lynchbieberfan

the loud, frantic turning of your doorknob woke you from a half-slumber on the couch in the living room. was it more frightening or inconvenient? to have someone clearly attempting to break into your apartment? rubbing sleep from your eyes and shaking the blanket to the rug, you made your way to the door hesitantly. paused. 

what exactly was your game plan here? should you have a weapon? did you even own anything like a weapon? walking slowly and quietly toward the entryway–as the door seemed to shake on its hinges–you grabbed a stapler from the desk in the kitchen and flipped it outwards. rogue staples would surely prevent a robber from killing you–right? 

your door had never seemed so large or so weak when you put an eye up to the peephole; whoever was shaking the doorknob really wanted to get inside. your pulse jumped in your throat; entirely too dazed from sleep to handle this at the moment. 

to your surprise, there was no barrel of a gun staring at you from the other side, just a large–very large–man fumbling with his keys and murmuring nonsense to himself. his bag crumpled on the floor by his feet, hair curling prettily around his jaw. what was he up to? 

as he ran a hand over his mouth–clearly frustrated–you undid the locks lining the side of the door and opened it quickly, leaning slightly on the doorframe and keeping your gaze indifferent. his eyes snapped open at the sound. 

“hello,” your voice was hesitant but solid, “why are you trying to break into my apartment?” his eyes scanned you quickly, causing you to lean against the doorframe further. you really did try not to notice how you had to look up to meet his eyes. 

“this isn’t 3127?” his voice was deep and sharp. intimidating. everything about him should’ve been so intimidating–but he had this weird, almost embarrassed demeanor that burned off any of that fear you had at first. 

“this is 3129,” you leaned out of the doorway and pointed to the next door over, “that is 3127.” he blushed daintily, like a girl–almost, and slung his bag over his shoulder. turned to shuffle over to his actual apartment. 

“i’m really sorry to bother you like that, completely disrupted your night–didn’t i?” like a lawyer with a leading question, it was like he was trying to get you to admit that he had done something chronically wrong–instead of just making an honest mistake. 

“nope,” you said simply, shaking your head; crossed a leg over the other in the doorway. “just confused me a bit is all,” his gaze moved to the stapler in your hand and you swiftly hid it behind your back, coughing. “you just move in?” 

nodding, he seemed to relax a bit–shoulders less tense under his jacket and brow less furrowed under his winter hat. “yesterday,” he hesitated, “obviously i’m still getting used to the,” he gestured to the hallway, “change.” 

you smiled at his self-deprecation, heat from inside your apartment slithering out into the hall, making you shiver and cross your arms over your chest. his eyes followed. “well, it’s nice to have a new neighbor–the last tenant was about 300 years old and kept setting off the fire alarm,” you joked, yawning into the back of your palm. goosebumps crawled up your bare legs. 

“oh, don’t worry darling–i’ll still set off the fire alarm; but maybe i’ll be a better neighbor on the age front,” his smile crinkled his eyes in the corners. “i’m arber, by the way.” he extended his hand to you. 

half smiling, you told him your name and shook his hand, trying not to notice how his callused hand enveloped yours completely. how warm he was–even though it was the middle of winter–and how that warmth seemed to spread from his hand through yours, melting up your arm and across your chest. 

you dropped his hand and retreated slightly back into your apartment. his hand flexed by his side momentarily, thick fingers stretching toward nothing and then wilting. why were you looking at his hands, again? suddenly more embarrassed, more aware of your definitely-not-suitable-for winter (or visitors) attire, you moved to close the door. 

he smiled–more sure than just a few minutes ago. you hoped your involuntary sigh wasn’t too loud, but he was awfully pretty–wasn’t he? he cocked his head, almost teasing, but not saying anything. the silence he created wasn’t heavy or overwhelming–just new; intriguing.  

“nice to meet you, arber,” you said from a sliver in the doorway, smile feather-light, “maybe i’ll break into your place next time.” 

he laughed–throaty and deep and warped slightly by his grin. “oh, please do,” he stood in his doorway, “could use the company.” you shut your door quickly, moving back to the heat of the living room. 

picking up your blanket from the floor and settling back onto the couch–your own imprint still warm in the cushions–you brought a hand to your cheeks. found them warm.

you hoped you looked as pretty as he did when you blushed; doubted it. 

… 

knuckles red and teeth chattering, you cursed under your breath–hands fumbling as you attempted to turn your key in the lock. heavy footsteps made the stairwell creak rhythmically; getting louder as they reared the final step. 

somehow you knew it was him–but that didn’t prevent your breath from catching at the sight of his oversized frame at the top of the stairs. too large for the hallway; his face covered by a grocery bag held up with one hand–another reaching around his regular bag and patting his pockets randomly. 

“hey arb,” you laughed lightly at his struggle, feeling warmer already–was all of that radiating from him? 

“is that you, neighbor?” he was slightly out of breath. “be a sweetheart and grab my keys for me?” putting your own key back in your jacket pocket, you walked over and into his personal space; fingers no longer as cold but feeling restless, somehow. 

you hummed, swallowing your blush whole–taking in his barely damp hair and the dusting of snow on his shoulders. reaching up on your toes, you brushed it off with a light hand–soft powder falling to the floor and promptly disappearing. 

when you met his eyes again, his gaze was soft and fully on you–startlingly so. jumping back, you cleared your throat. “which pocket?” your voice was meek. 

“left,” he smiled at you–nearly teasingly, but definitely fondly. you grabbed his keys from the jacket pocket and turned to the door, quickly unlocking it and pushing it open. looking at you from just over the bag, he sighed. “so sorry for the trouble–underestimated how heavy groceries are, i guess.” 

why was he always apologizing? while you had hoped that standing this close to him would make you feel small–you felt oddly large. like your limbs were growing and stretching to an obscene size, like your body was far too warm for winter–like his full attention on you was physically changing you into something else entirely. 

“don’t apologize arb, i don’t mind.” your voice was solid with honesty. how long had you been standing in the hallway? he shifted on his heels and shuffled awkwardly to the door–but didn’t go through; turned to you, eyes crinkled in some hesitant way. 

“would you want to come in for dinner?” it was almost amusing to see such a large man seem so unsure–like a child being forced to play with a friend from class. like the comfort of a safe relationship–neighbors–could be bridged into something else; but what? 

at your hesitation, he backpedaled immediately. “forget it! you’re probably busy and i shouldn’t have ask–” he went to close the door. you grinned–too large for your face–and stopped, uncomfortable with the space it inhabited. 

“depends,” you brushed past him into his kitchen, “what are you making?” 

wordlessly, he followed you inside. shrugging off your jacket, you washed your hands with warm water and watched him take produce out of the paper bag; hands large enough to hold an indecent amount of vegetables at once. his smile was all to himself as you gestured towards them and asked where a knife was–wanting to help. 

“like you in this space,” he said noncommitedly–acutely unaware of the weight of his words and how they delicately pressed apart your collarbones. you continued to slice; knife hitting the cutting board melodically. 

“i tend to just barge in,” you admitted, not looking him in the eye, “just tell me when it gets annoying.” you tried to laugh cutely, but it got caught in your throat and changed into something else, something sad. he just slotted next to you, warming up the space tenfold, and slid the cutting board over to his side–hand completely enveloping yours to take the knife. 

unable to look at him, you settled for grasping the counter–grounding yourself, reminding you that you couldn’t get too comfortable. 

“can’t imagine that’ll happen, sweetheart,” he picked up where you had left off, shaking his head softly. you crossed your arms over your chest–ears blushing slightly. was it hot in here? how was it so hot in here? “i’ll finish this and you make the drinks? liquor is in the next room over,” he suggested–tail end of the question curling up–but it landed like a statement. like a years-old habit. 

“and what’s your drink of choice, arb?” you walked away from him slowly. 

“i love that,” he groaned. your stomach warmed at the sound while your brow furrowed in confusion. the sound of the cutting board making soft contact with the knife ceased as he looked to you. “love how you call me that.” 

“oh,” you responded meekly, happy to be further away from him; knowing that you’d be unable to hide the wobble in your legs at his slight demeanor change–something a little more like sandpaper. you backed away again. he smiled–but it might’ve been more like a smirk. there was something other about it; made you nervous. 

“i’ll have whatever you’re having,” he laughed lowly into the air around him, hum from the oven escorting you out of the kitchen momentarily. what are you doing here? it seemed to ask. 

you rolled your eyes at nothing in particular. if only i knew, you responded, eyes quickly becoming busy with the new task at hand. 

…

your breath was short as you leaned your forehead against the door gently. it was late–freezing–yet your face was hot from anxiety and frustration at your evening. another failed date, another ill-intended comment from another random guy–that hit in your neck and crawled down your spine like a poison.

your mind spun as you tried to calm yourself down. failed. it had to be you, no? that's the common denominator, right? 

what could you do to be wanted–to be welcomed into the space next to someone else, encouraged to take it up? 

muted and heavy footsteps resonated to your right, causing you to turn your head on its axis–forehead shifting on the door. of course it was him. 

he leaned on the outside of his door casually and adjusted the bag on his shoulder. nose red from the cold, his eyes moved unabashedly down and back up your frame. you pushed off of the door, hands feeling grotesquely large. 

“you look,” he trailed off–indulgently letting himself look you up and down again, “so pretty.” he exhaled fully and completely; you smiled a small smile. “fun night out?” his voice was low.

you wondered if he could see the tears in your eyes as you shook your head. “not really, no.” a pause punctuated your uneven breath. “just a date.” he tried to hide the hardening of his gaze but couldn’t quite pull it off–his jaw flexing and shoulders becoming tense. he walked closer to you, dropping the bag to the ground in front of his door. 

pouting slightly, you willed the tears to stay put in the corners of your eyes. your diaphragm expanded to push against your heart; torso like a balloon; sensation was so uncomfortable it made a breath get stuck in your throat just as he stopped directly in front of you. 

his palm cupped the side of your face and tilted your neck slightly to meet his eyes, thumb swiping away the tear–surprising you when it didn’t sizzle to a steam upon contact with his skin. 

“what’s wrong, darling?” his voice was low but tight–like there was a battle happening in his throat that you were unaware of. you leaned into his touch–calluses scraping lightly against your cheekbone. 

“just another bad date,” you sniffled, “i’ll be okay.” had you ever been less convincing? 

he shook his head–air between you both rippling slightly. “of course you will,” he seemed sure, “i’m more worried about this loser who let you walk away when you look like this.” he paused. “when you are like this.” 

laughing breathily, you reached up to grab his hand from your face–desperate for more warmth–more of him. he stayed quiet as you traced the calluses and bruises with a feather-light touch. dragging a fingertip across the scars on his knuckles, you paused to look up at him. 

his eyes were dark and unwavering. “what’s this one from?” you found your voice gravelly as you tried to change the subject. his comfort was too lovely–unbearably so. 

“i forget,” his answer was simple, distracted–tone mirroring yours. you nodded, head dizzy for a completely different reason than just a moment ago. you hummed and continued exploring his hands–ignoring the just barely there tremor and flexing of his fingers as you moved between them. 

in some fit of delirium and melancholy, you brought his hand back up to your face. eyes flitted to his for an unspoken permission. he nodded-disbelieving, almost–letting you push a finger past your teeth to rest on his tongue. 

your eyes closed momentarily at the throaty groan that escaped him–free hand coming to your waist. you were burning up, tears in your eyes and catching at your waterline. sucking gently, you moved your tongue around his finger slowly, relishing in the sensation, losing yourself in it. 

too soon, he removed his hand. attempting to minimize your pout, you opened your eyes–couldn’t bring yourself to fully meet his gaze. what were you doing? were you that desperate? 

he didn’t let you shy away, however; grabbed your chin with his hand–still wet from your spit, coating your jaw lewdly. his eyes had never been darker–never been prettier. 

“don’t you shrink away from me now,” his tone was clipped, “not after being so good,” you whimpered softly at his praise, causing him to tap your cheek lightly and release; grin unshakable. picking up his bag off the floor, he turned the key in the lock; glanced at you with that smirk. “sorry about your date, sweetheart.” was he teasing? “better to take a break from that whole scene–just to be safe,” he raised an eyebrow. 

still in a daze, you nodded dumbly. his laugh was low and gritty. “its getting late, neighbor–sweet dreams.” the door shut softly behind him, leaving you alone in the hallway–suddenly freezing without his body heat swimming around you. 

“goodnight,” you responded too late–speaking only to the doorknob into the silence of the hallway. your door rolled its eyes as you turned the key in the lock and pushed it open–you didn’t blame it. 

…

the reflection of the tv glowed against the window–now foggy from the heater being on all day. warm blankets surrounded you on the couch; compressed you comfortably into the cushions, made you feel like your muscles and bones could meld to the crevices. 

his distinct knock clipped the air, making you smile to yourself. this had become an almost nightly tradition for you both; a welcome comfort. an outward sigh. 

when you undid the locks and cracked open the door, you were met with tired eyes as he attempted to mirror your smile. you faltered at his formal attire–recovered quickly–and welcomed him in. 

still quiet, he yawned into the back of his hand and patted your hip lightly as you led him to the kitchen. 

“you look fancy, arb,” you opened the pot on the stove and stirred slowly, nothing that fancy wasn’t exactly the correct word. lovely. pretty. those suited him more as he sat on a stool–broad shoulders hunched slightly in the dim light. 

even though you were faced toward the stove, you were sure he was running his hand across his mouth in quiet frustration. 

“hate these stupid events,” he began, voice clear from behind you, “always make me feel–sorry, forget it.” he exhaled. “don’t want to come in and spring all this on you.” 

“well, what if i want to hear about these stupid events?” you asked, plating him a serving of the dinner you had prepared earlier. “what then, arb?” you raised a brow. 

he smiled into his fist as you slid his plate across the island. “you’re a piece of work,” his eyes darted to the food, “and you didn’t have to make me dinner, sweetheart. m’selfish, already take so much from you.” 

his honesty was a rolling boil, heavy in the air–heater thrumming to fill the silence. you tried not to notice how the kitchen seemed to accommodate his size easily. like there was something missing from atop that stool under the island–until his oversized frame was above it. having him near you felt like the final piece in a puzzle–one you’d been working on tirelessly for years. 

maybe that relief–that feeling that there was something terribly right about being in a space with him–is what forced honesty from you as well. “i love it; you know i’ll keep letting you take,” you leaned against the counter, “now eat–it's getting cold.” 

he stared at you for a moment, still eye-level despite being sat. “i don’t know,” he said slowly, picking up his fork. at your confused look, he continued. “i don’t really know how much you’d let me take,” your fingers flexed silently toward nothing, chest rising quicker, “but i do think about it. all the time.” 

he started eating like he didn’t know how your head was spinning, how your ears burned at the ends, how the air surrounding him seemed to mock you; in how easily it willed to fit around him–comically tall and broad–and yet, unwilling to fit you into your own space.

 jealousy and something distinctly other gripped your neck and squeezed–what was this sensation? 

the clattering of his fork on the plate shook you from your frantic state. “so, so good,” he groaned, smirking slightly. was he fucking with you? “thank you, sweetheart.” 

mindlessly nodding, his grin got larger–more evil–as he placed his dishes in the sink and began washing them. your eyes tracked the tendons in his hands as they moved amongst the soap and water–scars slightly red and raised. 

he dried them and put everything away wordlessly–how did he know where everything went? too soon, he was right in front of you. shrinking away slightly, your lower back dug into the countertop; neck craning upward, your eyes were slow to meet his. 

he cocked his head. you knew you weren’t being as subtle as you had hoped–the craving rippling off of you and into the space in between. 

“anytime, arb,” your voice was distracted, head hazy. leaning forward, he caged you against the counter with his arms. it was suddenly too warm–far too warm. he nestled his head against your neck; smell of him overwhelmingly comforting. even your own body seemed to be eager to keep a place for him–like the skin where your neck met your shoulder had found a purpose at last. 

you felt him smile against your neck when you sighed. “tell me,” his lips were soft and warm on your skin, “tell me you think about it too. about me.” 

your whine was small in your throat. how could he expect you to even put that into words–how often you thought of him? how even when he wasn’t right next to you–there was a him-shaped indentation in everything you did? 

with eyes squeezed shut, breath coming out in an open-mouthed struggle, you tilted your neck away from him–desperately trying to give him more space on your neck. he bit down softly; smiled at your breathy gasp. “who would’ve thought?” his question punctuated by his tongue dragging up near your ear. “that someone as sweet, as good as you,” your whimper seemed impossibly loud in your ears, “would make these filthy little sounds, all for me?” 

your hips shifted embarrassingly–desperate for more; anything. he laughed; a cruel sound–and stepped back. the space between you was liquid–a smokey mirror that moved before your eyes. 

you pouted, eyes searching for something familiar amidst the smoke. chest rising and falling rapidly, you were only met with dark eyes blown wide and a sideways grin; oh how easily you could get familiar with the burning in your stomach and the blush in your cheeks. 

watching him wordlessly–frozen in place against the counter–he turned to look at you before moving to open the door. “thanks again for dinner, darling.” his voice was gravelly. “i’m right next door when you need me.” 

stunned into silence, your mind seemed to melt onto the counter. heat rippled from the door even in his absence. how were you always reduced to a mess around him? and why did it feel so nice? 

walking back to the door, you slid the locks shut–surprising you when they weren't scalding hot. with one last shaky exhale, you turned off the lights in the hallway and the kitchen–some weak attempt at clearing the air. 

the heater hummed disapprovingly as you fantasized about the other ways to clear the air between you and your neighbor. the wooden floor scolded you for the vast space you had left in-between. it suddenly felt unbearable. you groaned, head in your hands. 

here she goes again, the apartment gossiped to itself. here i go again, you thought to yourself as the snow kissed the wood of the window pane silently. 

…

sometime within the next week, the snow paused for a couple days. you had given arber space–too much space, in your opinion. there was something frightening about becoming so comfortable; so used to his space intertwining with yours. 

so the choice might’ve been a foolish one, but there were worse things to be. 

needing a breath of fresh air–or a shock to your system–you slid open the window and crawled onto the fire escape. slightly damp metal was freezing under your socks as the crisp breeze whipped around your bare legs. your breath was cut short; cheeks immediately windswept. 

it was uncomfortable–obviously–but there was something so needed about it. taking as deep a breath as you could muster, you wrapped your arms around yourself and closed your eyes, sitting on the stairs lightly. 

teeth chattering violently, a smile twisted onto your face. that same sensation of growing to an obscene size overtook your chest and you let it–willed it to swallow you whole. 

“you ignoring me, sweetheart?” his deep voice carried across from his fire escape. eyes snapping open, you couldn’t quite wipe the smile off your face. the window pane screamed at you to quit the odd smile. you couldn’t bring yourself to. cocked your head. 

“not particularly,” your tone was firm despite the chattering teeth. “you could’ve come over to see me too, you know.” he faltered for a moment. 

“you’re right. m’sorry darling, been so busy.” his gaze was soft, countering the hard chill surrounding you both. 

“s’been a while since you’ve said that,” you smiled at the realization. “sorry for nothing.” 

“is that right?” he paused and wrapped his hands around a metal bar of the railing. “probably a byproduct of being around you.” a heavy pause. “or maybe i just haven’t done anything to you that has warranted an apology,” careful consideration painted his face even lovelier in the light emanating from his open window, “have i?”

your curtains whipped against the wooden pane loudly as your smile broadened. teeth stilled and your body felt warm–somehow. you nodded. 

“and what have i done to you, darling?” he narrowed his eyes, unsure. 

“not what you have done,” your smile was cathartic, “it’s what you haven’t.” your eyes were surely aflame in the dim light. you watched him swallow. “get me so worked up, arber,” you pouted, “always leave me to take care of myself.” 

his knuckles were white against the metal–gripping it so tightly you feared it would break. hoped it might. embers burned lowly in your chest. “but that’s not even the worst part, arb.” 

he hummed, eyes barely visible across the way. did you look as crazed as you felt? was your tone as scalding hot as it felt in your throat? 

“worst part is that i can’t even get myself off anymore,” your pout deepened, “not when you’re just through the wall–when i know you’re there.” his breath was visible in the space between; coming out short and fast. “can’t do it myself when i know i could have you instead.” 

his eyes shut momentarily; granted you the opportunity to leave him just as he’d left you–desperately wanting. quickly and quietly, you pushed up from your seat and climbed back into your apartment–sliding the window to a close loudly. so he’d open his eyes. so he’d see the place you used to be. 

a cruel combination of burning up and freezing cold, you shut off the light in your bedroom and climbed under the covers, pulling the blankets up to your chin. as you listened for nothing, something, anything–you heard his own window close, his sink turn on and off. 

wishing you could float through the wall and feel his body heat all around you, you decided that these blankets wouldn’t do; throwing them off, you huffed dramatically. were you hallucinating the creak in the bed frame across the wall? 

perhaps. but you were past the point of no return–imagining him laying in his own bed just next door. your mind was quick to spin this wheel; picturing him palming himself through his clothes, remembering how you left practically panting on the fire escape, imagining his warm hands wrapped around your neck. 

a small whine built in the back of your throat as your fingers moved down to your folds–embarrassingly wet–and began rubbing slow circles around your clit. eyes squeezed shut, mind occupied with the idea of him pulling long, languid strokes over his cock. you moaned into the empty room at the mere idea of how perfect all of his weight on top of you would feel. 

as pressure clustered behind your ribs and gripped your hips, your phone vibrated beside you. 

somehow, you knew who it was. leaving it on the bedding, you pressed the receive button and put him on speaker. 

“you’re filthy, you know that?” his voice was immediate, “think i can’t hear you moaning like a whore through this wall?” you whimpered in response, feeling the ghost of his fingers in your mouth; visual of his thighs stretching as he sat in your kitchen painting the inside of your eyelids.

“i needed you to hear,” your voice was shaky, “need you, arb.” you weren’t sure if his groan was through the receiver or the wall. 

“can hear how wet you are through the phone, sweetheart,” he spoke slowly, carefully. “can’t do it by yourself, yeah? get too dumb too quick?” thumb moving faster over your clit, you sunk two fingers into yourself. your whine was guttural as you heard him spit into his hand. 

“s’okay darling, ove how slutty you get,” his voice was tight, “gonna tell me how you like it? what you think of when you touch yourself?” 

the pressure coiled viciously in your abdomen. “you, arb,” your voice was little more than a breath, “your mouth, your hands around my throat, all of you.” 

“yeah? you like it hard, huh; a little rough?” his breathing was sporadic through the line. 

“yeah,” you said lamely, nodding at nobody, “love it, i can take it.” 

“oh?” tone low, you hoped he was as close as you were. “how much can you take?” he spit out quickly, “how many fingers do you shove into that pretty cunt and imagine it’s my cock instead?” 

you could’ve been floating off the bed–so, so close as sweat slicked your hair to your forehead, teeth rendering your lips swollen and parted. where did he get such a dirty mouth? you moaned loudly at the thought–knowing he could hear it through the wall. 

“three,” you admitted, sliding another in; your own slick coating your fingers obscenely. he swore under his breath–had to be close too. 

he clicked his tongue–disapprovingly, almost–and cleared his throat, like he was about to make an unprompted public service announcement. your hips lifted to grind against your hand. “oh, sweetheart,” his tone was condescending and slow-moving, “three definitely won’t be enough.”  

a cruel, shrill dial tone rang in your ears, edging you off of your high abruptly. without his voice to talk you through it, you suddenly felt dirty–drenched in sweat, slick coating your inner thighs. you could’ve screamed–would’ve, if you weren’t so sure he’d hear it. 

he did not just hang up on you. 

but he did. as your breathing slowed, you wiped your hands on the blanket and looked to the ceiling in frustration. it blushed and refused to meet your eyes–you didn’t blame it. 

…

your frustration bubbled to an angry boil–making your skin hot at all hours of the day, even when the winter air attempted to bite it away. 

you felt like a hologram–almost glitching through your daily routine; looking over your shoulder in hopes that his shadow would be trailing you instead of your own. 

but it never did. 

for the next week, he wasn’t in the hallway. wasn’t in the mailroom with windswept cheeks. wasn’t chatting with the doorman in the lobby. wasn’t on the fire escape, the laundry room. and he definitely wasn’t knocking at your door. 

it was nearly painful. where is he? your kitchen asked, chair unhappy when not supporting his weight. where is he? your door questioned, bored when his knuckles weren’t tapping loudly upon it. all the space he took up was unbearably empty–and you had the horrid thought that if he was right next to you, if he was in your space–that’s all it would take to feel full again. 

nervous energy radiated off of you in haphazard waves. distracted, restless; no stimulation felt quite enough–and you knew why. it hurt that you knew exactly what you needed. 

your sigh came out frustrated, heavy, as you fumbled with your keys whilst holding your laundry in a basket against your hip. it had only been a week–you scolded yourself–so why were your fingers trembling? 

footsteps thumped against the wood of the stairs. had you imagined the sound? your hands froze in place, entire body rigid in front of the door. pulse picked up–as if your body knew it was him before you had confirmation. his footsteps stalled in front of his door. 

“here–let me help you, sweetheart,” his voice was low and rough. your eyes fluttered shut at the sound. how had you gone so long without his body heat hovering around you? without the smell of him sticking to your skin? 

too quickly, he was in your space. wide palm taking the key from your hand and pressing it into the doorknob, twisting deftly. other hand coming to the small of your back to steady you and your laundry basket–you were so overwhelmed with him that you could’ve cried. 

your exhale was staggered and you were doing a shameful job of hiding how easily you leaned into his touch; into him. 

craning up to look at him over your shoulder, your lips came to an easy pout at how dark his eyes were; how cloudy. was it possible he had felt as off as you did this past week? 

“arb,” your tone did little to hide your relief; little more than a whisper as your eyes drifted to his lips and back up. “missed you.”

he hummed, thumb rubbing circles on your back. “oh yeah? and what’d you miss about me, darling?” 

and it probably should’ve been humiliating–how quickly you snapped, completely and totally. dropping the laundry basket to the ground with no regard for the clothes now littering the ground, a whine escaped your pout–clipped and desperate. 

with your now free hands, you pulled him down by the neck of his hoodie and kissed him hard enough to bruise. he smirked against your mouth and gripped the base of your skull firmly–deepening the kiss still. pushing open your door with his other hand, he backed you into your own space like it was his own. it likely already was. 

unwilling to make it down the entryway, the kiss turned frantic–you whining into his mouth; desperate, nonsensical whimpers for more that he just swallowed and smirked at. he pushed you up against the other side of your door; hinges creaking slightly.

he nudged your legs apart further with his knee–hips immediately finding his thigh, chasing friction with a vengeance. your moan came out as more of a choked sob, hand slapping over your mouth to muffle the sound. he hummed thoughtfully. 

“been so mean to you, sweetheart, made you wait too long, yeah?” you nodded, hair sliding against the door. “i mean, look at you–grinding like that on my thigh; s’all you been thinking about, isn’t it?” 

the sensation of his muscles flexing under you provided a terribly lovely friction, his words too much–your moan came out wet, tears dripping down your cheeks and off your jaw. your eyes squeezed so tight the corners were white. 

“i made you desperate like this, didn’t i?” his gaze was disbelieving, like a child looking up at himself on a jumbotron. “made a nice girl like you go dumb for it? i’m sorr–” you kissed him again, crushingly hard–wished to kiss every sorry out of his mouth for the rest of your life; to taste the word on your tongue and swallow it whole. 

with shaky hands, you reached between you and pulled him out of his clothes–an involuntary sigh escaping when you finally felt him heavy in your palm. he hissed as you started pumping slowly, watching with wide eyes, transfixed by his abdomen tensing daintily, his low groans–was this a dream? 

“how’re you not just in my head?” you whispered–slightly awestruck–against his mouth, speeding up your strokes–a fog settling over you both at the vulnerability in the question. his moan scraped against his teeth, rough palm turning you around and slamming your chest against the door; the sting delicious on your collar bones. 

“waited long enough, yeah? gonna let me ruin you just how you like it?” your nod was frantic against the door. 

“please, please arber, i can take it.” moving your clothes aside, he pumped himself a few times, mumbling something under his breath before finally sinking into you completely. 

your head was light, face messy–unsure what was tears and what was sweat–or was it spit? your mouth opened, unable to make a sound. “tell me, sweetheart,” his voice low in your ear, “how’s that feel?” 

your head lolled against the door. “i-arb, i can’t, you feel–feels–” 

“oh, come on,” his laugh was mean. “you can do better than that.” 

his pace increased, splitting you apart from the hilt. pressure in your stomach built and trembled. “please, arber, you can go harder.” tears tasted salty in your mouth. “you make it hurt so good, feels so good, please,” you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed as you begged, cheek pressed against the door. 

chest swelling and limbs stretching, his body weight pressing you against the door couldn’t quite ground you to your body; you felt like a ghost looking down on yourself. 

“that’s my girl,” he praised, “how’re you this wet? practically sucking me in.” you fucked yourself back on his cock, hoping his thumbprints would bruise your hips. “such a pretty thing, dripping all over me–just like you wanted, yeah?” 

you nodded, stars creeping into the corners of your eyes, blood rushing to your head. it was too much–the weeks of frustration fizzing and popping around you–hot tears fled down your face and stuck to your skin; tacky and sticky. you fluttered around him–his own groan feeling far away in your ears. 

it didn’t matter how large your body seemed to grow–there was nothing but this; unbearable pleasure. nothing but him–everywhere. 

“too much, arb,” you breathed out all at once as he pressed the heel of his hand into your stomach. the combination of sensations pushed a whine from your throat. “can’t–too big; splitting me in half.”

“taking a cock too big for you, yeah? and you love it,” you could tell he was grinning by the way the words took shape behind you. he pushed his hand harder into your belly. “can you feel me, right here?” 

unable to respond, your mouth fell open again–his hand snaking up to grip your throat, as if he could choke the words from your mouth. his pace was brutal as he slammed into you fully. “give it to me, sweetheart,” he squeezed the sides of your neck. “so good, letting me take you like this–be good and come for me, darling, that’s it.” 

you clenched around him as you came–teary sobs wracking your throat and muscles spasming against his own. his groan was rough in your ear as he spilled into you–body weight crushing you against the door. the atmosphere around you both rippled with heat like a live wire. 

the air around you glanced knowingly to the space surrounding him. about time, they gossiped in a whisper. you smiled lazily, still pressed against the door. his arms–dewy with sweat–wrapped around you and tugged you closer to him still; would it ever be enough? would the space between you both ever be reduced to a margin that left you satiated?

you felt him smile into the place between your shoulder blades–as if you had dedicated that skin to him in that first moment you met him–and decided that the answer was likely a resounding no; absolutely not.

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