his dorm the day after midterms when you’d be stressing and obsessing over precalculus, he reached up, cupped your cheek in a hand and rubbed his thumb along your skin.

..And you tumbled head first into those silly feelings the “he’s just a friend” Y/n had locked away and thrown out the key to.

Little did you know Jisung had a spare key all along.

“Eyelash,” He had said, but in your pounding eardrums the comment sounded more like a whisper, an invitation.

That night you lay in bed, trying incessantly to fall asleep to no avail, because every time you close your eyes the scene ran on replay, except in your fairytale he had leaned forward and kissed you—

A car alarm going off outside your window knocks your daydream awry, ushering you to give up on peaceful slumber after the three-hour trial period.

So why were you upset? You wanted this; you wanted to stay as friends out of the fear he didn’t feel the same—even more so that your friendship would dissipate along with it.

Easy.

It didn’t feel fair. You felt like, even though Jisung didn’t have any romantic intentions with you, you were technically (unintentionally) assigning his position as the third wheel without so much as a single vote.

And it didn’t feel fair, because a possibility remained.

A possibility that could mean Jisung liked you, and if that were the case, your efforts, not to mention your mind, would officially drift itself into a never ending orbit.

Albeit amongst your mental warfare, school ran right on schedule, blind to the infinitely deep shithole you had dug (and wished to bury) yourself in.

Thursday’s schedule consisted of a main topic.

Senior prom.

According to your firsthand accounts, prom in high school is either the best or the worst school event in the history of events.

The popular girls stick to tiny maxi dresses with overly tall heels and massive hoop earrings—granted, you don’t blame them for the dress, they’ve got snatched bodies, but sometimes (most of the time) the glitz and glam is a lot on the eyes.

Jocks will show up in cargo’s or dress pants thinking they’re the shit while their attire doesn’t even cut it when you look at their weekly exchange of a girlfriend, but hey, that’s high school.

If you were talking about yourself, you’d say prom was, well, prom. Not horrible, not amazing either.

Freshman year you spent way too much time rewatching “To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before” and filling your nights treating the approaching occasion like a sacred holiday. Sophomore year you began to lose interest, and as for Junior year, you nearly forgot it existed.

The more you thought about it though, Jisung would honestly rock a pair of heels.

Anyway, that’s besides the point.

Senior year, this year, there was a change in your rotation. Change, as in, big change. A what-about-Jisung-while-Minho’s-in-the-picture change.

It’s not like you were genuinely dating Minho, yet your wack job of a situation kept you from telling your best friend (crush) who is deliberately avoiding you at the moment, the truth.

Never in your life did you think you’d string yourself into something like this. That Han Jisung, that snotty-nosed boy, would be a constant reason for your incessant headaches, occupying every expanse of your mind on a continuous loop.

And by chance, fate of some kind, you finally run into the runaway culprit, tagging along with Changbin after the lunch break he normally spent with you.

Oh how the tables have turned.

So when the boy expertly dodges your first attempt to communicate, you don’t let him go, unwilling to let another unread message slip past without sparing a word.

“Jisung- wait.”

He turns to you, lips drawn in that straight line that always forms when he’s nervous.

Hundreds of possible questions you could ask in this moment, minimal time.

“Are you.. going to the prom?”

What kind of question is that you dumbass.

Fixating you with an equally incredulous stare, he tips his head slightly, a mocking, humorless chuckle following.

“Um, yeah?”

What. The. Fuck.

Maybe it’s the way he phrased his words, his cocky attitude when responding that irked your nerves. Regarding you like you’re three years old.

And maybe that’s your flaw, feeling like you’re supposed to be the one sending him beet red instead, used to that comforting casualness, your comforting casualness.

Together.

You wrinkle your nose, ripping your hand from his sleeve like you were stung.

Jisung seemed to feel it too, although only you could tell.

“Oh.. okay. I’m going with Minho, my- boyfriend, so don't worry about me!”

Aw shit, now you’re just embarrassing yourself. Shut up and leave, girl.

Jesus, why do you feel like crying?

You’d never sprinted off faster, long abandoning sympathizing with the now jerk-face Jisung and certainly trying to abandon the two days separating prom’s date and the three from Valentines, otherwise, your explanation deadline.

Talk about pressure.

Nonetheless, shopping for something couple-clique was hell. After never anticipating you’d be shopping for two in the first place, simply finding a flattering color proved itself challenging.

Minho was ungodly picky, and you refused to wear what this lunatic deemed prom-worthy. Also, simultaneously trying your hardest to welcome whatever prom season was (an occasion that felt disgustingly uncomfortable) and staying awake to tirelessly plan on how you would behave seeing Han there left no room for relaxing.

Oh, and telling him everything before Valentines too, adding another sleepless night to your February calendar.

Insomnia much?

“Yah! The tie is what makes us look like a couple!” You groan, pressing the dark green bow tie to his shirt while his grabby hands attempt at prying you off.

February 12th arrived dangerously fast, to the point you managed to snag a somewhat-similar tie and dress shade at the last minute, a tie of which you were straining to attach to Minho while standing in an adjacent room to the packed auditorium.

He childishly whines, complaining that it’s too much before all of a sudden the door springs open, figure standing frozen in the entrance.

A figure none other than Jisung.

Best part? Your hands are pressed to Minho’s chest, stuck in a rather compromising position now that you mention it.

“Oh— sorry, um,” He steps back, frantically closing the door in his wake.

This is what you wanted though, isn’t it? Payback for how rude he’d been, for him to believe you were dating Minho, that you weren’t remotely interested in him.

Regardless, it feels like betrayal.

Your companion’s mildly concerned look speaks your mind.

In the midst of your mental tormenting session however, Minho slammed his hip into the side of the door while leaving, gritting out a hushed curse.

“Want me to kiss it for you?” You automatically tease, puckering up your lips in an attempt to block out the voice in your head calling you heartless.

Well, it’s not like Jisung likes you. The only feelings you’re hurting here are yours.

“I. Would. Rather. Die.” He retaliates, nose scrunched while nursing the wound.

‘What a sweetheart’ you want to call back, but the weight on your chest seals your lips shut, and with a nervous nod you stiffly head toward the opening hall.

Something to blame. Right about now, you need something to blame that would at least provide some breathing room considering the blasting of a bass shaking the floor and just how many people are crammed in here.

Everything feels too tight, too much. Minho’s got a loose hold on your hand to keep up the act, but for who? You can’t spot Jisung anywhere.

The fake boyfriend to your side caught on relatively early, sending you a troubled expression you mirror back.

An hour in and there was no enjoying yourself, no laughing and slipping drinks somebody stole from their parents, no dancing around or sending the same compliment to seventy girls on repeat.

Han wasn’t here even after he had told you (asshole-like) he’d come. The entire reason you went these lengths.

Amidst your frustration, you spot a man in the crowd.

Aha.

Chan.

I’m not looking for Jisung I’m not looking for Jisung I’m not looking for Jisung—

“Where’s Jisung?”

You’re kidding.

Chan narrows his eyes, giving your wavering, obviously upset frame a once over.

“Jisung? He dropped off something for Felix. Didn’t he tell you he wasn’t coming?”

Again, you’re kidding.

What a liar.

And maybe you shouldn't have yourself get so mad. Jisung didn’t even know the half of it, nonetheless how far you’ve gone to secure his suspicions were out of your hair.

But you did go that far, and to think he didn’t show up after all left your tribulations useless.

Calm down, the sensible Y/n would scold.

This wasn’t the sensible Y/n.

Racing from the auditorium to the neighboring apartment complex a block or so away, you utilize the extra key he’d given to you, bursting through the door while ripping off your gloves and kicking off your mud-stained heels along the way.

Han spins around, clad in regular clothes—somewhat regular clothes apart from how incredible he looks—with his biceps straining against the sleeves of his t-shirt, glasses adorning his face, plate of leftovers in hand.

He’s been working out recently, or maybe the majority of the Jisung you’d seen wore hoodies and baggy tees.

You’ll thank whoever got him to the gym later. Presently, number one is Jisung. You and Minho can be dealt with afterward.

“Look, I know you really don’t want to hear this right now, but Minho and I broke up and—“

The words sound like vomit on your tongue, especially from the look Jisung gives you in return.

Fake, It’s all fake. Yet, it feels so real. Yes, you’re still mad, but it’s Jisung, and who are you to deny you still aren’t into him.

You don’t have to be sensible to know that.

“So?”

So? He asks. This Jisung asks, not the one who would’ve, at the drop of a hat, asked if you were alright, asked if you needed anything like a friend does. This is cocky Jisung, jerk-face Jisung.

You’re spoiled with the old Jisung, were spoiled.

But this isn’t him, this is somebody else.

Your frustration levels might breach out of your ears at this rate.

“Don’t look at me like that,” He scoffs, carding a hand through soft strands of hair. “I’m not Minho. I’m not someone you can drag along just for the fun of it, alright?”

Who are you?

Wildly, you wrack your brain for any plausible explanation.

“What- What do you mean drag you along? I would never—”

“Then why?!” He cries, slamming the plate against the table hard enough you notice a crack wedged on the side.

Breaking point.

Come to think of it, this is the first time you’ve ever heard Jisung yell.

What felt to be months and months on end of this lying and stifling came out to this, huh.

Screw it.

“Because! Because I like you, no, I love you Jisung, I love you so fucking much it kills me! Minho and I were fake! I set up all this bullshit just because I was scared of what we have disappearing, can’t you understand that?!”

He’s seething; fat, crocodile tears dotting his waterline. And you stand there pathetically, waiting to hear it, hear something.

“Turn around.”

Huh?

He raises his eyebrows expectantly, and you slowly do as told, awkwardly shuffling around till your back faces him.

His fingers sift across your back, chills spreading along your skin.

“You’ve been uncomfortable all night, haven’t you? Why didn’t you tell Min— Tell me?” He grumbles, unzipping the back of your dress and simultaneously allowing much needed air to re-enter your lungs.

You don’t need to respond for him to know, another of the many things you’ve fallen for when it comes to Jisung.

Although, another reason added to that list would be his arms wrapping around your waist, cozying to your back. And another when you shift around, your own arms slipping to his neck, savoring a hug you hadn’t realized how horribly you missed.

“Can you go back to being just Y/n and not Minho’s fake girlfriend?” He mutters, head buried in your neck.

“Yeah yeah.” You respond, voice wavering the longer you stay pressed in his embrace.

Jisung pulls back slightly, studying your face.

“Can I…” He begins trailing off, eyes suddenly laser-focused on your face.

A roaring pit of deja vu swallows you whole.

His thumb does that, that thing again. That careful caress on your cheek, that close proximity.

“Eyelash.”

Everything feels like it’s on loop.

Only difference is when he begins to lean forward, and you swear it’s your imagination when he pulls the glasses off his face, lips barely ghosting over yours.

“Can I kiss you, please?” His tone slightly breathless, you don’t have to say a word by the way you’re looking at him for Jisung to take initiative.

Yet, his feather-light peck to your forehead catches you off guard, preparing to laugh before a careful hand slips to hold your neck, maneuvering your face into a kiss you’re certain you’ll remember.

Jisung, whom, quite frankly, squealed every time the two main characters confessed their love to each other, who was emotional and fragile, was kissing you.

He kisses you, just like that stupid fantasy.

It’s messy, inexperienced, but it’s Jisung. That’s enough.

And then, even worse for your sanity, his hands slip beneath your thighs to pick you up—an action that wouldn’t have been this detrimental if he hadn’t gained so much muscle recently—but it does.

Basically breathing him in, you’re slow to separate, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, sending chills down your spine.

Your nerves are on fire.

If anything, the world could burn and you’re certain you wouldn’t even notice, not when Jisung had you caged between his arms on the bar stool, positively enamored with every slight huff and gasp of air, the squeezing grip you had on his arms.

Ignorant to the point you forgot about his gym-partner (likely responsible for helping Jisung grow muscle, you’d thank him later for that) otherwise roommate who wouldn’t appreciate his best friend hogging in the kitchen.

Luckily, it only took the clattering of keys lodging into the doorknob to pull you two off of each other, scrambling to grab clothing while you raced to the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

Mere seconds after your hasty escape does the man, the myth, and the legend walk in, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

Jisung awkwardly grins, leaning back on the island as if you hadn’t just been sitting there, all pretty and perfect.

Han had always thought Changbin would be some type of dog in his past life—maybe a Rottweiler. And by the way he seemed to practically smell something was up, he was certain of it.

“Did I.. walk in on something?”

Nearly slipping half-way through his reply, Jisung (non)chalantly wiped a bout of sweat from his hairline.

“Nope! Just uh.. organizing?”

He would get weeks of shit if anyone caught on, nonetheless his roommate.

Instead of interrogating him further, Changbin grunted, bending down to pick up what the younger thought to be a piece of trash, only for one of your heels to be pinched between his fingertips, expression reading: “Seriously? Organizing?”

Color draining from his face, Jisung humorlessly chuckled, likely sweating enough to fill the Atlantic ocean.

“Did I ever tell you about my secret life as a drag queen?”

Hastily snatching the shoe away at the older boy’s face palm, his face flushing ten thousand degrees upon the cuff to the shoulder he received.

“Y/n?” His friend called loudly, met with your pitiful “here…” from the bathroom and a smug giggle from an amused gym-rat.

Yeah. Shit for weeks.

“Do you think Minho’s a good kisser?” Jisung piques, sprawled out on the couch with a bag of potato chips in hand.

The first official night of your relationship with Han started in mid-February. Tonight, you planned a movie date.

You, almost suffocating from how fast you inhaled, threw a not-so-kind slipper at him, the boy screaming avidly in response.

Through a fake relationship, pettiness, and a sad attempt at making-out, in a sense, you did explain yourself.

Hah. Suck it Minho.

“Hey! I’m just asking!”

FIC TAGLIST. @liknws @itshannjisung @spearbinnie0327 @manuosorioh @dearly-somber @thefangirloncrack @ivydoesit23 @thisrandomgoofy15 @thisisnotjacinta @palindrome969 @shycreationdreamland @j-oneseungz @hyperpixie @eyearebee @cupidcures @gumiess @loxgirl2004

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