ᯓ★zombiigirlxD

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Anthropogenic perturbations of biogeochemical cycling may induce nonlinear ecosystem responses that are temporally decoupled from the initial forcing mechanism.

You’re about thirty pages into chapter nine of your assigned reading.

Thirty pages?

No.

Three pages.

Though thirty sounds more accurate. Your crusty eyeballs, along with the pins and needles in your ass would agree.

You readjust in your seat in a lousy attempt to provide some extra blood flow to your sore cheeks, and press your shoulder blades together. The sound your spine makes is fucking euphoric, but still doesn’t do anything to mitigate the fact that you have twenty-six more pages left. Not to mention drafting up a discussion post.

Identify one concept from the reading that surprised you and explain its implications for environmental management.

A concept from the reading that surprised you? That’s a knee-slapper for sure. Don’t think the author of Emergent Dynamics of Disturbed Biogeochemical Systems had the element of surprise in mind when they wrote the damn thing. Unless you count the ability to put readers in a mental coffin.

The magnitude and directionality of these responses are frequently mediated by cross-scale feedback processes operating across heterogeneous spatial and temporal gradients.

Genuinely what the fuck. This shit may as well have been written in ancient Sumerian.

You highlight one more paragraph (that doesn’t make a lick of sense, but sounds important, maybe?), before planting your greasy forehead on the textbook itself - the gloss coating of the paper sticking to your skin. You’d scrawled something about equilibrium-state predictions in the margins, which is currently under your unwashed face and probably staining your forehead.

What time is it?

Your hand reaches for your phone, and you reluctantly peel your face off the page to glance at the display.

1:38 AM.

Not too late. You’ve stayed up much later for less important things. But less important things are also funner things. Ignore the bad grammar. You’re majoring in environmental science, not English lit.

You take a drawn-out sip of your lukewarm can of Monster and readjust the raggedy bun on your head. It’s been tugging at one spot for a while now and hasn’t been helpful in keeping your attention where it’s supposed to be. You get through maybe five more pages (a miracle in itself), all the while shifting in your faux leather IKEA chair that has your thighs sticking to its surface.

Such dynamics complicate the attribution of causality, as observed system states may represent the cumulative outcome of interacting legacy effects and transient perturbation pathways.

Alright. That’s enough. It’s due tomorrow night anyways. You can cram the rest in tomorrow during your three-hour gap between ENVS 302 and STAT 200. You’re telling yourself this now, but future you is gonna hate you for sure. Regardless, future you has no concept of existence right now, so present you can take the lead on this decision.

You rip your thighs from the leather with a groan and grab your laptop off the desk, tossing it and yourself onto the wrinkled comforter of your bed. You’ve been crumpled in that worn-out chair for far too long, so stretching out your body has happy tingles rippling across your nerves. Honestly? It’s about time you got rid of it. It was a gift from one of your friends before she’d moved in with her boyfriend. Well… gift is a loose word. More of a hand-me-down. Either way, free chair. You were in no position to complain then, so you took it like the broke college student you were.

Still in college (unfortunately), but not broke anymore. Might be time to go for something more ergonomic. You’ll scroll through Amazon later, but right now you’ll reward yourself by hitting a blinker and checking your inbox.

‘Cause weed cancels out caffeine, right?

With your faculties effectively fried and your immediate area smelling like blueberry-flavoured skunk, you’re greeted to an inbox full of inquiries and nothing but time to deal with them. Your fingers swipe along the trackpad and pull up one email:

Hello Lilith,

I came across your website and would like to inquire about availability for a first-time appointment.

I am interested in booking a two-hour engagement on April 17th, sometime after 7PM if possible. I would be happy to meet at a hotel downtown, or alternatively at a location you prefer.

This would be my first time meeting with you. I am 42 years old, work in finance, and am able to provide any screening information you require. Please let me know if that date is available and what additional information you may need from me.

Thank you for your time.

Best,

Michael

Wow. Okay. Corny as fuck. You’ll file him under the performers. Also, engagement? Really? At least he sounds polite enough.

Hello Michael,

That date works for my schedule. I can arrive at 8:30 PM if that time is appropriate.

Please send over the required screening information so I can approve the appointment. I ask that you review my rates, booking policies, and boundaries prior to the appointment time.

I also require a pre-paid deposit, which would be half of the overall rate. I accept either Paypal, Venmo, or Cash App.

Let me know if you have any further questions.

Thank you,

Lilith

The name Lilith isn’t necessarily something you had dwelled on. There was no way in hell you were gonna use your real one when you got into the business, but names like Vivienne or Juliette just weren’t palatable enough. Never felt high-end enough to carry them with confidence anyways.

From what you remember, it may have been a Biblical reference or something? Roughly translated to screech owl or night monster.

It fit perfectly.

So here you are. Toting around a name that essentially has you branded as The Night Goblin, and whoring yourself out to fund your college education… as well as your avid booster pack addiction.

In all fairness, the special illustration Latias ex you pulled last week has a pretty solid resale value, so it’s not like you blew $150 on twenty Surging Sparks packs for nothing.

‘Kay… moving on…

Pulling up the next email, your fingers stall on the trackpad as you read the following:

Hey Lilith,

I'll be back in town next week and wanted to see if you're available Friday evening.

I've been thinking about our last appointment quite a bit. I felt like we had a really good connection, and I'd love the chance to spend more time together. Honestly, things felt a little formal at times, so I was hoping we could be a bit more relaxed this time around.

Since we've already met, I'd rather skip some of the usual back-and-forth if possible. Let me know what your availability looks like.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

David

…ugh.

Oh David. Sweet, stupid David. It’s hard not to feel sorry for him, considering his mind has already blown past all forms of professionalism. Your last encounter with him was more than enough to plant him in the entitleds category. Hard. No debate on that one.

Hello David,

I will have to respectfully decline this appointment request due to the nature of our last encounter.

To clarify, my site clearly states my boundaries and expectations, which I require every client to read and acknowledge prior to our appointment time.

We had agreed on pricing, though you were insistent that I offer you a discount due to your being late. I want to reiterate that it is your responsibility to show up on time, and failure to do so will not result in any leeway on my end.

Additionally, I was not comfortable with the way you conducted yourself. Upon my arrival, I found you to be mildly inebriated. You were also operating outside of our agreed-upon services, which I found to be disrespectful.

I hope this provides some understanding, and if you ever choose to engage in these services with another individual in the future, that you treat them the way you would any other provider.

Sincerely,

Lilith

Translation: his drunk ass wanted anal play when he absolutely did not want to pay for anal play.

You’re too nice sometimes. Could have just told him to fuck off via email, but you’re courteous to a fault. The prick didn’t even tip…

Soliciting yourself has never really been an issue. Sure, you had the option to just provide the girlfriend experience, but the sex never bothered you as much as it maybe should. Chalk it up to a traumatic childhood? Nah, too cliche. It really just boils down to the fact that anything feels like work, no matter what you do. Listening to a guy complain about property tax over a handjob? Sure, as long as you get paid for it.

You scroll through a couple more emails, and each one is more or less the same. Most fall into the transactionals category, which is honestly the easiest to deal with. They know what they want, they know what you don’t want. In and out (pun intended), easy money.

A couple of regulars here and there, mostly lonely talkers or chemistries. A bit harder to deal with, given what they usually bring to the table, but you can work with them. Seeing them regularly helps to navigate their preferences better anyways.

You pull another long drag from your dab pen, taking a minute to let your vision adjust before moving on to the next email.

Hello Lilith,

Two-hour appointment request for Saturday, 9 PM.

First-time client. Will provide screening details as required.

Leon

Hmm…

Straight to the point. Gotta give him credit for that.

Funny. He’s not even trying to immediately get on your good side. Not even a ‘hope to hear from you soon’. A lot of guys forget that as long as payment’s on the table, the emails don’t have to be flirty or over-explanatory.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard, forming a drafted reply.

Hello Leon,

Saturday at 9 PM works for my availability.

I ask that you carefully review my rates, booking policies, and boundaries prior to the appointment time. 

Please send over all of the required screening information within this email thread. Also, please indicate if there are any add-ons you are interested in, and I will review.

Thank you,

Lilith

Your laptop gives off a satisfying whoosh as you send off the email. With your inbox effectively empty, you roll onto your back and expel a soft sigh, allowing the cannabinoids to work their magic on your overworked brain.

Not even five minutes go by before your laptop lets off a soft ping.

Hello Lilith,

I have reviewed your rates, booking policies, and boundaries.

I would like to proceed with a two-hour appointment on Saturday at 9 PM.

Add-ons: none requested at this time. I am open to your recommendation within your guidelines.

Screening information:

Age: 49

Occupation: Federal contractor

Location: Harbourview Plaza Hotel

7420 Westhaven Drive

Identification: Government-issued ID attached to this email

Reference: First-time client, no prior bookings

I understand and agree to your screening process and terms. I will also send over the deposit before our meeting, as stated on your website.

Leon

Quick and dirty, huh? Falls into the transactionals… probably.

You type up another reply, sending off a Google Calendar invite, along with your payment links and a reiterated list of your policies.

Can’t be too careful.

With that, you’re finally able to snap your laptop closed and fully succumb to the THC-induced drowsiness that’s been creeping up on you for the past ten minutes.

⋆｡°✩ 

Screw stoned, past you.

Your three-hour gap between classes wasn’t nearly enough to cram twenty-one more pages of indecipherable jargon. Thankfully, your statistics professor is old as dirt and halfway blind, so you’re able to catch up on your required reading amidst his droning on about regression models and how everything apparently becomes linear if you stare at it long enough or whatever.

Granted, you did submit the discussion post two minutes past the deadline, but you actually put some thought into it, so maybe your ingenious commentary on threshold-dependent ecosystem change will earn you brownie points.

If not, you could always just offer up your services to your professor for extra credit. It’s not like he isn’t the same demographic as most of your clients.

Okay chill. That was a joke.

Anyways…

The rest of the week trudges along with minimal fuss. Two essays and a group presentation are unceremoniously dumped on your plate (‘cause none of the faculty members communicate with each other apparently), but they’re not due for another two weeks, so you have time to put them off until the last minute as usual.

Saturday eventually rolls around. Leon was prompt with the deposit. Sent it the day after you approved the appointment, actually. Already setting a good precedent.

Definitely a transactional.

The clock ticks past 8 PM as you swipe on sparkly lip gloss in front of your bathroom mirror. You usually try to keep your makeup simple. Not full glam, but not minimal enough that your eye bags shine through. Enough concealer to cover up your stress-induced acne that’s stubbornly decided to make its presence known, and a generous amount of blush to give off that cutesy ‘girl next door who’s also secretly a horny freak if you’d like to find out’ kinda vibe.

Older guys eat that shit up for some mildly gross reason.

You settle on a black, lace bralette, with a matching pair of string underwear that rounds out your ass effectively. Is it comfortable? Well, that depends. Is giving yourself a wedgie on purpose comfortable? Literally nobody asked, but no.

Finishing it all off with a ruffled skirt and a fitted navy sweater, you grab your clutch off the kitchen counter, already stuffed with a wad of condoms and pepper spray, and head out to meet your Uber.

⋆｡°✩ 

The cold, evening spring air bites at your exposed skin the moment you step out of the car door.

As you approach the rotating front doors, the impressive architecture of the Harborview looms high above you. It’s a pretty popular location of interest, and one you’ve frequented regularly. A lot of clients have money to burn, and decide to spend it on theatrics… not that you’re complaining. Beats the roach-infested motels you’ve met others at, and sworn you’d never step foot in again.

The gooseflesh pricking your legs breathe a silent thank-you once you step foot into the lobby, and you’re immediately enveloped by the warm, velvet and gold-trimmed atmosphere. It’s populated by hotel staff and patrons alike, each absorbed in the sort of quiet routines that make expensive hotels feel perpetually lived in. Bellhops wheel polished luggage across the marble floor while guests linger in velvet armchairs over coffee and evening cocktails. Nobody pays you a second glance.

You fish around in your purse for your phone and pull up the email thread.

Room 517.

Executive level, huh? Fancy.

You make your way into the elevator and press the fifth floor button, leaning against the mirrored walls as the doors slide shut. The steady crawl upwards gives you time to touch up your makeup and lay your styled hair in an aesthetic enough fashion. Likely won’t stay that way, but for now, you’ll care enough to try.

The elevator dings quietly, followed by the doors opening up to the designated floor. Your heels scuff along the carpeted hallway, and lift up soft floral notes that likely indicate it’s been shampooed recently. These kinds of places do it almost daily. Overkill if anyone were to ask you, but again, nobody did. So…

You pass a few numbered doors before landing on 517. Bringing your hand up, you leave a swift series of knocks on its polished wooden surface.

Roughly five seconds pass.

Click.

The door swings open and-

…oh.

Okay. Just to backtrack a smidge.

Looks don’t matter.

Hilarious, considering you were just preening yourself in the elevator mirrors.

To clarify, your clients’ looks don’t matter. What? Think cherry-picking based on generalized attractiveness is part of your screening? Kinda defeats the whole purpose of paying for sex. In a way, it’s almost easier to perform when they look average at best. Not to be a hater, mind you. You’re only as judgmental as the next person.

Though it’s hard to be judgmental when the figure standing in the doorway happens to have stepped right out of a Viagra ad.

Maybe it’s the fact that his arms could be labelled as heavy machinery, given how toned they are. Or that his dress shirt sleeves are doing absolutely nothing to hide them. Damn, his hair is long… for someone his age, anyways. Dirty blonde, and swept back from his face, with loose strands falling forward over his blue-grey eyes. Still slightly damp, likely from having just showered a few minutes prior. He’s also got stubble that suggests he forgot what a razor looked like three days ago.

In any case, you’d have to be blind and senile not to notice the bottom line: This guy’s hot as hell.

“You Lilith?”

Get it together.

"I am. Leon?"

He nods once and opens the door a crack to allow you inside.

The hotel room, unlike the man occupying it, gives about as much as you expected. Plush carpeted flooring. Curtains long enough to skim the ground and thick enough to block any light threatening to pass through. Two black leather sofas sit opposite each other, with a glass coffee table in between. A minibar sits tucked away in the corner of the room, already housing a bottle and glass of Jack Daniel’s. Across the lounge area, another door lies halfway open, revealing a sliver of more fluffy carpeting and a king-size bed.

You’re still taking in your surroundings and revelling in the fact that an absolute unit has decided to book with you, an absolute dingus, when he speaks up.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

He nods towards the couches while walking over to the minibar and picks up the half-filled glass.

“Want somethin’ to drink?”

You immediately shake your head.

“No thanks. I don’t drink during bookings. Especially with first-timers.”

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, and he leans against one of the varnished wooden cupboards.

“Always?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah…”

“Good call.”

He takes a slow sip, polishing off the rest of the glass and setting it back down on the minibar counter. Despite his nodded invitation, you’re still standing with your feet planted and heels sinking into the carpet fibres. Not bothering to wait for you to move, he strides over to the couch and falls into it with an aged groan.

His head tips forward to give you a questioning look.

“You come with an on switch? Or what?”

You blink.

Right.

The job.

Truth be told, you’d spent so long sorting men into neat little boxes that sometimes it takes a minute for your brain to catch up whenever a new one shows up.

The transactionals. The lonely talkers. The performers. The chemistries. The entitleds.

Most men fit somewhere.

The transactionals are the easiest. They want exactly what they paid for and nothing more. No awkward attempts at friendship. No emotional unloading. No pretending this is anything other than a business arrangement.

The lonely talkers are almost the opposite. Half the time, they seem more interested in conversation than anything else. Recently divorced. Maybe widowed. Working sixty-hour weeks and realizing one day that they hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in months.

Then the performers.

Those ones are easy to spot. Every email sounds like it’s been workshopped by a committee. They want to seem charming. Sophisticated. Different from other clients.

Usually they’re not.

The chemistries are trickier.

Not because they’re dangerous.

But because they’re fun.

Good conversationalists. Easy to be around. The appointments feel shorter than they actually are. You still maintain boundaries, obviously, but they make the hours pass quickly.

The entitleds can go fuck themselves.

Those ones think paying for your time means buying pieces of you. Usually starting small. Requests for discounts. Requests for exceptions. Requests for things that hadn't been agreed on beforehand.

Every category serves a purpose.

And people are easier when they come with labels.

It’s just a little hard to figure out which box Leon belongs in yet. His email already had you pegging him as a transactional, but transactionals don’t usually cater to your comfort before having their way with you.

So the jury’s still out on that one.

He gestures for you over and pats the material of his jeans. Icky. A hot kind of icky, though. The sort of icky that only looks good on a man like him. Walking over to the edge of the couch, you slip off your heels before planting your ass on his toned thigh.

He’s definitely not one to skip out on leg day, that’s for sure.

With you firmly seated on his lap like a mall Santa, he — unlike a mall Santa — wraps his arm around your waist and settles his hand on one of your legs, thumb tracing your kneecap with a thoughtful expression.

“You find the place okay?”

Another nod from you.

“Yeah. Don’t have enough fingers to count how many times I’ve been here.”

He chuckles softly. “Experience under your belt, huh? Should count myself lucky.”

His calloused hand glides along the supple skin of your thigh — heavy and possessive — just barely brushing the hem of your skirt before travelling back down again. He makes a couple more passes like this, making no move to traverse any higher than your skirt line.

He doesn’t offer much else in terms of conversation, which you could just chalk up to him being shy or something (though his fingers are pretty much sandwiched between your legs now, so that might be a poor assumption). After a couple ticks of quiet, you reach into your metaphorical bag of ‘idle pre-fucking’ chit-chat topics.

“So… Federal contractor,” You murmur sweetly, switching on your crafted charm. “Is that as boring as it sounds on paper?”

He leans his head back against the couch as amusement spreads across his features, hands still continuing their exploration.

“Depends on your definition of boring. Keeps me from goin’ stir-crazy, but I ain’t about to call it a hobby.”

“Well, what do you do exactly?”

“Can’t tell you that. Sorry, sweetheart.”

Figures. Can’t be one to judge, though. How many times have you lied to your clients about your own life? At least he’s got the balls to tell it like it is.

But you offer a sweet pout anyways. The one that usually has men falling for you hook, line and sinker.

“Aww… come on. Can I have a teeny tiny hint?” You coo, following it up with your head coming to rest on his shoulder and a hand to his broad chest.

He offers a raised eyebrow, clearly catching on to the fact that you’re fishing for his attention, but nothing about his demeanour suggests he has any intention of pulling back. Instead, he readjusts you in his lap to where you’re snuggled up next to him, and twirls a lock of your hair with the hand that’s not preoccupied with your legs.

“I clean up messes.” He shrugs. “Usually after they’ve gotten wildly outta hand.”

With a soft giggle and your eyelashes fluttering, you trace the indentation of his chest through his dress shirt, popping one button open and revealing skin dusted with scars and a thin layer of hair.

“Mm. Sounds stressful.” You tilt your head, lashes fluttering up at him. “Should I start charging hazard pay?”

Each word pours from your mouth with the thickness of wet cement, yet the taste of each one overwhelmingly saccharine. Cavity-inducing, if you will. His laugh comes out short and disbelieving, yet all too telling. The laugh of a man who’s ultimately fallen into your lap, even though you’re physically in his.

“Damn. You really do this for a livin’.” He murmurs, the roughness in his voice settling into something lower, almost appreciative. “Guessin’ this is why your rates are higher than your competition?”

“I suppose I just know my own value.”

Your egotistical statement is punctuated by your hand sliding further down his chest and snapping open another button. With his shirt unbuttoned to his pecs, you’re able to trail your hand under the fabric and palpate hard muscle under warm skin.

He groans softly, eyes following your hand with a lazy, half-lidded focus. His hand stills during the upward pass along your legs, just below your skirt, once again. This time, however, he gingerly slips past the hemline, travelling higher and gripping the dough of your upper thigh. 

“Is that so?” He breathes. His other hand releases the lock of hair curled around his finger, and instead slides up your back until he’s gripping the nape of your neck.

“Better get my money’s worth then.”

His hold on your neck tightens, manipulating the angle so your head’s tipped back and neck’s bared. He leans in closer, lips brushing faintly before pressing into your skin. They’re coarse enough that the friction has your skin prickling, but the action’s gentle enough that you keen from it anyways. He continues on, peppering your neck with fleeting kisses that have you squirming and giggling on top of the overtly hardening bulge in his jeans.

A chemistry instead? Maybe…

Not much time to dwell on that, though. He plants one more kiss to the bottom of your jaw, before patting your thigh like you’re some kind of prized horse. Nothing new, really. Not exactly flattering either, but again, not new.

“Alright, sweetheart. Want you to sit on me proper. Gotta get a good look at ya.”

He shifts you along his lap and pulls your legs to where they’re bracketing his own. His hands settle onto your hips, thumbs tracing small circles into the exposed skin where your sweater meets your waistline. Your skirt’s ridden up to the point where it’s revealing more than it’s covering, but he doesn’t seem to take it as a problem, by any means. One hand leaves your hip to ghost up your side, stopping just under the swell of your chest.

"How old are you, anyway?" he asks suddenly, voice gruffer than before. "Too young to be doing this, probably."

Despite the words, his hands don't move away. You give an experimental roll of your hips against his clothed hard-on.

“I’ll be twenty-six next month.”

“...so...twenty-five.” He repeats, the number rolling off his tongue like a verdict.

He exhales sharply through his nose, a dry, cynical scoff escaping him.

“Fuck me. Half my age.” 

He pauses for a moment, then his grip tightens slightly, guiding you to grind down harder against him. "You got a life ahead of you, kid. And you're spendin’ your Saturday night on my lap.”

“Well it’s not like it’s for nothing.” You say teasingly. “Assuming you’ll make it worth my while.”

“Smart mouth.” He mutters, but there's a flicker of approval in his eyes.

He doesn't deny the transaction, just leans back into the couch, letting his gaze travel shamelessly over your exposed midriff and where your skirt has hiked up. Reaching forward, he grips the edges of your sweater, peering up at you questioningly.

“Mind if I get rid of this? Don’t get me wrong, you look real sweet in it, but I think it’s overstayed its welcome.”

You nod and raise your arms over your head, allowing him to drag it clean off. The pull of his gaze as it settles on your bralette is enough to burn a hole right through you, and then some. He brushes your hair off your shoulders, and his hand lingers along one of the straps, fingers hooking under and pulling it taut before letting it snap back against your clavicle.

“So, you enjoy the work? Or just the paycheck?” He hums, tracing the outline of your nipple through the thin fabric.

Your expression sharpens a fraction before settling back to a softened grin. “Ask me in about two hours.”

“Alright.” He says, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I can work with that.”

He starts to slowly roll his hips up against you, grinding you down on his clothed cock and letting his head drop back against the couch with a rough, appreciative sound.

“Atta girl.” he mutters, tapping your ass lightly.

Your hands return to the wall of his chest. The warmth he exudes has your palms melting against him, and only furthers your drive to undo more and more buttons. He doesn't help or interfere, just watches your slender fingers work with anticipation. You peel the shirt open, exposing the solid, scar-heavy muscle beneath.

“Go ahead.” He pats your ass again. “Touch whatever you want.”

Don’t have to tell you twice.

Your fingers glide along each ridge of his chiselled torso, outlining old marrings and raking through chest hair with interest that’s ten levels above piqued. There isn’t a lick of give when your digits press into his tanned skin. Body fat isn’t applicable here, only hard-worn definition. Poking a boulder would feel one and the same.

Your focus follows the sprinkled happy trail lining the middle of his abdomen, woefully cut off by his belt. You’ve gotten pretty good at catching print over the past year, but the hard line straining against his zipper is a pretty good indicator of what you’re about to work with. Doesn’t take a dick expert to clue into what he’s packing.

Let’s face it. You’re gawking. Can’t really blame you, though. He’s got more than enough to gawk at, multiplied by fifty.

“Eyes are up here, sweetheart.” He whispers, this time dipping his hands under your skirt to directly palm your ass.

His fingers slide upwards to catch the waistband of your thin underwear and give it an insistent tug upwards. The feeling of it wedging further into your asscrack is far from comfortable, but the way it also simultaneously pulls taut against your pussy provides some contact that you didn’t realize you were craving. It has you hissing before you’re able to twist the sound into something more elegant (i.e. porn-worthy).

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip in some attempt to reorient your persona.

“Just admiring the gorgeous view.”

He scoffs quietly, though there’s no derisive undertone. More along the lines of ‘you’re treating me like a fucking sucker, but I’m here for it.’

“Workin’ hard for that tip, huh? Gotta respect that.”

“I always work hard.” You hum, pressing your upper arms to your sides. “But I also tell it like it is.”

The position does a pretty good job of squishing your tits together, something he seems to appreciate very much. You’re only proven right when his hands give one final squeeze of your ass, before leaving it entirely. They instead glide up your waist with his thumbs brushing against your belly in their wake. Reaching your chest, he traces the stretch lace bordering each cup — unhurried and measured.

You’re only offered a fleeting glance before he tugs the fabric down, bunching it under the curve of your chest and letting them spill free. His eyes immediately zero in on your tits as they fall out of their respective homes, with a gaze overtly lecherous in nature.

“...Hell.”

He studies you for a second longer, hand coming up to thumb your nipple and roll it between his rough fingers.

“You’re real pretty.” He breathes, like it’s more a fact than a compliment. 

You squirm and whine in his lap as the sensation takes a direct path to your clit. The level to which all this is affecting you is lowkey baffling. Though this isn’t the first time a client’s charmed you, so maybe it’s just ‘cause you weren’t expecting it this round.

All your wiggling works in his favour, though. It has your unhoused tits bouncing directly in his line of sight, which he watches with a relaxed, appreciative smirk. His other hand comes up to spread wide across the other, pressing calloused warmth into your soft flesh.

A breathy whimper spills from your lips. You paid it enough mind to make it sound cuter this time, but no less real than the unfiltered noise you made earlier.

“You like that?” He purrs, kneading firm and flicking your nipples into stiff, reddened peaks. “Y’like bein’ treated like a fucking plaything?”

Who’s plaything? Anybody’s?

Not really, but does anyone really enjoy doing something they’re paid for?

His, however?

“Y-Yeah…” You whine airily. “Like it a lot…”

“That right? Lettin’ me use you, baby? Gonna make the price tag worth it?”

Holy shit…

You nod eagerly.

He chuckles wickedly, letting his hands fall to your thighs and giving them a rough squeeze under your bunched-up skirt.

“C’mon then.” He nods towards his belt, voice thick with arousal. “Think I’m gonna unbuckle this myself?”

Course not. That’s what you’re here for.

Your hands waste no time in honouring his request… or command. Obviously, he doesn’t help. Just lies there like a panther sunbathing. You fumble with the buckle as you work the leather free, threading it through the metal until it falls apart. Buttons and zipper next, which are much more forgiving, considering he’s tented enough for them to come undone with minimal intervention on your part. All that’s left are his briefs — navy and taut against his evident hard-on. You graze the band with your fingertips, brushing against the thin patch of hair peeking out and drinking in the delectable sight of abdominal muscles tensing under your touch.

You’re mesmerized. Too much so. Attention so locked that the hand snaking up your spine doesn’t register. At least, not until it grips the back of your neck again and abruptly tugs you forward.

“W-What the-”

“Didn’t tell you to keep me waitin’, now did I?” He grits quietly, angling your neck in a way that forces your eyes to meet his.

Starting to almost sound like an entitled, but his grip’s too soft for the label to stick, so maybe not. Doe-eyed and lips parted, you verbalize the only sensible thing to say when a client gets a little too handsy.

“Sorry, daddy.”

Oh.

Welp.

His eyes widen.

Guess your guts are on the floor now.

Ah, yes. The classic title. Overdone and painfully millennial in your opinion, but highly requested nonetheless. Keyword being requested. It’s every middle-aged man’s wet dream to have a cute twenty-something calling them daddy while hitting it from the back. Or the front. Or wherever the fuck.

It’s never something you offer up out of your own volition.

Until now, apparently.

“Well, fuck me.” He murmurs lowly, his hand leaving your neck in favour of cupping your chin. “Keep it up, and I might just have to double down on that tip of yours.”

Being reduced to the circus monkey that dances for peanuts isn’t tasteful, by any means…

But you’ll overlook it this time.

You give another nod. Pathetically quick.

“Can… I play with your cock now, daddy?” 

Each word is enveloped in its very own candy wrapper.

He groans approvingly, sliding his hands higher and invading his thumbs into the elastic of your underwear. Not to take them off, but to have something to fiddle with while you’re busy with your own fiddling.

“Not askin’ twice, sweetheart.”

Hard to tell who’s really in who’s lap now…

Your fingers dip past his own waistband and tug it down hastily, allowing his waiting cock to spring free and slap against his abs with a particularly wet sound.

Oh goddammit.

A tiny part of your libido-driven brain (which may or may not be in charge anymore) had held onto a small sliver of hope. That you had overshot your estimate, and that his clothed erection was nothing but smoke and mirrors. Maybe that would’ve dulled the fantasy a little, allowing you to screw your head on straight and make it through this appointment without falling over dead.

But your abilities are as accurate as usual, and he’s nothing short of hung, thick, and heavy. Honestly impressive, and not something you find the average client toting around on their person. A prominent vein runs down the underside, visibly pulsing with want. The head is flushed dark, glistening faintly from the precum smearing and dribbling down the length of it all.

You swallow the saliva collecting under your tongue.

“Looks yummy, daddy.” You breathe with full intent, even though there’s no way in hell you’re about to give raw oral to a man you just met. You’ll happily jerk him off, though.

“Yeah? Bet it doesn’t taste as good as you do.”

He punctuates his statement by reaching up to grip one tit and leaning forward to suck your nipple into his mouth. Your moan is every shade of immediate and candid. Warm, slick heat continues to gather steadily between your legs with each flick of his tongue. By the time his lips let it go with a soft pop, your underwear’s good and drenched.

“Just like I thought.” He grunts, still holding your tit hostage. “Too sweet for your own good.”

His cock gives an anticipatory twitch. Not too keen on getting scolded again, you wrap your hand around the base. His breath hitches — a sharp, rough inhale through his nose. Your fingers barely meet without tourniqueting the girth of him, and it kicks in your grip the moment your hand makes a slow glide upwards. Your thumb traces the vein up to the crown, all the while palpating the rhythmic throbbing it emits.

“Goddamn…” He rasps, pressing his fingers deeper into your hipbones. “Soft hands.”

“I’ll let you know what moisturizer I use.” You giggle, adopting a slow but steady rhythm, each upstroke accented by a subtle twist of your wrist.

He lets out an amused huff, with his hips giving a shallow, involuntary micro-thrust up into your fist.

“Seems to be workin’ for you.”

Amidst your preening at his words, your free hand comes up to card his hair, which is a hell of a lot softer than your hands could ever be. The strands slide loosely between your fingers, feathering against your knuckles before slipping free. The longer pieces at his crown fall right back into place the moment you move your hand.

Honestly, if anyone in this scenario is giving product recommendations, it should be him.

Somehow, his cock starts to grow firmer with each pass of your hand. It’s only really surprising ‘cause he was already hard enough to use his dick as a battering ram, but your strokes only encourage it. Like having a mind of its own, your hand coaxes out tiny twitches that come in tandem with low, chesty grunts that continue to slip free.

Your eyes stay locked onto his as you dip your head a bit, letting your tongue loll out and dribbling a string of saliva onto his reddened tip. The trail mixes with the steady stream of precum that’s been leaking out onto your fingers. The blend of the two is enough to coat the length of him, making each pump messier, obscenely noisier, and all the more erotic

He groans at the contact, eyeing the dribbled trail connecting your tongue to the head of his cock. His hands return to the swell of your ass, kneading almost reverently.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You hum softly, leaning in closer. “About what, daddy?”

“Hell if I know.” He lets out a short breath, stomach tensing as you swipe the crown mid-upstroke. “What's your opinion on the political climate?”

The question immediately sucks you out of the motions. Your hand stalls halfway up his cock, followed by an involuntary laugh bubbling up your chest.

He shrugs.

“Didn’t know what else to ask.”

Is he fucking serious? No, he can’t be. Not with the way he’s smirking at you, which by the way is enough to make you nut on its own. Sarcastic or not, asking about anyone’s political stance, regardless of context, is a potential accident waiting to happen, and is usually reserved for Thanksgiving dinners with your extended right-wing family members.

But fine.

You’ll bite.

“Well… I think governments are terrible at planning for disasters they already know are coming.” You pause, watching him shift under you with the drag of your hand. “Also, environmental policy shouldn’t change every election cycle.”

Your answer earns you a raised eyebrow in return, in addition to his hands spreading your ass out.

“Worst ones aren't the surprises.” He offers a faint shrug. “They’re the ones people argue over until they're emergencies. Doesn’t exactly make for good policy.”

Your grip tightens along with the increased pace of your somehow bureaucratic-turned handjob. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and clutches your ass tighter, but his eyes stay focused on your face. Not your tits. Not your hand.

Just your face.

You tilt your head, humming thoughtfully.

"It’s funny. We always talk about disasters like they're singular events, but most of them are just the final symptom of years of small decisions.”

Your hand slows for a half-second, then resumes its spit-slick pumping.

“I guess that’s why prevention is so hard to sell. If it works, nothing happens. Nobody celebrates a disaster that never occurred.”

There’s a brief shift on his face. It’s subtle, but enough to question whether you’ve inadvertently dubbed yourself a political pundit. You’re about to follow it up with something sexy enough to salvage the situation, but he speaks up before you do.

“You’d get along with a couple people I’ve worked with. The ones worth talkin’ to, anyway.”

He mutters the last part under his breath. His head tips back against the couch, and his hands have, for the most part, stilled on your well-kneaded ass. His gaze stays locked on your face, though, but its horny elements have been reduced to undertones. Still ever present, though outweighed by something you can’t quite place.

Your wrist is starting to ache a bit.

“Oh, really?” You answer, replacing your dogmatic tone with a much cuter one. “Bet they’d be pretty jealous of you right now, huh?”

And just like that, the switch flips. His hands pick up where they left off, working your ass with enough technique to make fucking bagels, while his eyes reflect that familiar predatory flavour. The one that, without fail, sends your blood pooling low and molten.

“Not really one to brag about what I get up to on my days off, sweetheart, but I’d bet money on it.”

His grip leaves your ass and settles on your waist, circling his thumbs by your belly button. There’s a small uptick in his breathing, and the way his jaw is tightened is a decent enough tell on its own.

You lean forward, pressing your cheek to his. Just barely ghosting his ear with your parted lips.

“Yeah? So no one’ll know you’re gonna cum from me ranting about disaster mitigation?”

The shiver that leaves his body ripples right through yours. His fingers tighten around your waist and pull you closer, slotting his cock directly between your parted thighs. 

“I — fuck — I ain’t tellin’ a soul. Can’t have them askin’ me to share the merchandise.”

Your giggle sends another shudder across his large frame, tensing as your tongue peeks out to flick his earlobe. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples, which you dutifully lick off as you stroke his dick with filthy precision. The salt spreads across your tongue, coating your senses with desire and making you all the more feral for his impending release.

Each twist of your wrist pulls more and more sounds out of him that greatly contrast the broad-shouldered, weather-worn man you’re straddling. His hips rise with each stroke, thrusting into your fist and seeking the friction that you’re so desperately trying to deliver. The hard wall of his chest rolls in time with his laboured breaths and animates every scar littering his wrecked body.

“Where do you want it, daddy?” You whisper, breath curling against the shell of his ear.

His head dips into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply and releasing a strained groan that rolls through your chest. The vibration sparks along your nerves and waves of gooseflesh erupt across your skin in response.

“On your fuckin’ tits.” He snarls, indenting your hips with crescent moons as his nails dig into your flesh. “Wanna see those perfect things glazed.”

“Yeah? You gonna mess me up, daddy?”

“Damn right I am.”

You don't break rhythm, your wrist twisting slick and fast over the sensitive crown, aiming the thick head right at your chest. With a ragged, broken curse, his hips snap up violently.

The first spurt lands right below your chin.

The next splatters against your sternum.

The third just under the swell of your chest.

Your hand rides him through his cresting orgasm, wringing out every drop of pleasure and letting it all drip between your tits in slow, creamy lines. He’s still trembling under you, jaw clenched tight, and hair sticking to his forehead. As your strokes begin to slow, the tension banded in his limbs loosens as well, eventually replaced by a sated warmth that seeps into your frame.

His thumb comes up to swipe a thick smear across your nipple. You lean back, slowing the warm trickle of cum that’s making its way down to your belly button. His hands fall back to your thighs as he lets out a rough exhale and takes in the view. Essentially bare from the waist up, tits glowing with his cum, hair slightly mussed, and straddling his lap with your skirt bunched around your hips. His softened cock rests heavy between your thighs, still damp and smeared with your fist work.

He looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your inner thighs.

“Spread wider.” He commands softly, voice rough from his release.

You shift in his lap, peeling your skin from the leather and parting your thighs further while he pushes your skirt up completely. Your underwear’s moulded to your pussy and soaked with pent-up arousal. The sight is enough to draw a satisfied hum from his chest as he reaches forward and tugs the fabric to the side. 

“Pretty thing, isn’t she?” He breathes.

His thumb swipes your damp folds and collects some of the slick along the way, emanating a faint sticky sound with each pass of his thumb. Catching your clit in the process pulls a soft gasp before you can reel it in fast enough.

Holding up his slick-coated thumb, his eyes flit up to meet yours with a raised eyebrow. “Do the waterworks cost extra?”

“Call it a freebie this round.” You murmur teasingly, in an attempt to disguise the fact that no client has ever really gotten you this worked up before.

“Good business model.”

His free hand slides up to palm and squeeze one of your cum-slicked breasts while his thumb circles your clit lazily. Your body instinctively tips your hips forward, chasing the contact like a magnet and making your pussy more accessible for him.

But his thumb pauses, his hand stills on your chest,

And he looks up at you again.

“As much as I’m enjoying playin’ with her, I think I’m working too hard.”

He abruptly pulls his hand away and leans back, resting his elbow on the armrest.

“Don’t you?”

Your brain lags for a moment, mainly ‘cause all the blood’s been shunted away to your aching clit, but also ‘cause you’re not really sure where to go from here.

“I… uh. What do you want me to-?”

“Play with yourself.” He says abruptly, cutting you off. “Gimme somethin’ to look at.”

Looks like there’s just enough reserve blood in storage, but it’s been claimed by your cheeks only. Heat floods your face within seconds of him uttering his filthy request.

Which is definitely a new one.

“I’m sorry.” You laugh, but mostly out of disbelief. “You’re asking me to…?”

The words trail off, and if someone didn’t know any better, you’d easily be labelled a fucking virgin, but come on. This shouldn’t be hard. You’re literally drenched in his cum right now. This shouldn’t be affecting you as much as-

“What? You gettin’ shy on me now?”

He drops that usual teasing lilt in his tone, now more questioning and with a slight tilt of his head to follow.

You shake your head quickly.

“Then?” He nods his head, gesturing towards your pussy leaking onto his lap.

Pushy…

But god, is it ever turning you on…

You swallow and lower your hand to your damp folds, nestling your fingers against your hardened bud and brushing against it ever so gently. Your body jumps from the action anyways. Would much rather have his thumb doing the job again, but jerking him off and still having his cum dripping down your chest is exhilarating in its own right.

“Yeah, that’s it…” He breathes.

You bite back a whine as your fingers develop a light and steady rhythm, circling the edges of your clit, while also trying not to spontaneously combust from the weight of his stare. His gaze stays locked on the tiny movements your hand makes, but occasionally flits up to catch your flushed expression. You shudder out a sigh as slick collects on your fingers, working it in and letting the lubricant intensify every slow drag across your bundle of nerves.

Throughout this entire debauched scene, he makes no effort to really touch you. Just keeps his one hand on the rest, with the other caressing your inner thigh. Excruciating, really. At least if he did, you’d maybe be able to distance your mind from the humiliating fact that you’re masturbating for someone else’s entertainment, but his hands stay exactly where they are. So does his cock, which lies against his stomach where you left it, not fully hard yet but definitely interested. 

The sight of him laid out in front of you, washboard abs on full display, and thick cock twitching against them has your fingers speeding up before the rest of your body can process the change. Each slick smear across your clit sends pleasure rippling down every available nerve and arousal pooling onto his jeans. He watches the mess seep into the fabric, absolutely unbothered.

“Look at that.” He murmurs, one hand leaving the back of his head to settle on your inner thigh. “You’re makin’ a mess, baby.”

You whimper breathily. “Can’t help it.”

“Shouldn’t be able to.” He agrees, tone entirely too satisfied.

Your slick coats his thighs, your entrance gaping slightly, practically sobbing for attention. He keeps his hand flat on your thigh, pinning it in place and keeping you spread open for his enjoyment. He watches your fingers drift over your clit, thoroughly mesmerized by the sight of you. You're soaking his thighs, your walls fluttering around nothing, completely wrecked.

You’re a mess. A needy, leaky, pathetic mess.

“S’good.” You mumble, primarily to yourself.

“I bet it is.” He traces the crease of your thigh with his thumb. “Y’like being watched, don’t you?”

You don’t immediately reply. Can’t, actually. Being asked if you enjoy touching yourself in front of a stranger is a question that shouldn’t even dignify an answer. Mainly ‘cause that question lands on every level of perverted (and you’re the expert on perverts), but also cause you fear the answer will be something that will make him very pleased with himself.

Which is exactly what you want. Weirdo.

“Only when you do, Daddy.” You sigh, keening from his stare alone.

He blinks, letting your whimpered declaration hang in the air along with the rest of the obscene sounds filling the room.

Then he laughs quietly.

“You’re somethin’ else.”

To be fair, you’d say that to any client, regardless of what they’re asking. Only difference here is that you lowkey kinda mean it. Also, maybe the fact that doing this is a first for you, but that’s a given.

He hums approvingly, eyeing your hand as it works your swollen clit. “...Didn’t think you’d actually do it.” 

His filthy words (along with the belated admission) are enough to knock you out cold, and would have, if not for the heat in your belly coiling tighter and tighter. Your hips twitch forward with every circle, chasing the friction your fingers are delivering. Desperation continues to dribble out of you by the seconds.

“God s-stop…” You whine with a small laugh cutting through.

“Stop what?” He asks mockingly, though the glint in his eye says he knows damn well what you mean. His thumb presses harder into your inner thigh, keeping your legs spread wide open. “Stop watchin’ you play with yourself all over my lap? Or stop pointing out that you're clearly enjoying havin’ an audience?”

Providing an answer to either of those questions is too overwhelming right now, so you just shake your head insistently and direct your focus to the pressure building between your thighs. Your whines are also getting higher — stupidly so. Kitten in heat type of whining. The kind that either belongs in cheap porn or right here on a federal contractor’s lap.

Also, what the fuck is a federal contractor? Still haven’t figured that out yet. You’ll Google it later.

“Daddy, I- mmgonna…” You choke out, fingers blurring in circles, rubbing into your poor clit with enough force to start a campfire, which sounds painful if you think about it, but feels great in the moment.

“Mm?” He prompts, feigning cluelessness. His thumb presses down hard on your thigh, holding you open as you writhe. “What are you gonna do?”

“Gonna — ah fuck!”

His hands return to your tits, rolling your nipples with his thumbs and pulverizing any notion of an answer.

You’re right on the edge, desperately chasing the high your fingers are teasing. Your rhythm starts to lose coherence as pleasure swells, expanding to every inch of your body before bursting suddenly. The shriek tears out of your throat raw and sudden, your body seizing in a rigid arch as your orgasm crashes into you. Your thighs lock up iron-tight against his lap.

“Fuckfuckfuck…”

Your fingers keep moving. Stupid, desperate circles even though you just came your brains out. Your clit is impossibly swollen, probably angry at the treatment, but your hand won’t stop. It’s pure muscle memory now. Pleasure and humiliation seared into your mind like a brand. Slick pulses out of you in messy waves, while your hand slaps uselessly against your clit as you ride it out.

He watches your face — slack, sweaty, humiliated, and completely fucked out. At this point, the cum on your chest has dried down to a filthy mosaic, highlighting the curve of your tits in a translucent lacquer, patterned by haphazard swirls of his own design. He holds you steady as you tremble, keeping your thighs apart even though your body is trying to snap them shut, to curl in on itself in the aftermath. His lap is soaked — completely ruined, though he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he looks absurdly pleased, watching you gasp and pant through the aftershocks.

You’re shaking, one hand braced against his shoulder, using him for stability while your pulse hammers in your ears. As soon as you’re breathing semi-normally again, you pull your hand away slowly. A stretchy strand of arousal hangs from your fingers, connecting to your swollen pussy briefly before snapping apart.

He leans back, looking entirely too composed for a man currently sitting in a puddle of your own making. He waits for you to catch your breath, eyes dragging over your flushed face, down to your messy cunt, then back up.

“You made one hell of a mess.”

“Sorry…” You mumble sheepishly.

“Don't apologize.” He murmurs immediately. “Not an apology kind of situation.” He strokes your inner thigh soothingly.

“Was uh… was that okay?”

Your words trigger another sudden wave of embarrassment, reigniting your flushed face all over again. That’s the kind of question you ask after auditioning for a talent show. Or when your friends are trying your new casserole recipe.

It hits a little differently when you’re asking a client to rate your finger fucking skills.

“Okay?” He lets out a low, amused chuckle, his hand still resting on your thigh. “Sweetheart, 'okay' doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

You nod, shifting against the soaked leather and his ruined lap. The air settles in thicker, now that your head’s not clouded by your fingers buried in your cunt. It’s just enough for you to remember you’re here for a reason, and that he’s now rocking another semi.

“So um... you’ve got about half an hour left.” You mutter, glancing at the ticking clock hanging above the window. “Can I do anything else for you?”

He chuckles — a low, warm sound that vibrates against your legs. Giving your thigh another pat, you take it as a signal and clamber off. He tucks himself back into his jeans, only catching the tail end of your quizzical glance before you try to poorly school it into something nonchalant.

“You can, yeah.”

He pulls himself up from the couch, stretching his back with a quiet wince, and grabs his wallet sitting idle on the minibar.

“Tell me where the tip goes so I don't accidentally insult you.”

Your answer doesn’t follow immediately. Frankly, it’s hard to process the idea of a client not using all of you your time. The mental gymnastics must be scrawled across your forehead, ‘cause his face softens just a fraction.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. Seems greedy to keep you here for the sake of thirty minutes.”

“Oh… okay.”

Your brain lags for maybe a second more, only registering the cool air from the AC hitting your cum-splattered chest in passing. It’s only when he questioningly waves his wallet in front of your eyes that you snap back to the present

“Sorry. Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Go for it.”

You snatch your sweater off the floor and meander to a door that you hope is a bathroom, leaving him to thumb a few hundreds from his wallet. It’s only when the door clicks softly that you’re able to let a small exhale loose. It’s short-lived, though, and the rest of it comes out strangled as soon as you lock eyes with the mirror.

Hair thoroughly mussed and matted where he grabbed your neck, cheeks rosy, and makeup smeared into soft halos around your eyes. Your bra clings damply, fabric sticking in places it absolutely shouldn’t, while the aftermath of an absolutely shattering orgasm continues to run down your legs.

To cut it short, you look ridiculous.

You snag one of the mini towels off the neatly rolled pyramid in the cupboard, and soak it in a bit of hot water before beginning the arduous task of scrubbing the sticky mess coating your chest. The skin glows red, irritated by each swipe of the scalding cloth, but you really couldn’t care less. In any sense of the word. Hard to, when you’re trying to make sense of what just went down.

Transactionals.

Lonely talkers.

Performers.

Chemistries.

Entitleds.

Fragments of Leon might fit into the categories you’ve spent months organizing people into, but that’s just it. Only fragments. Leon as a whole doesn’t seem to neatly fit anywhere. Trying to place him in any of these boxes would be too hasty and frankly misguided. This is how toddlers must feel when they’re trying to shove a square block in a triangular hole.

With your chest clean and, for the most part, sperm-free, you’re able to tug the fabric of your bra back into place and pull your sweater on. Your hair, unfortunately, is done for, and no amount of dabbing can fix the streaky mess around your eyes. Better to just head home immediately and not look the Uber driver in the eye.

You take one more anticipatory breath before grasping the doorknob. As you leave the bathroom and prepare to negotiate a tip that you may or may not accept at this point (though doing so may cause things to fall into some weird territory, so you should probably just take it and run), you formulate a new, temporary category to slot him in for the time being.

Unfiled.

The soft breeze caused ripples to form in the tarp above you  and you smiled faintly, feeling the cool air brush across your face and bare arms.

It had been unbearably hot the last few days, the kind of heat that clung to your skin no matter how still you sat. But down by the lake, beneath the shade of the trees, the air felt lighter. Bearable at least. 

You adjusted yourself against the folded blanket beneath you, one leg bent lazily while the other hung over the edge of the small patch of shade. Above your head, the tarp you’d tied between two trees shifted gently with every passing breeze.

In your hands sat a worn copy of Romeo and Juliet, its corners bent and softened from rereading. 

…My bounty is as boundless as the sea… you murmured quietly to yourself, tracing the words with your thumb.

A splash interrupted you. Not loud. Just enough to pull your attention from the page.

You glanced up.

A man stood several yards down the shore, boots planted near the water’s edge, fishing rod in hand. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, suspenders hanging loose against a faded blue shirt dampened darker with sweat across the back.

You hadn’t noticed him arrive. But now that you’d see him, it was hard to look away. 

He seemed focused entirely on the lake until he reeled the line in and turned slightly - enough for you to catch sight of the scruffy beard and the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

Then his eyes flicked toward you.

You quickly looked back down at your book.

The lake went quiet again except for the distant buzz of insects and the creak of your tarp overhead.

You tried to continue reading. Tried not to look back at him. But your mind wandered with every second that passed. 

“Good afternoon. ma’am.” 

The voice drifted across the water low and gravelly, enough to pull your attention from the page without startling you.

Up close - or as close as this distance allowed - he looked less intimidating than he had at first glance. Large, certainly. Broad in the shoulders with a face worn tired by sun and hard living. But his posture stayed easy, careful almost, like he understood a woman alone might not appreciate being approached by a stranger.

You placed a finger between the pages of your book.

“Good afternoon.” You replied politely.

“Never thought books would survive out in this heat.”

“They do if you’re careful with them.” 

“Yes ma’am, guess that makes sense.”

The corner of your mouth twitched faintly.

He reeled his line in a little before casting it back out into the lake with practiced ease. The line whistled softly through the air.

For a minute, neither of you spoke.

The tarp above shifted with another cool breeze, dappling moving shadows across the pages in your lap. You tried to return to your reading.

…My only love sprung from my only hate…

“What’re you readin’, if you don’t mind me askin’?” interrupting your reading again. 

The man tipped his hat politely this time, almost apologetic for interrupting.

“Romeo and Juliet.”

He frowned slightly in thought.

“Heard the name before. Don’t think I ever read it.”

“You’re not missing a happy ending.”

That drew a quiet laugh from him.

“No, ma’am?”

“Everyone dies.”

Arthur blinked once.

“Well. That does seem unfortunate.”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself.

The sound seemed to catch him by surprise. Not in a bad way, more like he hadn’t expected you to laugh at all.

He looked back toward the lake, though you noticed the faint hint of a smile lingering beneath his beard.

“I suppose fishing isn't much different.” You said abruptly and he furrowed his brow. 

“I let most of ‘em go, keep the big ones for dinner.” he sighed “Haven’t caught a damn thing today.”

“Maybe they sensed your pessimism.”

“Yes, ma’am. Fish are known for that.”

You hid another smile behind the spine of your book.

Silence settled again, easier this time.

You found yourself watching him over the top edge of the pages now and then. The slow roll of his sleeves exposed strong forearms tanned by the sun, and every movement he made carried the kind of unthinking steadiness of someone used to long days outdoors. 

After a while, he glanced back toward your tarp.

“That’s clever.”

You lowered the book slightly. “What is?”

“Your tarp.” He nodded toward the knots tied between the trees. “Keeps the sun off better than most tents I’ve slept in.”

“Oh.” You looked up at it briefly. “Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He paused. “You campin’ out here alone?”

There was no suspicion in the question. Just concern politely disguised as conversation.

“For the afternoon.” 

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I reckon there’s worse ways to spend a hot day than sittin’ in the shade readin’ tragic stories.”

You studied him for a second before replying.

“And there are worse ways than standing in the sun talking to strangers, apparently.”

That finally earned a real smile from him; small, crooked, and unexpectedly warm.

“There are few strangers worth talking to ‘round these parts.” He muttered, readjusting his hat.

“Well I’m glad I made the cut.” 

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, eyes lowering for a moment before lifting back to you.

“Helps you’re easy on the eye,” he said, almost bashful despite the words.

Heat rushed into your cheeks immediately, though the warm afternoon sun disguised it well enough. You looked quickly back down at your book, pretending sudden interest in the page.

“I’m only playin’,” he added after a second when you didn’t answer, the back of his hand rubbing awkwardly along his jaw.

You smiled faintly to yourself before glancing back up at him through your lashes.

“I could say the same for you, sir.”

Arthur blinked.

For the first time since you’d noticed him by the water, he seemed genuinely caught off guard.

A flush crept slowly up the back of his neck and into his cheeks beneath the scruff of his beard, and he cleared his throat roughly as though it might somehow recover his dignity.

“Well.” He shifted his weight awkwardly. “That ain’t usually somethin’ I hear much.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, though the crooked little smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him completely.

You watched him glance away toward the lake again, almost shy now, and the sight of a man his size looking suddenly uncertain made something warm twist pleasantly in your chest.

Arthur adjusted the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.

“You flirt with every fella that interrupts your readin’?”

“Only the polite ones.” 

That earned another laugh from him. 

The breeze stirred between the trees again, carrying the scent of lake water and summer rain somewhere far off. Arthur rested the fishing rod against his shoulder loosely, looking back at you after a moment.

“What happens next then?” he asked, nodding toward the book in your lap.

“In the story?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You studied him for a second, amused.

“You want me to spoil Shakespeare for you?”

“Well, I ain’t gonna read it and now I’m invested.”

You smiled, settling more comfortably beneath the tarp while Arthur lingered by the shore listening, the two of you talking as though you’d known each other longer than a single hot afternoon.

You folded the corner of the page carefully before closing the book halfway in your lap. The conversation had become far more distracting than the story.

Arthur seemed to notice.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Didn’t mean to keep interruptin’.”

“You aren’t.”

His gaze lifted back to yours at that, quieter now somehow.

The breeze shifted again, moving the tarp overhead in soft waves. Arthur glanced toward the shade you’d made between the trees.

“Looks comfortable there.”

“It is.”

“Mind if I stand in the shade a minute?” he asked. “Sun’s tryin’ to kill me.”

You smiled faintly. “I suppose -  as long as you don’t attack me.”

“No, ma’am. I won’t.”

He stepped closer then, slow enough not to crowd you, boots crunching softly against the dirt and fallen leaves. Up close, you could better see the lines sun and exhaustion had carved into his face. There was something gentle hidden beneath all the roughness.

Arthur stopped just outside arm’s reach.

“Much appreciated,” he murmured, tipping his head politely.

“You’re very formal for a man standing by a lake with a fishing pole.”

“Well,” he said, “my mama raised me right before the world got ahold of me.”

The honesty in that caught you off guard.

You softened a little. “And here I assumed you were naturally charming.”

He smirked beneath the brim of his hat before finally taking it off, setting it beside him in the grass near the edge of your blanket. Without it, his hair fell messily from where the heat and wind had flattened it. He pushed a hand back through it, rough fingers combing the strands into something more familiar.

You tried not to stare.

“What's your name then, cowboy?” you teased.

“Arthur,” he answered easily, glancing over at you. “And you?”

You smiled innocently and returned your attention to the book in your lap.

“My mama raised me not to open up to random men.”

Arthur barked a short laugh at that, ducking his head.

“Well, sounds like a smart woman.”

“She was.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned back against the tree trunk carefully, long legs stretched out in front of him. “Though I feel obliged to point out you’ve been talkin’ to me near half an hour already.”

“I never said I was followin’ her advice.”

That earned you another grin, slower this time.

“You always this difficult?”

“Only around cowboys.”

“Mhm.” Arthur glanced toward the fishing pole lying abandoned near the shore. “Thought fishin’ was supposed to be the dangerous part of my afternoon.”

“You approached me, remember?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I’m beginnin’ to suspect that was my first mistake.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

Arthur watched the sound leave you with that same quiet fondness creeping back into his expression.

“You got a name I can call you besides ma’am?” he asked after a moment, voice gentler now.

You looked at him over the edge of your book.

“I quite like ma’am actually.” 

Arthur looked back at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward again.

“Oh, do you now?”

“It makes me sound respectable.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied immediately, the amusement in his voice warm and easy.

You smiled behind the edge of your book. “See? I like the way you say it.”

That seemed to catch him off guard more than the flirting had.

Arthur ducked his head slightly, rubbing his thumb along the brim of the hat resting beside him.

“Well,” he muttered, “suppose I can keep sayin’ it then.”

“How gentlemanly.”

“I ought to be.” 

You studied him quietly for a moment while the breeze moved lazily through the trees. Up close like this, he didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as he first had standing down by the lake. Large, yes. Rough around the edges certainly. But there was patience in him. Carefulness.

Arthur glanced toward your book again.

“You read all them fancy stories often?”

“Only the tragic ones.”

“Any reason?”

You thought for a second. “I think sad stories are romantic.”

“I suppose they are.”  

He squinted slightly against the sunlight breaking through the trees, one forearm resting over his bent knee while the other toyed absentmindedly with a loose thread on his hat. 

“But only when they ain’t happenin’ to you,” he added quietly.

You watched the breeze stir through his hair where his hat sat abandoned beside him, the afternoon light catching against the tired lines around his eyes. He looked like someone who knew sad stories better than he wanted to.

“And what about happy ones?” you asked.

Arthur huffed softly through his nose.

“Don’t reckon folks write many books about happy people.”

“No,” you admitted. “I suppose they’d be rather boring.”

“There you go.”

You smiled faintly, hugging the book a little closer to your chest.

“What about you?” you asked cautiously, fingers idly tracing the edge of the page. “You got a love story?”

The question hung gently between you.

Arthur’s faint smile faded into something quieter.

Not unhappy exactly. Just thoughtful.

He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, eyes drifting out across the lake while the breeze stirred softly through the branches overhead.

“Maybe once,” he admitted after a moment.

Your stomach tightened despite yourself.

“Oh.”

Arthur noticed the shift in your expression immediately and glanced back toward you.

“Ain’t got a girl waitin’ on me, if that’s what you’re askin’,” he said, voice calm and reassuring in a way that made heat creep embarrassingly into your face.

“I wasn’t asking that.”

“Mhm.”

You looked down at your book quickly.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, though there was no meanness in it.

“She was a long time ago,” he continued more softly. “Good woman. Smarter than me by a fair margin.”

“What happened?”

Arthur rubbed his thumb slowly along his jaw.

“Life, mostly.”

The answer carried enough weight that you didn’t push further.

For a moment neither of you spoke. But the need to ask rose in your throat. 

“You still love her?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Arthur went still for a second.

Then he smiled faintly,  small enough you almost missed it.

“I reckon you don’t stop carin’ about certain people,” he said. “Even after they stop bein’ yours.”

Something about the honesty of it made your chest ache unexpectedly.

He glanced toward you again then, eyes gentler now.

“But that don’t mean a man can’t keep livin’.”

The words settled warm beneath your ribs.

You looked down, pretending to straighten the pages of your book to hide the smile threatening at your mouth.

Arthur watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again.

“What about you, ma’am?”

You looked back up.

“Got some tragic romance tucked away in your past?”

“No.” You smiled faintly. “Nothing nearly dramatic enough for Shakespeare.”

“Well, that’s probably good.”

“You think so?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Well I think it makes me utterly dull.” You muttered, hand running through your hair softly. 

You watched him shift slightly beneath the tarp, careful not to crowd your space despite how comfortably the conversation had settled between you both. His shoulder brushed the tree trunk behind him, large hands resting loosely over one knee.

“You ain’t dull sweetheart,” he said after a moment, voice low. 

The word settled over you far warmer than the afternoon heat ever had.

You looked up from beneath your lashes, caught entirely off guard by how naturally it left him. Not cocky. Not practiced. Just gentle.

Arthur seemed to realize a second later what he’d called you.

A faint flush crept into his face almost immediately, and he cleared his throat softly, glancing toward the lake like it might save him.

“Pardon me,” he muttered. “That just… slipped out.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Did it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Been spendin’ too much time talkin’ to you, apparently.”

“And what does that do?”

“Makes a man careless.”

The way he said it made your stomach flip pleasantly.

Arthur rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, still looking a little embarrassed by his own boldness.

“I only meant…” He paused, searching for the words. “You got a calm about you. Ain’t many people these days can sit quiet with themselves the way you do.”

Your expression softened.

Most people mistook your quietness for shyness or awkwardness. Arthur spoke about it like it was something worth admiring.

The breeze stirred between you again, lifting strands of your hair across your cheek.

He watched you carefully, his hand twitching instinctively like he was going to tuck the strand behind your ear. 

But he stopped himself.

You noticed the restraint immediately, the way his fingers curled slightly before settling back against his knee instead.

Arthur let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost amused at himself.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Keep forgettin’ you don’t know me well enough for that.”

Something about the softness in his voice made your chest tighten.

“You ask permission for everything?” you teased gently.

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Try to.”

“That must get exhausting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said dryly. “Women tend to appreciate it though.”

You laughed quietly, and Arthur looked pleased with himself for causing it.

The strand of hair blew across your face again.

This time you tilted your head slightly toward him.

Arthur’s eyes flicked to the movement instantly, like he wasn’t sure he’d understood it correctly.

“You can,” you said softly.

For a second he didn’t move at all.

Then slowly, carefully enough that you could’ve pulled away if you wanted - he reached toward you.

His fingers brushed lightly against your temple, rough fingertips impossibly gentle as he tucked the strand behind your ear.

The touch lasted barely a moment. Still, warmth bloomed across your skin long after he pulled his hand back.

Arthur cleared his throat quietly afterward, suddenly very interested in the lake again.

“There,” he muttered. “Much better.”

You smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

But his voice sounded a little rougher now.

At some point, your shoulder had settled against his.

Neither of you mentioned it.

Arthur glanced down after a while, noticing your hand resting between you both on the blanket.

Then slowly, cautiously, he turned his hand over beside yours.

An offer.

Nothing more.

Your heart fluttered embarrassingly hard as your fingers slipped against his.

Arthur exhaled softly through his nose at the contact, thumb brushing once over your knuckles.

The air beneath the tarp felt smaller somehow. Warmer. And Arthur sat close enough that your knees brushed every so often when one of you shifted, neither of you bothering to move away afterward.

“You’re starin’ again,” you murmured softly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The honesty of it made your pulse stumble.

Arthur’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again, restraint written all over his face.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

You couldn’t.

The breeze stirred softly around you while the lake lapped against the shore in the distance.

Arthur lifted one hand slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, fingertips brushing lightly along your jaw.

“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your breath caught.

Arthur’s eyes lingered on your face openly now, no longer pretending otherwise. His thumb brushed slowly along your cheek, rough fingertips impossibly gentle against your skin.

“Think I've been distracted since the second I saw you sittin’ here,” he admitted quietly.

Heat bloomed through your chest.

“You say that to every woman reading under a tarp?”

A grin tugged at his mouth.

“No, ma’am. Most women ain’t this hard to look away from.”

You tried to hide your smile, but Arthur noticed immediately.

“There it is,” he murmured softly.

“What?”

“That smile.” His eyes flicked over your face like he was memorizing it. “Been tryin’ to get more of those outta you all afternoon.”

Your stomach fluttered embarrassingly hard. Your core aching in  a way only literature could ever make it. 

Arthur leaned a little closer, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from him beneath the summer heat.

“You know,” he said lowly, “when I walked down to this lake today, I thought I was gonna spend the afternoon catchin’ fish.”

“And instead?”

“And instead I found the prettiest thing out here lookin’ at me like she’s decidin’ whether I’m trouble.”

You laughed softly under your breath. “And are you?”

Arthur’s gaze dipped briefly to your mouth before lifting again.

“For you?” he murmured. “Oh probably.”

His voice was making you disgustingly wet beneath your petticoats and you prayed the blush on your face wasn't noticeable. 

“You alright there, sweetheart?” he murmured, clearly noticing your silence.

You nodded far too quickly.

That crooked smile returned immediately.“Mhm,” he hummed softly, unconvinced. “Don’t sound very certain.”

“You talk too much.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His thumb brushed lightly beneath your chin again. “But you like it.”

The fact he said it so confidently made your stomach coil, your thighs squeezing together in a desperate attempt to keep your cool. 

Arthur’s eyes drifted over your face, lingering on every tiny reaction you failed to hide from him. The blush in your cheeks. The way your lips parted whenever he leaned closer. The quick rise and fall of your breathing.

He noticed all of it.

And judging by the look on his face, he enjoyed noticing.

“You get shy when somebody compliments you?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe.”

Arthur chuckled warmly beneath his breath.

“Aw, don’t hide now.” He caught your wrist gently before you could turn away completely. “Been workin’ hard for these reactions.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he admitted shamelessly.

The breeze shifted around the tarp again, but you barely noticed it with Arthur sitting so close.

“You know what’s unfair?” he murmured after a moment.

“What?”

“You got me sittin’ here feelin’ like some lovesick idiot over a woman whose name I still don’t know.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Maybe I enjoy keeping you suffering.”

“Well,” Arthur laughed softly, shaking his head, “it’s workin’.”

The sound rumbled low in his chest, warm enough to make your stomach twist pleasantly again.

You became painfully aware then of just how close he’d gotten beneath the tarp. His broad shoulders angled toward you now instead of the lake. The shade cast soft shadows across him, catching along the muscles in his forearms where his sleeves remained rolled carelessly to his elbows.

Arthur was not a delicate man.

Everything about him felt solid. The kind of strength earned through work instead of vanity. Thick forearms dusted with hair, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his faded shirt, large hands capable of gentleness despite looking like they belonged wrapped around reins or rough wood instead of your face.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it.

Down the slope of his chest. The suspenders hanging loose against his shirt. The spread of his thighs where he sat close beside you in the grass.

Arthur noticed immediately.

A slow smile tugged at his mouth.

“Careful now, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Heat flooded your face instantly as your eyes snapped back to his.

“I wasn’t-”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stayed low and teasing, though there was something rougher beneath it now too. “And I gotta admit…”

He shifted slightly closer.

“…I liked it.”

Your pulse fluttered hard when his hand settled beside your hip against the blanket, caging you in without forcing anything.

“You’re very confident suddenly.”

“No, ma’am.” His eyes dipped briefly to your mouth again. “Just think maybe you want me a little too.”

His jaw flexed slightly.

And only then did you notice the shift in him too. The tension settling heavier throughout his body, his posture tighter despite how relaxed he tried to appear. The spread of his legs, the large bulge in his trousers that grew with each passing comment.

A flicker of heat crossed his expression and he exhaled hard. 

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, almost warningly, “you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna forget how polite I’m tryin’ to be.”

You swallowed hard beneath the weight of his gaze.

“Well,” you murmured, inching a little closer across the blanket, “That’s no good is it?” 

Arthur’s eyes followed the movement immediately.

You could feel the heat radiating from him now, close enough that your knee brushed firmly against his thigh. Neither of you moved away.

“You accuse me of distractin’ you,” you continued softly, “while you sit there lookin’ like that.”

A low laugh escaped him.

“Like what, sweetheart?”

You let your eyes drift deliberately over him again, slower this time.

“The shoulders.” You reached out lightly, fingers brushing the fabric stretched across his upper arm. “The voice.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened subtly beneath the scruff of his beard.

“And you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

The teasing confidence in his voice only encouraged you further.

You shifted again, leaning back slightly onto one hand. The movement loosened the neckline of your blouse just enough for the warm breeze to brush against newly exposed skin.

Arthur’s eyes dropped instinctively.

Only for a second.

But you caught it.

A smile tugged at your mouth immediately.

“There it is.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, caught.

“Beg pardon,” he muttered, though his voice had gone noticeably rougher.

“You’re very polite for a man who keeps staring at my chest.”

Arthur let out a breathy laugh, dragging a hand down his face.

“Well,” he admitted quietly, “you’re makin’ that awfully difficult not to do.”

Heat fluttered low in your stomach again.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t attack me if I let you under my tarp.” 

Arthur stared at you for half a second before a startled laugh escaped him, low and entirely disbelieving. 

“I’m tryin’ my hardest sweetheart.” 

You smiled innocently, “Seems pretty difficult for you.” 

“Lean any closer and you’ll see how difficult it really is.” 

Arthur’s hand remained steady at your waist, fingers flexing lightly against the fabric of your skirt like he was constantly reminding himself not to pull you fully into his lap.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes dragging slowly over your face before betraying him and dipping briefly lower again, “most women don’t tease armed strangers in the woods.”

“Most armed strangers aren’t blushing because they saw a little bit of collarbone.”

Arthur groaned softly under his breath, tipping his head back against the tree for a second.

“Lord help me.”

You laughed quietly, delighted by how easily he unraveled for you despite trying so hard not to.

“You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” he muttered.

“Maybe I like seeing you flustered.”

“Mhm.” A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “And maybe I like being teased by pretty women beneath handmade tents.”

A few moments passed as you basked in the heated tension between you both. 

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured, quieter now, “and I’m gonna stop thinkin’ straight.”

Your breath caught slightly.

“You already stopped thinking straight,” you replied softly.

That earned a low huff of laughter from him, but it faded quickly into something more serious.

“You’re real good at that,” he said quietly.

“At what?”

“Pushin’ a man right up to the edge… then lookin’ at him like you don’t know what you’re doin’.”

His thumb brushed once along your side.

Slow. Deliberate.

“And I’m bein’ real good about not forgettin’ my manners.”

“You’re being very good,” you said quietly. “Almost disappointingly so.” 

“Yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded faintly.The tarp shifted above you with the breeze, but neither of you seemed to notice anymore.

He leaned in and kissed you like he meant to be careful with it. Like every second was something he could still take back if he needed. His hand on yours, his other on your face - not pulling or pressing, just there, like an anchor he was afraid wouldn't hold. 

His eyes were half-lidded when they opened again, focused on you like you were something he couldn't trust himself with anymore.

The world beyond the tarp seemed far away now: the lake, the trees, the distant hum of insects faded into a blur beneath the pounding of your heartbeat. 

Arthur shifted his thumb against your cheek, rough skin warm where it rested there. 

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded faintly, the tip of your nose brushing against his. 

His gaze lingered on your mouth again before he exhaled softly, almost frustrated with himself.

“Christ.” he muttered under his breath. 

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand sliding from  your cheek to rest against your jaw. His body twitched like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. 

When the kiss broke again, he rested his forehead lightly against yours and closed his eyes for a second. 

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, voice roughed down to something almost intimidating, “you are testin’ every good intention I got.” 

“What are your other intentions, Arthur?” 

For a faint second he said nothing, just kept studying you with that restrained intensity. Then that smile tugged on his lips again. 

“You really oughta stop sayin’ things like that.” he murmured. 

“But you like it.” You teased, your other hand tip toeing up his thigh and moving towards his tucked in shirt. 

His hand slid slowly from your jaw, finger trailing down your neck, before jumping to catch your hand on his midriff. 

The movement drew you closer, your chest adjacent to his - almost touching. 

“You keep lookin’ at me like you want somethin’.” he whispered.

“It isn’t ladylike to ask for what I want, cowboy.” 

“And what is it that you want?” 

You laughed, unable to say the words that came to mind. 

“You’re trouble.” he muttered “You’re handsome.” 

“You know,” he said after a moment, lifting his eyes back to yours, “most women ain’t usually this forward with me.”

“Maybe most women haven’t found themselves beneath a tarp with you- and no one in sight.”

Then, very deliberately, he leaned in and kissed you again. Pushing you backwards so he was the one on top. His broad shoulders blocking out the filtered sunlight overhead. 

You lay on your back now, one hand pinned down by his, the other at your side. The shift pulled a quiet sound from your throat. Your heart hammered painfully hard beneath your ribs as Arthur kissed you deeper now, rougher only in the sense that restraint had begun slipping through his fingers. His breathing had turned uneven, every exhale warm against your mouth. 

“You’re real pretty laid out like this,” he murmured before he could seem to stop himself. 

His lips brushed your cheek first, slow enough to make your pulse stutter before trailing lower along your jaw. Then your neck. Then the exposed skin near your collar where your blouse had shifted loose beneath his hands. 

“Real pretty.” 

A startled gasp escaped you, eyes squeezing shut as his tongue explored.

“C’mon ma’am,” he murmured against your skin “where's all that attitude gone?” 

You swallowed hard, fingers instinctively curling tighter around his. 

“You talk entirely too much.” you breathed. 

“Mhm.” Arthur lifted his head just enough to look in your eyes “There you are, thought I'd stunned you silent.” 

You tried to glare at him, but the feeling of him sucking and lapping at your neck felt too good to deny. 

“You blush so easily,” he said softly, as though he was fascinated by you. 

“And whose fault is that?” “Mine, I hope.” 

His right hand still held you in place while his left grabbed at your waist, wandering down to your skirts. 

“You still alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. 

“You sure you’re wantin’ this- me?” he asked, that confident facade fading momentarily. 

“I need you.” you whimpered, biting your lip as you held eye contact. 

“Fuck.” That did it. 

The word left him rough and breathless, like it had been dragged out of him against his will. 

Arthur closed his eyes for half a second, his hand instinctively tightening at your waist, bunching the fabric of your skirt in his fist while he breathed hard through his nose. 

He shifted slightly over you, broad shoulders boxing you safely beneath the shade of the tarp while his right hand moved slowly to your leg, caressing you from knee to upper thigh. 

“So soft-” he mewled, thumb flicking against your clothed core briefly before darting away. 

You swallowed hard as he did, his gaze following every miniscule reaction that crossed your face. 

“Tell me if I go too far.” he said softly. But it wasn’t a question, moreso a demand.

He arched his back and he crawled backwards, bunching your skirts up and revealing your dripping undergarments. 

“Jesus wept woman-” his eyes grew wide.  

“Arthur-” you moaned, biting your lip.

With that he forgot about holding back entirely. His rough hand cupped you softly, two fingers pushing your underwear into your wetness. 

You gasped as you felt them enter just and no more. 

Arthur brought them to his mouth and tasted them, eyes rolling back as he did so. 

“Fuck~” his hand went back again, impatient as he tried to figure out how to get them off. “Ah hell.” he growled, taking both his hands and ripping the underwear in half. 

You gasped loudly, the breeze hitting your wet clit, sending a bolt of shivers up your spine. 

“Need to taste you.” He mumbled, bringing his face towards it. 

When his tongue hit your hole it was over. You were a mess, moaning and writhing as he licked and sucked. The noises he made were equally dirty as the ground he rolled his hips into. 

“So good~” he moaned. “Fuck so sweet~” 

“Don’t stop!” you cried, your hand in his hair. 

You could only see his eyes, wild with passion, as he buried his tongue inside you, his nose rubbing against your clit fervently. 

“Arthur~” you cried, your head thrown back in pleasure. 

He pulled away, leaving you with a soft buzzing in your core. 

“I need you, okay sweetheart?” he knelt upwards, wiping his face with his sleeve and undoing his zip with the other hand. 

His cock was massive, the biggest you’d seen. His girth alone was impressive, never mind the length of it. 

He pumped it a few times as it dripped onto the grass. 

“I haven’t done this in a while but- I’ll be gentle-” he started, but you stopped him.

“Just take me- now.” you moaned, body limp against the blanket. 

“Yes ma’am.” he obliged, his right hand against your waist, the left still pumping his cock. 

When he pushed into you,  tears stung in the corners of your eyes and you cried out as you felt more and more of him fill you up. 

“Thatta girl~” he moaned, “just a little more.” 

When his hips finally met yours, you couldn't help but buck yourself up against him, and he laughed softly. 

“Desperate for me, ain’t you girl?” 

You nodded , your head falling to the side, cheeks glistening with tears. 

“Hey now,” he frowned, his thumb coming up and wiping them away, “you’re okay, I got you beautiful.” 

You cried out as he hit that coil in your stomach, the mix of his sweet words and his cock causing you to writhe. Your body shook with pleasure, his name mixed with moans and sobs falling from your lips as your head flew back.   

“Arthur~” you choked out, eyes still squeezed shut. 

He kept thrusting into you, and when you opened your eyes he had unbuttoned his shirt, clearly too hot for all of this exercise. 

“Sweetheart, you’re so good~” he moaned out, shifting so his hands were either side of your head. “So good f’r me.” 

His relentless attack continued, thrusting harder and further than before. His pace steady, but his arms shaking as he got closer and closer. 

“So pretty ain’t you- what would daddy say if he knew what you were up to.” 

That comment caused you to flush red, you hadn’t imagined Arthur to be a dirty talker - you hadn't imagined him to be anymore than a fisherman. 

“Don’t get shy now,.” He moved a hand to your jaw, tipping it so you were forced to look at him, his thrusting slow and slight. “smart girl like you, bet you wanted someone like me to walk up on you.” 

“Arthur~” you started, but it fell into a crude moan as he tightened his hand around your throat. 

“Pretty girl.” He drawled, using your neck and his other hand as anchors to hold you down as he fucked into you. “You gonna take it?” He teased, but you knew exactly what he meant. 

“Take what?” You batted your eyes, looking up into his storm fuelled eyes. 

“Fuck~ so sweet.” He moaned, head hanging low as he thrusted. “I’m gonna pump you full of me, okay pretty girl?” 

You whimpered your approval and he applied more pressure on your neck, causing you to gasp out and writhe under him.

He stopped and watched you for a moment, your silent pleads for him to release you from his grasp. Then he complied, watching as you gasped and choked. 

“Told you I was holding back beautiful.” 

“More- please” you gasped out, his cock splitting you in two. 

“What? You like that pretty girl?” He whispered and you nodded fast. He laughed. “Want me to fuck you harder is that it?” 

“Fuck~ please-” You mewled, tears still rolling down the sides of your face, your pussy burning as its filled to the brink. 

“You done that before?” he asked, more sincerely this time, and you shook your head. “Oh darlin’, I don’t want to scare you.” 

“A-arthur, I wanna.” you coughed out “I want to be had- taken by you.” 

“God almighty woman.” He looked around, noticing no one was there. “On your front then. I won't ask twice.” 

He pulled out of you and you winced, your hole flooded and open at the lack of him. You flipped yourself over, wiggling your hips in the air.

“Atta girl~ so naughty.” He smiled, smacking your cheek. You cried out, and he grabbed it, pushing into the sore spot he had left. “Uh uh pretty girl, you can do better than that.” 

With that he hit the other, then back to the original, over and over relentlessly as you cried for him, tears dripping, your face, now in the dirt  beyond the blanket. 

“Look at you, so dirty.” He pouted, rubbing his cock against your slit. “What would your daddy say hmm?” 

“Arthur- I-” 

“Shhhh shhhh no sweetheart. You done ‘nough talking.” He put his hand over your mouth and pulled you upwards. His other hand holding his dick, slipping the tip against your entrance. “I’m gonna fuck this pretty pussy now, that what you want?” 

You moaned against his hand. 

“Thought so.” He grunted, pushing himself into you in one swift movement. 

It hurt horribly at first, and you cried whole heartedly into his hand. He knew it hurt too, as he kept rubbing his thumb gently against your cheek, his body language so different from the tone he had taken with you just moments before. 

“Now now, sweetheart, yr’alright.” 

You moaned into his hand, your drool dripping between his fingers. He let go a little, wiping his hand on the blanket before slotting two fingers into your mouth. 

Your pussy leaked at the taste, and you felt your sweet juice drip down your thighs. 

“Smart girls are always the dirtiest.” He grunted, forcing his fingers down your throat as you sobbed  and moaned. “But you like it, don’t you?” 

“Yeah~” you said, muffled around his fingers. 

His pace after this was relentless, your face was smushed into the dirt again as his hands held you down, one on your ass one on your shoulder. 

“Take me, atta girl, take this cock~”  he grunted, hips bucking wildly as his seed released into your tight cunt. You weren’t far behind, cumming around his thick cock and gasping at the sensation. 

Arthur rolled onto his back beside you with a rough exhale, one forearm thrown over his eyes like he couldn't believe what had just happened.

“Christ alive.” he muttered hoarsely. 

The hand not covering his face found your hand instinctively. 

Arthur let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “You’re dangerous, sweetheart.” 

You turned your head toward him, smiling softly, “You’re the criminal here.” 

He huffed, running his hand from his face into his hair which was a mess now. 

“Best afternoon I've had in a long while.” He admitted quietly. Then after a beat, softer, “I need that again sometime.”

“Out of all of us…I think Jongseob’s the worst.”

Is what came out in chuckles from Keeho’s mouth, followed by 4 other snickers and remarks of agreement. Jongseob, in question, was staring at the ceiling in a daze, when the statement made him bring his half-lidded gaze back to his friends.

“The worst? How, hyung?” Jongseob said with a growing smirk, his body sunk into the couch as a familiar wave of relaxation took over him.

It was a typical weekday night, at least for Jongseob and his friends it was. They had just finished band practice, which usually consisted of running through a small setlist and messing around in the studio, which was just a small corner with all their necessary equipment in Theo’s basement. Oh, and of course the obligatory blunt (or two…or three) that they passed around after every practice like some sort of closing ritual.

Keeho was sprawled on the floor, joined by Shota, when he propped up on his elbow to stare at Jongseob with the same half lidded eyes. “You’re a total…delinquent.” He began, receiving nods from others. “I mean, we all are, I guess. But you’re like…especially worse.”

Following that statement came sounds of mmmm’s, indicating agreement from the other equally stoned guys in the room. And, well now Jongseob’s entire high was ruined.

He sat up to look around and couldn’t believe his stinging, smoke irritated eyes that these guys were mutually agreeing that he was the most misbehaved out of them all. Not when he’s seen Theo and Intak play a garage show for one of those stupidly large buzz balls. Now he was offended.

“Worse?” He spat with a puzzled look knitted in his eyebrows. “What do you mean? I’m not even in the top three in this room.”

Keeho snickered, joined by Intak who now took responsibility in explaining to Jongseob this twisted agenda that was being spread. “Dude, Come on. You’re the youngest, for starters.” He said as he took a drag, the neatly rolled blunt resting in his fingers. “So automatically you’ve got that edge to you…You were in the back of a cop car once. Theo had to call and pretend to be your dad, remember?”

Jongseob stared at him with thin, offended eyes as the blunt was passed down to Soul, and apparently the shit-talk-jongseob baton to Keeho as he took over once again. “I definitely remember that. You're also addicted to those little pens, even though we tell you those things are bad for you. Let’s see…you fought throughout like all of your freshman and sophomore year. No idea how you graduated, by the way.”

Jongseob scoffed, running his hand through messy hair as he looked at the ceiling. “That was so long ago.”

“Whatever, you still did it.” Keeho retorted, giggling at soul puffing his cheeks with smoke. “What else……..oh! There was also your graffiti phase, too. Although we can’t get on you too much for that one. Sometimes you cuss like a sailor, You’re a little asshole to all of us. Aaaand…You’re failing community college. Even Ung, Theo, and I have music degrees, man.”

Jongseob was passed the blunt from Shota (not so much passing as Jongseob snatching it) and took a long, hard drag before he shook his head and spoke. “Music degrees, wow. You’re gonna be baristas.”

Theo clicked his tongue and let out an annoyed sound as he looked over at an unbothered Jiung and very bothered Keeho. “See, little asshole.”

Shota, who out of he and Jiung would be most likely to defend Jongseob, finally sighed. “I don’t know Seob, that’s pretty bad.”

Jongseob was just irritated now. Cause honestly, if he began listing everything this bunch has done, himself excluded, they’d be there for an hour. Only because he was the youngest, and maybe a little snarkier, and maybe caring the least for any type of school or employment outside of music, was he named the biggest delinquent. The entire thing was complete and utter, “Bullshit. You guys are all on your high horse but I’m really not bad.”

The next pillar who was meant to defend Jongseob came crumbling down, leaving his foundation crumbled and turned to dust as Jiung spoke up. “Jongseob…when was the last time you read a book?”

Jongseob stayed quiet, the question catching him off guard, and just as he was about to answer, Intak cut him off. “No, comic books don’t count.”

He made a point to blow smoke in his face as he rebuttled, “Shota literally reads comic books, too.”

Keeho waved him off, a hand patting Shota’s head. “Shota’s just different. Whatever, the point remains. Not like you can help it though. You’re younger than all of us, so you’re going to be less mature. Now pass the blunt, it’s my turn.”

Jongseob shooed away the hand that was reaching for it, leaning back and falling back to stare at the ceiling, the blunt following his mouth. “Screw off, roll a new one.”

★彡

It had been maybe a day later when Jongseob found himself holding onto the rail of a train headed to an outer district of the city, known for housing one particular facility.

The library.

He had his headphones on, trying to bob his head to the song he was listening to, but he kept asking himself the same question. It was in only a few short minutes that he decided to grab his go-to dark wash jeans from the floor and any tank top that went with it, and make his way to the train station to go to the library.

But, the question was none other than why?

The truth is, every man has an insatiable ego, and Jongseob was not going to let it be bruised due to “being a delinquent”, all at the fault of the epitome of delinquency and rebellion themselves. (His dear, dear friends.)

So, he was going to read a book, damnit.

He didn’t care which, truly. Unfortunately, their statements had held true. Jongseob vaguely remembers reading a random chapter book back in his 6th year, but that was the last he had seen of that. Any book that he ever gave the light of day to were in fact comic books, and maybe he’d occasionally read a paragraph or two if one of his favorite artists had a written interview.

He didn’t care what book he read, he just needed to read something. As long as it was profound and complex and pretentious and educational or whatever, it would do the job of rubbing it in his friends face that he was more well rounded than they made him out to be.

That is the goal he was laser focused on as he stepped off the train, walking the short distance through the city and pushing through the heavy doors of the library, despite every bone in his body rejecting the idea.

He took a deep breath as he walked in, fumbling to turn off the music leaking from his headphones as it contradicted the quiet environment. Jongseob made his way to the front desk, suddenly conscious of every noise he made. Did the library require pin silence, or just no talking? Hell if he knew.

The front desk was empty. Momentarily, Jongseob searched for a bell, but realized that would be quite counterproductive in this setting.

But, he didn’t have to search for long. He could hear shuffling behind the wall, coming from the room behind the front desk that said “archives” on the plaque. He looked down, and saw the belongings of someone who was there, surely someone was working.

Jongseob cleared his throat after a few seconds, deciding he had no choice but to call out, and so he did. “S’there someone back there?”

The shuffling stopped for a second, and continued, as a female voice could be heard. “Uh, yes! I’ll be out in a moment.”

Jongseob ran a hand over his neck before leaning on the counter. So, apparently it is okay to talk that loud in libraries. He struggled in stifling an annoyed groan as all that ran through his mind was that he didn’t want to be here longer than he needed to. But, alas, he had to see it through.

He lifted his head up from his shoes, staring at the wall that separated him and the librarian. “I just need to know…what uh…what books are the most important, you know? Like, what had the most impact or something.”

A sigh and continued shuffling could be heard as the librarian continued tending to what she was doing. “Oh, so…like the most influential? Um, I personally would say authors like Homer, Tolstoy, Voltaire, Plato, Dostoyevsky, they definitely have some of the most important books written. Something everyone should read, really.”

The librarian seemed to be fond of the question, but Jongseob wasn’t particularly fond of the answer, considering all of those names already sounded complicated.

A thud could be heard from the back, “But you also can’t forget the women authors that shaped literature. Toni Morrison, Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters…” The librarian rambled.

Jongseob was already discouraged, his head leaning on his hand. He was almost close to walking off, accepting his delinquent and classic stoner title, when the librarian stopped shuffling. Footsteps could be heard and out emerged you.

When Jongseob thought of a librarian, he thought of a middle aged lady, one who needed to desperately get laid and interact with someone other than her cats. Not a girl his age (who looked way too bright in a way that was almost sickening) with a sweet smile plastered on her face.

Jongseob stood up straight from where he was leaning, watching as you straightened out your clothes, and pushed up your glasses. You had a look of understanding, like you knew Jongseob was lost and clearly needed some elaboration on every word that had just come out of your mouth.

“Though, all those names can be a lot if you’ve never heard them before…” You said, your hands resting on the counter as Jongseob took in every aspect of you.

Your hair, braided to the side with strands sticking out in a flawless almost intentional way. Your eyes, doe-like and big, as if you could talk about this all day, even with someone like Jongseob. Your clothes, soft and delicate, nothing like Jongseob’s style, yet so fitting on you. There seemed to be only one thought running rampant in his mind now as he processed all of these micro details.

Fuck..., she is so cute.

Jongseob was interrupted from his thoughts as you spoke again. “I would recommend The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald to start off, and Animal Farm by George Orwell. Those are always the easiest to digest.”

Jongseob was too entranced to even care about the fact that you already knew he was too stupid to read any of the authors you had stated at first. He was almost too distracted to answer, but he managed to anyway as he swallowed the fluster in his throat. “Uh, okay, yeah. Great Gatsby…Animal Farm. Where can I find those?”

You pushed away from the counter, ducking down and leaving Jongseob’s sight. Strangely, it took everything in him to not lean over the counter to watch, but he didn’t have to as you popped up shortly after, startling him into leaning back a little.

“Lucky for you, I haven’t put these back on the shelf. Here,” You said, pushing the books towards him, “You can read the backs!”

Jongseob reached out, picking up The Great Gatsby first, breathing in deeply before he started to read, already worried about seeming like a dumbass more than he has in his life

He began to skim through the paragraph in the back. A skim, because he would read a few words, think about it, and look up at you as sneakily as he could. By the time he remembered what he had to be doing, he had lost his place and skipped a few words as he repeated this method.

Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald's third book…She’s pretty…Jazz Age…Generations of readers….She’s not doing anything, but she’s so pretty…A Story of the fabulously wealthy Jay Gatsby and his love for the beautiful Daisy Buchanan…Can she see me looking?…Lavish parties…"gin was the national drink and sex the national obsession,"…God, I think she saw me stare…Exquisitely crafted tale…1920s….one of the great classics of twentieth-century literature.

As Jongseob started to lower the book from his line of view, you took note, stopping from scanning the barcodes of recently returned books to look at him. “What’d you think?” You asked him enthusiastically, genuinely curious to know.

Jongseob stayed quiet for a few seconds, partly because he was trying to process both what he just read, but also that you were standing in front of him again and he shouldn’t be this nervous. “Uh…so it’s, about parties? And some guy who’s in love with a girl?”

Hearing the extremely simplified yet somehow accurate summarization of the book from Jongseob, you giggled, the back of your hand coming to your mouth momentarily before looking back at him with a smile. Jongseob should NOT have felt so many emotions from a simple laugh. “Pretty much. But, like it said, super fancy parties. Not like the regular house parties we know. Most of the characters are crazy rich."

Jongseob pulled his gaze to the counter, placing it down as his rings made a noise grazing the wooden surface, still recovering from the sound of your laugh. “I don’t go to parties, so…don’t know what they’re like, but I’ll keep that in mind.” Jongseob said, before his eyes darted up to you. Why’d he say that? Was that rude, awkward, or worse, stupid? Why does he want you to know he doesn’t go to parties? I mean, he doesn’t, but is he already trying to convince you he’s not as much of a jackass as he looks?

Either way, you had definitely taken him as the type to go to parties, and that was evident by the way your eyes widened a little. Just subtly enough that if Jongseob wasn’t staring right at them, he might have not noticed. “Ah..., I see...,” you say through a smile, “Well..., I don’t either, but still, you’ll see the difference!”

You pushed the other book towards him, Jongseob watching your every movement. “Read the other! I think this one is the more interesting of the two!”

Jongseob nods, picking up the back of Animal Farm, prying his eyes off of you as he breathes and prepares himself for another synopsis with unnecessarily big words. With an internal sigh, he tries to shake off any surrounding thoughts to get a better grasp on this one.

A farm is taken over by its overworked, mistreated animals. With flaming idealism and stirring slogans, they set out to create a paradise of progress, justice, and equality. Thus, the stage is set for one of the most telling satiric fables ever penned—a razor-edged fairy tale for grown-ups that records the evolution from revolution against tyranny to a totalitarianism just as terrible.

Jongseob can just tell his eyebrows are a little contorted. Despite not having an absolute grasp on what exactly tyranny and totalitarianism was, what he got from that was some poorly treated animals took over a farm, and somehow started to run it themselves? He wondered for a second if he was still high from yesterday, before you entered and cleared any confusion.

“Yeah, that one can seem a bit odd,” you said as you walked back over to him. “But it is in fact about farm animals who take over their farm. Just with the added element of how power corrupts. I swear, it’s interesting once you start it up.”

Jongseob looks down at it, using every part of his brain that was tied to memory as he tried to pick apart the word totalitarianism. “So what, the animals turn into like, Stalin and all those other guys?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yeah, just like that actually! George Orwell wanted the book to be an allegory, or a…hidden message, that represents the Russian revolution.”

Jongseob nods, a smugger look on his face knowing that he accidentally hit it on the dot. If only Keeho could see him right now. It quickly turned into him looking like an idiot, however, as not only could he simultaneously not stop looking at you but avoiding eye contact, but he also wanted to hear you talk more, with no clue what to say. It was in this moment where he remembered that deep down, he was just a loser. Why can’t he speak? You were just a girl, after all. What should he say? Does he even say anything? Can you tell that he’s nervous? And again, he shouldn’t be this nervous-

“So, you want to check them out? I can do that for you.” You said as his thoughts whirled, reminding him that he was standing in a public library.

Jongseob hands grab at his jeans as his hands fall to his sides. He nods as he manages to slow his heart rate. “Yeah, I’ll take them.”

The next few minutes are spent with you and Jongseob going back and forth. Asking if he has a library card, Jongseob says yes, not wanting you to think this is the first time he’s ever been around a book, but he actually doesn’t know. You ask him for his number, put it in the system, and it turns out he doesn’t actually have a card.

Eventually, Jongseob ends up with a library card and Animal Farm and The Great Gatsby checked out under his name. As you slid the books back over to him, telling him he was all set with that stupidly sweet smile, he froze.

“So, how long do you think these will take me to read?”

He doesn’t know why he said anything, when he could’ve just bid you farewell and been on his merry way. Well, actually, he does know. He needed to talk to you more and blurted the first question to come up in his mind. It’s just embarrassing to admit.

You tilted your head at him, thinking about it with inquisition, “Hm, well they’re both only a little over 100 pages…How long did it take you to read your last book?”

He really should’ve just walked away.

“Maybe…like a week.”

Lies. Such a lie. He could only pray the questions stopped there.

“And how long was it?”

Jongseob paused, pretending to think about it, but in his mind scrambling for any impressive number. Over 200 pages was good right? No, too little. 300? 500?

“Um…I think around, 620…?”

You didn’t have to know 6 represented the number of members in his band, and 20 derived from the number that represents his favorite substance.

But of course, you believed him. Having no reason to doubt, really. Looking pleasantly surprised, you nodded. “That’s pretty good! I think both should definitely take you no more than a week.”

If Jongseob already wasn’t feeling embarrassed, he was now also overwhelmed with annoyance. Less than a week implied a few days, and he had never spent more than 10 minutes reading. Still, he tried his best to feign indifference, nodding his head. “Alright, well, thank you.”

You waved at him as he pushed away from the counter. “Anytime! I look forward to hearing your thoughts!”

Jongseob smiled politely, and turned around to walk away, letting go of a breath he had definitely been holding since he walked in.

His headphones slipped back on as he recalled everything that had just happened. Not only does he now have two books in his hand that are definitely biting off more than he can chew, he interacted with the prettiest girl who he has seen in a while but likely made a fool of himself and lied straight to her face.

He shook his head, wishing he could exit his body and relentlessly slap himself as he clenched on the books, swearing he would take this to the grave. Only the lord knew if his friends found out it would never die down.

Yeah, he was never coming back. And he certainly wasn’t reading these snoozefests. Jongseob had accepted defeat.

★彡

It had only been four days since he came that the blonde boy was back.

You have always loved reading. For most people, reading was something that they just had to do throughout school. Ever since you remember though, reading was never just a chore.

Since you were old enough, you made it your life’s mission to read whatever you could get your hands on. Prose, Poems, Novels, Biographies, Memoirs, Trilogies, Nonfiction, Fiction, Plays, and everything and anything in between.

If that made you a goody-two-shoes or not, you didn’t care. You were simply too busy immersing yourself in everything the well educated in society had to say, whether it was recent or from 500 years ago.

You always knew you wanted to pursue a type of career where you would somehow be involved in written media, in any way, shape, or form. Therefore, when an internship for a weekday position as an assistant librarian presented itself, you were all over the opportunity.

The job was going well. Afterall, you were getting paid to be surrounded by what you loved most. Sure, there would always be the rather fascinating people that you had to handle, but that came along with any job.

Jongseob, as the name on his file states, was certainly one of them.

It was odd enough that someone was asking for book recommendations with the criteria of being, ‘the most important, you know?’ but to continue to have a roller coaster of a conversation, bouncing from parties to hearing he allegedly read over 600 pages in a week.

You like to believe that literature always found people in life when they needed it. And throughout the time you spent at the library, you had come across many different characters reaching that point of their lives.

But never someone like Jongseob. Someone who looked like he was out of a rock band, throwing or attending the heaviest ragers in town during the weekends, and overall being what society liked to call an outsider. Someone who was now pushing through the wooden double doors of the library and making a b-line to the front desk with books in hand you thought you’d never see again.

You smiled up at him from your computer. Surely, he wouldn’t be here for long if he was back so soon.

“Hello again! Didn’t like the books?” You said, watching him as he leaned against the counter again, taking in his what seemed to be classic dazed appearance adorned with baggy all black and a chain or two. Yeah, surely, he was just dropping them off.

“Nah, I finished them…I have…lots of questions, though.”

That, you certainly weren’t expecting.

Regardless of how shocking the news may be, you were ecstatic. Not only that you had helped encourage a new person to read, but this person now had questions. Even someone like him. You started to feel almost guilty for writing him off into a stereotype he might be sick of so quickly but beamed as you stood up to stand in front of him eager for this. “I’m sure I have answers.”

Jongseob seemed to ground himself with a sigh as he grabbed ‘Animal Farm’ in his hands. “You were right, this one was interesting when I started. So… that one pig Napoleon, he really trained those puppies just so he could gain power?”

You nodded as you looked down and back at him, finding the curiosity and questioning in his face pretty…. endearing. “Uh, yeah, seems like it. Also, as a way of keeping the rest of the farm scared, they were supposed to be representative of soldiers and officers.” You explained with a smile.

Jongseob nodded in understanding, his eyes narrowing as he searched for his next words. “I don’t get why Boxer was so loyal…I mean, I get he was dumb and all…but even then he couldn’t see what was happening?”

You hummed in understanding, noting the way he waited for your word. “Well…since the book is an allegory to the Russian revolution, Boxer is supposed to be the Russian working class. They weren’t dumb…just tricked into doing work, similar to Boxer.”

This time it was Jongseob’s turn to nod as he looked down at the book, and this time seeming to have a much better grasp on the conversation than the first time he came around. “It was…it was pretty alright. I think it’s cool he did that, the author.” Jongseob began as he looked up, his hands tapping on the counter as he spoke to you with intrigue.

“He made the revolution easy to understand through a story about…pigs. That’s pretty cool, honestly. Cause I definitely didn’t understand any of that in sch-…….” Jongseob was saying before he seemed to freeze, his expression going sheepish as he stopped himself from finishing his sentence. “Um, yeah. Good book.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the save. Clearly, before this book, he hadn’t had a clue what happened during any revolution for that matter. Yet he didn’t want to let you know that. Perhaps from embarrassment, or an attempt to impress you. For some very odd reason, you were hoping it was the latter. You motioned to the second book at the counter, “What about Great Gatsby?”

Jongseob blinked himself to his default before he put down Animal Farm, switching the subject to the second book he read. “That one was ... it wasn't complicated but…hard to sit though?” He said, looking up to meet your eyes to check if that hadn’t hopefully passed as a ‘it was majorly confusing!’ “It’s about…money, right? Or…how people obsess too much over it and stuff.”

You nodded eagerly in approval, happy that even if he could barely get through it, he at least took away the most important aspect of the book. “Yeah! It played with the ideas of old money and new money, but at the end of the day, money was a major theme.”

Jongseob’s shoulders relaxed as if he had passed a quiz, and he leaned against the counter with a less tense demeanor. “So, the Gatsby guy, he threw all those parties for Daisy. But…I don’t know. How could he expect a girl he dated for a month to wait 5 years for him?”

You pondered the question. It typically wasn’t one people asked, but he had a point. “He thought their love was strong enough, I guess. Maybe it was at some point, but not when they met 5 years later.

His face contorted a bit, as his head tilted like a confused animal. “She clearly didn’t love Tom either.” He remarked, and it was amusing how the conversation could pass as two people discussing a cheesy romance novel.

You shrugged and hummed in agreement with him. “No, but, greater than the love she once had for Gatsby, she loved the wealth and status Tom could give her more.”

Jongseob scoffed standing straighter up as both his palms rested on the counter. It was nice to see someone feeling everything that Fitzgerald likely wanted the reader to feel from the book, but somehow comedic to see that Jongseob almost seemed to be taking it personally. “That’s fu-, I mean, that’s messed up. How weird do you have to be to choose that over love? Gatsby was loaded too, it's only cause' she wanted old money or whatever. And then, letting Gatsby get killed for Myrtle's death, when she was driving? I don’t think she ever loved him, honestly.”

It wasn’t the first time you talked to someone about books, but maybe the first that it was to someone your age that looked like this and seemed to be just as into it as you are. That made it all the more exciting. “My favorite part of that book was the last chapter. I think it really ties it all together how Gatsby had all these socialites, luxury, material things around him, but no one came to his funeral. Really makes you think, right?”

Jongseob nodded, a small turn in the corner of his mouth as he looked at you. “Yeah, it really did.” Jongseob said as he slid the books across to you, “I guess I’ll…return these now.” He said with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

You took the books back with a smile, making quick work of scanning them as you spoke. “I hope my picks weren’t too boring, but…in terms of most ‘important’, those are definitely a must.”

He stood with a hand in his hair, staring at you with pursed lips as you finished scanning his books. “Is there…a section where I can find more…?”

Your eyes brightened as you looked up at him, processing his question before feeling a smile come across your face. “More? Ah…well, the classic literature shelf. That’s where these came from.”

If you weren’t reading him so intensely, you wouldn’t have noticed the red tinge of color on his complexion, as his hand played with his sleeves. “Could you show me where?”

It was such a simple request, but it made your body stutter, almost as if you were nervous. When really, this was simply another visitor of the public library who it was your job to help. There was really no need to be nervous. I mean, he was just a guy with a grunge look to him (and not importantly, a flustered mess) that came in looking like a problem but turned out to be one of the most recipient and easiest people to converse with. Nothing special.

“Yeah! I can show you!” You said as you stood up, going around the counter to motion at Jongseob to follow you.

When he had reached you and you began to lead him, he was taller than you expected, reaching over you only a little, but enough for it to be noticed. But not important. Also unimportantly, he smelled clean with a certain musk to him, in a good way. Again, Unimportant.

Jongseob followed you for a few feet with his hands in his pockets, stopping abruptly just next to you as you stood in front of the beefy shelf with your hands spread out. “This is it! I can leave you to it.” You said, turning your head right to look at him, hitting ridiculously large brown eyes boring into you. “Or…help you, if you want…”

Jongseob looked at the shelf for a moment, without looking your way, speaking up. “I never got your name.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart momentarily race, but alas, it did. You kept your eyes on him as you answered, your hands hidden behind your back. “Oh…sorry! It’s y/n.”

He kept his eyes scanning over the many options, but it didn’t feel like he was looking at the books. More like he didn't yet want to look at you. He contemplated with himself for a moment, before quietly yet loud enough for you to hear, he spoke. “Y/n….”

“Show me your favorites.”

★彡

The weeks that followed were something of a blur. When Jongseob had returned home from his first visit to the library, he sprawled on the ground, just staring at his books. It was insane to him that he had walked in with the intention to boost his pride, but now that was the last thing on his mind.

All he could think about was a stupid side braid, glasses, and voice that shouldn’t have been running in his head that much.

Sometimes, you meet people who intrigue you so much that you want to talk to them endlessly, about anything and everything. But, that meant having the courage to engage in a conversation of that sort. Jongseob thought he was strong enough to fight past the initial nerves, but after his performance in the library, he clearly was not.

Besides, what would he talk to you about? He doubted you were interested in hearing about his douche band or the stupid thing he and his friends had done recently. Overall, he was certain it was a lost cause.

Jongseob sat up faster than ever when he realized something. Surely, a librarian would love to talk about books. And he had two in his possession that you had just recommended.

Suddenly, it seemed he had the motivation to sit himself down and force his eyes to take in every word of every page of the books you had recommended. And surprisingly, it was…. not too bad? Animal Farm was a heck of an allegory (whatever that was) and The Great Gatsby used more big words than he thought was necessary, but managed to intrigue him nonetheless.

Jongseob made a point to b-line for the library as soon as he was finished to report back to you. After a conversation he’d never imagine he would have, he knew he was crazy. And not about the books.

It didn’t seem fair to him that someone could have such a comfortable voice when they spoke about something they liked, a perfect pink color when they seemed even slightly shy, or an addictive crease of their eyes whenever they smiled.

He knew then he was going to be seeing much more of that library. (You.)

He took one recommendation after the next, to Of Mice and Men, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Metamorphosis, The Stranger, and whatever else he had read that he already lost track of.

With every book, he asked himself why he had always deemed he hated reading, when it’s actually not all that bad. The books were interesting, and even more so when he thought about the effort and creativity that went into writing one. He figured it wasn’t much different than music or performing, someone has a vision and sees it through. Books were just an amped up version of that.

He was reading books front to back so often that he was seeing you frequently. So often you could tell it was him by the way the doors closed softer than usual, his clunky shoes and rattling chains echoing before you could even see him. So often he knew what your exact schedule was, when it was the best time to see you. So often that every time he came, grinning with that snaggletooth, it made your whole face warm in a fuzzy feeling. So often that you’d recommend the shorter books you knew he would fly through easier, so he would come back sooner.

And when reading a whole book and returning it wasn’t frequent enough, he started to come in just to ask you about whatever part he’s read so far. He was hesitant at first, because surely you would know by that point that there was more to it than just expanding his literary knowledge. Yet, when he came in and asked you to explain a chapter of The Metamorphosis, catching you as you were busy stashing books back on their respective shelves, you stared at him blankly for a few seconds.

He was certain you were weirded out to your core, but then that candy pink glow was back, and you smiled down at the floor before looking at him with these stupidly addictive eyes.

“Do you actually have a question, or did you just want to talk to me?”

Jongseob’s breath hitched, and surely, he looked pathetic as he clammily fumbled with the book in his hands, his entire body on fire.

“Can’t it be both?”

There was no library big enough to fit all the books he would read just to see your face light up as you talked about the things you loved, which he quickly came to know were more than just books. You also liked listening to music (not the kind his band makes, which totally didn’t hurt his feelings), taking strolls through the city while listening to said music, thrifting for clothes at secondhand stores and loving to find pieces that remind you of ‘grandma clothing’, and stargazing. One of your favorite spots being the grassy hill in town that was barely tall enough that if you angled yourself in just the right position, you couldn’t see the bustling streets under it, just the stars that were bright enough to shine.

Although he was hesitant at first, Jongseob opened up to you as well. He told you about his band and their hip-hop/noise music/all-over-the-place style. His love for wearing dark, layered clothes and chains. He told you about how much he likes to rap and write his own lyrics, how it’s the way he met his friends in the first place. Speaking of his friends, he let you in on the delinquency that they’re often caught up in, that he claimed he wasn’t that proud of with a smirk on his face.

As he explained to you that being dubbed the “worst” in his friend group was the reason why he picked up reading, he was nervous that you would see him differently. Up until then, although you may have had your speculations, he was just a guy with a much different aesthetic compared to yours that happened to share the same interest in books. But he felt he knew you well enough to know that you wouldn’t criticize him like that, and he was proven right when you only giggled at the thought.

“That’s impressive, though. Really, there aren’t many people who can recognize that they need to read a little more. I’m glad they teased you for it. After all, how would we have become friends?”

Jongseob needed a long breather after you said that one. For many reasons, the most pressing, the word friends.

It excited him but discouraged him all the same. He was pleasantly surprised that someone like you would consider him a friend, even knowing everything you got to know about him the past two months or so. Yet also discouraged, because it’s exactly what he was to you.

A friend doesn’t inch closer to you as you sit on the same table, just so he could take in your warmth and scent a little better. A friend doesn’t have the image of you pushing up your glasses as you talk to him imprinted in his mind. A friend doesn’t find himself zoning out on a conversation about the book he just read, taking dangerously long glances at pink lips, wondering what it would feel like if he just-

No, a friend wouldn’t do any of this. Yet that’s all you were to him.

Jongseob knows he’s not exactly the best at NOT wearing his emotion on his sleeves. You were also the smartest person he had ever known, not an idiot that would miss the psychological clues he can’t hide about how he has the fattest crush on you.

It would be one thing if you made it clear that you weren’t interested, but…you never gave that impression in the slightest. If anything, sometimes he wondered if the way your cheeks would go from shades of red and pink was for everybody, or just him. He wondered if he wasn’t actually seeing things when he swore in the corner of his eye you would stare at him until he looked back up.

These were the thoughts that had been racking his mind, running every scenario, every glance, every desire in dizzying circles. Surely, you had to have at least thought about it before, right? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself and ruin something so great by asking you. So, he decided he would wait for a signal— whatever that was—to let him know he was actually in. In the meantime, he’d have to settle with only being your friend.

Today, he found himself in the narrow space of two tall bookshelves. Jongseob sat against one side with his legs tucked, flicking his pen back and forth through his hands as a beat poured through his headphones. Of course, you sat on the opposite side, your book propped up against your knee with that look of focus that came up every time you read. He tried not to pay attention to the way both of your legs were centimeters from touching, or else he'd probably explode.

The both of you were waiting for the library to clear out as it closed to the public, having made plans to go to a cafe downtown. It had become somewhat of a routine to leave the library and do something fun every week. He didn’t have to wait with you, but he found that you were the type of person that even comfortable silence was enjoyable. It even made him focus better.

So, Jongseob sat engrossed in the notebook in his lap, reading over lyrics that he had written down so far and bobbing his head along. He had made pretty good progress after he finally managed to stop himself from sneaking glances at you. He was too engrossed though, to the point where he hadn’t noticed the library go even more pin silent then it already was as you and him were the only ones left. Or the way you had put your book down and were staring at him after you had called his name twice with no answer.

He noticed when your hand reached out and pulled one of his earbuds out however, and his heart nearly stopped at how gently you did it, and how closely leaned in you were as you smiled at him. “Is the song that good?” You teased.

He held his breath until you backed away, letting out a shaky exhale as the distance he was accustomed to returned, and he could finally return the grin as he took out the other earbud. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know how I missed you.” He said as he rolled up the earbuds and put them in his bag next to him. “It’s not a song…just a beat. We wanna play a new song for the gig I told you about in two weeks but...I’ve been stumped. Couldn’t write a single lyric until now.”

You hummed in understanding, pushing a strand of hair out of your face as you tried to peek at his notebook. “Did you get a lot done?”

Jongseob nodded with a proud grin, his lips slightly pursed, holding up his notebook to show you the lyrics he had written, only his beaming eyes visible behind it.

You nodded with slightly wide eyes leaning in to skim over some of the words, and an endeared smile on your face as you looked at the doodles littered around the writing. “That’s pretty good! 2 verses there at least.” You said with a small clap as Jongseob put his notebook away as well, returning his attention back to you.

“What about you? How was your book?” He asked, tilting his head to try and read the title, which you noted looked a lot like a cat.

You handed your book to him adorned with a black cat bookmark, so he could read it himself. You were reading A Midsummer’s Night Dream. “I like it so far! It’s actually a play; remember I told you William Shakespeare is most famous for those?”

Jongseob hummed, nodding his head as he looked at you intently as you began your rant, “Yeah, the guy who wrote Romeo and Juliet, right?”

You nodded as he handed you the book back, flipping through the pages carelessly as you spoke. “That’s the one. One day, we have to work you up to read one of his plays. They really are amazing. If I ever write something, I want it to be so meaningful it’s still important hundreds of years later, you know? That’s always been the dream, to say something in my writing and have so many people listen, kind of like he did.”

Jongseob watched as you trailed off into your own thoughts as you stared down at the book, that familiar twinkle in your eye as you thought about your future, your goals, how you knew exactly what you wanted. It was one of the many things he liked about you, and at that moment it brought a strange heart-sinking feeling. He sighed as he shook himself off. “What’s it about?”

You broke out of your trance as you heard the question, perking up as you started another passionate conversation. “Well, it’s a comedic play, and it’s got a lot of different themes, like magic…dreams…jealousy…but the main one is love, or how it’s difficult.”

Jongseob is suddenly paying more attention now. “Difficult?”

You nod as you search for your next words. “Yeah, the plot of the story revolves around a love potion, where the characters fall for each other based on their looks and nothing else. A main point though is when love is…out of balance. So, like a romantic relationship that is interfered with by the differences or inequalities of two people.”

Jongseob was listening to what you were saying, but his brain was processing it differently. Dissecting each and every word, and this time his face of adoration and focus on you was laced with something else you were too busy explaining to name.

“Like… these two characters,” you continue as you talk with your hands, immersed in telling the story. “Bottom and Titania. Titania is beautiful and graceful and this enigma, while Bottom is clumsy and ugly, but she still falls in love with him. Well, because of the potion, but still goes to show that imbalance. Listen to this quote, I really liked it,”

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged cupid painted blind.”

Jongseob hates the way he felt, the way that he couldn’t look at you now, but there was a clear thought that invaded his mind and kept eating away at it. He stayed quiet and solemn long enough for you to notice, and as soon as you went to ask him if he was alright, he beat you to it.

“I’m…your friend, right? You like me?”

There was a pin drop silence added to the already dead silent library, but it was loud. All Jongseob could hear was the blood rushing through his head as he looked at your confused and wide eyes.

Your expression twisted slightly in confusion as you looked at him, swallowing before answering. “What? Of…of course I like you. You’re my friend.”

Jongseob’s knuckles went white as he gripped his bag tight. You had seen many emotions on his expressive face, but never this, never one that looked so defeated.

You could barely process what that meant as he stood up, throwing his bag on his back as he looked down at you. “I have to go. Sorry, Y/n.”

He started walking away before you could even register it, sliding your book off your lap as you hurriedly stumbled to your feet, staring at his back with nothing but a sinister mixture of confusion and frustration. “Seob, wait! What happened?” You questioned, your voice raising the loudest it ever has in that room.

A part of you wanted to go after him, grill him and insist that he told you what was wrong, what made him feel that way. But Jongseob was already exiting the door, too fast to even consider it, and something told you he wouldn’t tell you anyway.

Since you met Jongseob, all you had been met with was a cheeky smile and a rosy fluster, all your favorite images of him. This time however, the only one that ran through your mind was the way he had just looked at you.

Like he had lost something.

★彡

Monday, 8:34pm

y/n (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶): hi jongseob. i haven’t seen you since yesterday. you left pretty upset. if you need to talk, you know you’re always welcome

Wednesday, 10:09am

y/n (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶): good morning seob, please remember my last message. you know what times i’ll be here

Friday, 11:08pm

y/n (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶): at least let me know that you’re alright.

It was a pretty standard Saturday night. Jongseob’s friends in the upstairs of Theo’s home, probably eating pizza or pregaming for a party, Jongseob and Shota sprawled on the bean bag chairs, blasting music.

The only difference might be the big fat book in Jongseob’s hands.

He doesn’t know why he’s still reading, when he had given up on ever having a chance with you. Yet here he was, Sense and Sensibility on its 162nd page, even rejecting Shota’s advances to play Mario Kart instead.

The last time he had seen you, something that he had been trying to avoid so long had dawned on him. He liked you. So much. To the point where sometimes it was debilitating. Likely chances were that you could possibly like him as well.

That wasn’t what he had been avoiding, however. Jongseob was very certain of that fact. He realized why he was only ever going to be your friend. You were just like Tatania—or whatever her name was—smart, goal oriented, knew what you wanted, and God. So, so beautiful.

Meanwhile, Jongseob was just that other guy. Sure, maybe he wasn’t the ugliest, he likes to think he does pretty well for himself. He also wasn’t terribly clumsy like the character from the play.

In real life however, he was a total failure in your light. Getting high on the weekends and drifting around with his friends for the hell of it. Holding onto this false idea of being able to make a band work as a career one day. And although it is a long, complicated, and layered story, he had in fact been in the back of a cop car once.

The both of you were a real-life version of a love “out of balance.” Hearing those words verbalized by you without you even realizing it had shattered down all the walls he put up attempting to mask that very truth.

The way you had spoken about love being about the mind was another deafening blow. It would make sense that someone like you would want someone sophisticated, well spoken, mature. No, it was what you deserved.

It had dawned on him that he probably wasn’t any of these things to you.

He had to leave that day. Had he not, he would have broken down on the spot. So he did what he felt was right, and valiantly exited out.

Or at least, he thinks it’s right. He doesn’t know. He’s read your messages, wondered how you must be feeling, and he becomes conflicted all over again.

Like now, when the mere recollection of the events of the past week had caused him to groan and flop back, shutting his book as he looked over at Shota, eyes glued to the TV with a disposable weed pen and the switch controller in his hands.

He sighed as he sat back, staring at the book in his lap. The words were too big anyway, and there was a lot going on that he needed help dissecting. Knowing just the person who could help made it ten times worse.

He didn’t know if he had made the right choice. The only thing certain is that he hardly deserved you as a friend. Let alone a lover.

Jongseob groaned before sitting up straighter, putting his book on the table next to him, his arms on his knees. “Shota, let me borrow your pen.”

Shota glanced over at Jongseob quickly, before turning back to the Mario Kart screen to pause it. Then, looking back at Jongseob again with an incredulous look on his face. He put down his controls, before turning around and cupping his face, screaming, “Steph!! Come down here!”

As Shota turned back to Jongseob, Jongseob gave him a look of annoyance and confusion, to which the other boy only shrugged and continued his game.

Keeho came down the stairs mere moments later, scanning the basement until it landed on both boys. “What is it, Sho?”

“Jongseob’s trying to get high out of his mind again.” Shota said, not once taking his eyes off the screen.

Jongseob groaned yet again as Keeho walked up to them, throwing his head back in irritation. “All of a sudden everyone’s trying to be saints.”

Keeho sighed as he sat on a stool, shaking his head at him. “And you’re trying to be dead. Theo told me you’ve been loitering around down here getting high all damn week with that book.” He said, nodding to Jane Austen’s novel on the table. “Something’s up.”

Jongseob sighed, averting his gaze from Keeho to the Mario Kart screen. “Nothing is up. I just… wanna get high more. That’s all.”

Keeho rolled his eyes, boring them right back into Jongseob. “Last time you felt like that turns out you were sulking over that stupid game you play. Spill.”

Jongseob shook his head in a soft motion, looking down at the floor. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

Keeho stayed quiet for a moment, before speaking up again. “So…it’s a girl.”

Jongseob buried his hands in his face, hearing the game of Mario Kart pause once again as four eyes bored into him now. “God…why do you always jump to the furthest conclusion?”

Keeho scoffed, shaking Jongseob by the shoulders a bit. “But I didn’t this time. It’s a girl. You think we don’t notice how you disappear for hours? Try to dress nicer, wear cologne? Read those books?”

Jongseob rubbed his eyes, looking at the ceiling, sighing in defeat. He had reached a point where he couldn’t deny it even if he tried with the way Shota and Keeho were burning holes into him. Even if he was able to, there was something strangely comforting about his cover being blown. Like he was given the chance to at least get a small weight off his chest.

“Maybe…there is a girl.” Jongseob murmured, his hand tracing down his eyes as they fluttered shut and all he could see was you.

“Don’t leave out anything.” Keeho said, leaning in closer to make sure he heard every word. It was rare that Jongseob was ever this distraught.

Jongseob didn’t even know where to begin, how to cover everything he had felt in the past few months. So, he simply decided to let his thoughts blurt out in whatever order they came in and go from there. “She…She’s perfect.”

His breath went on shaky as his scramble of words continued. “She works at the library. I only met her because all of you made fun of me, saying I’m the biggest slack and idiot, I needed to prove that wrong. I was only supposed to read one or two books. But…she was there. So smart and nice and God–way too pretty. How could I not like her?”

Jongseob swallowed a lump in his throat as he sat up, his head dangled to the ground. “So, I just kept reading so I could talk to her. And it wasn’t bad, I liked it. I liked her more. We became friends eventually, and I kept telling myself…maybe I had a chance. We spent so much time together, got along well, so maybe…she’d like me back one day.”

“I was with her last Sunday, and I just stormed out. I just…I realized that I can never be more than just her friend. I just can’t.”

Keeho and Shota exchanged glances as they processed his words, with the latter finally speaking as he cleared his throat. “So she rejected you?”

Jongseob shook his head with a frustrated sigh, his emotions whirling faster the more he had to relive this. “No, no. I haven’t even officially told her that I like her.”

The room was quiet a little longer, the silence heavy and brooding as the other two in the room were confused. Keeho breathed in and out before speaking. “So…why can you never be more than her friend?”

If Jongseob had 10% more of a problem with anger issues, or if it was in his nature, he’d get up and yell it in their faces. He didn’t though, and he didn’t have the energy to make it a grand thing either. So, his words could only be described as a pathetic, whiny, ramble.

“You won’t get it. Unless you know her like I do. She’s so kind…even to someone like me. The smartest person I’ve met. She’s got such a drive, determination, and knows what she wants in the future. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. She’s perfect. And me? I smoke and drink and I do stupid shit when I’m with you guys. I’m in a band thinking I’ll make it far in life that way. And even though it’s gotten better now that I read, I must be the dumbest guy on earth. You guys were right; I really had never picked up a book. And as much as I try to match her, I won’t get there. She’s perfect, and I’m not even good. Not even average.”

If he could exit his body and hit himself for laying out all of his insecurities, he would. It was too late now, however. So, it wouldn’t hurt anyone for Jongseob to say everything he had been wanting to.

“It’s not that we can’t be anything more than friends. Who knows, maybe we could. It’s just that I don’t deserve to be anything more with her.”

It was all embarrassing for Jongseob. The silence of Keeho and Shota, the way that whole monologue sounded somehow even more pathetic aloud than in his head, the way he couldn’t look anyone in the eye. He thought to himself this is why he didn’t say anything from the beginning.

“All that stuff I said about you being ‘the worst’ of us all, do you really believe it?”

Jongseob looked up from the floor, finding Shota had scooted closer, and Keeho was looking at him with a sincerity he rarely got from his friends as they had always been lighthearted with each other.

“I mean…it makes sense. I kind of am.”

Keeho sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a shake of his head. “First of all, I was blasted out of my mind when I said that. You know we shouldn’t take any of each other’s words seriously by that point.” Keeho explained with a scolding look in his eye. “Second of all, you are not some lowlife drifter, Seob. Well…maybe on occasion, you are. But you know what you also are? The youngest.”

Jongseob was looking at him with questioning eyes, his lip caught in his teeth as he listened to his older friend speak.

“Jongseob, you’re only 19. I can assure you, Theo and I were doing much worse at that age. Sure, you get into some trouble, enjoy some things you shouldn’t enjoy,” Keeho said, as he looked over to grab the disposable in Shota’s hand and pocket it away. “But that doesn’t take away from the good qualities that landed you five friends that see you as family. You may be rough around the edges, but deep down you’re a good kid. You’re nice when it counts, passionate about the things you like. Total cutie, too. Right, Sho?”

Jongseob searched Keeho’s face for any deceit, finding none. He was only more reassured when he looked over to Shota, finding him nodding eagerly.

“And trust me, you have all the time in the world to grow into that identity and retire that delinquent title. And I know you will when you’re ready.” Keeho said, a small smile on the corner of his lips. “So don’t push what sounds like an amazing girl away because you’re still figuring your shit out. Who knows, she probably sees the same things in you that we do. If she’s as nice and smart as you say she is, she’ll hold her own against a jerk like you if that’s what she wants. You deserve it just as much as any other asshole.”

It was always strange how his friends had the power to turn Jongseob’s mood in a complete 180. Because now he was smiling, and suddenly the cloud of moodiness and a sour mix of emotions hovering over him the past few months had started to clear, and the words Keeho had said made much more sense than Jongseob’s little outburst.

“Shota…Hyung…Thank you. I needed someone to tell me that.” Jongseob said, taking a deep breath as he sat up straight.

Keeho smiled, reaching over to fluff up Jongseob’s blonde hair. “You still have a problem, though. Have you talked to her since sunday?”

The momentarily lifted weight off Jongseob’s shoulders returned once again, and he sighed as he rubbed his eyes. “Fuck. I haven’t. I doubt she wants anything to do with me at this point.”

Keeho shook his head as he stood up, grabbing Jongseob by his shoulders. “No, shut up. You can still fix it; it just has to be now.”

Jongseob looked up at him with his eyebrows in a furrow. “Now? As in…right now?”

Shota took the keys out of his pocket, throwing them over to Jongseob. “Take the car.”

Keeho dragged Jongseob to his feet, throwing a nearby hoodie at him as he grabbed him like a coach talking to his quarterback before the game. “Don’t think about it. Just go. Before it’s too late.”

Jongseob could barely process throwing the hoodie on, his blonde hair messy as he was pushed out of the house by Keeho and Shota, and suddenly he was driving.

Jongseob had a new mindset, but his palms were sweating, sliding around on the steering wheel. He knew he needed to see you, but he wasn’t sure what he would say. He told himself it had to be the truth, and only the truth. It was what you deserved. All he had to do was find you now.

He drove by the library, but as he glanced at the time, it was already 7:30. It had been closed for half an hour, and it looked completely locked up already.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, asking himself where you could be. His eyes lit up as he remembered something, the car making a quick U-turn as he drove the direction he had just come from.

Mere minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the local park, making swift work of stumbling out and locking the car behind him. Jongseob started walking towards the back of the park, his legs tiring out as he started frantically going uphill. The city’s best spot for stargazing, the one you loved.

Even though he wasn’t sure you’d be there, he kept going anyway. It was a pretty good guess, and it proved to be right as more stars and less city came into view, and you sat there with your legs close to your chest as you looked up.

As he reached the top, a foot came down too loud, loud enough for it startle you out of your thoughts. You turned around initially anxious, almost immediately standing up, but your face softened once you made it out to be him. “Jongseob? What are you doing here?”

He took a couple quick breaths as he stood in front of you, breathless for many different reasons and taking in the face he had missed seeing. “Looking for you.” He said quietly, his eyes starstruck.

“I haven’t heard from you in a while…what happened? Are you alright?”

Jongseob sighed, nodding his head as he pursed his lips. “I can’t believe I ghosted you for a week and you’re still worried about me. I’m fine, Y/n. I just had to sort through some things.”

“I’m just worried about what happened the last time we saw each other. You left pretty angry, I don’t know if I said or did something.” You said, your hands clammy as you played with them, looking up at him.

Jongseob was just frustrated now, his hands falling to his sides. “No, God, no. You could never do anything wrong.”

Your insistence continued. “It had to have been something. Was it the friend thing? Because I-..” is all you managed to get out, before suddenly a palm was pressed against your mouth.

Jongseob was only left with the option of looking into your eyes, the ones always so big and vibrant and currently weren’t helping the nerves coursing through his body. “You did nothing wrong. I’m the stupid one.”

He slowly pulled his hand back, looking for the courage within himself as he looked at you. Confused, Anxious, probably shivering a bit, wearing a jacket way too light for the time of night. So beautiful. As if you only got prettier the more, he looked and if he kept looking, he was bound to die a blissful death. The sight alone made him understand that bottomless, never-ending love the greats in literature speak of better than a hundred books could. He finally took a deep breath; he couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know, I like you, right? So much. As in way more than a friend?”

Your face flushed red, a color seen even with how dark it was. You swallowed before answering. “Um…I had…an idea.”

He chuckled as he looked at his shoes quickly looking back up to make his eyes meet yours again. “I have ever since I first met you. I like you so much you made me finish a chapter book for the first time in years.”

“That day, when you were talking about that Shakespeare play, I couldn’t stop thinking about how it sounded just like us. Like we were that one out of balance couple. We’re so…different. It made me think..., it could never work.

Jongseob was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Compared to you, I’m a total doof. I’ve only barely started reading, I like to do dumb things with other dumb people. I skip college to write dumb songs with my dumb friends, and I'm still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. And to me, you’re so perfect in every way imaginable. My complete polar opposite.”

Jongseob stepped closer, without even realizing it, his eyes starry and pleading. “Maybe we are out of balance, maybe every norm or tradition or whatever isn’t in line with this. I realized now that I don’t mind. If you’d let me, I’d do everything to make it work. To show you that no matter how out of balance, it could work. I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense, all the best things never do.”

Your lips quivered a bit, looking at him with your whole body hot. Never in your life did you think you would be living out a love story that you could only fathom reading over and over. And not with the unruly grunge guy that had walked in the library months ago that you had been pining for since.

You wiped your sweaty hands on your clothes, swallowing before you started talking. “A Midsummer’s Night Dream was about…how love looks with the mind, not the eyes.” You began, your voice a little shaky as you tried your best to look him in the eye. “Since I met you…I knew behind the exterior and the stuff you usually get into, you were a good person.”

You smiled as you recalled the first time he came in. “You’re always so expressive, I can read every emotion off your face. You’re curious, always asking questions. Patient, kind, passionate, charismatic. I could keep going, but all this to say,”

“I wouldn’t like you too if I didn’t think we went well together, despite all the differences.”

Jongseob took another step forward, and swears that even if you pinched him, he still wouldn’t believe any of this is real. The way that you looked at him with an adoration and warmth that had always been there, only know he could name it. The way the wind slightly rustled your hair and his, proving that the both of you were here in front of each other. Finally, he spoke softly. “You’re serious?”

You giggled a bit, nodding as you held both of your hands out. “I’m very serious. I like you a lot.”

He took your hands, looking down at them with uncertain brown eyes. They were softer than he could’ve made them out to be in any daydream. Gulping, he asked a question he had been dying to ask since that very first day.

“Y/n…please, can I kiss you?”

His lips were on yours before you knew it. And much to your surprise, it tasted like an unfamiliar mix of chemically fruit flavoring.

☆彡

It had been a week since you and Jongseob had made up, and consequently a week since you started dating. After he had driven you home, he hurriedly popped the question as he hung out the passenger side window, like if he didn’t ask at that moment, there’d never be another chance. And of course, you agreed.

Today was your first date, which ended up being the show he and his band were playing. You stuck out like a sore thumb in a crowd of people dressed just like your boyfriend and his friends, the best outfit you could muster being a brown sweater and a denim skirt with the clunkiest platforms you owned.

You had never been to a small local show, but the energy from the crowd and the band, the setlist and the lights, everything tied together into being an enjoyable first experience.

You and Jongseob were now gathered around his rowdy friends at the back of the venue. You initially were only there to meet his friends, but it turned into a hangout of sorts. A few drinks and cigarettes caused a cheery conversation as they rode through an after-concert high.

You and Jongseob sat on a step with you watching as he and Shota played a game of cards. Shota kept beating him, even as you tried to whisper tips in his ear.

After a while, it was getting late, and after sitting for some time, you were a bit tired. Your head leaning on his shoulder as your energy started to dial down. On top of that, you also had to go to the bathroom.

You tapped Jongseob’s hand, whispering in his ear. “Can you come with me to the bathroom?”

Jongseob nodded, handing his cards to Shota as he shot up, giving you a hand. “Course. I’ll be back, guys.”

He took your hand, leading you through the empty venue, all the way to the bathroom, where he waited outside for you to be finished.

He smiled at you as you came out, noting the slightly more tired smile he got back from you. He put his hand out, wanting you to come closer. “I’m sorry. You’re tired. I’m the designated driver for some of these guys, though.”

You took his hands, pulled into a hug as his hands settled on your waist. “It’s okay,” you told him, your hand reaching up to pinch his cheek. “I get it.”

He chuckled at you, his eyes full of love and a completely smitten look. “I never got to tell you that you look really pretty today.”

His compliment sent a shiver down your spine, every word of endearment being so new still. “I didn’t get to tell you that you looked really good on stage tonight.”

It was Jongseob’s turn to be flustered as his cheeks washed pink, and like he had been doing since he first got a feel for them, he couldn’t stop looking at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

You giggled, your hand already resting on his face in preparation. “I told you, you don’t have to ask.”

He titled his head, leaning closer as he smirked down at you. “Gotta be a gentleman, right?”

His lips came down on yours soft at first, softly molding them onto his as he got a feel for them. You swear he was trying to memorize every crevice and curve. But, as you put your hands over his own that laid on your waist, dragging them up and down in permission to let him feel, the air shifted.

He gasped shakily on your mouth, in such a needy way that shouldn’t have made your body go hot so quickly. He took the reins of letting his hands run up from your sides all the way down to plump skin that drove him crazy being able to touch.

It wasn’t long before both of your tongues had made their way to each other, and suddenly it was evident to both of you there was something entirely different about this kiss. His hands were all over you, and yours tracing patterns on his chest and arms. There was a newfound lust in this one that both of you couldn’t deny

Yeah, this was different. If it wasn’t clear from the way you were pressing into him. And when you pressed too hard, he let out a soft moan in your mouth that shook you to your core.

He pulled away abruptly, his hands on your shoulders as he stared at you breathless, with new pink lips and a need in his eyes.

You wanted to complain about the distance, but before you could, he was fishing for his car keys in his pocket, his other hand intertwining with yours. “Let’s go to my house.”

Your eyebrows contorted, looking him up and down. “Why? You still have to drive your friends home.”

“They’ll figure it out.” He said, finally pulling out his keys and jangling them in front of you. “Besides…, I can’t fuck you here.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he started pulling you out, but you followed him wordlessly. Something in the way he said it, in a needy way that made him sound even more desperate than he looked had your head reeling with possibility. His friends noticed quickly as you both walked out, Jongseob with a mission to get you to his house as soon as he could. One of them called out—Intak if you remember correctly—noting the way he didn’t stop until he reached the car. “Seob! Where are you going? How do we get home?”

“Get an Uber!” He yelled without looking back, as you turned around and said a small ‘Sorry!’ with a wave.

Jongseob wasted no time in opening the door for you and driving off as soon as you were buckled in. The car pulled out of its parking spot and his hand almost instinctively found its way to your thigh, rubbing the exposed skin your skirt showed in a way that he had to know was making you squirm.

The drive was agonizingly slow, his hand kept running down and getting dangerously close to where you were starting to yearn for him. “Are we…almost there?” You asked a little breathless only a few minutes in, although it had felt like hours.

Jongseob glanced over at you quickly, swallowing thickly at the sight of you clearly impatient for what was to come. “Soon. Just a little longer, angel.”

He made it a point to go faster, as fast as he could without it being borderline dangerous. When he finally reached his house, the tires quietly screeched with how fast he pulled in, and the car was off and in park before you could blink.

His hand disconnected from your thigh, and already his absence was felt. He barely made it around to open your door as you stumbled out as well.

“My parents are asleep.” Jongseob announced, as he led you to the doorstep. You kept a grab on his jacket as he fumbled with his house keys. The more desperate he got, the harder it was to get them to function.

Eventually, the door opened quietly, and he used the same quietness to lock it behind you. After you had both discarded your shoes, with a swift motion his hand was in yours again as he plopped his keys on the table, leading you to his room.

His room was so unbelievably him. Scattered with posters of his favorite rock and indie bands, the biggest being a ‘Plastic Beach’ by the Gorillaz poster in the dead center. Messy and dark bedding, his gaming consoles all over. What had caught your eyes first, was the book you had just checked out to him, neatly stacked on his nightstand.

His room—that smelled only a little like weed—was the least of your concern, however. Not when he plopped himself on his bed, immediately pulling you on his lap to straddle on top of him as his lips crashed onto yours.

His hands only had gotten more adventurous, his whines less and less contained as his tongue immediately found yours again.

You felt like you were heaving into the kiss, it was all too much. The way his mouth danced with yours, your hands grabbing onto his neck, his own gripping at your ass in a way that made you question if this was your boyfriend. Too much, yet you wanted so much more.

Jongseob had started tugging at the hem of your sweater, but before he did anything, he pulled away from the kiss, a string of saliva between you both. He looked up at you doe-eyed and out of breath, the sight ethereal. “Do you want this? I’ll stop right now if you don’t.”

You couldn’t have nodded faster, your hips starting to move on their own. “Yeah, of course I do. Please, Seob.”

Jongseob didn’t need to hear anything else as his hands started to get rid of your sweater, swiftly throwing off his own shirt afterwards. All you were left in was your bra, but he didn’t so much as glance at anywhere but your face, he couldn’t until he knew you were fine. “You need to tell me if you ever want to stop.”

You nodded, about to usher him on into continuing before he spoke yet again. "Y/n, I wanna hear you say yes and no, alright? Don't just nod."

You breathed out, the sound trembling as you answered him. "Okay..., Yeah, Yes, I'll do that."

His hands finally went to your back, fumbling with the clasps of your bra for a moment before you reached back, helping him get it off faster.

As it was thrown with the rest of the clothes, his eyes glazed over you, his face hot. Something in his expression that looked like he wanted to consume you. “Fuck…Y/n. You’re perfect. So, so perfect.” Jongseob said breathlessly as his lips found your neck.

Jongseob started peppering kisses wherever his heart desired, his hands reaching up to hesitantly cup your chest. “This okay?” He breathed against you, with you only giving him a shaky ‘yeah’ in response.

His touch felt like a trail of fire, and every kiss, every squeeze, brought a soft moan from your boyfriend, his every thought spilling out in soft chants like he couldn't help but worship “My Y/n…so perfect…so pretty.”

The kissing, the hickeys, the squeezing, it was all euphoric. But with every bit he gave you, you only needed more. Jongseob was too entranced in feeling your every ridge to notice. It was only when your hips rolled into him on their lonesome that he was brought to life, a whine leaving his mouth.

You tried catching your breath before looking him in the eye, your heart beating out of its place. “Jongseob…please, I just....” You told him, your words leaving your mind as you were left blank in a cloud of desire, unsure how to ask for more.

If everything hadn’t driven him off the edge by now, your pleading did, and he nodded as he reached down for the zipper of your skirt, wasting no time in fulfilling your wish. He pressed a kiss by your ear as he spoke into it. “I get it, I get it. Me too." He said softly, his voice so reassuring yet so igniting. "I’m taking these off, Alright Angel? Lift your hips for me.”

You listened to his requests; your lip caught in your teeth as the both of you worked on getting off your pants and the underwear that you had soaked through long ago.

Jongseob looked at you, a sheer layer of sweat already on his face as a strand of hair stuck down on it. His hand reached down, placing a soft kiss on your lips as you finally felt his hand on your throbbing heat. “Let me know if I'm hurting you. I need to prep you first.”

Your face was buried in the crook of his neck as his hand explored you, and despite not having the most experience, he learned quickly. His thumb found your bundle of nerves, tracing soft circles as he listened and studied your every reaction, his free hand roaming up and down your back. It was only a matter of seconds before he found your entrance, already slick with arousal as he inserted one finger in, pressing and running it against your walls.

“Does that feel good?” He asked softly.

You wondered why he even had to ask, especially when you were practically melting in his arms, your body shivering. “It does.” You said in a pant, the way your voice sounded so different yet so familiar going straight in his ear and down to his core.

“I’ll do another.” He announced, inserting a second finger.

He kept his thumb on your clit, continuing those small circles, as he moved his two fingers to press and pump them in and out of you, spreading them wider to loosen you up from time to time. As he did, he continued watching and listening to your quiet moans and sounds of pleasure, sounds that told him he was doing something right.

You were a mess at that point, your body even pressing down into him as he became more rigorous. “Seob…it feels good.”

Jongseob placed a kiss on your head, the sight of you falling apart over him, saying his name as affirmation that it was all him, he was all yours, driving him insane. “I know, Y/n. I know, Angel. You’re doing good.”

It only took a little longer before your body started to shake as the sensation heightened, your walls contracting over his fingers, and Jongseob knew you were close. He pulled his hand away, leaving you whining as you sighed. “Seob…” You begged, “Why’d you stop?”

He leaned in to kiss your forehead, his cheeks red with all the blood rushing through him. “Sorry. I want us to cum together.” He said quietly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

That was a request you couldn’t deny him, and you held onto him tight as he leaned over to open his dresser, pulling out a condom Jiung had given him for ‘emergencies.’ He’d definitely have to explain that to you later.

He held the condom between his teeth as he reached for his belt buckle, pulling it off as you used your knees to hover above him, helping him pull them off. When his dick was finally out, it was leaking at the tip, painfully hard due to him waiting and waiting until the moment was just right

Jongseob ripped the condom with his teeth, not wanting to take his other hand off you, and you took the rubber to place it on yourself. He gulped at the sight, his breath growing shakier the more impatient he got. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Once it was on, you situated yourself just above him, his hands finding your hips. “I told you, Seob. I’m sure.” You said, leaning in to place a soft yet deep kiss on his lips.

You grabbed onto his shoulders as he smiled up at you. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You didn’t want to wait anymore, neither of you did. Slowly, you sank down onto him, Jongseob helping guide you all the way. Taking the tip and going further, his sounds growing more and more pathetic as he bottomed out, the both of you stifling moans.

He threw his head back in an overwhelmed state, his chest heaving. “Fuck…You okay?” He asked, noting the way the corner of your eyes pricked with tears.

“I’m okay, Seob. Just give me a minute, s’too much.” You breathed, your hands tugging a little at his hair.

Jongseob nodded, his body trembling with overwhelming pleasure as he held you down on him “God…it’s…you’re….so tight.”

A few minutes later, the weird pressure and stinging you felt had subsided, and all the both of you wanted was to move. Jongseob looked both as if he was nervous to hurt you and the feeling of you was too much. It didn’t stop you from rolling your hips, though, looking at him with a look that told him everything he wanted to know.

Jongseob shuddered at your sudden movement, taking the hint to start moving. He helped lift your hips up and down onto him, all while your body involuntarily rolled into him by itself.

The pace picked up, and so did the pleasure. In this position, every subtle movement had his dick reaching as deep as it could go, making your brain go foggy and your moans threaten to get louder. Jongseob wasn’t any better. He was dripping sweat, his body glistening and his skin red everywhere. Every time he dragged against your gummy walls, every roll of your hips, his mind would go blank, and all he could do was place small kisses on your neck. “God…feels so good…way too good.”

You had to bite down on your lip. Not only was he fucking you right, he was whining all the way through it like he didn't know what he was doing. Jongseob was going crazy at the feeling, at the way you made him feel. And it only instilled a desire in you to go even harder as you started to bounce up and down on him.

Jongseob’s breath hitched, and he had to bite down on your neck at your sudden movements. “Sh…Shit. Y/n, you can’t do that.” He said through pants, the sound only fueling your fire.

“Can’t stop.” You moaned a little too loud in his ear, biting down on your own lip so hard you could've drawn blood.

All inhibitions in the both of you had snapped by then. You kept riding him like it was never enough, Jongseob’s hands and lips touching everywhere, all of you, and he could barely keep the both of you sitting up.

It wasn’t long before that familiar pit bubbled in your stomach, and this time Jongseob felt your walls clench around him. You were close, your movements sloppier and your pants and moans erratic.

Jongseob wasn’t far off himself, and he held onto the smallest part of your back with one hand, pressing on your stomach with the other as he helped you get there. “Cum, please, My perfect girl. Do it on me. Please.”

His words and the look of lust on his face was all that you needed to finally get there, stifling your sounds in his neck as your whole body reached an impossible high.

Jongseob reached his own as you rode out yours, his hips rolling into yours one last time as you had the pleasure of hearing all of his final whines and gasps right in your very ear.

His body gave out, and unable to hold up the both of you, falling onto his bed as he slipped out of you.

As you both came to your senses, catching your breaths and reliving everything that had just happened, you scooted off of him, only your head lying on his chest as you listened to his slowing heartbeat.

Jongseob was the first to break the silence with a giggle.

You sat up a bit, looking at the smirk on his face. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

As the sun slowly begins to set and drowning the camp in a deep orange hue, you pick up a fresh pair of clothes to take with you. There's still dried dirt stuck to your skin and hair and you don't feel like riding all the way to Annesburg just for a bath. So you take a bar of soap and make your way to the nearby river.

"And where do you think you're goin'?", a male voice calls out to you and you turn around on your heels, slightly startled by the sudden appearance.

Arthur has his thumbs hooked into his belt and strolls over to where you're standing. At the sight of him, all tension immediately leaves your muscles and you let out a relieved sigh.

"Thought I could head to the river and wash off properly.", you answer, pointing with your thumb behind you. Much to your surprise, he shakes his head and takes the stuff you're carrying from you.

"You ain't goin' there alone.", he says, his tone making it clear that he won't tolerate any protest. Not that you care though.

"I think I'm pretty capable of washing off by myself.", you argue and follow him down the small path, that leads away from camp.

"I ain't doubtin' your skills, sweetheart." There is a heavy pause. "It's just...lately you've been gettin' shot at everytime I look away."

His concern warms your heart and you reach out to touch his arm. You can't blame him for feeling that way. If the roles were reversed, you also wouldn't be comfortable letting him go out by himself. Even if it's just a few minutes walk away.

"And here I thought you were just trying to catch me naked.", you tease with a mischievous smirk beginning to take form on your face.

He let's out barking laughter and shakes his head with an amused huff.

"That ain't the case."

"Sure. Whatever excuse makes you feel better."

Once you arrive at the river, you sit down on the shore and start to take your boots off. As much as your remark was only meant to be a joke, the prospect of being completely exposed to him still makes you nervous. Maybe you could ask him to turn away or something? While you contemplate, you come up with an even better idea.

With the speed the sun is setting at, it will be dark by the time you're undressed and then he won't be able to see much of you anyways. Besides, he did say that he doesn't want to leave you alone, right?

"Do you wanna join me?", you hear yourself ask, before you can even properly process the thought.

Arthur's head snaps in your direction and he awkwardly clears his throat.

"Why? Do I smell?"

His reply makes you groan in feigned annoyance. As you go to open up the first couple of buttons on your blouse, he quickly looks the other way. Respectful as always.

"That's not what I meant and you know it.", you answer, letting your blouse slide off your shoulders. It falls to the ground without producing any sound.

Once you've removed every piece of clothing you were wearing, you tiptoe over to the outlaw and intertwine your fingers with his. You don't want to push him to do something he doesn't feel comfortable with, but you're also aware that he's just holding back.

It's both kind of silly and endearing to see a man like him this bashful about seeing you naked. Though when you think about it, it makes sense. From what you've found out, Arthur hasn't really had what you'd call a wild love life. He only rarely shows his vulnerable side to others.

As you stand up on your toes to plant a soft kiss on his jawline, you hear his breath getting caught up in his throat.

"I won't force you into the river, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me.", you say in a hushed voice and make your way into the water.

At first it doesn't look like he's planning on moving from his spot at all, but then he begins to unbuckle his belt. It takes everything within you not to stare at him, so you distract yourself with brushing the dirt out of your hair.

When Arthur finally enters the cool water, he creates small waves around himself and you notice how nervous you're becoming again. The outlaw keeps a respectable distance between the two of you and you turn to face him entirely. It's impossible to fight off the excited grin on your face.

"Hey.", is all you're able to muster up and he clears his throat again.

The awkward silence between you two hangs heavy in the air, until he takes the brush out of your hands and runs it through your hair. You can't imagine that he's doing any progress with how gentle he is, but you don't complain. It feels too nice for it.

There is still a 'safe' distance between the two of you, but every now and then you feel his naked skin brush over yours. As much as you try to keep a clear head, this is quite a loaded situation and it does things to you. His fingers gently brush over your temple as Arthur moves some of your hair to the side.

Once he's done and puts the hairbrush aside, you turn around to face him. Most of the moon's light is unable to break through the dense treetops, but it's enough for you to see his outlines. His broad shoulders, his wide arms and those rough features in his face that have been marked by time and countless of fights.

His light brown hair is wet and slicked back, curling slightly around his ears. The tips of your fingers dance across the side of his face and his eyes flutter shut. This must be quite the struggle for him. Exposing himself to someone else that way again. It makes you happy, seeing how much he trusts you.

In one swift motion, you find yourself scooped up in his arms and his forehead pressed against yours. His eyes are fluttered shut as if he's aching and he whispers your name like a plea. It's so sweet and tender, but at the same time you feel like a sharp blade is piercing your heart, when you hear it.

Arthur's fingers trace your collarbone and run down the curve of your back. His touch leaves a hot trail, having you long for more. Your hands cup his cheeks and you quickly pull him closer for a kiss.

As your lips move in sync together, you press your chest flush against his. It feels like your bodies fit perfectly into each other like two puzzle pieces would. One of his hands is nestled in the crook of your neck, while the other is holding onto your hips as if you're his lifeline.

Gasps and pants fill the peaceful quiet around you, mixed together with the rustling of leaves and the rushing of water. He kisses you more, until your lips are red and your face is burning. A familiar heat pools between your legs and you rub your thighs together.

While moving your legs, you feel something else brush your skin and your mind goes blank for a brief moment. Something snaps within you and you run your tongue over the outlaw's chapped lips. He groans in response, dipping his head deeper so you would have better access.

You feel his hardened dick twitch in response when you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The way his body reacts to your touch fills you with pride, pleased to have a tough criminal like him melt in the palm of your hands. Though you can tell that he's still somewhat holding back.

Of course he's devoting himself entirely to you and your lips, but it's as if he's not quite in it either. With a worried crease between your eyebrows you pull away and study his expression. It's a mix between lust, desperation and something else, that you can't place.

"What's wrong?", you ask, not wanting to push him. There is a long pause until he answers.

"I don't deserve to have you like this."

Hearing this from him isn't anything new. He has distanced himself from you before, because of this belief and you wish you could change his mind, make him see how wonderful he is. Gently, you cup his cheeks and watch him lean into your palms like a moth drawn to a flame.

"Don't think that way now, Arthur.", you tell him, your voice sweet like honey to his ears. "Just focus on me, okay?"

"I-"

"Don't. I want this. I want you."

For the longest time he simply stares at you, an unreadable mask on his face and you fear that he might back off anyways. But then his lips crash against yours with more vigor than before, catching you completely off guard. His hands roam all over your body as he pulls you close.

A deep groan escapes your throat, but he muffles it with his tongue. His dick is pressed against your stomach, flooding your mind with all sorts of dirty scenarios and next thing you know, you're being lifted.

"Arthur, what-"

"I don't want you here.", he interrupts you in a low voice. "Wanna hear those noises you make better."

Heat shoots up into your face and you let him carry you back on land. There he picks up some of his clothes and leads you further away from the river. You can still hear the rushing water in the background, but it's not dominating as much anymore.

At the new spot, he spreads his clothes over the grass and moss and signals for you to lay down on them. His large body follows you, towering over you like a shield. There he attacks your lips again, sliding his wet tongue over yours and nibbling at your lower lip. All this is driving you crazy and if you don't get any friction between your legs soon, you might cry out into the nightsky from frustration.

As if he had read your mind, his calloused hand travels down your body. It stops every now and then to cup your breast and have his thumb circle over your nipple. Other times he's just squeezing your waist, tummy and hip, appreciating every inch of your exposed body.

When he finally reaches your thigh, you feel like you could burst into a round of applause and cheers. Instinctively, you spread your legs for him and you feel his lips curl up into a smile in between the kisses. You don't have to look at him to know about that smug grin on his face.

Arthur runs a finger over your wet folds and every single muscle of yours trembles. This is the moment you have been dreaming of ever since the two of you got stuck in that closet during the Mayor's garden party. The thought of having his hands on you like this have haunted you nearly every night and now you finally get to live it.

That brilliant thumb of his finds it's way to your clit which is almost aching by now from all the anticipation. He rubs it in a agonizingly slow way and you claw at his shoulders, silently begging for more. His hot breath hits your face and he speeds up, unable to deny you the pleasure you're oh so desperately seeking.

Next thing you know, he slides a finger inside, searching for that sweet spot. Once he finds it and you arch your back in response, he adds another one. The way he massages your clit and curls his fingers up inside you, has you seeing stars.

"I'm so close.", you gasp out and hold onto his arms like a lifeline.

Arthur let's out a satisfied hum, keeping a steady pace. He makes sure not to slow down or to speed up, not wanting to throw you off this path to sweet release. When you pull him in for a kiss, it's to muffle the cry that tears from your lips when that knot in your stomach opens.

Your thighs shake and your back arches in an almost painful way, as the orgasm hits you like a slap to the face. Arthur continues moving his fingers, letting you ride out your high until he pulls away. An outraged gasp escapes you when he licks off that wet slick from his fingers and you half-heartedly slap his shoulder.

"What? Can't a man enjoy his meal?", he drawls with a smirk and you laugh.

"Mr. Morgan!", you squeal in feigned embarrassment.

That look of adoration and arousal on his face would have made you shy away on any other day, but not now. Now you only want to keep this going until you're both exhausted and unable to catch your breaths.

Once again it's as if he's reading your mind. He lifts your leg, propping it over his shoulder and the feeling of his thick cock on your pussy has you moaning. It flips a switch in your head and you shamelessly grind yourself against him.

Arthur furrows his eyebrows and his eyes flutter shut, as a beautiful groan leaves his mouth. The outlaw straightens his back, kneeling now and staring down at you. He looks like a dream this way.

Wet hair sticking to his forehead, his lips parted, all red and swollen from your rough kisses. Your eyes take in every detail of his. From the tan lines where he rolls up the sleeves of his button up shirts to the trail of thick, dark hair that travels down from his belly button to his bush.

"You sure 'bout this, sweetheart?", he asks, ripping you out of your thoughts and you nod hastily.

"I want this, Arthur."

The way you speak his name does something to him. Next thing you know, he slides his tip in and your eyes roll back. Slowly he pushes in the rest of his length, giving you the time to adjust. Aside from his fingers, you have also dreamed about his dick being burried inside you, but you never expected for him to make you feel this full.

He stretches your walls and sharp pain shoots through your veins from the sensation, but it disappears quickly. With one of your legs still on his shoulder, he starts to pull out and rolls his hips back forward. Every single motion is careful, gentle. His goal is not to hurt you, but to make you feel good, unaware that this slow pace of his is actually torture for you. Though it's not for the reasons he's afraid of.

"Arthur.", you breathe out his name and he immediately halts. "I need more. Please."

The worry in his face vanishes the moment he processes your words and he leans down until he's towering over you again. His elbows are planted on either side of your head to keep him up and you wrap your legs around his waist.

With one swift motion, you pull him closer, deeper inside you and he dips his head into the crook of your neck. Hot breath hits your skin, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up and he begins to thrust into you again. This time his hips move with more confidence and you moan his name over and over like a prayer.

His cock pounds into you, the slight curve of his shaft making it possible for his tip to hit your sweet spot. It makes you see stars behind your eyes and you feel another orgasm build up. The sound of both your moans and the wet slapping of skin on skin fills the air and you hope that the river is drowning it all out.

Arthur fucks you relentlessly, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers with yours. He whispers soft praises into your ear, pushing you more and more towards the edge.

"You feel so good. You're takin' me so good, sweetheart.", he murmurs in a raspy voice. "Goddamn, so tight."

His thrusts grow sloppier and messier, indicating that he's close as well. Then his hand leaves yours and he puts his thumb back to work on your swollen clit. It feels so good, that you barely even get the chance to warn him. Your orgasm washes over you only a few seconds later, still sensitive from the previous one and you let out a sound that makes Arthur's knees buckle.

Your walls clench around him tightly, too tight for him to hold back his own release. As much as he would love to fill you up with his cum, he forces himself to pull out and gives his dick a few pumps before spilling all over your stomach.

The water from his hair drips down onto your nose and the guttural moan leaving his lips is like music to your ears. Both your chests are rising and falling in sync with your heavy panting and he rolls over to the side. With a strong arm around your waist, Arthur pulls you closer and you lean your head on his shoulder.

"You're too good to me.", he murmurs while tracing patterns over your skin with his fingers and you give him a puzzled look.

"I didn't really do much."

"You did more for me than you can imagine."

Your muscles feel heavy and sore as you relax against his side and breathe in his scent. If you could you'd stay like this forever, but you have to get back to the camp soon.

“what'chu doin' out here all alone, hm?” arthur dropped his hands from their resting position on his gun belt, head cocking to the side as he watched you resume your work. dusty blue linen cradled over your lap like something sacred, the silver glint of a sewing needle twinkling in setting sun of the evening. his shirt.

he had been watching for a while. observing, more like. arthur had already wrapped up his own chores for the day, the firewood axe tossed mindlessly beside the never-ending supply of half split logs the continuous camp fires required, and the hay bales he had moved now lay misshapen on the little thatch of grass where the horses grazed. camp had begun to settle down with the inevitable arrival of dusk, one of the few comforting aspects of the outlaw's life.

the promise that, when dusk came, a sleepy jack would be nuzzled in the crook of abigail's shoulder, javier would be plucking something quietly from the strings of a guitar, uncle or the reverend would be snoring in a drunken heap somewhere, and the girls would be cosying up together underneath the safety of tent flaps and chatter until the late evening, when the moon made her appearance in the dark of the blackwater night sky.

arthur typically paid the girls' tittle-tattle no mind, for two reasons; the first, being that although his mother had long since departed from the earthly confines of this world, she'd sure as hell not stand for him eavesdropping on the conversation of ladies. the second? he just didn't care much for it. karen's typical laments of sean's .. colourful behaviour (well, he agreed with her there. the kid was a goddamn handful at best and a fire-haired, blustering nightmare at worst), or tilly airing her frustrations out about molly's distaste for chores. and sometimes, abigail's occasional guilt-laced confessions on the trials and tribulations of motherhood.

or, when spirits were lighter, uncontrollable fits of giggling which carried all the way to the edge of camp. karen's drunken snorting, tilly's squealing and mary-beth struggling to scold karen inbetween pitchy laughs to ‘stop being so vulgar!’ no, he rarely paid such conversations any mind. even with the unabashed happiness being as infectious as it often was.

yet, usually from his seat at the main campfire, arthur's ears typically perked up — waiting. waiting for the quieter, softer giggles, ones that could belong to no one else besides from you. sweeter than the chirps of overlapping birdsong at dawn, and filling his chest with a warmth that no liquor or adrenaline-fuelled high from a good score could ever come close to.

and so, when you were missing from your usual spot tucked away with the girls, his curiosity was piqued.

arthur still remembers the day your paths crossed, all those months ago. as sure as the sun came up over the mountain peaks of west elizabeth every morning, he wouldn't be able to forget it.

you, with shaking hands clinging to dutch's gun belt as the count rode into camp with a vigour that rivalled the crack and rumbling of the thunder in the air. stern remarks about how you saved his life to the other members of camp, whatever it was — all of it faded to a ringing, white noise in arthur's ears as soon as dutch gently eased you off the white arabian's saddle.

oh, you.

like an angel amongst a den of devils. he supposed that's what he very well could be, in comparison to you. rainwater sliding off in rivulets from your simple, soaked dress, your bottom lip trembling, drenched curls plastered to your collarbones and your eyes; wide, and glassed over with unshed tears, darting from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face. like a startled white-tailed doe, unsure but undeniably breathtaking.

arthur had been winded several times throughout his life, each one as unforgiving as the last. right hooks to the jaw, punches to his ribs, christ alive, he'd even been mangled with buckshot a couple times. though nothing, nothing could ever hold any weight to that feeling when your glance, your uneasy doe eyes, trailed over to him. lingered, brewing with something he couldn't quite place before your attention was snatched cruelly away from him — he remembers how a scowl formed on his face at the interruption, almost as if the disconnection was a personal crime inflicted against him.

grimshaw's work-worn hands placing a blanket over your trembling shoulders, her usual stern expression switched out for a softer, more maternal one. dutch's ring-clad hand placed over the small of your back, leading you to the glow of the campfire, with hosea following in suit and mumbling something he couldn't hear.

arthur remembers the deep inhale he involuntarily took as soon as you disappeared from view, how he was suddenly painfully aware at the desperate hunger for oxygen.

he didn't believe in love at first sight. no, arthur wouldn't consider himself a cynic, but that? love at first sight ... that was solely reserved for dime romance novels, and storybooks. the feeling when your eyes locked, for a fleeting second, but gone as fast as the shimmer of a shooting star. no, that was something far more deeper, more primal. a yearning, a longing. and then his head that was abruptly tormented by a flurry of questions. an aching to know more, to know you, to see you, to feel you.

his reminiscing was interrupted at the sound of air puffing out from your lips, curls falling in front of your face as you dutifully stitched. “mmm ... needed to finish some things,” you took pause again, looking up at him through thick lashes. “sit with me?”

arthur didn't bother hiding the slight smirk he wore at the softer tone of your question, your shyness obvious still, even with the bond you now shared. “course.” couldn't you tell that he would slaughter every town from blackwater, armadillo and tumbleweed even if you barely whispered the word?

obviously, you would never ask such a thing. you asked for nothing, and he couldn't even name a time where a complaint left your lips since you joined the gang. god, your lips. always in that damn subtle pout, as if you could get any cuter if you tried. so goddamn sweet, it was borderline cavity-inducing.

you summarised everything arthur wasn't, everything he'd never be and everything he couldn't be. soft and sweet, more gentle than the sway of dandelions and the breeze that carried the florets through prairie fields.

he took solace beside you against the trunk of the huge willow tree that overlooked the small camp, home, a little ways away from the bustling town of blackwater. “how was your day?” that warmer tone, reserved just for you, only for you. eager to hear about the day's events, almost all he could think of from his position on boadicea's saddle on the ride back.

your careful movements never ceased while fusing together the rip in his shirt with cotton thread, though your shoulders brushed briefly as he settled down. “good. spent most of the mornin' patching davey n mac up after they ran into trouble at the saloon ... something 'bout ... a woman?” you giggled then, tying the smallest of knots at the bottom of your work. practised, methodical. “i can't remember the details, but they had the whole saloon on 'em, apparently.”

your hands, so different to his. so much smaller, delicate. lacking in the callouses he bore from years of manual labour, gripping cattlemans and carbines, or the scarred, raised skin over his knuckles from being split time and time again. your hands, for mending and healing. his hands, for the polar opposite. quite the pair you made.

your giggle triggered a dry chuckle from arthur, shifting his gaze from your sewing to the activities of camp. “yeah, i heard. bunch o' fools, makin' you put 'em together again.” he grumbled then, eyes narrowing in at davey's new black eye and mac's likely broken nose. “always causin' more trouble for you.”

that protective flare, the blurred lines between protectiveness and possessiveness; you weren't even his, not yet, though irritation tickled his spine at the thought of you always fixing up the camp idiots.

arthur felt the familiar, light weight of you shifting against him, head leaning against his shoulder. “i don't mind. s'what i'm good for, y'know?” again, never one to complain, as sweet as a peach you were. your scent, faint whisps of lavender, vanilla, and campfire smoke. how you managed to not reek of the familiar stench of copper from constantly having your work cut out with all the bandages you fixed, and wounds you cleaned, was beyond him.

with his unoccupied arm, he fished into the pockets of his ranch pants and pulled out a pack of smokes. “you're good for a hell of a lot more than ...” he paused then, cigarette dangling from his lips and arm stretching out to gesture frustratedly at camp. “takin' care of them.” that final word, dripping with venom.

you giggled again, and arthur felt a flicker of pride knowing that he was able to draw such a lovely sound from your chest. you weren't sweethearts, not quite yet, but arthur knew you were intrinsically tied to him in all the ways that mattered. every single comment and remark from the other men you brushed off, whether on the basis of plain obliviousness at how truly special, and beautiful you were, or genuine disinterest. he reckoned it was a mix of both.

all those bastards, loitering around the campfire. their gazes always lingering far too long on you, their words dripping with a hidden lust you never quite seemed to understand, the way they flocked to you so fast at even the simplest of scrapes. and you gave, and you gave. with arthur always watching with a clenched jaw and a pair of dark eyes.

but still, your back and forth with the men was always lacking in something of substance. polite, and kind, in the way you always were with every person who crossed your path, but never in the same familiar way you shared with him. sure, you had him wrapped around your damn finger and were probably completely naive to the fact. but never, ever, did he see you extend that sweetness to anyone but him.

still, you were a rarer treasure than the bloom of desert flowers and worth more than the countless pocket watches, belt buckles, rings and jewels he thieved throughout his entire life. he wouldn't have any more men subjecting you their piss-poor excuses of flirting much longer. no, no, you'd be his soon. he had to make it special though. not through seducing you with empty silver-tongued words like dutch did with molly.

and when he did make it official, it would be pure, honest and true. the girls, they would coo and fawn over you and the men, they'd wound up so damn tight with burning jealously — a feeling arthur knew all too well by now.

he took a drag of his cigarette, careful to direct the smoke away from you and revelling at the way you settled against his side. he only noticed now that you finished your final chore for the day, a favour for him. the blue shirt now sat neatly folded in a perfect square on the grass. he couldn't help but wonder if you paid such gentle attentiveness to your other mending jobs.

“gotchu a present.”

he flicked his smoke ash on the grass, and felt you readjust your positioning against his bicep. “arthur,” your lips opened in a quiet protest, brows furrowing together just slightly. “y'shouldn't ... waste your money on someone like me.”

someone like me. the words burned him, placing a heavy weight on his chest. someone like me? as if, somehow, by some misconstrued delusion that you were anything but a little angel to love, to hold, to spoil rotten. hell, what else should be spending the fruits of his labour on? two-bit whores for a meaningless five seconds of pleasure like mac, davey or micah often did, or instead blow it through poker or on liquor like bill and dutch?

he fought back the anger rising in his chest, forcing himself to ease back his tensed jaw. “ain't no such thing as wastin' money, not when i'm spending it on you, girl.” his words hung firm, and decided in the air, but with no bite behind them.

you opened your mouth once more to cut in, but, he was quick to silence you; rummaging through his satchel for no more than a second before pulling out the little parcel, wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine. “go on.”

the hesitation lacing your movements wasn't lost on him, and neither was the guilt that seemed to gloss over your eyes. still, you obeyed his soft command, and he watched as your thumb and index finger loosened the twine slowly.

then, a gasp. hardly audible, but followed by a sequence airy giggles. “oh, arthur! you -” and there it was, that wide, pure smile. with a warmth that challenged even the burning of the blazing afternoon sun over the new austin desert. that big, beautiful smile, typically reserved only for times when you read little jack his bedtime stories, or when the girls would whisper something in your ear over flames of the fire and beer bottles.

in your palms, you cradled the tiny present arthur had picked out whilst passing the tailor; two, tiny silk blue bows, fashioned with little clips at the back of each. he didn't like the idea of giving you stolen, and likely bloodstained, garbage from the fence. no, you were too pure for that. he wouldn't have you wearing some dead woman's pearls, no, you deserved something new, and something bought with specifically you in mind.

“i don't have a mirror handy ... you mumbled your words quietly, two fingers stroking the delicate silk clasped within your hands in awe. “would you ... ?” you trailed off, bottom lip tucked inbetween your teeth. your other hand reached to the back of your curls where a worn, pale pink bow rested — one of the simplest luxuries you had in this life, being that pretty dresses and fine jewels didn't mix with your role in camp.

arthur didn't bother suppressing his wide grin as his hand, much larger than yours, made quick work to gently unclip the pink ribbon from your hair. with more gentleness than he thought ever being capable of in his life, he took the blue pair from your palm, placing either one in your curls on each side of your head. “there,” he rumbled, pulling away (reluctantly) to admire his handiwork. “pretty as a picture.”

truth be told, no picture could ever compare to you. no carefully poised, painted face printed on cigarette cards, or those spread between the pages of corset magazines held anything on you. and he wanted, oh he wanted, to tell you so. to cup your little cheeks in his big calloused hands and force you to believe how much of a treasure you were. but, you, so sweet and skittish, he worried he'd just scare you off.

“no 'm not, but ... thank you, arthur, i -” you stammered, a blush tinging over those freckled cheeks he adored so, and your breath caught in your throat. “i - i'm.” your gaze flicked down as you searched frustratedly for the words. “i'm grateful. it makes me, um,” you fiddled with your hands, one of your nervous tics, and avoided his face, his eyes, entirely. “it makes me .. real .. happy, that you think of me - about me, um.” you glanced up once more, your blush growing fiercer at finding his cerulean blues already locked on yours.

you looked real nervous, more nervous than you typically would be around him. to his shock, and delight, your lips pressed against the scruff of his stubble for half a second, and you withdrew just as fast. “thank you.”

he was sure his pupils had never been blown so wide with love, with longing, in his entire life. you sucked in a sharp breath as arthur granted himself the pleasure, indulged himself in pure selfishness by allowing his thumb to drop underneath your chin, tipping it up. “you're real, real cute, y'know that?”

you whined in further protest then, pulling away totally to collapse back on the trunk of the tree and obscure your face with both hands.

the connection lost upon him until now, arthur noticed the cornflower blue of your little bows mirrored the shade of his shirt - still placed in the grass - perfectly. as if, his subconscious knew before he did, and that smug feeling bubbled in his chest again. a sweet, gentle, barely-there claim on you. yeah, arthur liked you in blue.

he made a quick mental note then, while finding much amusement in gazing at you far too long and making you squirm, to buy you a couple of other matching things. a shawl, maybe? he knew you felt the cold more than others did; he watched you wander around camp at night with fur blankets wrapped over your chemise. he remembered all the times he'd slipped his own jacket over your frame, actually. the worn leather always much too big for you, reminding him of how he utterly dwarfed you in size.

oh, but a new dress would be a dream. you hardly bought anything for yourself, always waiting until your things were falling apart at the seams. on the occasions you and the girls would head into town together, you'd always come back with surprise trinkets for them or toys for jack, simple jewellery for grimshaw or a book for mary-beth. again, another way in which he was reminded of how good you were — a good girl, and much, much too good for him. but he was greedy in that manner, and wanted you all for himself. would have you, all for himself.

he'd take his time picking something out, he thought. nothing overly-decorated and uncomfortable but nothing too plain either. something with a lace trim, maybe, or a ribbon tie at the back. once he finally asked you, finally took you for himself, he'd make it a habit. would take you into town instead, only the two of you, and gladly waste his hours away in the tailor to see his sweet girl smile, and giggle.

“so,“ he cleared his throat and laid back against the tree trunk once more with you, and made a gentle nudge to your side in the hopes of making you stop hiding from him. quieter than a damn church mouse, and shyer than a cottontail rabbit. he thinks he wrote about that once, in his journal. how that tiny, brown rabbit with the flopsy ears he saw a couple weeks ago near camp reminded him so much of you. “y'like yer present?“

“i love it.“

Something twists low in your belly. A slow, aching warmth that builds with no name, no permission, no clear beginning.

Eventually—eventually—you drop your gaze. You reach for your pen and scratch something meaningless into your notebook just to fill the space. You wonder if your hands are trembling. You wonder if he noticed.

Across the bullpen, Clark shifts in his chair. The creak of it is startling in the quiet. He clears his throat gently, like he wants to say something. But no words come.

You don’t need them.

Not tonight.

The silence says enough.

-

You’re the last ones to leave.

The elevator’s hum fades as it closes behind the intern from Research, and for a moment, the building feels like it belongs to just the two of you. The city outside is dressed in moonlight and motion—neon signs flickering like blinking eyes, streetlamps pooling golden halos onto wet pavement. It had rained earlier. You hadn’t noticed until now.

Clark holds the door for you as you step out into the hallway. Your footsteps echo down the corridor, a gentle rhythm matched only by the tap of his beside you. Neither of you says much. You don’t need to. There’s comfort in the quiet, a kind of shared solitude you’ve both grown used to.

At the building’s entrance, you reach for your coat—crumpled over your arm, too lightweight for the chill that’s crept into the evening.

“You’re not walking home in that,” Clark says, already slipping out of his own.

Before you can protest, he’s draping it over your shoulders—soft wool still warm from his body, smelling faintly of soap and something subtle and earthy you can’t name but know instinctively as him.

You freeze under the gesture. Your hands find the lapels, tugging them closed as if to trap the warmth inside. His fingers brush yours as he reaches for the buttons—slow, deliberate movements, not quite touching you, but close enough to feel. He starts fastening them from the bottom up, and it’s suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Buttoning me up now, smallville?” you tease, voice tight with something you hope sounds like humor.

He smiles, just barely. “You don’t do it right,” he murmurs, and there’s that familiar, fond amusement laced through every syllable.

Your heart stutters. “I do fine.”

“You skipped the middle one last time. That’s how you end up with a lopsided jacket and a cold.”

“Maybe I like it lopsided. It’s called style.”

“It’s called cold,” he says, buttoning the second-to-last one slowly, carefully, like each one matters.

You glance up at him, meaning to throw back another retort, but his face is close now—closer than you expected. Close enough to see the soft shadows under his eyes, the curve of his mouth as it tugs with a barely-there smile. Close enough to count his lashes if you wanted to. Close enough to forget how to speak.

He doesn’t look away.

The last button goes untouched.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then—softly, almost nervously—he reaches up to straighten your collar, fingers brushing against the side of your throat. Your breath catches.

It’s nothing.

A single touch.

A casual adjustment.

But your skin burns where he touched it. And when he finally pulls his hands back, you feel the absence like a drop in pressure. A loss.

You shake your head, eyes flicking toward the street. “You always this much of a gentleman?”

Clark huffs a laugh, low and unsteady. “Only with you.”

Your pulse flutters. You pretend not to hear the way he says it—quiet, certain, like it’s already been true for some time.

The wind tugs at your hair as you step outside together. It’s colder than you expected. The kind of cold that creeps into your sleeves and kisses the backs of your knees. But his coat is warm. Heavy. Like being held.

He walks you home without being asked.

And you let him.

-

The city is quieter at night, but never silent.

There’s always a hum—cars gliding through distant intersections, someone laughing too loudly on the corner, a train groaning somewhere underground like the bones of the city shifting in its sleep. You’ve always liked it best at this hour, when the chaos softens and the edges blur. When everything feels less like survival and more like floating.

You hadn’t meant to call him.

It wasn’t even a real call—just a message sent at 11:47 p.m., half-joking and a little sleep-drunk:

can’t sleep. bet you’re still up, night owl.

wanna meet me at that sad diner with the good pie?

He didn’t reply with words. Just a car honk outside your apartment fifteen minutes later. Headlights cutting through the fog. That’s how Clark always answers—without needing to be asked twice.

You pull on the first hoodie you find, tug it over your head, and step out into the night, the chill brushing your bare shins like cold fingertips. He leans against the driver’s side door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like it’s no big deal. Like this wasn’t a declaration.

His eyes crinkle when he sees you. That’s the first thing you notice—always. The way he smiles like he already knows what you’re about to say.

You slide into the passenger seat, legs tucked beneath you. The engine purrs to life.

“You really gonna drive me to the world’s worst diner at midnight just because I was lonely?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says, like it was never a question.

-

The diner is nearly empty.

One elderly couple nursing coffee at a corner booth, a single server behind the counter scrolling on her phone. The lights are too bright, flickering overhead like they haven’t been changed in years. The booths are sticky with old vinyl. Everything smells faintly of burnt oil and sugar.

You love it.

Clark orders black coffee without even glancing at the menu. You both know he’ll ruin it with an incredible amount of sugar once it gets to the table. You get your usual—extra whipped cream, too much cinnamon. He watches you over the rim of his cup like he can’t quite believe you exist, like you’re a moment he keeps trying to memorize.

The conversation is light, easy. Small talk about the story you’re both editing, the intern who misspelled “catastrophe” three times in one headline, Lois’s latest tirade about clickbait. You make him laugh, and the sound warms the space between you better than the coffee.

But somewhere between sips and quiet looks, the air starts to change.

It happens when he reaches across the table to nudge a napkin toward you—your chain necklace catching the light as you lean forward, slipping out from beneath your collar, dipping down towards you cleavage. He stares for just a second too long. You notice.

He notices you noticing.

Your cheeks heat, and you make some dumb joke to break the tension, something about pie being a weak excuse for flirting.

Clark doesn’t laugh this time. He says, “Look up.”

You do just a little, eyes settling around his strong jaw line—expecting a light, maybe a distraction. But he’s still watching you. And he says it again, lower this time. A breath more than a word.

“Look at me.”

And when your eyes rise—when they finally meet his—you feel it.

That thing you haven’t wanted to name. That soft gravity in your chest pulling you toward him. There’s nothing overt in the way he looks at you. It’s not lust or longing, not in the way you’re used to. It’s quieter than that. Fiercer.

It’s knowing.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Your shoulders brush when you slide out of the booth later, his hand briefly catching your elbow, thumb tracing the crook of it like he forgot he was allowed to touch you.

You don’t pull away.

On the drive home, the silence is full again. Heavy with everything you didn’t say.

He doesn’t park. He just slows to a crawl outside your place, headlights splashing across the front steps. You don’t move to get out right away.

His hand lingers on the gear shift. Yours lingers on the door handle.

“I’m glad you texted,” he says, barely audible.

“I’m glad you showed up,” you whisper back.

And that’s it.

Not a confession.

Not quite.

But it feels like one.

-

There’s a different kind of silence in his apartment.

Not sterile or stiff like hotel silence, or echoing like your empty place when you forget to leave music on. It’s a lived-in quiet, layered with warmth and soft memory—the faint tick of the clock on the wall, the rustle of pages from the newspaper you abandoned on the coffee table, the distant hum of the refrigerator. The ceiling fan creaks slightly on its lowest setting, spinning a slow circle above you like time means nothing here.

You’re curled at one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing a pair of his old sweatpants rolled a few times at the waist that you never officially borrowed. The drawstring is uneven, knotted with your impatience. The hem still drags over your ankle every time you shift.

He’s on the other side—just close enough to share the blanket, not quite touching. His socked foot brushes yours now and then, absent-minded and gentle, like he’s reaching without knowing it.

Neither of you speaks.

The movie ended half an hour ago. You can’t remember how it ended. You don’t think he can either.

The television screen glows blue in the darkness, the credits long since faded to the streaming platform’s idle menu. But neither of you has moved to turn it off. There’s a quiet understanding here, something wordless but mutual. Neither of you is ready to let go of this moment.

You lean your head back against the couch cushion, eyes half-lidded. It’s late—so late it’s almost early. But you’re not tired. Not in the way that matters.

Clark shifts beside you, elbow settling more comfortably on the armrest. His thigh brushes yours. It’s the smallest point of contact, but it zips straight up your spine like static—barely there, but impossible to ignore. His body is solid warmth next to yours, heat radiating through layers of cotton and proximity.

Your heart beats louder in the quiet.

And that’s when you realize it.

It isn’t in the things he says. Not in the coffee runs or the jokes about your cluttered desk, not in the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk or buys the snacks you like when you’re on deadline.

It’s here. In the silence. The way he sits beside you like it’s the only place he wants to be. The way he doesn’t need to fill the air with words, because he already knows the ones that matter haven’t been said yet.

You glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

Not staring. Not bold. Just… there. Fully present. Eyes soft, mouth slightly parted like he might say something—but doesn’t.

He doesn’t need to because you can feel it. Like a heartbeat between you. Like a breath you forgot you were holding.

You’re in love.

You’re in love with Clark Kent, and somehow it happened so slowly and so completely that you didn’t notice until it was already true. Until it was obvious.

You shift, stretching out your legs until they press against his, and when you don’t pull away, he doesn’t either. His eyes dip to your bare knee. Then lift again.

“I should get up,” you say softly.

“You don’t have to,” he replies, just as soft.

You stay. The screen dims to black. The room darkens with it. Neither of you moves. And in the hush of it—in the shared breath between dusk and dawn—you feel it again.

That quiet truth pulsing in the stillness.

You are in love.

-

You must’ve fallen asleep on the couch.

The last thing you remember is the warmth of Clark beside you, the soft hum of city noise outside his window, and the slow way your body melted into the cushions as his shoulder pressed gently against yours. There was no plan to stay. There never is. But sometimes staying just happens.

And sometimes, he doesn’t let go.

You wake to golden light spilling through the curtains, slicing warm across the floor and striping the furniture in honeyed bands. It smells faintly like burnt toast. Like someone tried to cook and forgot they were hungry halfway through.

Clark is still asleep behind you.

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in his bed. Only that at some point during the night, he must’ve lifted you off the couch with that casual strength he never talks about—like it’s just another kindness he offers. Like carrying you to bed is no different than carrying your groceries.

You’re curled into his chest now, legs tangled beneath the comforter, your body tucked beneath his like he’s been guarding you from the cold. His arm is draped over your side, hand resting low on your stomach, large and warm and steady. Your face is pressed against the soft cotton of his T-shirt, and you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

It’s the kind of sleep-touch people only allow when they trust you. Or when they ache for you. You don’t know which this is.

Maybe both.

His scent is all around you—clean laundry, warm skin, and something quiet and grounding, like cedarwood and earth. It makes your throat tighten. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d missed this kind of closeness. Not casual intimacy. Not sex. Just… being held. Without expectation. Without performance.

Just him, holding you, like it was inevitable.

You shift slightly to look up at him. His brow is soft in sleep, jaw slack, lips slightly parted. There’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow. His glasses are folded neatly on the nightstand beside a half-drunk glass of water and a well-worn copy of Catch-22 with a torn page corner.

You smile into his shirt.

You don’t move. Don’t dare disturb the moment.

Instead, you let yourself sink a little deeper against him, your fingers curling gently around his forearm, tucking under the hem of his sleeve where his skin is bare and warm. You feel him stir, just barely—his breath catching for a moment before it evens again, and his hold on you tightens instinctively.

It isn’t possessive.

It’s protective. Familiar. Like he’s holding something he doesn’t want to lose.

The smell of toast wafts in stronger now—charred and faintly sweet. Somewhere in the kitchen, the toaster is probably still smoking, forgotten mid-thought.

You imagine him distracted, half-asleep and barefoot, shuffling around the kitchen trying to make you breakfast before you woke, just to come crawling back into bed before it was fully done. The idea makes your chest ache.

He’s trying. Not in grand gestures. But in all the quiet ways that matter.

You close your eyes again, nestling further beneath his chin.

You’ve made it a habit to keep his shirts when he lets you stay over. He never asks for them back. And you always assumed he forgot. But last week, you caught him folding one of yours—the one you left by accident—and tucking it into the drawer beside his own.

You keep his shirt.

He keeps your place in his life.

And for once, you stop counting the exits. You stop worrying about what happens next. The ghosts you usually keep tethered to your ribs are quiet this morning. Your fears are somewhere far from this room.

He stirs again—his voice a soft scrape of gravel behind you.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You hum. “Your toast is burning.”

He breathes a laugh against the back of your neck. “Gosh darn it.”

You smile. He still hasn’t moved. Neither have you.

One step. Not much.

But it says enough.

-

It happens after a fight. Not a big one. Not cruel. Just… sharp edges clashing.

The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re both frayed at the seams. Too many rewrites. Too many phone calls that went nowhere. A triple-shot espresso on an empty stomach. Frustration building under your skin like static, waiting for something—or someone—to ground it.

Clark made a comment—innocuous on the surface. Something about how he’d already pulled the city records you’d been planning to request. Efficient. Helpful. But it struck the wrong nerve, lodged itself beneath your ribs like a splinter.

You snapped. Not loudly, but sharply. Clipped words about autonomy. Space. Boundaries. About how he always seems to know what you need before you’ve said it out loud, and how sometimes, you just want the chance to ask.

The second it’s out of your mouth, the air changes.

Clark doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to explain himself. He just stills. His lips part like he might respond, then close again. His jaw shifts. His shoulders draw in slightly, like a retreat—measured and quiet. One hand rises to rub the back of his neck, fingers threading through the mess of hair there.

His eyes dim. Just a little.

And then he says, very softly, “Okay.”

That’s all.

No defense. No counterpoint. No wounded expression to pull guilt from your spine.

Just… okay.

It cuts deeper than anything else could have.

You turn before you can say something worse. Your boots echo against the linoleum, and you pretend you don’t feel his gaze follow you out of the bullpen. The elevator ride is too quiet. The hallway to your apartment feels longer than usual. The key sticks in the lock when you get home.

And the silence that waits for you inside is nothing like his.

His silence is warm. Mutual. Full of meaning.

This silence is cold. Impersonal. It hums with unfinished sentences and unspoken apologies, a low buzz beneath your skin that doesn’t stop, not even when you curl beneath your blanket and press your face to the pillow he slept on once.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t even try.

-

You wake up early—groggy and cotton-mouthed, mascara smudged beneath your eyes, a headache curling at the base of your skull. The streets outside are still blue with morning, the city yawning itself awake.

You make two coffees when you get into the breakroom.

Muscle memory, mostly. One dark, one sweet. His favorite mug—the navy one with the chipped handle—is already waiting in the cabinet. You hesitate before filling it. It feels like crossing a line, like folding an apology into ceramic and sugar.

But you do it anyway.

You don’t leave a note. You just place it on his desk and walk away.

He finds you ten minutes later in the breakroom, back braced against the counter, your hands cradling your own mug like it might shield you. You can’t meet his eyes. Your fingers are trembling. The silence stretches—not tense, but wary. Like a wound neither of you wants to reopen.

Then, slowly, he steps forward and takes your hand. His palm is warm. His grip is steady. Familiar in the way only he is—anchoring and impossibly gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll break and not realizing you already have.

You finally look up.

His eyes are soft. Not forgiving. Not forgetting. Just present. Still here.

Still him.

Your throat tightens. You squeeze his hand back. You don’t say sorry. You don’t have to.

-

Later that night—after the tension has been carefully picked apart and folded into shared sentences, after apologies are passed back and forth like fragile things—you end up walking home together again.

The city feels gentler than it did earlier. Less like something pressing in, and more like something exhaling around you. The storm that had been sitting above your heads all day—unspoken things, raised voices, clenched jaws—has passed, leaving behind a dusting of quiet snow.

It clings to your lashes as it falls. Light, wet flakes that melt the second they touch skin, sliding into your collar and the nape of your neck. The air smells clean. Frozen. Like static and distant chimneys.

You walk slowly. Not because the sidewalk is slick—though it is—but because neither of you is in any kind of rush to be anywhere else. Your shoulders bump gently as you step in time, the rhythm of your boots a steady thud softened by snow. His elbow brushes yours again and again, and this time, you don’t move away.

There’s a looseness in your chest now. A kind of surrender. Not weakness—just relief. That he’s still here. That you’re still you. That even when you mess it up, he doesn’t let it stay broken.

The snow swirls under the halo of a streetlamp ahead, catching the light like glitter tossed from above. You tilt your chin up to watch it, lashes heavy with melted flakes, lips parted to breathe it in.

“You look pretty,” he says, quietly. “With the snow in your hair.” It’s so soft you almost miss it. Carried on the hush of passing tires and the far-off bark of a dog, but still—you hear it.

You turn to him, squinting through the light. “Are you flirting with me, Kent?”

He shrugs, hands deep in his coat pockets. Shoulders tight against the cold. “Might be.”

You take a step closer. He doesn’t move away.

The streetlamp above flickers once, twice. Then steadies. Pale gold spills over the sidewalk like spilled milk, washing the world in something dreamlike. Snow collects in the crook of his collar. His breath ghosts visibly between you in soft bursts, white and warm.

Clark is already watching you. Not with hunger. Not with expectation. Just that wide, open look he gets sometimes—like he’s seeing all of you at once, and he doesn’t want to miss anything.

Your hand lifts without thinking. You reach toward his glasses, brushing away a snowflake caught in the metal rim near the corner of his eye. Your knuckles graze his cheek.

He catches your wrist. His grip is gentle. Not pulling, not holding you in place—just a touch. Just a tether.

The air feels warmer suddenly. Thicker. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then back up.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not sudden. It doesn’t crash into you. It happens the way a slow tide rolls in, patient and sure. His mouth finds yours like it’s done it a hundred times before, and yet still carries the tremble of first contact. A question, not a demand.

Is this okay?

Can this be real?

You answer him in the way you lean forward, in the way your hands curl into the lapels of his coat. He exhales into you—relief and wanting stitched together in one quiet sound—and lets his arms slide around your waist.

The kiss deepens for a heartbeat. Just enough to draw a soft, helpless noise from the back of your throat. Just enough to make your knees sway. But then it softens again. Eases. Like neither of you wants to scare it off.

When you pull back, the tip of his nose brushes yours. His glasses fog. Your smile tilts lopsided.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whisper jokingly.

He nods, eyes warm, voice low. “I know.”

“And you take your coffee way too sweet.”

“You drink dessert in a cup,” he murmurs. “You don’t get to judge me.”

That makes you laugh, quiet and breathy. You kiss him again before you can stop yourself—just a press of lips and the taste of snow and heat and the shape of something you can’t take back.

His hands grip the back of your coat tighter this time. Like he means it. Like he’s scared you might vanish into the snowfall.

You don’t.

You stay.

Because this sidewalk—wet and half-frozen, lit only by streetlight and snow—it’s not just a path anymore. It’s the scene of a shift. A turning point. The place where something that’s always lived in your silences finally stepped into the open.

You’re not afraid of the fight anymore. Because you talk after. Because you try after.

Because whatever this is—this warmth in your bones, this ache in your chest, this feeling blooming behind every smile—

It isn’t fragile.

It’s real.

-

You wake one night months later to the weight of him thinking. Not moving. Not speaking. Just… awake.

And heavy with it.

The kind of quiet that hums beneath the surface of skin, that fills a room without sound. The air feels denser than it was when you fell asleep, the space between his body and yours too warm, too tense. The sheets have slipped low, baring your collarbone to the night air, and there’s a crease in the pillow from where his hand had been—not touching, but close. He’s always so close.

You blink the haze from your eyes and lift your head just enough to see him.

Clark is sitting up beside you, back arched slightly forward, elbows on his knees. His silhouette is cut in soft silver by the moonlight pooling through the window, casting delicate shadows across the curve of his spine, the edge of his jaw. His glasses are gone—abandoned on the nightstand. His hands are folded loosely, knuckles pale.

He doesn’t look at you but you can feel it pulsing off him—whatever it is—like heat off a flame. Contained. Controlled. Barely.

You whisper his name into the dark.

He doesn’t jump. Doesn’t startle. He just closes his eyes, presses the pads of his fingers to his mouth like he’s holding something in.

After a moment, he breathes out your name in return. Like a confession.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, low and hoarse.

“No.” You shift slowly onto your side, sheet rustling like breath. “Couldn’t stay asleep.”

Another beat. Then, still facing forward, he says, “It just… hit me all at once. How fast it’s all changed. How close I am to something I don’t know how to name.”

You don’t respond right away. Because God, you feel it too. You feel it every time his hand brushes yours and lingers just a second too long. Every time he brings you coffee the exact way you like it and doesn’t mention how he noticed. Every time he walks beside you with his arm just close enough to reach for if the world starts falling apart.

And especially now—his voice rough with something unspeakable, his shoulders hunched with the burden of needing something he’s too scared to ask for.

“Yeah,” you murmur finally. “Me too.”

He turns his head then. Just enough to look at you.

The light catches his eyes. They’re wide. Raw. Like he’s seeing you differently now, or maybe letting you see him for the first time. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. The air between you stretches thin.

He shifts—slowly—drawing his legs back under the covers. But he doesn’t lie down.

Instead, he leans over you, propped on one elbow, the sheet slipping further off his chest. His other hand lifts hesitantly, hovers near your jaw, then drops back down before it can land.

There’s a pause.

And then he says it—soft and steady, like the words have been pacing inside his chest all night, desperate to be let out.

“You’re my best friend.”

It shouldn’t feel like that much. It shouldn’t. But the words land like an earthquake beneath your ribs. Because when he says it, it doesn’t sound like friendship. It sounds like home.

It sounds like I want to kiss you every day forever but I’m scared to lose what we already have.

It sounds like you’re the one I fall asleep thinking about.

It sounds like this isn’t just a phase for me.

You stare at him, mouth parted, heart crawling its way up your throat. He’s not blinking. Not moving. Like the entire world hinges on what you do next.

You lift your hand—slow and careful—and press your fingertips to the curve of his jaw. Just a touch. Just enough. His breath stutters.

You feel it—right beneath your fingertips, where the pulse leaps in his jaw. He’s close enough that his exhale ghosts across your cheek, warm and sharp. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to memorize this moment, like he’s afraid he’s imagined it.

You press your hand a little more firmly against him. Not to guide. Not to demand. Just to say I’m here.

That’s all it takes.

The distance between you breaks.

Clark surges forward—not rushed, not reckless, but hungry. Like the restraint he’s been carrying for months finally cracked. His mouth finds yours with a soft, stunned noise in the back of his throat, and it’s so gentle it hurts. He kisses you like he’s scared you’ll pull away. Like he’s still asking.

You answer by threading your fingers into his hair and pulling him closer. He groans—quiet, breathless—into your mouth.

The kiss deepens with every breath. His hand slides to your waist, fingers splayed wide like he wants to cover as much of you as possible. The heat of him bleeds into your skin, and his other hand follows, skimming down your ribs to your hip. His touch is reverent, almost shaking. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this.

You shift beneath him, your leg hooking over his hip instinctively, and the sound he makes is raw. Muffled. Desperate.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Just enough to ask again—Are you sure?

You answer without words. Just a soft, “Please.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth finds your neck, open and hot, and you gasp as his teeth graze the soft skin below your jaw. His hand slips beneath your shirt—slow, searching—fingertips trailing up your side like he’s feeling you breathe. When he cups your breast through the thin fabric of your sleep top, you arch into him, breath catching. His thumb brushes over your nipple, and you whimper into his shoulder.

“Gosh,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You’re so soft.”

You reach between you, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. He lifts up just enough for you to tug it over his head. The moonlight paints silver across the planes of his chest, the soft line of his stomach, the curve of his biceps. He’s solid warmth and muscle beneath your hands, but nothing about him feels intimidating.

He feels safe.

Familiar.

His mouth is back on yours before the shirt hits the floor.

You feel him, hot and hard against your thigh, and the knowledge that he’s holding back—that even now, with his hands all over you, he’s trying to be careful—makes your stomach twist.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” you whisper against his lips.

His hand freezes. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want all of you. Not just the part you think I can handle.”

Something breaks behind his eyes.

He groans—low and wrecked—and his grip tightens on your waist. His hips press into yours, slow and firm, and you feel him grind against you, the friction catching right where you need it. Your whole body arches in response, desperate for more.

Clothes disappear in pieces. Breathless kisses. Fingers brushing skin that’s never been touched this way. Your shirt gets tugged off. His pants slide down his hips. You both fumble with your underwear, laughing softly between gasps and moans.

And then he’s above you. Kneeling between your thighs, one hand stroking gently over your knee, the other holding the base of his cock as he looks down at you. Not with arrogance. Not with hesitation.

With awe.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. Like it’s the first time he’s said it aloud. Like he’s been thinking it forever.

You reach for him.

He sinks into you slowly.

The stretch is deep and aching and perfect, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he groans—long and low—at the feeling of being inside you.

He stills.

Lets you adjust.

Forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does—when he pulls out just enough and slides back in with that thick, delicious pressure—you both gasp. His hands grip your hips. Your legs wrap tighter around him. Every thrust is slow, deep, intentional.

There’s nothing hurried here.

Nothing casual.

Every movement feels like a promise. Like he’s trying to tell you something he doesn’t know how to say.

He presses kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His name spills from your lips like prayer. Yours spills from his like surrender.

You come with his forehead pressed to your collarbone, your hands in his hair, your body trembling beneath him.

And when he follows—when he breaks with a gasp of your name and spills inside you—it feels like the last wall between you crumbles.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t leave your arms. He just holds you. Breathing hard. Mouth pressed to your temple. One hand stroking your hip in lazy, slow circles like he can’t bear to stop touching you.

You lie there like that for a long time. Sweaty. Shaking. Quiet.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because this—this—was never just about sex.

It was about everything that led here. About how you found each other in the silence. About how love was already here.

You just had to let it in.

-

The world doesn’t change the next morning. The sun still rises through the haze of city smog. The Planet still dings with elevator doors and Jimmy still spills his coffee before nine. Your inbox is still a mess. Your deadline’s still looming.

But you feel different.

You move through the day a little slower. A little softer. Like you’re underwater in a warm current. Like you’re still carrying the weight of his hands on your hips, the shape of his mouth on your neck, the sound of your name wrecked from his throat.

You don’t talk about it. You don’t have to.

Not when his hand finds yours beneath the table during an editorial meeting. Not when he brushes the hair from your forehead as you pore over city records in silence. Not when he leans over your shoulder to whisper a note about a source, but lingers just long enough that your eyes flutter closed.

Everything is the same.

And everything has changed.

-

It becomes a rhythm.

A routine.

Weekends melt into each other in slow, golden hours. Grocery runs where he pushes the cart and pretends not to judge your cereal choices. Quiet nights where you lie tangled on his couch, legs overlapping, reading aloud from the paper or falling asleep with your head on his chest.

The snow comes heavier one evening in December. Fat, drifting flakes that hush the city and paint the streetlights in halos.

You’re walking back from the corner store—your gloves forgotten, cheeks stinging, his scarf wrapped twice around your neck. You’re laughing at something dumb he said, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only warm thing left in the whole damn world.

You pause under a flickering streetlamp and tilt your face to the sky.

Clark doesn’t say anything.

He just steps behind you, slides his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder as the snow falls around you.

You sway together. Barely moving. Not dancing, not really. But close. Steady. Quiet. Like you’re the only two people on Earth.

You don’t say I love you. Not yet. But it’s there. In the steam of your breath. In the way your mittenless fingers find his and hold tight. In the press of his lips to your temple.

It’s there.

-

He keeps a picture of you at his desk.

You find it by accident one night when you stop by after hours. You meant to drop off takeout—he missed lunch again—and when you place the container on his desk, you see it tucked just behind his monitor.

It’s not posed.

Not framed.

Just a print Jimmy must’ve made—grainy and candid. You’re in the bullpen, mid-laugh, head tipped back, a pen tucked behind your ear and his flannel hanging off your shoulders. You don’t even remember the moment being taken.

But he does.

It’s the kind of photo someone chooses on purpose.

You lift it carefully, thumb brushing the edge. There’s a small crease at the corner like it’s been handled often, maybe taken in and out of his wallet before he gave it a safer home.

Clark comes up behind you, footsteps soft. He doesn’t say anything at first.

You turn slightly, the photo still in your hand. “You kept this?”

His smile is shy. A little sheepish. “Yeah.”

Your heart stutters.

“It just… reminds me,” he adds quietly. “What I have. What matters.”

You look at the photo. Then back at him. He doesn’t try to kiss you. He just reaches for your hand. And when his fingers lace with yours, something inside you steadies.

You get it now.

Why people go to war for love. Why they lose their minds, write sonnets, chase ghosts. Why everything you’ve ever tried to put into words never quite measured up.

Because this—this soft, sure thing you’ve found with him—isn’t made of grand gestures or burning declarations.

It’s made of quiet mornings. Candid photos. Snowflakes in your hair. The way he says your name like it’s both question and answer.

It’s made of knowing you’re held—even in the silence. Even in the dark.

Because you’re in love.

And this time, you know it so wholly you’ll never be able to unknow it.

-

It doesn’t happen on a grand night. No gala, no rooftop, no headline to chase or city to save.

Just a Tuesday.

Late. Raining.

You’re in his apartment, barefoot and damp from the walk up. Your coat hangs dripping by the door. Your hair’s still wet from the storm. He towel-dried it as soon as you walked in, murmuring something about catching cold. Now you’re curled into the corner of his couch in one of his oversized sweatshirts, legs tucked beneath you, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug you both refuse to throw out.

Clark sits across from you in the armchair. But his eyes are somewhere else. On you. Always on you.

You can feel it.

There’s music playing faintly from his speakers—something slow and distant, like memory. The rain ticks softly against the windows, blurring the world outside. The room glows gold with lamplight.

You don’t talk much. Just trade glances. Quiet smiles. Let the space between you speak louder than conversation.

It’s the silence that gives it away. Not tense. Not awkward. Just full. Saturated with something unnamed.

“Can I tell you something?” Clark asks. His voice is low. Barely above the rain.

You nod.

He sets his mug down. Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. His hands fidget once, then still. He looks at you like he’s about to step off the edge of something he’s been circling for years.

“I think I’ve loved you since before I even understood what that meant.”

The room stops.

Your breath does too.

He keeps going.

“I used to think love had to be loud. Big. Dramatic. But this—” he gestures softly, hand drifting toward you, toward the space where you sit curled up in his life, “—this snuck up on me. You snuck up on me.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words pressing into every inch of your skin, curling warm behind your ribs.

“I tried not to say it,” he says, voice tight now. “Because I didn’t want to risk… us. But I wake up next to you and it feels like I’ve already made every choice.”

You’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved.

He rises too, breath caught in his throat.

You cross the room in two steps, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. Not soft this time. Not hesitant.

Certain.

Because you’ve been carrying it too. The same truth. The same ache.

You pull back only far enough to whisper against his lips, “I love you, Clark.”

He exhales like it’s the first full breath he’s taken in days. You press your forehead to his. You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to. Because now it’s real.

It’s spoken.

The thing you’ve known in every glance, every hand held, every night spent in each other’s arms—now it has a name. And you wear it like a second skin.

You hold him there, swaying slightly as the rain continues outside.

No one watching. No deadline waiting. No need to rush.

Because you’re in love.

And finally, finally—