NOTES: For @xstarkillerx

𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘔𝘦

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ ᴋᴇɴᴛ x fem! reader

「 ✦ A/N ✦ 」 I have learned that his eyes are in fact green, I apologize for my horrible ability to figure out eye colors. Also, Lana is going to be wildly mischaracterized in this, very briefly. I "hate" to do it, but it's wholly necessary.

✬ summary ✬ You've been labeled a freak after your accident during the meteor storm. Now, someone's hunting you down because of it and the only person you can trust is Clark. But he's not the all-American boy he pretends to be.

“Dude! We wrecked them,” two football players barrel their way down the hall, paying no mind to the people around them. You’re used to meatheads like this, and you’re used to having to move around them. 

But, somehow, they still always manage to find you within the crowd of forty other students. You duck out of his way but he turns, slamming his shoulder into yours and sending you flying into the lockers. Your back slams into the metal, a low groan of pain slipping through your lips. 

Arms loosening, your books drop to the ground. The asshole in front of you takes great care to kick them away from you as he walks off. “Watch it, freak,” he sneers, his friend laughing beside him.

“Pricks,” you hiss under your breath, slowly peeling yourself off the lockers. It’s not as though you’re not used to this. Keeping to yourself in a town so small was ostracizing. Being quiet meant becoming a target, no matter how hard you tried to go unnoticed. 

Kneeling, you collect the few books you can find. Glancing through the feet of the crowd, you frown, wondering if you’ll just need to buy another notebook. Again. 

“Here, this is yours, right?” A pair of legs stop in front of you, worn-out denim blocking your field of vision. Tilting your head up, you swallow hard as Clark Kent stares down at you, notebook in his outstretched hand. 

“Um,” you swallow roughly, snatching the notebook and jumping to your feet. “Yes,” you meet his eyes for a moment, but his blindingly good looks become overwhelming quickly. “Thank you,” you mutter, looking at your shoes rather than him. 

“I’m sorry about them,” he rubs the back of his neck and you risk a glance at him. Wholly earnest and truly apologetic. He’s not even the jerk that slammed you into the lockers. But he looks as guilty, as if he had done it. “They’re-”

“Assholes,” you interrupt, eyes snapping up to meet his before regretting the decision and immediately looking away again. 

He chuckles and it’s the nicest sound you’ve heard in a while. “Not quite what I was going to say, but yeah.” Clark’s better at picking up social cues than half the school. His lips tilt down when he sees the way you’re hunched into yourself, curled protectively around the books clutched to your chest. “We have English together, don’t we?” He says your name and your eyes round, not believing he even knew you shared a class. 

“Yes,” you tell him, but your voice cracks and you wish you could go die in a ditch. Four years here and you think this might be the longest conversation you’ve had with someone. At least, the longest that didn’t revolve around you selling them the answers to tests or homework. 

“Here,” he nods you forward, finally letting you out of your cornered position against the wall. “We’ll walk together.” There’s an earnest sincerity in his voice that makes you uncomfortable. You’re used to either being ignored or taunted, there’s not an in-between and you’re fine with that. 

Still, you can’t find it in yourself to turn away that bright smile of his. “Alright, thanks,” you tell him, shrugging the strap of your bag further up your shoulder. 

The walk to English from your locker isn’t a long one, but Clark seems content to slow his stride. You don’t know what his plan is here, what he thinks he’s going to get out of forcing a conversion from you. 

“You work with Chloe on the Torch, right?” Your brows furrow as you shoot him a surprised look. He lets out a sheepish chuckle, “Observant,” he excuses weakly. 

You narrow your eyes at him and nod, “Yeah, but I just edit it. I’m not interested in any of the hands-on stuff like she is.” Honestly, you’re not even sure Chloe’s aware that you work with her. You have a theory that she believes all of her writing is just that good. 

It’s not. 

Most of your nights are spent clarifying her excited rambles as she investigates the odd tragedies of Smallville. 

“How come?” From the tone of his voice, it’s clear he’s just interested in making small talk. It seems so natural to him, keeping the conversation flowing perfectly. 

You know he means well, but there’s a worry that he might see you as some charity case. He was a witness to the jackassery you deal with every day. Maybe he thinks you’re one of those pathetic kids who eats lunch alone and desperately needs someone to lead them out of the darkness. 

Good intentions, but it’s nowhere near the truth. You don’t bother to answer his question, stopping and forcing him to do the same. His expression turns into one of confusion and you give him an awkward smile. “I appreciate the help this morning, but I’m not looking for pity or a white knight.”

Clark’s face drops, clearly not expecting you to be so blunt. “That’s,” he stumbles slightly over his words, shaking his head. “That’s not what I was trying to do. It’s something else,” he leans down, voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s about-”

“Clark!” You both startle, jumping apart as Lana approaches. “I’ve been looking for you.” He smiles at Lana, though his eyes dart toward you. Taking the opening, you give him a brief wave and run down the hall so you’re not late for English. 

Something about his tone gnaws at the back of your mind. It was too serious to be something as simple as a pitiful offer of friendship. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you see him still staring, something intense burning in his green eyes. Shaking your head, you ignore it, shoving down the instinctual pull toward him and head to class. 

You’re sure it’s nothing. 

Editing The Torch was interesting. For one, it involved a lot more investigative journalism than it should for a high school newspaper. But it also meant that you were aware of the happenings in town far before anyone else was. 

Pen tucked between your teeth, you flip through Chloe’s latest article. It’s not half bad this time, mainly some grammatical errors. Sentences that could easily be split into four rather than one. Beyond that, it’s one of the more compelling pieces you’ve read through for her. And not necessarily in a good way. 

You’d, of course, heard all about Lana being attacked in her pool by that boy Jake. Everyone said he’d been after her since freshman year, that it was only a matter of time before he pounced. 

That wasn’t the interesting bit, though. What you’re reading now is something you had been completely unaware of. Apparently, Lana had no chance of fighting back. Not when Jake could breathe underwater.

The boy had been what people are deeming a “meteor freak.” One of the many civilians affected by the multitude of meteorites that plague your town. Someone clearly had a vendetta against them. The only reason Lana’s still alive is because someone had put a bullet in his head and left behind a threat for the rest of the “freaks.” 

Chloe is normally subtle about her biases in her writing, but she’s not bothering to hide anything in this piece. She makes it clear how she feels about the “freaks,” and how she thinks the shooter could be a hero, working to rid Smallville of their oddities. The longer you read her tirade, the more your stomach turns unpleasantly. Your grip around the paper tightens, fingers ripping small holes into the sheets without you realizing.  

You don’t disagree that Jake deserved the bullet, but you’re worried for the other students who were like him. The ones that aren’t going around attacking girls and are just trying to live their lives. The thought of what could happen to them if a piece like this is published sends you into a wave of anxiety. In a time of fear, the last thing everyone needs is the incentive for mob mentality. 

The sound of Lana Lang’s voice catches you off guard for the second time today. “What are you saying, Clark?” Startled, you nearly topple out of your chair. Letting out a sharp breath, your head tilts toward the door. 

Chloe, Lana, and Clark all pour into the office. You burrow deeper into the worn-down cushions of your chair and let out an unamused huff. Usually, you can linger unnoticed until they leave. 

They’re so wrapped up in their knock-off Scooby Doo mysteries that they never even realize another person’s in the room with them. And, maybe, if you stay, you can figure out just what is going on with this supposed “freak hunter.”

“I’m saying that we shouldn’t be celebrating a murderer,” Clark frowns and he sounds more stern than you’ve ever heard him before. 

“Oh, really?” Chloe snaps, storming over to her desk and dropping a thick manilla folder on top. “Because if he hadn’t been there, who knows what would have happened to Lana.”

Clark frowns, lips flattened as he glares at them both. “You know that’s not what I mean,” he huffs. His eyes drag over the room and you expect them to skip over you like they always do. Instead the wrinkle between his brows smooths and he looks surprised. “Hey,” he calls your name and your eyes widen. 

Shoulders up to your ears, you shrink further in your chair as the girls turn toward you. “Who are you?” Chloe demands, glaring at you. 

Letting out a bored sigh, you toss her half-edited paper onto your cluttered desk. Three years you’ve been doing this, she’s only just now realizing someone lives behind the cramped little desk in the corner. “I’m your editor,” you tell her, getting to your feet and stretching out the kinks in your back. 

You lean against your desk, arms crossed as you survey the two girls. Lana looks sheepish but Chloe still has that defensive glare on her face. It fades a little as her lips part, realization dawning over her. You’re sure she’s got a vague recollection of your first and last time speaking to her in freshmen year. 

“I like your new piece,” you tell her, nodding toward the stapled paper beside you. 

“Oh, yeah?” She whips around toward Clark, a smug grin on her face. He lets out an angry huff of breath, fists clenched by his sides. “I told you people would agree with me, Clark. These people are becoming dangerous, someone fighting against them isn’t-”

“Don’t mistake that for a compliment,” you snap, cutting her off, eyes narrowed into slits as you glare at her. She pauses, tilting her head toward you, seemingly taken aback. “I meant it more as, ‘I’m simply impressed with your brazen disregard for journalistic integrity’. Or even basic human decency.”

Clark’s brows draw together, something akin to surprise flitting across his face. Chloe, on the other hand, looked extremely pissed off. “Excuse me?” She snaps. 

“Oh, yeah,” you pick the papers up and read out the first few lines. “‘A heroic and valiant action saved the life of one of our own. Jake Pollen, appropriately deemed a meteor freak, was shot on the third of this month. His actions against a female student call into question whether or not we should be afraid of all of these freaks. Are they all dangerous? Are we safe from them?’”

You toss the paper on the floor between you both and tilt your head, shoulders tensing with irritation. “Not only do you have a weak opening, you degrade a young boy who has just been brutally shot and killed-”

“He died attacking me,” Lana butts in, her eyes narrowed in disbelief at you. 

“Irrelevant,” you scoff, waving her off. Her jaw drops with astonishment and you offer her a slight grimace of apology. 

“Look, sorry for what happened. But this isn’t about you and it isn’t even about Jake. It’s about the other students you’re putting at risk by labeling them all as monsters. Do you really think calling for each other’s heads is the way to handle this?” You demand, glaring at Chloe. “Is it not your job simply to inform instead of editorialize?”

“Well,” Chloe’s lips tug into a sarcastic smile. “Clark,” she calls, glaring over at the boy who hasn’t once taken his eyes off of you. “It’s a match made in heaven. You can go save the freaks together,” she says, practically spitting the word out. 

Eyes darting toward Clark you catch the grateful look he sends you. Not willing to indulge much further in the conversation you snatch your bag up from the floor. “Consider this me tendering my resignation,” you toss at Chloe as you storm out. 

“Can you believe her?” Chloe snaps as you walk out the door. 

“Who was she?” Lana asks, you don’t hear Chloe’s reply as you storm down the hallway. Like you do every other night, you stayed too late editing the paper. You’ll have already missed the last bus by now. It’s not unusual for you to walk home alone, but something feels different about tonight. 

Hands pressed against the metal bars of the school doors, you’re nearly outside when you hear someone call your name behind you. Turning, you see Clark jogging up to you. “Clark,” you greet flippantly, not eager to talk after your little show in the office. 

“Hey, um,” he pauses in front of you, a slight flush on his cheeks as he meets your eyes. You’re less overwhelmed than you were earlier today, maybe because you’ve already wasted your energy on Chloe. “Did you mean what you said back there?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” you tell him, blunt and concise. 

He gives you a sort of lopsided grin, “Right. It’s just…” his gaze drifts past you, eyes looking unfocused as he stares at the wall beside you. You scrutinize him, eyes trailing up and down his body as he falls into some sort of trance. “I gotta go,” he suddenly blurts out, running down the hall and leaving you standing at the door. 

Peering your head around the corner, you watch him disappear into one of the classrooms. Shaking your head with a huff, you finally make your way out of the school. Fortunately, you don’t live too far away. 

It’s just a crappy little house that an older woman has been renting to you since you got emancipated freshman year. Your parents have long since moved on and the silent walk home is familiar to you. 

Although, tonight, the shadows seem to creep closer than they ever have. You keep a tight grip on your bag, taking care to stick close to the dim light the street lamps provide. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you stop short. 

There are eyes on you. An unfamiliar pair that makes you call upon the long-buried instinct of prey running from danger. Muscles twitching to life with adrenaline, you tilt your head over your shoulder, observing the shadows for movement. There’s no one there for you to see, but you feel them nonetheless. 

Their eyes are cruel and cold, but mostly they’re angry. Angry at you simply for living, for breathing the same air as them. Sucking in a sharp breath, you turn on your heel picking up speed as you rush toward your home. You swear the lights of the lamp nearly go out as you practically run along the sidewalk. 

Footsteps, quick and light, echo down the pavement behind you. Your legs pump furiously, pushing you forward as fast as they can. Chest heaving in and out as your breath fogs up in the chilly air of the night. The eyes burn hotter on the back of your head, closer somehow. You’re nearly home, you can already see the crooked roof of the tiny house. 

Every part of you wants to turn around and face whatever monster has decided to claim you as their own. But you force yourself not to give in. Keeping your head stubbornly forward, the only thing you think about is making it inside before whoever’s behind you catches up. 

Running up the stairs, your feet pound loudly against the weak wood of your front porch. You nearly break the door down when you stumble into it. Fingers fumbling along your keychain, you scramble to slot your keys in the lock. Something just in the corner of your eye catches your attention.  

YOU’RE NEXT FREAK

Gasping, you rip the paper off your door, momentarily forgetting the pursuer behind you. But when you turn back around, no one’s there. The feeling of the eyes is gone. That instinctual, gnawing urge to run and never stop slowly ebbs away. 

You slump against your door frame, swallowing thickly as you catch your breath. Eyes drifting back to the note, you feel your stomach sink. This wasn’t a threat, it was a promise of what was to come. 

Surveying the street once more, you reluctantly accept that there will be no identifying your stalker tonight. You slip inside your home and slide your couch in front of the door. You hope if the person decides tonight’s the night they’ll act on their promise, the couch will slow them down somehow. 

Biting at the cuticle around your thumb, your foot taps with anxiety as you take a seat in your dining room chair. All night, your eyes never leave your front door, note crumpled in your sweat-slick palm. 

Threat of death isn’t something many want to deal with alone. And despite your constant and unflinching status of being a loner, neither do you. For some odd reason, you’ve noticed that everyone in this town seems to flock to Clark when they have a problem. 

Not the police, they’re useless anyway. Not their parents. Just Clark. 

Somehow, you’ve become one of those people. You never thought you would be, when things got bad you always just imagined yourself running away. Instead, you find yourself standing on the front porch of the Kent’s house. As you have been for the past ten minutes, you debate knocking. 

You can’t put a finger on what drew you here. Something instinctually pulled you toward the bus stop, with no destination in mind.

Then, got off at a stop you never had before. It was a blur how you found yourself walking along the lonely stretch of road that led to the Kent’s farm, but here you are. 

Someone calls your name and your shoulders fly up to your ears, immediately recognizing the kind voice. Eyes squeezed shut, you debate just lying and saying you needed directions somewhere. It would be a shitty lie, but you might be able to get away with it. 

Still, the way he had approached you yesterday, the tone of his voice. It all gnawed at the back of your mind. You already knew that he wasn’t calling for the freak's heads. A voice buried deep in your subconscious kept telling you that he might even be able to save you. 

Finally turning, you offer Clark a weak grin. He takes it in stride, walking toward you slowly, like how he might approach a wounded animal, he gives you another bright smile. 

God, does he bleach his teeth with sunlight?

“Hey, Clark,” you wave slightly and he chuckles at the awkward way you say his name. It rolls off your tongue unnaturally, not used to trying to be polite with someone. 

“Hey.” His brows furrow and his smile turns down at the corners. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but, what are you doing here?”

The note crumpled in your hand itches at your palm. You feel like it’s burning a hole into your skin as you descend the steps of his porch. You start toward where he’s standing by the barn and he moves to meet you halfway. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, hoping he hears the sincerity in your voice. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

The smile drops off his face completely, replaced by the same concern you’re sure he would show his closest friends. No wonder everyone comes to him for help. You think he might be saintly. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, hand coming up to cup your shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeps through your sweater, it eases some of the tension running rampant through you. You should shy away from the touch, get irritated, not melt into his touch like you are right now.

You don’t know how to verbalize your situation to him. There’s a lot of history that’s conducive to explaining your current predicament. A lot of painful history. Rather than delving into that, you simply hold the note out to him. 

His jaw clenches as he takes it from you, eyes narrowing as he reads it. He folds the note up and places it in his back pocket. The action makes your brows furrow but you don’t question him. His gaze flits up to meet yours, something sympathetic and angry in his eyes. 

“Freak?” He questions and you don’t need to guess at what he means.

Eyes closing, you let out a low sigh. “I’d been hoping to get through high school without anyone knowing.” Rubbing the back of your neck, you let out a laugh dripping with sarcasm. Holding your palm out to him, you open your eyes once more. 

He hesitates for a moment, giving you a questioning look before sliding his hand against yours. You ignore how nice it feels to have the touch of another person and flex your fingers, giving him a little shock. 

Clark’s brows furrow, his hand jumping atop your palm. “I’m like a walking burst of static shock,” you tell him. “An electrical line fell in the pool with me during the meteor storm.” You tell him briefly, not delving into the shit show your life turned into after that. 

Slowly, you take your hand back, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “I’ve had an odd relationship with anything electronic since then.”

Clark’s eyes narrow before his face lights up with realization. “The computer lab in sophomore year.” You let out an annoyed sigh, rolling your eyes as he gives you a goofy grin. “You told everyone that water had fallen on the computer. But it was you, wasn’t it.”

“Yes,” you tell him, giving him an unamused glare. “I can’t believe you really thought a computer exploded because of some water.”

“Hey,” he scolds, though you can practically hear the laughter he’s holding back. “You’re a very believable liar.” 

“Thanks,” you snark, but you can’t hold back the smile that tugs at the edges of your lips. “Clearly, I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it, though.” You offer him a weak chuckle, but his smile slips at the reminder of why you’re here. You almost regret mentioning it, if only because of the way the atmosphere thickens with tension. 

“Right,” he huffs and glances toward his barn, something pensive coming over his face. You rock back on your heels while you wait for him to miraculously solve all of your problems. 

Doubts begin to creep in, stomach tightening with guilt as you look him over. Forehead furrowed, jaw clenching, he paints a pretty picture. Angry, but still one of the most handsome boys you’ve ever seen. And one of the kindest. 

How selfish is it to drag him into your mess? This isn’t petty high school bullshit where you want him to beat up a meathead football player for you. This is a murderer running rampant that has painted a target on your back. Now, you’ve dragged Clark into this, as well. You don’t think you can stoop any lower. 

“Alright,” he turns back to you, green eyes boring into yours. “You’ll stay up in the loft for now.”

Oh, you can stoop so much lower. 

“Clark,” you object, but he waves you off before you get to say anything else.

“Don’t argue,” he tells you, sounding more commanding than you’ve ever heard from him. Hand on your shoulder, he turns you toward the barn and steers you inside.

Glancing over his shoulder, he double checks no one’s around before he closes the doors behind you. “Come on,” he nudges you forward, leading you toward the stairs. 

When you picture a barn loft, the first thing that comes to mind is not; studio apartment. But this might as well be close enough. Bed, dresser, mirror, you think there might even be a small TV tucked in the corner under a tarp. Besides a shower and toilet, someone could legitimately live here. 

“Wow,” you breathe out, stunned as you ascend the stairs. “I thought it would be more…” You trail off, eyes rounding with interest as they land on the telescope by the window. 

“Rustic?” He finishes for you, laughing slightly. 

You flush, giving him a sheepish smile. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Clark gives you a good-natured smile and nods toward the couch. You follow along beside him, taking a hesitant seat at the end, trying to keep as much space between the two of you as you can. His brows quirk up at the movement but he doesn’t say anything. 

“I spend most of my time up here. The chickens might not have liked me kicking them out, but they learned to live with it.” Despite how awful the joke might have been, it still eases a small huff of amusement out of you. It’s enough to help you sink further into the couch, nails relinquishing the sting they were pressing into your palms. 

“I shouldn’t be here, Clark,” you stare down at your lap, shame lining the inside of your gut, causing it to churn nauseatingly. “I’m already asking you for too much-”

Clark reaches over, hands covering-enveloping, really-your own. He gives you an affectionate squeeze, waiting until you look up and meet his eye to speak. “I want to help, really.” 

Normally, there’s still a little bit of doubt niggling at you. But there’s such stark sincerity in Clark’s eyes. You can see how much he wants to help in the way he keeps your hands in his, even though you know you’re probably shocking him. It happens sometimes when you get really upset. 

He doesn’t let go. 

It’s the only reason you nod, giving in and letting someone else into your life for the first time in a long time. 

Something flits out of your locker as you open it. You shove your books inside, eyes narrowed as you turn toward the square of paper lying on the ground. You bend, narrowly avoid getting your fingers stepped on, and pick it up. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when you opened it. A note from a secret admirer (in your dreams.) Maybe a mean note from another jock. 

YOU CANT HIDE FROM ME FREAK

You definitely were not expecting another threat, and you almost feel stupid that you didn’t see this coming. 

“Hey,” Clark’s voice has become familiar to you now. A soothing balm over your constantly frayed nerves. He’s developed a tendency to walk you to class, always looking over your shoulder for you. He seems to have self-appointed himself as your bodyguard. 

Fingers trembling around the note, you feel a warmth building in the back of your throat. You drop your head as something unfamiliar burns in your eyes. The note flutters back to the ground as you slam your locker closed and shove past Clark. 

You haven’t cried in years, you’re not about to let yourself have a breakdown in the middle of the hallway. Clark calls your name behind you, but you force yourself to ignore it, barrelling through the congestion of students and running into the first empty classroom you find. 

The classroom lights are turned off and the blackboard is cleared of the notes from the last period. You don’t make it very far inside before you’re sinking against a desk and crumpling into yourself. Shoulders shaking as you’re wrecked by cries that make your ribs ache. 

Two weeks you’ve been staying with Clark. One more student has been killed since then, a girl you’d shared geometry with. This whole time you’ve known about the threat hanging heavy above you. Still, you’ve gone to school, you’ve kept up normal appearances like nothing was wrong. The only difference has been Clark. Not the bright red target on your back. 

You’ve gotten so wrapped up in the comfort of a friend that you haven’t even thought about the murderer lying in wait for you. Complacent and stupid, you’ve let yourself believe you’re truly safe. Now, curled up in one of the few places that’s meant to be a haven, you’re being starkly reminded of your mortality. 

The classroom door opens and closes near silently, and you don’t have to look up to know who’s followed you inside. Wiping desperately at your eyes, you try and swallow down the hiccuping cries bubbling up in your chest. 

Clark whispers your name gently and you hate how pitying he sounds. “Stop,” you snap, clenching your eyes shut as he pauses his slow progression toward you. 

“I saw the note,” he tells you. His voice sounds gentle, but you can hear the anger lying in wait underneath. Anger for you, instead of at you, for once. 

You hum in response, too tired for words as you wipe away the remnants of your tears. You suck in a few deep breaths, finally calming yourself down enough to not feel a cry burning in the back of your throat.  

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” you admit, aiming for a laugh but it sounds more like an apology.

“Because someone’s trying to kill you,” he offers teasingly, the lilt in his voice helping you lift the mood. You huff out a short laugh and he takes a step closer. “I promise, I’m not going to let them hurt you.” It’s hard to doubt the conviction in his voice, even if you want to. Even if you don’t want to believe someone genuinely has your best interests at heart. 

Looking up, you’re startled to find Clark already so close to you. He tilts his head down, green eyes locked on yours as he surveys your face for any further signs of hurt. Without thinking, your fingers drift toward his, searching for warmth, for reassurance.

You worry he might pull away as his eyes widen. Maybe you’ve pushed too far. Instead, he flips his palm over, lacing your fingers together and squeezing. Your heart stutters. You shove the feeling aside and offer him a small, shaky smile that he returns without hesitation.

“I don’t think you know how lonely living like this has been,” you whisper, staring at the buttons of his flannel instead of facing him. It’s easier to talk to a shirt than it is to look at Clark. You don’t want to run the risk of seeing judgment on his face. 

His fingers flex around yours, thumb rubbing idle circles on the back of your hand. “I have a slight idea.” 

Your breath catches at the tone of his voice. He doesn’t sound like someone riffing on the angst of being a teenager, but rather someone whose experienced the alienation that comes from meteorite mutation. 

You glance up at him with wide eyes and he offers you a grin, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Clark Kent,” you arch a brow, “are you becoming a bad influence?”

He rolls his eyes and tugs you off the desk. You stumble slightly, but he’s quick to keep you upright, arm wrapping around your waist as he steadies you. 

His grin softens at the edges, melting into something softer. “It’s your own fault. Come on,” he murmurs, “I want to show you something.”

With your jaw dropped to your chest, you’re sure you paint an incredibly unattractive picture right now. Still, if Clark holding a tractor above his head like it’s nothing isn’t jaw-dropping, you don’t know what is. 

“So,” the sentence gets away from you before you even begin Clark flushes slightly, and somehow, it’s not from strain. He places the tractor back by the barn and sends you a sheepish smile. 

“So,” he echoes, shrugging and looking at you expectantly. His gaze darts to his house and he walks forward, cupping your elbow and leading you back into the barn. 

You look over your shoulder, back at the tractor, and scoff in disbelief. “The meteor clearly had favorites. It really made you that strong?”

Clark glances down at you but his eyes dart away too quickly for you to read them. “Sort of,” he answers, his voice so carefully neutral that your eyes narrow in suspicion. Still, you can tell from the way that he won’t meet your eye that he’s already shared more with you than he ever wanted to. It’s better not to push him. 

“Right,” you take the stairs up to the loft and he follows behind you. “I guess you do know how it feels then.” You take a seat on the couch and his brows quirk in confusion. “To be so lonely,” you clarify, offering him a strained smile. 

Clark exhales softly and lowers himself beside you, “More than you know.” He closes the gap between you both, taking your hand in his once more. “You don’t have to feel so alone anymore,” he promises, eyes filled with a sincerity that sends warmth flooding through you. 

“Neither do you,” you squeeze his hand in yours, heart fluttering with hope. 

History is an interesting subject, but the class is a nightmare. Before, you didn’t know anyone. You’ve never had someone to talk to or share secret looks with in class when the teacher messed up. Now, you’re greeted by Clark’s eager smile every day as you walk to your seat. You still don’t talk much, but just having him around makes you feel lighter. 

His presence is even more of a comfort now that you know his secret. Or, at least, half his secret. You know there’s something more to Clark Kent than what he’ll ever let you see. But just the little bit he’s shared is enough to sate you. 

“Clark,” Lana whispers beside him as you take your seat. 

You busy yourself by pulling out your notebook and pencils, but you can’t help the way you tune into their conversation. You’re trying to break the habit of being a horrible eavesdropper, but it's easier said than done. 

Clark turns toward her and you spot the way her face falls out of the corner of your eye. “I hate fighting with you,” she tells him, sounding soft and regretful. 

“I do too,” he swears and you don’t have to look to know he’s giving her that puppy-dog look. It makes your stomach twist, and you hate yourself for it. Clark’s just doing you a favor. He’d treat anyone with the same kindness he’s shown you. He certainly doesn’t owe you anything. You have no right to feel possessive over a boy who’s been in love with Lana Lang since freshman year. 

“But, Clark,” Lana continues, voice tight with frustration, “how can you tell me the boy who did that to me didn’t deserve what happened?”

Clark lets out a low exhale and for a brief second, you catch his gaze flitting toward you. Quickly, you flip open your notebook, pretending to be reviewing whatever gibberish you wrote last period. 

“Of course he did,” he admits, and you feel your grip on your pencil tighten. 

There’s nothing wrong with him agreeing. That boy had attacked Lana, he’d tried to assault her. You don’t disagree that he deserved it. But it’s a dangerous line between one man deserving that and the rest of you “meteor freaks” being hunted down. 

“And Tina?” Lana presses on. “She was a psychopath. And Mr. Arnold? Eric? Every one of those meteor freaks we’ve dealt with has wanted to do nothing but hurt us. They all want to punish us for their issues.”

God, when is the bell going to ring? 

You glare over at the history teacher, the man barely lets you talk long enough to ask to go to the bathroom. He doesn’t seem to mind this little hate rally happening beside you. 

“Well,” Lana pushes, “am I wrong?”

There’s a long pause and you keep your stare wholly focused on the blackboard in front of you. 

“No,” Clark finally relents. 

Your pencil snaps in half, part of it flying into the back of a classmate’s head. 

Eyes widening, you’re quick to toss the remnants of the pencil to the side and turn back to your notes. You force yourself to focus, even as you feel Clark’s eyes on you. Stubbornly, you refuse to meet his gaze.

“I don’t like fighting with you, Clark,” Lana says, softer now. “But I can’t stay friends with you if you don’t believe in what this vigilante is trying to do. He’s ridding Smallville of a plague that’s clung to us for too long.”

Heart pounding against your ribs, you dig your nails into your palms, ignoring the little static shocks sparking off of them. You’ve remained so healthily detached from the student body, that you’d forgotten just how bad your abilities get when you’re angry. 

Clark remains silent, keeping both you and Lana teetering on the edge of your seats. You lean closer to them, unable to help yourself. 

After a painfully long breath, Clark dips his head down. “You’re right, Lana.”

The light explodes above you.

The students scatter, trying to avoid the shards. Heart hammering, you jump out of your seat. The screams provide enough of a distraction for you to run to the front of the class. 

You’ll never be Lana. You’ll never be someone special to him.

You’ll always just be another freak.

Through the chaos, Clark’s eyes manage to find yours, and the look on his face, the mixture of shock and regret - and something else you don’t want to name - causes another light to explode above you. Wincing, you duck your head and bolt, needing to get out before you cause another fire. 

Clark’s voice calls after you, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Because no matter how much he smiles at you in history class, no matter how warm his hand feels wrapped around yours, you’ll never be more than this.

You’re a secret, a mistake. Nothing more than a problem he’ll have to deal with one day.

You’d brought most of your important belongings to Clark’s, something you’re now realizing was a mistake. You would have loved to just storm home and never have to see him again. But everything you put value on is stuffed under the bed in his loft. 

Quickly, you grab all of your clothes and stuff them into the bag you brought, not bothering to fold them up nicely. You shove everything in, one after the other, with all the aggression you know you can’t let out on someone else. 

“What are you doing?”

Your eyes flutter shut, head dipping slightly as your hands tighten around your clothes. “What’s it look like?” You mutter, zipping your duffel with a sharp tug, ignoring the sleeve that sticks out. 

Clark exhales softly, “It looks like you’re leaving.” 

You hear the sadness in his voice, you can perfectly picture the hurt look that will be on his face. But you know that if you turn around and look at him, you’ll fold. You’ll give into him like nothing was ever wrong. But you can’t do that to yourself. You deserve better than that. 

Keeping your back to him, you turn toward the stairs. “Then that’s what I’m doing,” you tell him bluntly. And all of the warmth, all of the happiness he’s helped blossom within you has just vanished from your voice, as if it was never there to begin with. 

It couldn’t have been real, not if it was that easy to lose. 

Clark isn’t one to be so easily deterred. He lets out a stubborn huff and strides toward you, grabbing your elbow and stopping you from leaving. “Look, I can explain-”

“I’m not looking for an excuse, Clark!” You snap, whipping around to face him. You’re so close, just a little press forward and your lips would be touching his. “There shouldn’t be anything to explain in the first place.”

Clark’s expression falters, shoulders slumping with the weight of your words. He opens his mouth, searching for something - anything - to say. But before he can, something slams into him, sending him flying over the loft’s railing. 

Warm blood splatters across your cheek before you’ve even realized what’s happened. 

“Clark!” You scream, rushing to the edge just in time to see him hit the ground hard. 

You don’t hear the shot, but you see another bullet embed itself into the wood beside you. The post splinters and cracks under the impact and you duck. Bolting down the stairs, you keep low before any other bullets find their home in you. 

Your knees hit the ground painfully as you skid to Clark’s side, hands trembling as you flip him onto his back. 

His lips are already turning blue, cheeks a sallow pale you haven’t seen before. “Oh, god,” you gasp, watching his veins pulse green where the bullet has lodged itself in his shoulder. 

“Have to,” he sucks in a sharp breath, voice so faint you have to lean in to hear him. “Have to take it out,” his voice cracks and sharpens erratically, but you just barely manage to make out what he’s trying to say. 

Your eyes dart from his to the bullet wound. The skin has puckered up and turned an unhealthy green color. “Clark,” you mutter his name, sounding completely unsure. But he doesn’t respond, and when you look back at him you see that his eyes have fallen completely shut. 

Panic courses through you, it lodges itself painfully in your throat and you worry you might throw up. Your fingers creep up his arm, pressing against the wound. He jolts up, a low groan of pain hissing through his lips, but he gives no other sign of life. 

Letting out a low breath, your face creases with disgust as you press your fingers into the wound. There’s a squelch and blood spurts up your arm as you probe for the bullet. He writhes under you, body seizing erratically. His movements nearly throw you off him, but you lay yourself across the chest, holding him down. 

It doesn’t take long for you to feel the bullet, its metal has been warmed by the blood oozing under your fingernails. You stretch your fingers, pressing against the torn muscles until you have a solid grip on the bullet. Clark lets out a loud groan that you try and quiet, attempting to calm him. But you’re close to tears as you rip the bullet out. 

Your hand quakes, the weight of the offending piece of metal in your hand far too heavy to be natural. Your own veins pulse green, electrical shocks radiating from where the bullet sits in your palm.  

Clark stirs, sitting up with a sharp inhale. Startled, you scramble back. His eyes flick toward the bullet in your hand, face twisting into something unreadable. You don’t have a chance to say anything before he snatches it from you and tosses it clear out of the barn. 

“Clark?” You question, eyes widening as you watch the gaping wound in his shoulder stitch itself together. He follows your gaze and winces.

“I’ll explain, I promise.” He gets to his feet and takes your bloodied hands in his, helping you up. “I’ve got to-”

“Go,” you say, still dazed. He hesitates, watching you like he thinks you might make a run for it. “I’m not going anywhere.” He frowns and doubt flickers in his eyes. “Scout’s honor.” He hesitates only a moment before all you see is a blur where he’d once been standing. You’ve barely blinked before he’s completely disappeared from view. 

With an out-of-body shock, you stare down at the blood soaking through the sleeves of your shirt. That was certainly not just meteorite benefits. 

You’d used the hose behind the barn to wash the blood off your hands before you made your way into the Kent’s house for a proper shower. The last thing you needed to explain was how their son nearly bled out in your arms. 

Afterward, you found yourself on the loft bed, shell-shocked. Hands in your lap, eyes unfocused, staring blankly ahead. You hadn’t moved by the time Clark returned. 

“Hey.”

You jump, startled by the unexpected warmth of his palm on your arm. Blinking up at him, you find a tentative smile on his lips, one you don’t have the energy to return. Sighing, he lowers himself onto the bed beside you. 

“Did you find him?” You ask, slipping your arm out from under his touch. It’s easy to pretend you don’t see the hurt that flashes across his face. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, shifting slightly away from you on the bed. “Van McNulty,” he tells you. “He won’t bother you again.”

“Well, I guess I can leave, then,” you tell him flippantly, but you make no move to get up.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I guess you can.”

Nails digging into your palms, you feel electricity rush through your veins. It sparks at the tips of your fingers and tingles through your legs. Swallowing it down, you glare holes into the wooden floorboards. “What are you, Clark?” The question slips out before you can stop it, sharp and demanding. He starts to stutter something out, but you cut him off before he can play dumb. “I’m not an idiot, I know that we’re not the same.” 

His face twists with hesitation, “I’ve never told anyone before,” he admits, voice quiet. “I was always so afraid that they’d look at me the…” 

He trails off and you scoff. “What? The same way they look at me?” A bitter smile curls on your lips, “If there’s one thing that’s not special about you, Clark, it’s feeling like a freak.”

He glances over at you and you see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly at the knowing look on your face. He exhales, rubbing his palms across his jeans. “I guess not.” He struggles for the words and you keep quiet, letting him work it out. “I’m not from here.”

You don’t need to be a genius to know he’s not talking about Smallville. 

“Alien,” you breathe out, head dropping as your mind races to catch up. 

“That’s all I know,” he tells you, and you hear the truth in his words. But you also hear the sadness, the desperation to know the truth of where he comes from. “I’ve never been able to tell anyone before.”

“Well?” You prompt, glancing over at him. “How’s it feel to finally tell someone?”

He frowns, studying you as he tries to gauge your reaction. “I don’t know.” A small smile lifts his lips, “Are you going to call the government on me?” He teases and you can’t help but let out a small laugh. 

“No, Clark. You won’t be going to Area 51 anytime soon. Although,” you add with a smirk, “after what you told Lana, I’m tempted.”

He frowns, the smile fading. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know,” you say softly, giving him a resigned look. “You were keeping the peace, I don’t expect you to ruin a lifelong friendship for someone who’s practically a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” Clark objects, tone firm in its conviction. He reaches out, taking your hand in his and lacing your fingers together. “Do you think I would have just told a stranger something like this?” He shifts closer, lifting his other hand to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. You let out a low huff, tired of running from what you find in them.

“No,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice to stay steady. 

Clark shakes his head, leaning in until your lips just barely ghost over each other. “Clark?” You murmur, breath mingling with his.

He exhales softly, his forehead resting against yours. “Yeah?” He murmurs, hand cupping your, arm winding around your waist. 

You let yourself melt into him, into his warmth. A small smile plays on your lips. “How about we be freaks together?” You tease, pressing your lips to his. And when he kisses you back, just as eager, you know, whatever comes next, you won’t be facing it alone.

end. — I do not own the characters or the TV Show Smallville, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © scribes-of-valar 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Taglist: @mollymal  

gentle elliot smut (it could be a headcanon, blurb, preference or full on one shot whatever tickles your fancy :)) where reader is scared to make noise and elliot sorta urges her too because bsjsiqjsjajwajaja

but kinda heavy on the gentle i like absolutely adore gentle but sexual elliot he's cute <3

Hell yeah, I can do this. I love me a quick smutty blurby about my boy haha :D

His lips are slow against my neck, pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses against my searing skin, my fingers gripping his bicep as he nudges his hips against mine. His hands soothe down the expanse of my back, my head tipping back as he thrusts up into me, helping me move against him, guiding my hips as we go.

"Don't be shy on me, love." He whispers, the words sending an immediately shiver down my spine as I allow a shameless whimper to leave my lips. He groans happily at the noise, fingers squeezing my hips gently as he twitches inside of me. I giggle breathlessly at the feeling, loving how I make him feel and how easy it is to make him feel beyond belief. He knew my body so well, knowing every in and out to what makes me feel good and what drives me crazy.

"So good." I whisper, tucking my face in the crook of his neck as my fingers card through his hair, knowing he loves my gentle messages more than anything. This was more than just fucking like teens for pleasure. This was to feel and get lost in each other, to familiarize ourselves even more with each other's bodies, to bask in the closeness and comfort of each other's bodies and hushed words.

❝ 𝒫ull 𝒪ut 𝒢ame ! ❞ ― pjo/hoo boys !

— 💬 a/n: It's 3:12 a.m., I haven't slept and I have thoughts. Like ACTUAL thoughts. DELULU thoughts.

— 𝒫ercy 𝒥ackson ;; his pull out game is so-so but it's not really a game to him. it's a tragedy. he can pull out, he really can—but the second you clench around him and moan his name all breathy and wrecked? gone. he’s staying inside and apologizing for it while still twitching. “fuck, sorry, you just felt too good.” no self-control. man is one tight hug away from giving you triplets.

rating: 4/10

— 𝒥ason 𝒢race ;; textbook perfect. clinically correct. he’s the honor student of nut control. always pulls out with time to spare, wipes you down with a warm towel, kisses your forehead, and asks how you’re feeling. BUT—if you beg him not to? if you whimper a little and say “please”? he folds like a lawn chair.

rating: 9/10 when in control, 2/10 if you say “inside” in a pretty voice

— ℒeo 𝒱aldez ;; boy has ZERO pull out game. he doesn’t even pretend to try. he’ll be balls deep and babbling about how tight and warm you are, then let out a choked moan and cum inside you without warning. immediately follows up with a “fuckfuckfuck I was supposed to pull out” and then blames you for “being too sexy.”

rating: -3/10. negative.

— ℱrank 𝒵hang ;; he pulls out with sweet, apologetic gentleness. murmurs “almost there” and actually means it. doesn’t even thrust through the orgasm—he shudders and then paints your stomach like a gentleman. but the moment you say “it’s okay, baby, I’m on the pill”? oh. he’s finishing inside with a shaky moan and saying “you’re sure? really sure?” as he fills you up.

rating: 8/10 unless you give him permission—then all bets are off

— ℒuke 𝒞astellan ;; can pull out. just doesn’t. he’ll be like “what’s the point?” while holding your hips down and staying in deep, whispering “take it. you can take it.” he moans like it’s a religious experience and you’re lucky if you get a warning before he fills you up and says “mine.”

rating: 1/10. he’s breeding on purpose

Stormy's asks games ! :: I think we can safely say that a new section of "Stormy's asks games" is opening. Basically, You can send me "Games" either nsfw or sfw to the inbox and we can be delulu together 👭

example: this post

Reqs closed, asks games always open.

+ I saw it on Twitter and had to make it a pjo version, I lost the post, but credits for that one <3

Luke Castellan losing virginity with the reader

can i kiss you?

let's push a loser!luke agenda pls pls pls guys pls see my vision he's a loser villain who just needs his dick sucked! [nsfw 17+]

the thought of luke castellan being a charming, skilled, intelligent, and mentor to most of the younger campers places him at the top of the food chain at half-blood. he’s practically the golden boy; the guy every girl wants and every boy wants to be. so, it sure does take you by surprise when he pauses at your kiss-swollen lips, brows furrowed in embarrassment as he whispers, “i haven’t… i’ve never gone this far before.”

you haven't done much. you've only palmed his crotch. he's hard to the touch, warm too.

your chest is pressed against his, luke's hands roam up and down the backs of your thighs as you sit on top of him, and he does it as if to soothe and steady himself, to have some kind of self-control while he kisses you. but at some point (maybe it's when you started running your fingers through his hair and tugged), he can't help the buck of his hips against your own.

when you dropped your hands from his hair and reached between the two of you, he pulled away, looking at you through his lashes, eyes lidded and lips parted to tell you a secret. the great luke castellan who has girls kissing the ground he walks on has never been touched before.

it makes you excited.

luke was a lot of your firsts; first love, first boyfriend. gods, he was even your first kiss years ago because of a silly dare from the aphrodite girls during a campfire night. but you never thought of yourself to be one of his firsts. you've always known luke was out of your league, so you've assumed he's far more experienced in the whole dating life and intimacy thing than you were.

but gods, were you wrong.

you could've stared at him all day, the glossy look in his eyes, and the shade of red that's started to grow on his cheeks after his admission.

"we can stop," you start to say. "we can just kiss."

suddenly the sun shining between the leaves of the trees starts to burn at your skin. you think there are peering eyes but there aren't. there can't be. you're too deep into the forest for anyone to find you and luke tucked away in a clearing of bushes filled with sweet berries.

when you move to get up, he holds onto your thighs tighter, stopping you. "no." you stare at him as his mouth opens and closes. he thinks hard about what he's about to say next. his voice drops when he tells you to stay. "please. don't stop."

you can feel a smile, well maybe more of a smirk, growing on your lips when you see the desperate look in his eyes. he pulls you closer, brushing his nose against the pulse on your neck before he licks and sucks at it.

he lets out a low, deep groan when you run your fingers through his hair again, tugging at the ends of it to pull him away. he's looking at you with those pretty doe, brown eyes.

"what do you want, luke?"

"you."

you laugh, it's soft and endearing. "yes, i know. i meant what do you want me to do for you?"

he doesn't know what to say. luke sputters. you raise your brows at this. how could it be that this is the same guy who's the best swordsman at him in the last, what, hundred years? he's melting into putty at your hands.

you lean closer and whisper in his ear, "do you want me to kiss you?"

he swallows, "yes."

"where?"

"anywhere."

you press a wet kiss by his jaw, "here?"

he doesn't say anything, only sighs.

"what about here?" you suck next to the skin by his adam's apple until there's a bruise. you can feel the vibrations in his throat against your lips when he groans again, a low, seductive sound that makes you nearly tremble in want.

you poke at his side, "can i go lower?"

luke nods. "yes."

"how low?" you're fucking with him now.

he rolls his eyes and stares at you, annoyed. but there's no true bite to his glare, not when you palm at his crotch again. he bucks his hips once more, chasing after your touch and your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shorts. "can i kiss you, luke?"

"fuck, yeah," he huffs, and he moves to meet your lips with his own. luke freezes though, when he watches you lean back, dodging his kiss.

"can i kiss you down here?" you correct yourself, palming him again. hopefully making your intentions more clear to him. you find a delight in watching him become so flustered so quickly.

he nods. once, twice, and then stutters out an eager yes. gently, you smooth the palm of your hand up and down his knee, then the skin of his thighs, not so different from how he caressed you earlier. you push his shirt up to his stomach and lean down to kiss his abs. you can feel him heave below you as you make your way lower.

your fingers trail over the hair on his skin, tracing the waistband of his boxers teasingly, and you can't help but giggle when his hips jerk up.

slowly, you pull down his underwear and take him into your hand. poor luke, he's so hard and so so warm; red and leaking and begging for some kind of attention.

he moans when you've only touched him. you lean closer, looking up at him as you press a kiss on the tip. then he whines, loud and long when you lick a long, wet stripe from the base of his cock to the throbbing head. naturally, his hands find a home in your hair. "shiiiiit."

"feels good?"

"so goo- gahhh-"

you barely give him a chance to answer as you're taking him into your mouth. he watches you take more and more of him, fingers curling into your hair. he whispers your name when you pump the rest of him with your hand.

you flatten your tongue and ease your throat to take him as far as you can. you're doing your best. it's not like you're a pro at this, you've only ever done this once before and that was in behind the bathrooms with some kid from ares' cabin. but the way luke moans above you, pulling your hair and calling your name, you like to think you're pretty good at this. you want to be if it means you'd hear luke whine and whimper like this more often.

"yeah, just... keep goin'"

and you do. you suck and swirl your tongue against him until there's a faint strain at your neck and he's struggling to keep his hips still so he doesn't buck into your throat. that's when you pull off him with a wet pop and your hand fists his length to keep the pace.

"use me," you gasp, trying to catch your breath. "want you to use me. i wanna make you feel good." luke's dick twitches in your hands, 'cause fuck, you're a sight to see.

you're sinking back down on him, doing that thing where you swirl your tongue against his head and now you're playing with his balls-

"fuck- fuck!" his hands pushing you down until your nose brushes against his pelves and you're gagging around him. he holds you there for a few seconds before pulling you back. and then he pushes you down again, and again. luke slowly grows confident, his hands push and pull to the point he's not nearly as gentle as he had been at first, increasing his speed while he finally finds the nerve to buck his hips into you again.

"you're so pretty like this, baby," he moans, brushing your hair out of your face. "yeah, yeah, so, fuck, you feel so good." his thumb on your cheek cleans the tears running down your cheek. "beautiful."

his abs start to flex and tremble when you hallow your cheeks at the head of his cock, your hand working the rest of him. "i'm- i'm..." he's stuttering again, "wait, baby, i'm gonna-"

when you hum against him, he comes into your mouth. moan sputter from his lips, along with hushed curses and whispers of your name. luke holds your face gently, pulling you up, up and up until your lips brush against his in a phantom kiss. you're smiling at him as he tries to blink away the haze from his eyes. "can i kiss you, luke?"

he huffs, "shut up." and he brings your mouth to his and kisses you hard.

my valentine without the word ㆍ୨୧ㆍ wally clark x fem!reader

summary: being boyfriend and girlfriend spirits were easy; they were able to touch, able to feel each other, see each other and everything! but, what wally didn’t think of was the fact every valentine’s day, he can’t ask her to be his valentine since that’s the day she died.

warnings; mentions of y/n death, bubbly! reader, clueless! reader, sweet! reader, wally being a yearner, extreme fluff and soft ending, awkwardness a bit, make-out but no smut

a/n: HEY YALL..but anyways i wanted to write a little wally fic for valentine’s day bc I YEARN FOR HIM ITS SO BAD STOP STOP MAKE IT STOP

sitting on the top bleachers with their hands holding one another, wally pressed his lips against y/n’s sweet and tender ones, she smiled into the kiss and hummed when he let his hand wander and pulled her waist closer to his body.

this was their morning routine, afternoon routine, evening and night. every day they’ll find some alone time and cuddle up with each other, losing time and energy in each other and finding comfort in one another.

today was different, it felt different, the atmosphere was totally off and wally didn’t know what it was, every couple was kissing somewhere, there were pink balloons, heart shaped and all.

he knew exactly what today was, but couldn’t do anything about it.

pulling apart as she kissed his cheek, y/n heard her name be called by sarah, another ghost who’d died from choking on her cucumber at lunch ten years ago, she was nice and sweet, wally didn’t know her personally, but y/n talked about her a lot and he’s bound to listen to every and anything she says.

‘oh, i guess i gotta go, i promised sarah i’d talk to her today, i’ll see you later?’ y/n hummed and tilted her head to the side as wally smiled deeply and pushed his lips against hers one last time, for now

‘okay but promise we’ll meet up in the teachers lounge, i heard words that there’s some cute decor there. I know you’ll love to see’ he smiled as she squealed.

y/n loved anything sweet, soft, kind and gentle. she was bound to date a jock, if they were still alive, he wouldn’t put it past himself that he wouldn’t go for her.

‘okay! i’ll hold you too that’ she smiled and pulled away from his grasp, walking down the bleachers and running to sarah.

sighing he leaned back—‘did you ask her yet?’ yelling and turning to see charley he groaned and rolled his eyes.

‘no..why would i? that’d be a different level of fucked up..i don’t want her to think about it’ wally sighed and looked at the door that y/n had left out of.

‘think about what? valentine’s day? it’s the most cute day for couples, expressing love, kissing each other, holding each other, whispering sweet nothings—‘

‘remembering the day you died on…’ wally looked at charley who left his mouth agap, frowning his eyebrows and gasping.

‘wait, she died on valentine’s day? the sweetest girl, bubbly, nice, beautiful, kind, loving, and supportive girl died on valentine’s day? how even…’ he was confused, y/n shared how she died in an embarrassing and traumatic way never when she died especially on this day.

‘yeah..she never told you?’ wally turned and was shocked, he’d assumed she told everyone by now, it’s been years, but he wouldn’t if he were her.

‘no..no? what happened? if you can tell me’ he wanted to know, charley needed to know, if it was so embarrassing it would probably cure him from being a gay who died of a nut allergy.

‘well..i mean..if i tell you, you didn’t hear this from me! i don’t want to tell you but she said she’d tell you guys more about it tomorrow so ill tell you’

‘okay! okay! just yeah..tell me everything’ he got comfortable next to wally and waiting for him to start it.

.˳⁺⁎˚ ꒰ఎ ★ ໒꒱ ˚⁎⁺˳ .

walking down the school hallway with her hair in a half up half down and a bow on the hair tie, y/n hummed and smiled to herself while she thought about her secret love letter she got in her locker.

she was a huge romantic and seeing that made her whole day, her whole valentine’s day.

the letter had said—

to the most beautiful girl in school, i want to confess my love to you but im afraid. afraid of what you’ll think of me and afraid of what you might say. meet me behind the school after school so i can confess my deep love and affection for you, y/n l/n, my sweetest memory.

from your secret admire.

she was star struck, she heard rumors of people having a crush on her but she never listened to the because they never said anything to her directly, she loved love and wanted to feel it more than anything, but hearing rumors and fake news made her dislike love from school more than anything.

it was the last period and she’d been drawing hearts on her paper, red and pink. smiling to herself while holding the letter in her pink knitted pocket.

wondering to herself who could it be? what does he look like, or what does she look like? are they tall or short? silly or serious? dangerous or nothing like it?

she was in a daze.

at the end of the day, waiting in her deep red car, she sat and waited, everyone leaving the premise, the sun setting and the moon coming to show its softness, she was nervous.

getting out of her car and walking to the back of the school, she looked down to see red rose petals on the ground and smiled wide, her face warming up and her eyes shining.

following the rose petals she looked up and smiled at the huge letters of ‘would you be my valentine’. gasping and giggling to herself whilst looking at the table of heart shaped chocolates and flowers she touching them softly.

‘y/n?’ turning around she jumped and suppressed a gasp. what was he doing here? was this allowed?

‘mr. smith..i’m sorry i—‘

‘no no..don’t apologize..besides i’m the one who asked you to be here’

what.

‘i’m sorry?’ she knew exactly what he meant.

‘it’s just..i know that this isn’t normal but i know that this is real, what i feel for you? it’s all real, and i know you love me too, you show it all the time! smiling, laughing at me, staying after class—‘

‘mr.smith..i’m..no? i’m sorry i don’t understand..i stay after class for help on my work i don’t—‘

‘no no no don’t play with me i know what you feel i know it’s real, i know that you love me, i love you just as much, even more if anything!’ He stepped closer as she stepped back, hitting the table of flowers and chocolates.

how long did this take him to plan, did he really feel this way for her, she’s sixteen for heaven sake and he’s forty nine, he has a wife and she’s pregnant, where did she go wrong.

‘mr.smith please..i need to get home—‘

‘no!’

jumping she gasped and held a hand over her mouth as he tried to calm himself, breathing in and out with his eyes closed he shook his head—‘no..you haven’t even touched your chocolates yet..please..just..please’ sighing she walked sirius the table to that it was between him and her.

‘i’d i eat this..will you let me go home..please’ she begged. he looked like he was thinking to himself, weighing out the options and signing.

‘of course!’ she sighed and gulped, picking up a milk chocolate heart and slowly pushing it into her mouth she chewed, and swallowed.

‘there..now—‘ gulping while she felt something in her body move, almost as if something just shut down, she closed her eyes and hummed.

‘sh sh sh..’ walking to y/n who kept opening and closing her eyes she frowns and groaned, her whole body felt so heavy, out of place and like water.

what..she’d be drugged of course.

a popular teacher amongst the town who fell in love with his sixteen year old student just confessed his love. of course he knew the odds of her returning them, that’s why he did this.

‘mr…’ she hummed and almost fell but he caught her body, his hand on her cheek to hold her head up as her light pink kitten healed foot bent, losing her balance. the only thing keeping her afloat was his grip around her waist and his hand on her neck and face.

‘it’s okay my sweet, it’s alright, sh sh sh’ he brought her body down on to the stage floor. his knees present against the wood as she was passed out cold, her mind shut down completely and he shoved more chocolate down her throat.

.˳⁺⁎˚ ꒰ఎ ★ ໒꒱ ˚⁎⁺˳ .

‘the last thing she remembers is waking up in the stage floor and the whole room was empty, her body was sore and she said it felt like she was walking on nothing. later that week she’d even ignored by everyone and anyone, her parents had come to look for her even when she yelled in their face that she was right there.’ wally clutched his fist in anger and sorrow for her.

charley sat there in pure silence and shock, the overwhelming feeling of pity filled his every being. horror and sadness were very apparent in the both of them.

‘then the next week after that, she’d started hearing rumors about her death, that she was strangled, and shoved in the back of the costume room. the autopsy report being overdose, the last thing she ate being chocolate..every time she sees one she gets physically sick..’ wally shook his head as he remembers the time she ran out of the room when a student dropped a box of chocolate in front of her and she wasn’t seen for the rest of the day until he visited her.

‘he was caught, a month later, in a room filled with her pictures and a lock of her hair in his grip, supposedly he still keeps it to this day in jail’ wally finished off as he looked at charley who’s been shut down.

his mouth hung open and his eyes watching wally.

‘but..does she know he’s still alive?’

‘yeah, of course she does, she listens to the teacher lounge every day for any news about him dying, she reads the newspapers and watches the news when it’s on’ wally stood up and walked down the bleachers with charley following.

‘so wait, i understand how fucked up and traumatic that is but why won’t you just ask her to be your valentine you know? without the fancy decorations, without any sweets or anything, what about like..pizza? or a hot dog?’ he suggested.

‘nah..i don’t want her to hear the word from me at least and get any form of flash back, i couldn’t fathom it if i cause her pain in any way even if its involuntary..I just wanted her to have a sweet day without anything happening.’ wally walked as charley followed.

there weren’t many places to go but at the moment the cafe was the hot spot, y/n had been off somewhere, post likely the acting class with sarah still.

‘well i don’t think if you say “will you be my valentine” without saying it, she’ll have any kind of flashback’ he suggested.

wally turned and was interested.

‘how do i say it without saying it?’

.˳⁺⁎˚ ꒰ఎ ★ ໒꒱ ˚⁎⁺˳ .

walking down to the teachers lounge as wally fixed his hair, he straightened his back and cracked his neck.

charley’s words ringing and replaying in his head as he saw her.

standing with her small heeled shoes; pink knitted sweater and white dress, her hair tied back and with a bow, she turned and smiled.

‘wally!’ walking fastly to him and wrapping her arms around his neck he smiled and held his hand on her small back, holding it and kissing her deeply.

she smelt so nice every time he was around her. her whole being was enough to be a drug for him if anything.

‘aw did you miss me today?’ he teased as she nodded with a smile.

‘i was thinking about you all day! i wanted to ditch sarah and come to you so bad but i didn’t want to be a bad friend’ she laughed as he did as well, his arms holding her against himself.

‘i was thinking about nothing but you, i wanted to do something for you..something small, y’know. for our day’ he smiled, trying to avoid the words, the day, today, and valentine’s day.

‘awh, our day? what do you have planned’ she wondered; tilted her head to the side while her earring hoops moved as well.

‘come on!’ He tugged her hand and lead he outside.

walking to the garden that the school had, he opened the door and they sat down on the silver bench, it was a bit chilly but the breeze settled it evenly.

‘you wanted to come outside?’

‘yeah, i mean, it’s a nice day, the flowers have bloomed, look’ she turned from his eyes and looked at the pink flowers on the ground. gasping she smiled at them.

‘oh, this is sweet’ she smiled and turned to wally who looked like he was suffocating.

‘baby you okay—‘

‘but y’know, we can also go to the lounge, any classroom, the rooftop! it doesn’t matter, or our favorite secret spot?’ he grinned and pressed his nose against hers and smiled while he kissed her softly.

she smiled into it but frowned and pulled away.

‘wait, so your not going to ask me?’ she pulled away while looking at his lips, her pointer finger touching his chin while her eyes then moved up to his own.

‘..ask you what?’ he asked dumbly

‘wally..you know what’ she scolded, her eyebrows frowning—‘wally come on..’

‘i can’t! you know i can’t and i won’t!’ he shook his head while she placed a hand on his cheek.

‘wally..’

‘no y/n i’m serious. if i bring up anything, any pain, any memory; any regrets and trauma i will lose myself and i can’t do that to you because i can’t hurt you. i can’t..’

‘wally…your not hurting me by asking me to be your valentine..you never ask me! this is the sixth year you didn’t ask me! i let the other five pass because i wanted you to say it without me saying anything but please..it’s cute! it’s a beautiful day it’s..it’s not why i died..’ she whispers the last part; his eyebrows pulling together.

a small frown on her lips as she let her fingers play with his ear, a weird calming touch for him and a note for her to let her know he was there.

‘i didn’t die because of valentine’s day i just so happened to be killed by some weirdo who thought i liked him..im over thinking about it..i want you to be my valentine if you’ll have me?’ she smiled at the final part and he smiled back, laughing and nodding as she hummed.

‘yeah?’ she encourages as he nodded more—‘yes..yes, will you be my valentine?’ he smiled as his lips brushed hers and she nodded with a smile.

‘of course wally clark’ pushing herself into his lips as he closed his eyes, he hummed and held the back of her neck, their kiss deepening and her hands touching his chest and neck.

pulling apart to breath into each others mouth before pushing back into it, wally leaned back onto the bench and let y/n on top of him, her hand on his chest and his holding her waist.

she smiled as he groaned a bit. moving her face and nibbling his neck.

gripping her waist and resisting the urge to push his hips up against hers. she smiled and whispered—‘i’m not afraid of chocolates anymore, you can get me some of those too’ he smiled as she hovered over his face and leaned down to kiss her sweet.

holding the neck of his valentine .

come into my bedroom

description. you and JOAQUÍN TORRES take a week long vacation to the beach together. just a week on the coast, spending time in each other's bubble, without falling for each other ... probably. visuals

includes. coworkers to friends to lovers, SMUT 18+ MDNI, reader has been kept as ambiguous as possible (hair type, skin color, body type, place of birth, etc), reader is able to tan, the location is ambiguous, slight spoilers for brave new world, takes place after bnw, protected p n v sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom! joaquín, reader is called "baby" a couple of times

wc. 12.3k+

a/n: title from champagne coast by blood orange. i tried to keep where they vacationed as ambiguous as possible, but it's definitely at least a little bit obvious. for my bsf who recently got back from miami. thanks to @luckypunklemonade for beta reading :D

You’re drunk. 

No, you’re not drunk. You’re too drunk, inching towards shitfaced. You’re still here, at least here enough to walk beside Joaquín down the street towards your hotel, but you’re not really here. You know you’re not exactly walking in a straight line, and you know where you’re heading, but you don’t know how long you’ve been walking. You could’ve left the club five minutes or 50 minutes ago. 

You weren’t going to get this drunk. Honest. You and Joaquín were just going to go out, have a few drinks, and go back to your separate rooms. 

But the music was good, and the drinks were good, and the people were good, and suddenly you and Joaquín are drunk and navigating your way down the street. Well, he’s navigating your way. You’re just trying to keep up with his long strides. 

He walks a little in front of you the entire time, slightly more rigid, and a little less drunk than you are. You’ll probably be at his level in another half hour, that is if you get something in your stomach by then. Every so often, he looks over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there. You thought about hooking a hand around his elbow to keep him close, but the thought entered your mind and left before you could act on it. 

There’s not much small talk happening, but you don’t mind it that way. You’re focused on making your feet pick up and land one (mostly) in front of the other. Actually, you’re focused on walking and finding an open food spot on the way. 

One part is going fine, the walking part, but you’re still blearily searching for something to eat. You pass bars and closed businesses, restaurants that require reservations weeks in advance, one of them you think you and Joaquín actually have a table at later this week, but nothing quick and greasy. Which is exactly what you need before calling it a night. 

Joaquín calls your name and you hum. 

“You up for stopping in right here?” He points to the side and you look around his wide shoulders to find your saving grace. It’s like he read your mind, or maybe you’d been audible harping on about wanting something to eat the entire time. Right now, either seems plausible. 

Either way, you nod and let Joaquín hold the door open for you. 

You and Joaquín end up sitting across from each other at a tiny outdoor metal table. With the wind blowing against your skin as you’re sipping freezing cold water from a to-go cup, you finally realize how hot you’ve been this entire time. You lift your skirt up a bit to press your thigh against the cool metal and a sigh pushes out front your lips. Your eyes fall shut as you just sit in the moment. 

“You still drunk?” Joaquín speaks from across the table. 

You open your eyes and destroy your brief peace to glare at him as you wrap your lips around your straw. “What do you think?” you ask him only when the cool liquid has slid down your throat. 

He laughs. “First night here and you’ve already gotten shitfaced.” He shakes his head as if he’s ashamed of you, but the playful glint in his eyes keeps you at ease. 

“It’s your fault!” you accuse. “You’re the one who made friends with that couple. They kept buying us drinks.” 

Joaquín throws his hands out to the side in a surrender. “I’m not going to say no to free drinks. Don’t blame me!”

He’s right. Even if he wasn’t, you aren’t in the arguing mood anymore. You would rather finish the greasy taco sitting limp in your hands. And you do.  

You’re not being very attractive about it, though, you can tell from the way the juice slides down your fingers and around your mouth, but that’s not really the point to all of this. 

Besides, you and Joaquín are just coworkers and friends. Just two coworkers/friends on vacation together. Sitting across from each other in front of a taco spot, fighting for sobriety as you occasionally lock eyes between large bites. There’s no reason for you to be attractively drunk eating when you’re only with your coworker/friend. 

You finish the last bite, wipe around your mouth with a crumpled napkin and throw it onto your empty tray, looking up to find Joaquín already looking at you. He has this look on his face, nothing different from the one he usually wears—soft eyes and a softer smile—but it feels different this time. Maybe it’s the city lighting and your drunkenness that’s skewing the meaning. You’re going to blame both factors for the flutter in your heart, too.

Neither of you say anything for a moment and in that moment, a thought flashes across your mind. It’s quick and fleeting, but still strong enough to evoke a reaction. Just a thought of you leaning over this small table and pressing your lips to Joaquín’s. And the thought was truly fleeting, but you bring it back and sit in it to imagine how he would reciprocate with his hands on your lower back, big palms resting on the strip of skin between your top and skirt, and he would taste like lime and alcohol and when you pulled away he would have a look almost identical to this one on his face. 

Joaquín’s eyebrows push together, skewing the soft look he wore before and knocking you out of your drunken trance. 

“What’s that look?” he asks. 

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “What look?”

His gaze lingers for a moment, but then he licks his lips and cleans up his area. “You think you’re sober enough to walk back now?” 

You scoff and attempt to make a point by quickly standing to your feet. When you wobble, it’s because your shoe didn’t land right on the concrete. Honest!

You have a crush on Joaquín. 

You don’t know why you’re realizing it here and now—laying in a hotel bed on vacation first thing in the morning. You don’t even know how long this crush has been here, but you know for sure you have a crush on Joaquín Torres, your partner/coworker/friend. 

You thought your little image from last night was fleeting, nothing but a drunken thought that you let yourself imagine for less than a minute, but it proved to be way more than that because when you got back to your room, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

As you took your makeup off, you thought about Joaquín waiting in your room for you to finish, snuggled under the blankets and scrolling through the channels on the TV until you came out of the bathroom in his shirt. As you climbed in the shower you imagined him standing at the sink brushing his teeth and humming that song he’s always singing but you never ask the name of. As you finally climbed into bed and clicked the lights off, you imagined fighting for covers with him and sleepily talking about your plans for the next day. 

It was so domestic and loving and absolutely sickening and unexpected. 

Well, maybe you should have expected it. At least a little. 

Joaquín is kind of the perfect guy. Everyone in your life made sure you were aware of it. He was funny, attractive, hard working, and easy to get along with. Even his flaws—his incessant nature and occasional annoyance for one—was quickly reworked as lovable in your head. 

You struggled with falling asleep for at least a half hour last night, and as soon as you knocked out, you were out. You might not have remembered your dreams but you knew deep in your mind and body that he was there. 

Just as he is here now, standing in front of you early  in the morning, wearing a bright smile and an athletic set. 

“No,” you sternly shut him down before he can even say anything. 

Joaquín’s jaw drops and he wears a mixture of shock and humor. “C’mon, you didn’t even let me say anything.”

“I know what you’re gonna say, Torres. I’m not going to some ‘sick workout class’ when we’re supposed to be on vacation.” 

“Oh, so we’re on last name basis again?” He crosses his arms over his chests and widens his stance. “I thought we moved past that.” 

“If you ask me to come with you then we’re back to last name basis, yeah.” 

He pouts and it’s so stupidly cute that you want to slam the door in his face. “Don’t let the hangover speak for you. I know you secretly wanna come workout with me.” 

You squint at him accusingly, leaning into the doorframe. “‘m not hungover.” 

“Uh-huh. How’s the headache?” He’s obviously not buying your shit.

“I don’t have a headache.” Bullshit and you both know it. 

“How’d you sleep?” He asks you instead, this time lacking any suspense. For a moment, he seems like he’s actually wondering how you slept. 

“Like a baby.”

“Then that means you should be energized enough to go for a workout. It won’t be bad. It’s only an hour.” 

You shake your head. “That’s an hour that I could be sleeping.” 

“And basically waste the whole day away? That doesn’t sound like the partner I know and love.”

You don’t let your mind linger on that word, especially when you know he doesn’t mean it like that. But still, knowing that Joaquín has some sort of love for you makes your chest feel all airy and glittery. 

“Yeah because that partner isn’t here right now. We’re on vacation.” 

Joaquín doesn’t respond. Not verbally at least. Instead, he tilts his head and fully pouts, lips pushed out and eyes big. He’s not backing down and truthfully, it might be better for you just to say yes and halfass the entire session. 

Finally, he reasons with you. “I’ll buy you a smoothie afterwards. Whatever overpriced shit you want. Fair?” 

Fair enough. 

Compared to what you’re used to, the workout is quick, but it’s certainly not painless. The instructor, some woman with much more energy than you’re willing to exert on vacation, seemed to find pleasure in kicking your asses. For a brief moment there when you were catching your breath and wiping your forehead on a towel, you wondered if she could be some big and bad super villain hiding in plain sight. That would explain the inhuman stamina, and the almost eerie cheery personality, but other than that your theory didn’t make much sense. And even if it did, you were on vacation. Now wasn’t the time to seek out trouble that wasn’t presenting itself. 

The only thing that pushed you through the entire thing was looking over at Joaquín, one because of how attractive he looked with sweat glistening along his tanned skin, and two because you refused to let him show you up, even if the workout was his idea. 

You will admit, though, that every time he lifted his shirt to wipe his forehead, your knees did feel just a little weaker and your last rep in a set was not nearly as strong as it could’ve been when you heard him grunting beside you. 

You couldn’t understand it. You and Joaquín workout together all the time. You train together, sometimes with Isaiah and Sam, sometimes with friends of friends, sometimes with just each other. You’re used to seeing him sweat, you’re used to hearing his grunts and breaths, you’re used to all of it. But something about all of this happening now is making you lose your mind. 

As soon as the class ended, relief entered your entire body. 

The relief certainly didn’t last for long, though. 

Since you did what Joaquín wanted to do that morning, he did what you wanted to do right after. Before you could even really think about it, you happily suggested sunbathing on the beach until you were too hot or hungry to continue, whichever came first. 

It wasn’t until Joaquín slyly grinned and sang your name that you realized what you signed up for. 

“You tryna see me shirtless?” he teased at the time. And you rolled your eyes and called him a freak and continued walking down the hall towards your rooms, but as soon as you were behind the closed door you were digging into your suitcase to find the cutest swimsuit you brought. 

Not that you were trying to impress Joaquín or anything. 

As soon as your bare toes are sinking into warm sand, you slowly feel yourself relax. Slowly. 

Laying on your back in a swimsuit that was a nice mix between cute and attractive, your eyes closed, your ears full of a playlist you made just for this occasion, the sun radiating down on your skin. It’s easy to forget everything laying just like that. The breeze cools your skin as soon as you get too warm, the sun heats you back up as soon as you get too cold. Absolutely nothing to worry about except how long you’ve been laying on one side and when you should flip over. 

Absolutely no stressors. 

Until Joaquín speaks. 

“Do me a favor and get my back?” 

You peek an eye open and lift your sunglasses up to see Joaquín standing next to you, holding out a bottle of sunscreen. 

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you still do. It takes a moment to process his question, and it takes another moment to find an answer, even though the clear one is yes. If he wasn’t standing there without a shirt, wearing forest green trunks that hung low on his hips, and his skin wasn’t glistening in the daylight, it wouldn’t have taken nearly half the time to help him out. 

“What would you do without me?” You try not to let your voice falter while you watch him massage sunscreen onto his chest, but you’re sure the little dip at the end of your sentence was noticeable. 

Joaquín just tilts his head and tosses the bottle into your lap.  

It’s not awkward. At least you don’t think it’s awkward. You rub the sunscreen on Joaquín’s skin as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the sturdiness of his muscles beneath your hand. You know how fit he is, it’s impossible for you not to know since you’ve been working with him for a while now. But knowing and knowing are two different things. 

Seeing is not the same as feeling. 

Feeling his muscles as you work them beneath your fingers, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips, grazing your hand lightly over the scars littering his skin, only lingering for a second on the life altering scar that trails down from the side of his neck to his shoulder. You try not to touch it too much. He hasn’t talked to you much about the accident, not since you visited the hospital with high quality food instead of flowers for him. Even then, he joked around it, even if you saw sorrow in his eyes like you’d never seen Joaquín wear before. 

You rubbed the sunscreen down his back and finished above the waistband of his trunks. Not even a second later did he look over his shoulder and down at you through a squint. “Now let me do you,” he urged without leaving much room for argument. 

Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t make room. 

You shook your head. “‘m okay, I already got it.” 

Joaquín turns around to face you completely. He laughs through a quick puff of air, his lips pulled up at the corners. “Barely. I saw you struggling over there. C’mon, let me top it off for you.” 

His hands take the sunscreen bottle from you, but he doesn’t put any in his palm. Not yet. For now, he stares at you, eyebrows lifted, waiting for you to give him the final answer. 

You turn around, moving whatever needs to be moved to give him basically full reign over your back. 

The first touch makes you jump, even if you were expecting it. You hear him quietly apologize under his breath, and you quietly brush it off, but you aren’t sure if your response was heard or if it was carried off with the wind. 

He continues in silence. 

You’ve had Joaquín’s hands on you before. A hand clasped in yours to pull you up, a touch fixing your posture when he was showing you a new trick Isaiah taught him before, a finger jabbed into your side when he walked past you. But again, this is much different. 

Having Joaquín’s bare hands on your bare back makes you tense up, and you hope he doesn’t notice it. He rubs with a lot more attention to detail than you did; he reaches beneath the straps of your top with curt permission, and even asks if he can get the backs of your arms too. 

By the time he finishes, you’ve started to relax just a bit, to the point where the expected disappearance of his hand on your back feels unwanted. Joaquín’s hands are big and soothing, you could do with them on your skin for the rest of your life. 

Of course, you don’t tell him that. Not just because it would be completely inappropriate, but because he would never let you live it down. He would go the lengths to change his phone contact to Joaquín “best hands there ever were” Torres. 

Which is just a step below Joaquín “best co-worker there ever was” Torres. 

Somehow, you manage to make it through the rest of the beach day without much trouble. You tan until you don’t think you could tan anymore. Joaquín lays next to you most of the time, besides when he began to feel fidgety and he ran to grab both of you drinks, and pre-cut fruit for you, as an excuse to stretch his legs. You used the few minutes of solitude to text your group chat about the agony you accidentally put yourself into. Agony that was only made worse by Joaquín coming back with two drinks in one hand, fruit still in its rind in the other, and his newly tanned skin glistening from sweat in the sunlight. 

Shortly after, you had to leave and take a cold shower to get your head on straight. 

You think you’re doing pretty good at ignoring your feelings. You know you have a crush on him, but acting on it would change nearly too much, and a lot in your lives—his especially—has already changed. It’s not a leap you think you’re ready to make yet, so you’ve been ignoring your feelings. 

Over the course of the past couple of days, you and Joaquín have been spending your time doing every relaxing thing you could think of. Decompressing at that same club from the first night, but leaving as soon as the crowd proved to be very different from before—more rowdy for the hell of it and less generous in general. Eating at trendy, overrated lunch spots, or underrated hole-in-the-wall dinner spots. Spending a little too much money on new clothes but enabling each other anyway, because the shirt might look similar to another one that you already have but that shirt back home wasn’t that shirt there in your hands, so you needed it. 

There were just two nights left and then you would have to pack all your stuff, somehow fit in more new clothes than you anticipated, and return to the real world. One that entailed mission debriefs and learning how to work new tech. The only thing you were looking forward to about the real world was Sam, since he happened to be a natural barrier between you and Joaquín. It’ll be hard to focus on how badly you wanted to be underneath the Falcon whenever Captain America was in the vicinity providing tasks that required your full attention. 

But that is days away. For now, you’re going to try and enjoy the remainder of your all too quick vacation as much as possible. Even though you’re becoming more and more tense as you go on, a tension that your fingers beneath your panties hasn’t been able to fix yet. 

You didn’t think your behavior was noticeable, but Joaquín notices more than you thought. 

The two of you are walking side by side down the boardwalk. You’ve been fairly silent throughout, but not for any particular reason. Silence made sense to you, there wasn’t much to talk about right now. 

Apparently, Joaquín felt different. 

“What’s up with you?”

You furrow your eyebrows, quickly trying to figure out if you did something wrong between the walk from your hotel to the walk at the start of the boardwalk. Coming up short, you ask for clarification. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean why’re you so tense? Isn’t this relaxing for you?”

Yeah, this is relaxing for you. Walking side by side, letting the beach breeze blow your dress in the wind. Showered, fed, at the end of your vacation, this moment you exist in is like heaven. It’s a little too much like heaven, a perfect plane where the guy you’ve been crushing on is wearing a button up with the first two buttons undone so you can see the fresh tan he has and the gold glint of the chain he wears instead of his dog tags. 

It’s hard to relax when right beside you is someone you’ve wanted so badly, and he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted. 

“I’m not tense,” you finally respond. Although it’s a lie. 

“You so are,” Joaquín counters, “let me show you what you look like walking around here.” He takes a few quick strides ahead of you, and then pulls his shoulders up to his ears, straightens his spine, and walks with a little too much purpose. He looks odd and menacing. And definitely not like you. 

You tell him as such. 

He turns around to face you, grinning and walking backwards. “Okay I did take some creative liberties there, but you do look tense.” He turns back around and slows until he returns to a stride right beside you again. “What’s wrong? Do you wanna do something else?”

You shake your head. “No. This is fine. I like doing this.” 

Joaquín takes a moment and you see him look down at you from the corner of your eye. “Then what’s up? Anything you wanna get off your chest?” 

God, you should just tell him the truth. Well, not the full truth. 

Joaquín is chill personified. If you told him that you’re wound up sexually, he would likely make a joke about it, then brush it off and avoid asking you about it again. Friend to friend, you could just let off some steam—verbally!, although the other option is much more preferable—and then hopefully feel better. 

But just imagining yourself saying those words makes you tense even more and you have nothing to do but shake the thought out of your mind completely. 

“No. ‘m okay. I was just … thinking. But not anymore.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second and you don’t know if he believes your lie. But he moves past it. He points to an ice cream shop to your right, and you swerve for the window. 

You and Joaquín end up sitting side by side on the beach, willingly letting sand press into your nice clothes but neither of you care much. You have a dinner reservation soon, and you’ve just been killing time—and also your appetite, but you and Joaquín both swore to eat dinner. Even if you’re devouring ice cream cones. Truthfully, this is a perfect way to end your night, sitting by your partner's side, letting the world exist around you both. 

The breeze blows against your skin. You and Joaquín sit with your bare toes digging into the sand, shoes having been discarded to the side, your shoulders close enough to brush against the other if either of you move. You’re looking off at the ocean, watching people enjoy the evening air around you both as you sit in a moment of stillness. There’s paragliders, a few jet skis, some boats, and a large cruise ship sailing into the port. 

Joaquín points off at the ship with the hand not holding his waffle cone.

“We should cruise for our next vacation.”

You turn to face him, tilting your head to the side. “Our next vacation?”

Joaquín nods. “Yeah. We should make this a regular thing. You know we work well together.” 

That you do. You grin and knock your shoulder into his.  “Let’s hope Sam doesn’t start feeling left out.”

Joaquín laughs with a quick exhale through his nose. “He’s definitely having the time of his life back home.” 

You’re unable to stop yourself from grinning as you imagine it—Sam working back home, likely enjoying the rare lull in the terror that the three of you have been fighting and will continue fighting. “He’s probably blasting Marvin Gaye over the speakers in the office.” 

This gets a real laugh from Joaquín, likely because he, too, can see it perfectly. 

Your laughter dies down and for a few moments, you and Joaquín sit in comfortable silence. 

Then, “You been having fun?” 

You hum. “Yeah. It’s nice not having to deal with—” you gesture vaguely in the air and Joaquín nods beside you. “Especially after everything.” You don’t say it exactly, but you know Joaquín still understands you. He knows you’re talking about his accident. 

You weren’t even the one in danger, having stayed grounded on the ship, but the horrors still settle deep in your heart some nights. Things are repaired, or currently being repaired in the case of D.C, but everything still feels so fragile to you sometimes. 

Which is why you’re so glad to be here with him at your side, reminding you that he’s okay. Everything’s okay. 

Joaquín takes a breath as if he’s about to speak. You turn to look at him. He’s staring off at the sunset, his face mostly stoic except for a slight twitch in his eyes, a flare of his nostrils, and his jaw clenching. “For a moment there when I was falling out of the sky, and when I could barely move my body on my own in the hospital I was worried that I wouldn’t get the chance to see places like this again. To … you know…” he hesitates and you’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have to keep going if he doesn’t want to. You and Joaquín have avoided talking about the day his heart stopped, and you don’t have to start now. But then he inhales through his teeth and continues. “To see home.” 

Your breath hitches and your eyes sting. Without thinking too much about it, you scoot closer into Joaquín’s side, tilting your head and resting it on his shoulder. Immediately upon contact, Joaquín wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you fully into his side. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Joaquín.” 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” he says your name at the end, echoing you but somehow sounding more earnest. More meaningful. 

He places a kiss on the top of your head and in that moment you decide you could stay here just like this for the rest of your life. It all settles in your body at one time, the realization that you want Joaquín, you’ve known that for a while, but you want more than his body. 

You want Joaquín Torres in his entirety. 

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about?” he continues, “Is that why you’ve been tense? Because I promise I’m okay. It was scary for a bit but my heart’s fine and I feel fine physically—”

“No. It’s not that, Joaquín. I promise I was just a little tense but I’m good now, too.”

He nods once. “Okay.” He pulls his phone out and checks the time. He doesn’t say anything for a while as if he doesn’t want to disrupt the energy, but he speaks eventually. “If we wanna make our reservation we gotta leave now.” 

He stands to his feet and puts a hand out for you to grab. You take a moment to look at the sun setting and to finish the rest of your ice cream in one bite, then you take another moment to look at him. With resolution, you place your hand in Joaquín’s and let him pull you to your feet. 

Yeah, ignoring your feelings isn’t working anymore. 

It’s not like you’re exactly able to ignore how bad you want Joaquín when you’re at dinner with him, sitting in such an intimate setting—sat at a small table tucked in the corner of the restaurant next to a window looking out on the street, his tan skin lit by candlelight and ambient low lighting around the both of you. 

Having just come from the beach, the two of you are still wearing the same outfits (now without as many grains of sand as possible), meaning you have an even better view of Joaquín’s chest and the chain sitting right below his collarbones. He looks so nice and put together—his curls out more than you’ve ever seen them before, his face a little unshaven and adding an older look to him. 

God, he’s so pretty, it’s impossible for you not to think so. Not when you’re faced with him like this. 

Joaquín’s looking at the menu, acting like he didn’t look at it on his phone two hours ago. You’re holding the menu open, acting like you’re still deciding between two options, when really you’re just trying to decide if you should make a move or not. 

When Joaquín looks up, you quickly look down, furrowing your eyebrows and pouting as you stare at words that aren’t processing.  

Joaquín calls your name and you hum without lifting your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything immediately, you glance up. Not only is he already looking at you, but he’s looking at you with a certain look in his eyes. Infatuation, admiration, something else that you don’t wanna name, for it feels like too much of a jump.

“What?” you ask, a shy grin splitting your face open as your skin starts to warm. 

Joaquín shrugs like he’s going to say the most casual thing ever. Instead, he tells you, “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you how pretty you look.”

Oh my godddd. 

What are you supposed to say to that? Everything thus far on this vacation has been widely platonic, and anything crossing that barrier has been nothing but a hopeful figment of your imagination. But his words, paired with the way they were delivered, feels like a step towards a future you want to live in. 

But maybe you’re overthinking it. Joaquín is honest and earnest when he wants to be and maybe now is one of those moments. 

You wrap your hand around your glass of ice water and bring it to your lips, pausing just long enough to respond. “What is it? The tan?”

Joaquín nods but that look in his eyes is still there. Chocolate brown dances across your figure before settling back on your own eyes. “Yeah … among other things. The tan and the color of your dress,” a bright colored fabric that hung loosely over your body and dipped around your back, you chose it especially because you knew it would look good on your skin, “and just you.” 

You gulp down water, trying to contain yourself. 

“Thanks, Joaquín,” you finally respond, trying to remain as casual as possible. “You look good, too.” 

Joaquín grins and you can see the man you’re used to coming back to himself. He tugs at the collar of his shirt and dusts off invisible particles. “I clean up well don’t I?”

You halfheartedly roll your eyes and return back to the menu. That interaction has already been catalogued for you to hyper analyze in the shower later. 

You thought that interaction was mind boggling, but the one you find yourself in later is ten times worse. 

You’ve both steadily worked through your plates, giggling and laughing about any and everything you could think of. The waiter mentioned the option of drinks at one point, and you looked to Joaquín for his reaction, wanting to see if that’s how the night was going to go. Not exactly as drunk as you were the first night, but at least a little buzz. When Joaquín politely shook his head, you did the same, and continued to sip your water instead. 

You do, however, decide to split two desserts. 

“Can I say something?” Joaquín speaks whenever he scrapes his fork across the decadent chocolate dessert sitting in the center of the table. 

You hum, grabbing a forkful of the fresher, citrus dessert instead. “Depends. How stupid is it gonna be?”

“Um … let me say it and then we can decide.”

You sit back in your seat, thereby giving him the floor. 

He takes his time chewing and swallowing before he goes to respond. “I’m shocked that we’ve been together every day and night of this trip.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What d’you mean?”

“Like we haven’t … been with other people.”

His words shock you. “Is that what you think of me, Joaquín?” 

You don’t feel upset, or particularly offended. You’re just a little confused on why Joaquín has been thinking about your sex life while the two of you have been on vacation together. Sure, you’ve been thinking of the same thing, but his sex life hasn’t exactly crossed your mind. Besides whenever you pictured the two of your sex lives merging into one. 

But now that he’s presented the idea, you, too, are shocked that things have been contained to just the two of you this entire week. It’s not that you expected Joaquín to sleep around, you actually didn’t know what to expect when it came to his dating life. You did know that Joaquín was attractive and people other than yourself thought so, and he obviously knew it as well, but it’s unexpected that you didn’t see him intentionally ogling at least one other person on your nights out. 

You don’t know why he would think the same of you, though. 

“No!” he’s quick to defend himself, “But I wouldn’t judge you if that’s how you wanted to spend your vacation. I mean I wouldn’t blame you.”

“You’re digging yourself further and further into a hole, Torres.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I can tell.”

A moment goes by and you sip your water. The air here feels open, but certainly not casual. You feel like you can tell the truth in this intimate atmosphere, and your words would hold intentional weight. 

You take the jump. “I didn’t wanna be with anyone else. I liked being with you.”

Joaquín looks surprised. “Really? So you preferred beach trips and coffee shops and working out over a hot hookup?”

You shrug. “I haven’t been interested in hooking up with anyone else.” 

His eyebrows lift in the center. “Anyone else?”

Fuck. 

It seems you have joined Joaquín in that hole, but you don’t mind being here. It’s about time you did something, right? You don’t bother responding, at least not verbally. Instead, you just look at Joaquín over the rim of your glass, sincerely hoping that he’s starting to understand. 

Before any more progress can be made the waiter comes back with the check and you’re already reaching into your bag for your wallet, verbally chastising Joaquín before he can even reach for the bill. 

Quiet returns to you both during the walk back to your hotel. It feels natural this time, likely because you’re not speaking, but it isn’t silent. Cars against asphalt as they drive down the street beside you, music spilling out of establishments that line the way, the automated voice of the pedestrian crossing pole when Joaquín presses the button for the both of you. There’s not anything being said, but there doesn’t need to be; much is being communicated through the energy radiating off of your body. 

Walking closer to each other than you had ever before, elbows grazing, a lightness to your bodies even if you both indulged a little too much over dinner. Everything just feels so right, even if there’s still an emptiness inside of you. Even if you leave this trip without getting laid, you’ll still feel fulfilled because you and your partner are closer than you’ve ever been before. Though, after existing in this bubble with only him, it’s going to be hard to return to your normal life and let other people in. 

A car honks and skirts to a stop. Before you can even realize what just happened, Joaquín’s already throwing an arm over the front of your torso, his face turned to the car that almost (wrongfully) hit the two of you. He yells something at them and blindly grabs your hand, pulling you in front of him and pushing you to the sidewalk and out of the street. 

He mutters something under his breath, but you don’t hear it. “You good?” he asks at full volume. He stands next to you but still holds onto your hand. 

“Yeah. We’ve been through worse than almost getting floored by a Benz, right?”

He laughs and continues leading the way back to the hotel. 

Your hand stays in his the entire time.

You and Joaquín make it all the way inside of the hotel with your hands still clasped together. They don’t part until an unattended child runs between your bodies, forcing you to separate. 

You end up standing in front of the elevator with the up button pushed. It dings every few seconds, an indicator of its steady descent, but it makes a few stops along the way. While you wait, you lean your shoulder into the wall next to it, crossing your arms over your chest and your legs at the ankle as you look at Joaquín standing across from you. 

He speaks first. “You wanna go out again tonight?  End the week with a bang?”

You shake your head. Your eyes are big, your lips are pulled into a soft smile, your entire expression is soft. Fuck hiding it, you’re done pretending. 

“Nah. I’d rather stay in tonight.”

Joaquín nods and tucks his hands in his front pockets. “Alright. Together or separate?”

“Together.”

His eyebrows lift as if he’s shocked, but there’s a little glint in his eyes. You think he’s starting to catch on. 

“Okay,” he drags the last syllable out and shifts his stance. He clears his throat before he speaks again. “What d’you wanna do?”

The elevator door opens and you and Joaquín stand out of the way to let people come out. As soon as everyone has cleared out, the two of you enter the elevator alone and you push the button to shut the door before anyone else can come around the corner. With the doors closing you turn to face Joaquín to see him already looking at you. 

You smile up at him and he smiles down at you. 

You take a step closer to him and he takes a step closer to you. 

You reach a hand out to his face, hesitating, and then he nods just before he reaches a hand out and places it on your waist. 

And then finally, your lips press against his. 

The first kiss is tentative. It’s testing. Your lips press together, you stay like that for a moment, and then you pull away. The two of you stare at each other, Joaquín’s expression as soft and docile as it always is. You think you’re mirroring him in this moment. 

Then, without any words exchanged, you both move towards each other again. Your heads are tilted and without much trouble at all, your faces slot together nearly perfectly. This kiss is more exploratory. It’s open mouthed, teetering towards a messiness that you’re sure you’ll both fully succumb to by the end of the night. At least, you hope so. 

You don’t have much time, you’ve realized that as soon as the elevator dings the first time to indicate its ascent, therefore you’re trying to get what you can while you can. You throw your arms over Joaquín’s shoulders and hook them around his neck, pulling him down towards you as you tilt yourself up into him. His body curves to engulf yours in his warmth, but he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. 

He kisses you like he means it, like there’s more than one mutually shared goal at the end of this motivating him. 

It’s hard not to give in to the slow and longing way Joaquín kisses you. You don’t even try resisting it at a certain point. Instead, you press your chest up into his and lean up on your toes to get more of him, yet not initiating a change in the pace at all. You like the slow way Joaquín’s lips move against yours. You feel much more this way. 

Your fingers lay across the back of his neck and just as they start to inch up into the faded part of his haircut, the elevator dings and announces your floor. 

You and Joaquín separate with clear hesitance in the movement. The two of you stare at each other, unmoving, just looking in each other’s eyes. His eyes look darker than you’ve ever seen them before. If you got closer, you think you would see his pupils blown out. From here, though, you see his desire in other ways—the flush on his cheeks, the prominence of his chest rising and falling, the hint of your lip products that have rubbed off on his lips. 

The elevator door starts to shut and Joaquín is forced into making the first move. He slots his arm between the doors just before they close and he stays there when they open. He turns to look at you, tilts his head in a beckon, and holds his hand out for you to grab.

The walk to your rooms feels much longer than it usually does. You try to make it go as fast as possible, skittering ahead of Joaquín as fast as your impractical sandals would allow, but you’re trying not to look too eager all the while. Still, when you reach the number you’ve memorized for the week and turn around to look at him, he has a slight smile of amusement on his face. 

You’re already searching into your bag for your key when you ask, “Yours or mine?”

Joaquín reaches around you for the handle to the door without speaking. You watch him press the key card to the sensor and push the door handle down just as you feel your fingers find the piece of plastic. 

“We gave each other one of each when we checked in, remember? Just in case.” comes his unprompted explanation. And now that you’ve been reminded, you do remember. Your key to Joaquín’s room has been sitting on the dresser forgotten the entire week. You know he wouldn’t have done it, not without your explicit consent, but you wish Joaquín had used the key to his advantage once this week. You wish he would have acted on the tension between you both, the tension that you’re finally realizing has been reciprocated this entire time. 

But now it’s happening. There’s no reason to complain when you’re getting what you wanted. 

His hands are on your hips as he leads you into the room, your bag is thrown to the floor and your shoes are kicked off of your feet. Your body is turned at his will, your eyes meet his as he lazily grins  down at you. His tongue flicks out over his lips in a quick and smooth movement, and at a much slower pace, you lean back in to press your lips back to his. 

Joaquín’s hands automatically latch onto your lower back, one warm palm pressed into the thin fabric of your dress and the other settling right on your bare skin in the opening. Meanwhile, you start working on his shirt, popping button after button through the holes. You stop when you’re halfway down, not on your own accord. 

You’re forced to stop when Joaquín slots his hands behind your thighs and he easily lifts you up. You squeal into the kiss on instinct. 

There’s a moment where both of you are grinning against each other’s lips and it just feels so right. It feels incredibly natural to be doing this, to be smiling when you’re kissing Joaquín, even though nearly everything else about this situation isn’t natural for the two of you (your erect nipples rubbing against his chest, your panties stuck to your cunt, the very faint brush of his cock stiff in his pants that you get on the journey up). 

“You’re just showing off,” you half-heartedly chide. 

Joaquín shrugs and walks you back to the bed. “Maybe just a little.” He places you down, kneeling between your legs and finishing off the remaining buttons on his shirt. “You love it, though.”

You don’t admit it verbally, but the way you shamelessly ogle his chest when he pulls the shirt off says everything. 

As soon as his shirt is gone, he places a hand on your ankle, slowly inching your dress up a few inches before he stops and looks at you. His expression is open, you can tell what he’s asking without words. But for good measure, he includes them. 

“Can I keep going?”

You nod, eager and unashamed. “Yeah. Keep going.”

He starts to push the bright fabric further and further up your legs, speaking to you as he continues. “You gotta let me know if …” his words taper off when he sees the first hint of your panties, and you don’t know exactly what he’s seeing, but it makes him speechless for a moment and your ego inflates. 

“I’ll let you know if …?” Cockiness is audible in your words but he doesn’t comment on it. 

Joaquín blinks and comes back to himself. “If you wanna stop, or if you want something changed. We gotta communicate.” 

“M’kay.” 

And with that, Joaquín pushes the fabric completely over your hips and he’s met with your panties. They’re a bright color that compliments the color of your dress, and, consequently, your tanned skin. He swears under his breath and although you don’t hear him clearly at all, you’re pretty sure it wasn’t in English. 

You sit up fully and slip your dress over your torso with Joaquín’s help. He lets the fabric drop to the floor without looking, his eyes are focused solely on your chest. 

You’re laying back on your elbows, elevated just enough to look at him. You stare at his eyes, even if you aren’t making eye contact, while he leans up to hover over you. His head dips and he presses a single kiss in the center of your chest and repeats the action right over each side of your ribcage. The tip of his nose grazes your breast and instinctively you arch up towards him. When he pulls away just enough to look up at you, you see him smiling.

You could beg, but the night has only begun. You decide to save that for later. For now, you huff and stick your spine back to the mattress. 

Joaquín places a hand around your side and dips his head back down, this time higher than before. When he latches his lips around your nipple, a little gasp breaks from between your lips. He lets his teeth scrape against the bud, alternating between giving you pressure and giving you wet heat from his tongue. By the time he switches to your other nipple, you’re already desperate for a true relief focused on your cunt. His lips travel upwards, brushing against your skin throughout the journey, until he’s pressing them into the side of your neck and under your jaw. You let him continue upwards, you let him kiss you a bit more, but you can only go so long without real, fruitful stimulation. And maybe another time after this (circumstances willing) you would love to prolong everything. 

But right now you need to get fucked, whatever that could entail. 

You buck your hips up and end up catching the bulge in Joaquín’s pants where his zipper lies. You think he’ll catch on that way, and maybe he does, but he just chooses to ignore it. Either way, you send him a hint and Joaquín doesn’t do anything about it. He continues kissing you, he tweaks your nipples and slots a knee between your legs, all of which you’re grateful for since it is a stepping stone in the right direction. But you need stimulation, you need to get off, and the slow crawl is slowly driving you crazy. 

You pull away from Joaquín to call his name. He responds with a gruff yeah that immediately settles deep in your gut. 

“I need more. Please.” 

He grins right in your face. The expression almost looks wicked on him for the first time ever. He has the power here right now and he’s obviously letting it go to his head. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks while his hand slides down between your bodies until his thick fingers can slip between your clothed folds. 

His question was rhetorical (and smug but that’s besides the point), yet you still find yourself going to respond. Your lips part, you can feel the corners turning down as you prepare to say something just as smug back to him, but then he presses down and quickly finds your clit after a moment of fumbling. As far as words go, you’re silent. Nothing but sounds slip from your mouth from that point onwards. 

Joaquín toys with your clit. He starts with one finger, just the pad of what you think might be his middle finger, and when that has you forcing your hips up into his touch, he adds a second finger. With two fingers, he has more space to work with, resulting in larger circles right over the most sensitive part of you. He speeds up, too. 

Your back arches and you dig your nails into the sheets. You know what you want to ask for, it's simple and you’d already said the word in this space, but it gets trapped in your throat this time. You’re close already. Yeah, you’d been getting yourself off throughout the week, but finally having Joaquín do it for you has made you so much more responsive. 

You get the first syllable out, the ‘M’ vibrating in your throat before you open your mouth to round it out in an ‘O’. 

Joaquín picks up where you left off. 

“More?” he asks, eyebrows lifting as he holds your heavy gaze. Before you even respond with a nod, he’s already sitting back far enough to slip his hand in your panties and repeat his emotions. 

The first real touch dizzies you for a moment. You pinch your eyes shut with the pure intention of orienting yourself, but then Joaquín chastises you in a soft, but firm voice. 

“Look at me. I wanna see you.” 

You do as told, of course. 

He nods. “There we go.” His fingers get just a little faster, the circles tighter. You’re so wet that there isn’t any uncomfortable friction at all, his skin easily glides against yours. 

“You close?” he asks after a moment. When you nod, he continues, “If I give you this one, you’ll be able to give me another, right? You can give me more?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I can.” You’re breathless when you speak, and it certainly doesn’t help that it’s then when Joaquín decides to pull his fingers away completely, pull your panties to the side, and sink down completely until his face is level with your cunt. 

Just the image below you is enough to twist that section deep into your stomach into a knot. He’s barely able to give you anything before your back is arching off of the bed and everything in you mounts to a peak. 

When you come, it’s from the controlled and effective licks Joaquín delivers to your cunt. You don’t know when your hand moves on its own, but you feel silk-like strands between your fingers. It helps anchor you, gripping his hair helps keep you sane, especially when Joaquín keeps going. 

He broadens his reach this time. His mouth opens wide enough to slide his tongue down from your entrance and back up towards your clit. And he doesn’t just lick this time, you hear the audible suck from him. He’s slurping that shit, and you can already feel the introduction of another orgasm. 

If you were with anyone else, you’d be shocked at how soon another is on the precipice. But it’s Joaquín, and aside from the fact that you’ve wanted him for a while, you’re not exactly shocked that he knows what he’s doing. 

He slowly sinks one finger into you, pumping the digit in and out of you with meticulous ease. It’s a stark contrast from the almost sloppy way he’s eating you out. But it works. 

One finger is nice, it’s thicker than your own, rougher, too. You could get off just like that. And then, he adds a second. 

“Fuck,” you swear without any conscious intention. 

Joaquín comes up for air, releasing you with an audible smack. “Yeah?” he asks, the word coming from right in his throat. 

You nod as you take in the way he looks—cheeks flushed, hair tousled and hanging over his forehead, pink lips shining, his eyes wide and nearly doe-like. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. You see a look flash in Joaquín’s eyes then. It’s a look similar to the one he has whenever Sam affirms his work with a clap on the back—self-satisfied, delighted, proud. It occurs to you then that he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you. He can read your body language, sure. It’s obvious from your cunt, along how good he’s making you feel, but you know verbal affirmation is different. It’s better, especially for Joaquín. 

As he goes back in to finish you off, you speak to him.

“Just like that,” you tell him. Just this little bit encourages him, you can feel it in his movements.  “Keep going. ‘M close, so close, Joaquín. Please, don’t stop. You’re so … you’re so—” Before you can even get it out, all noise dies completely from you. Your mouth uselessly hangs open, not even air comes out as your entire body stiffens. Nothing happens for a moment, Joaquín continues, you’re stuck, and then a nanosecond later everything knocks into you. 

Sound emits from you, moans and groans and breaths. You’re digging into whatever you can find—the heel of your foot into Joaquín’s back, your hands in his hair, the rest of your body into the twisted sheets beneath you. You’re simultaneously trying to escape and trying to keep Joaquín from parting with you for even a moment. It’s hard to decide which you prefer, you don’t even think your mind has any say in the dilemma, your body is in control at this point. 

Ultimately, your body decides to let go, releasing both of you at the same time. Still, Joaquín takes a moment to pull from you. He continues licking and sucking, but his fingers slowing down indicates his intent to free you. It comes after a few drawn out moments where you’re stuck twitching beneath him until finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and presses one final kiss right onto your clit. 

His head lifts and the evidence is more obvious than you expected. It’s gathered all over his chin, stuck along the beginnings of facial hair that will likely be gone first thing Monday morning. It’s gathered on his lips and along his tongue when he uses the muscle to pull the remnants of your arousal into his mouth. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and only then does he realize how much of a mess you’ve made of him. He pulls his hand back, brown eyes big as he stares at the evidence. 

“Shit,” he laughs. 

All you can do is agree through labored breaths. 

He tries to clean you off of his mouth, but not much is done. He leans in tentatively after that, as if you’re going to shy away from him. You don’t. 

You kiss him back eagerly, although a bit lethargically. You’re trying to hide it from fear that Joaquín could think that you’re done. But your body needs a moment to recover from that. 

When Joaquín pulls away from you with a small smile on his face, you know he’s onto you. 

“You need a minute?” The way he says it isn’t much different from the way he asks you those same words when he’s kicking your ass in the gym. 

And just like when you’re in the gym, you shamefully nod. 

Joaquín chuckles and leans in to kiss your forehead. “That’s okay. You want anything? Water maybe?” 

“Water sounds good.” 

You watch him leave and then your eyes are focused solely on the ceiling. You can’t even let what’s happening sink in when you’re still a little spacey. But you can handle more. You want more from him. 

Joaquín comes back with a glass of water. He stands next to the bed and passes the full glass to you. You don’t question the source, you just drink until there’s half left. You offer it to him and he gladly takes it from you. 

“Are you … do you wanna stop?” He speaks when the glass has been emptied and placed on the nightstand. For the most part he looks like he would be unaffected by whatever answer you gave, but you think you can detect some premature dejection in his features. Quickly, he adds, “Because it’s fine if you do. I’m okay with that.” And he’s being honest. You don’t feel any pressure coming from Joaquín at all. 

It’s what you truly mean and want when you immediately shake your head. “No. Let’s keep going.” 

He nods once to himself. “Alright. Cool. Yeah.” 

Excitement leaks from his pores but you don’t comment on it. You felt just as he did not long ago. You still feel like that, but you’re under a haze right now and that’s what your emotions are being led with. 

Joaquín hooks his thumbs into his already-loosened jeans and goes to pull them down. First, though, he pats at his pockets. When he doesn’t feel what he’s looking for, he swears. 

“One second.”

You watch his form retreat until the door of your room is pulled open. Not even a minute later he comes back in with a foil pocket brandished between his fingers, the same fingers that were in you not long ago. 

“You came prepared?” The question comes out more judgemental than you meant it to. 

Joaquín shrugs. “I keep an emergency bag full of … stuff. You know, in case of an emergency.” 

“Freak.” You don’t mean it. 

“You’re about to get fucked by a freak so, wouldn’t that make you a freak by association?” He seems to mean it. 

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

He holds the packet between his teeth while he slides his jeans off of his legs, stepping out of them and leaving them at the foot of the bed. He comes back around to the side, pulling the packet out from his teeth and staring down at you. Like this he looks more imposing than he ever has before. 

When he’s been out in the field, when he’s training, when he yelled at the car earlier tonight, he didn’t look as imposing as he does now—staring down at you over the bridge of his nose, hair tousled, cock tenting in his black briefs. 

“That’s definitely how that works,” he claims as he leans down. He presses his hands into the bed beneath you to leverage himself as he kisses you, slow and passionate. You wonder if he’ll fuck you like that too. 

You reach a hand up and pull the elastic away from his waist. When he doesn’t react, you tug the fabric down. You feel it get stuck around his cock just before you feel his cock spring free. It brushes against your wrist and you make a little noise into the kiss. 

As soon as Joaquín’s briefs are laying at his feet he assumes his previous position, this time sitting right on his haunches. You avoid looking at his cock for a moment, but when you watch him tear the condom packet open, you get the first glimpse at him. 

Even this part of him is attractive. He’s thick, that’s the first thing you notice. Thick and heavy, if the way he hangs to the side is any indicator. There’s a vein leading from his taut stomach down towards the dark and trimmed thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You hadn’t noticed the vein ever before, not when you had been too busy ogling the v-line chiseled into his torso instead. 

Now that you’ve seen all of Joaquín, you can easily conclude that he’s perfect. Just as you have that thought, Joaquín takes an inhale as he prepares to speak. 

“You’re so perfect,” he says. 

The warmth instantly floods your body. 

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” you tell him. 

He dips his head almost shyly and doesn’t say anything. Instead, Joaquín pulls the condom out of the packet. 

“Wait. Lemme do it. Can I do it?” 

He looks momentarily surprised at your request, but he passes you the condom and politely places his hands on top of his thighs. 

It’s truly an excuse to feel him beneath your palm as you glide the latex barrier down his length. You revel in the warmth beneath your hand, because as soon as you’ve secured the barrier around the base of his shaft, Joaquín's leading you back without even having to touch you. He leans forward and in response, you lean all the way back until you’re nestled amongst the pillows at the head of the bed. 

“Ready?” 

You nod, letting your legs fall open for him. 

One warm hand falls to the inside of your thigh while the other disappears between your legs to line up his dick. Then, slowly, Joaquín pushes forward. The stretch is instant, you can feel yourself opening up wider and wider to fully fit him in. If you weren’t as soaked and prepped as you were, you’re sure the burn would’ve been way worse. 

For a few moments it’s like the length of him keeps going and going, but then you feel his thighs press up against the back of yours and there’s the faint feeling of his balls resting against your ass and you know he’s bottomed out. He looks at you, gauging your reaction, and your response comes in the form of linking a leg around his back.

Joaquín smiles through nothing but the twitch of the corner of his mouth upwards, and then he wastes no more time. He rests his weight on his hands at either side of your head, and pulls his hips back just to roll them forward and slide his cock back into you. 

And for a bit, Joaquín does fuck you slow and passionate. He fucks you in full strokes, a nice tempo that doesn’t overwhelm you too quickly. There’s punctuation at the end of each thrust, followed by a nearly agonizing pull back out. Whether intentional or not, Joaquín’s introducing you to the feeling of his cock filling you up, just as he’s introducing the concept of another release to you. 

But you’ve had your fill, it’s his turn now. 

You press your hands into his shoulders. They glide back, one hand grazing over the raised skin of the scar that leads down his back, the other following a smooth path, but they meet in the same place—back around the front to where his chain hangs. You hook one finger into the gold link, the other going behind his head. You pull him closer until you can nudge your noses together. 

His eyes flutter shut and his eyebrows pinch together in the center. You kiss him once and pull back to tell him, “You can use me, Joaquín. Take what you want.”

His eyes open to stare at you with confusion written on his face, bordering on hope, as if he already has an idea formed in his head of what he really wants to do to you. 

You nod assuredly. “It’s what I want.” Just as you’re about to add a quiet plea to seal the deal, Joaquín adjusts his position and then he pulls nearly all the way out of you, only to forcefully drive back into you. 

The switch is immediate. He still fucks you in complete motions, but they’re shorter, no longer the tip to the shaft each time. These are faster, much faster. It feels like he’s reaching up into your guts each time, just to pull back and do it again and again and again. 

You’re forced to find purchase again, hands digging into whatever you can find. One hand attaches to his hair and the other holds onto his chain, your legs have linked around Joaquín’s hips, your head has craned backwards, leaving the area between the base of your neck and your chest open for Joaquín to rest his forehead on. 

You can’t hear his sounds over yours, but you feel them—quick breaths let out onto the sweat coated area of your chest. You would try and silence yourself to better hear him, but you couldn’t even if you tried. 

Luckily, though, Joaquín lifts his head and notches his nose against the side of your neck instead. He kisses you right beneath your earlobe, but when he can no longer complete that action, his jaw goes slack and every single noise he makes travels directly to your ear. 

You swear and it comes out as a whimper, not even a second later Joaquín swears and it’s a deep groan all the way from the back of his throat. You call his name and he calls yours. He’s affecting you, and you’re affecting him, even just by laying back and urging him to get himself off by using your body.

“Are you close?” you eventually gather the strength, and will, to ask. 

You feel Joaquín nod against your neck. “Yeah,” he confirms, “yeah, baby, ‘m almost there.” 

Your reaction is instant. You groan, a sound that could be interpreted as frustration if you weren’t having your guts completely rearranged right now. 

He chuckles deeply against your skin. “What? What’s up?”

“C…Call me that again.”

“What? ‘Baby’? You like when I call you baby?” 

You hum affirmatively. 

Joaquín lifts his head and slots one hand against your cheek. His pace slows as he stares at you. “You’re my baby? Hm? Are you?” 

You nod, whining out an “uh-huh”. 

“Yeah?” he grins as he says it, as if he’s shocked that you agreed. You don’t know if he’s serious, if he knows that his words are holding weight even if you’re a little dumb right now, but you do mean it. 

He licks his lips and you see an idea coming to his head. “You gonna be good for me, too?” When you nod, he continues. “Be good for me, baby, and touch yourself, alright?”

He gives you the space needed and watches your hand slide down your stomach. When you use two fingers to tweak your already overstimulated clit, Joaquín nods. 

“That’s right. Just like that.” 

He resumes his original pace, this time with his eyes fully locked on your cunt. He pulls one of your legs up and throws it over his shoulder, leaning forward to get even deeper into you. 

You’re close, you’re almost there, and the erratic way Joaquín practically jackhammers into you as he chases his own release is what pushes you over. You finish just after Joaquín buries himself into you and curls his body over yours. This orgasm truly feels like a release. Everything in you melts into the world around you, just as Joaquín’s body melts on top of yours. 

He kisses the skin closest to him, first in small almost discrete pecks, and then they gradually get bigger and more audible until he’s clearly making them ridiculous on purpose. 

His cock is still nestled in you and his head is still resting on your chest when he speaks. “You think you’ll be up for a shower?”

You hum, letting the question run through your head for a minute before responding. “In about ten minutes, yeah.” 

“Take your time.”

In the meantime, Joaquín slowly slides out of you. The emptiness is immediate, but after all you’ve been through since getting back to your room, you don’t exactly hate it. Your eyes start to feel heavy but you let them close for a little while. You rely on your other senses throughout. 

The feeling of Joaquín kissing over where you think your bikini tan lines are, the rim of the glass that he brings to your lips, the sound of his voice as he gently urges you to drink, the feeling of cool water sliding down your throat. He holds you steady as you drink with a hand behind your head. Your lips turn up tiredly, and you feel his thumb at the corner of your lip catching a stray drop of water. You don’t have to open your eyes to know he’s wearing that same soft look on his features.

You’re so pampered there that you don’t force yourself to get up until you hear the shower running. 

Joaquín’s already there waiting for you at the door. He smiles when he sees you as if he’s shocked that you came, even though this is your room and your bathroom. Still, he reaches out and grabs your hand, pulling you into the bathroom and in front of him. His hands push at your back, guiding you towards the shower. He pulls the door open for you and lets you step inside before he follows after you. 

You reach for the towel and soap, but stop when he tuts behind you. 

“I got it,” is all he says. So you let yourself completely relax with the feeling of Joaquín dragging the cloth up and down your limbs. He talks to you throughout, mostly asking you to lift an arm or turn around, sometimes bringing up small bits of conversation, every now and then singing bits of songs—some that you recognize, some that you don’t. There’s a familiarity now that you’ve gained since his hands had massaged sunscreen into your shoulders. 

Eventually, though, he finishes with you, leaving you to lean against the wall and watch him shower.

“You know what I realized like a few minutes ago?” he says when he’s rinsing the soap off of his body. 

“What?”

“Remember the couple from the club that first night? The one who kept buying us drinks?”

“Yeah, how could I forget?”

“Yeah well I’m pretty sure they thought we were like … swingers or some shit.”

You’re startled awake. “Huh? Why do you think that?”

“Oh I don’t think, I know. The guy gave me his number and everything. Plus you saw the way they were looking at us, and the woman kept cozying up to you.”

You frown. “I thought she was just drunk or friendly.”

“She definitely was drunk and friendly. And she also wanted you.” 

You blink. “I thought she wanted you.”

Joaquín shrugs and rinses the last of the soap from his back before he shuts the water off. “She probably did. That’s sort of part of the whole swingers gig, isn’t it?”

You laugh through a quick exhale of air. “Come on, Joaquín, let’s go to bed.” 

You step out of the shower and wrap a towel around your body. Joaquín follows after you. 

“Oh, I get to sleep with you tonight?” He sounds giddy when he says it, as if he wasn’t just fucking you so good that your legs are still getting used to walking again. When you tell him that, you see the unintended compliment go straight to his head. 

You end up getting exactly what you wanted. Joaquín leans into the bathroom counter with the towel hung low around his waist and his eyes watching you do your skincare routine. As soon as you’re finished, he’s trekking off to his room for a change of clothes and to do whatever he needs to do, and he comes back in nothing but boxers with a big shirt in his hand. He lays it on the counter for you casually, but you see the tips of his ears tinted just a tiny bit red when he retreats back to your room. 

You come out in his shirt to see him lying on your side of the bed, the remote in his hand and pointed at the TV. As if the entire trip had been going like this the entire time, he instantly scoots over when you come to the side of the bed and lifts the sheets for you to climb under. You lay curled into his side, telling him to click a channel playing a movie that you know he likes. 

The remote is placed on the nightstand, the lights are clicked off and you’re snuggled up next to Joaquín, wearing his shirt and talking about how the two of you are going to spend your last day of vacation. 

Not everything goes how you thought it would, though. Joaquín ends up being pretty mindful with his blanket usage. 

The Project -- JJ Maybank

This is a request from @purple-flamingo !! Thank you for requesting!! IF YOU WANT TO REQUEST SOMETHING AN NEED INSPO, SEARCH MASTERLIST ON MY PAGE! Requests are open :)

Summary - JJ gets paired with the quiet girl, and learns why she's so quiet.

Word Count - 2.7k

It's cute ngl.

JJ sat in class, his head resting in his elbow propped hand. Ms. Moore was introducing a new lesson plan and project for genetics.

"Now I'm already preparing for the unified groan from you guys when I say this, but I already chose your partners." Just as she predicted, there were whispers and sighs around the room. "I'm sorry, but I feel like you guys barely know each other! We are 3 months into the year and you don't break out of your close groups. So when I call your pairs, rearrange however you like." This didn't bother JJ too much, none of his friends were in this class, none of the pogues anyway. So he waited patiently to see who he was paired with.

"JJ and Y/n." He looked over to the girl, he had never spoken to her before. Matter of fact, he didn't think he had ever heard her speak *at all*. She gave a small smile and wave, already gathering her things to come to him.

"Hi there." He said as she set her bag beside her chair, sliding into the seat next to him. She just looked at him, giving him a little salute. JJ wasn't used to silence, he hung out with people he considered pretty loud and outgoing. So it was quite the change being around someone who not only had he never spoken to, but she didn't even really talk.

"This next project will be on genetic disorders, you'll have a few to choose from." She began writing a list of genetic disorders on the board. JJ turned to his partner, noticing how she lightly tapped her pen on her notebook and the way her knee was bouncing under the table. He wanted to ask if she was okay, she looked anxious, but that felt like he was crossing a line considering he didn't know her at all.

"I'm going to randomly generate your table numbers and when your number is called you can come up and choose a disorder. So have a few in mind. You have 10 minutes." He shifted in his seat to face his partner.

"So, Y/n right?" He asked, already knowing the answer. He knew her name before this, having had previous classes with her. Though he still couldn't pinpoint a time they spoke to each other. She gave a simple 'mhmm', turning to him just like he did.

"JJ." She held her hand out for him to shake. He took it gladly, shaking it lightly.

"I didn't know you could talk." He joked, letting her hand go.

"I just don't talk unless it's necessary, you wouldn't know anything about that Maybank." She said playfully, smiling down at her notebook. She was writing down the disorders. His eyebrows raised at the comment.

"Quiet but feisty, got it." He gave an airy laugh, looking at the board filled with disorders. "Do you care which one we do?" He asked, eyes still glued to the front of the room. Her notebook slid in front of him and she had 3 disorders circled. He looked over to her again, she was tilted in her chair on the back two legs. Her laptop was balanced on her knees and she was scrolling through God knows what.

Fortunately, JJ's table was called 2nd, so they got their first choice, Albinism. They began doing basic research on the disorder, class ending not too long after they started. Before class ended, Y/n slid a piece of paper in front of the boy.

"For the project, since we will probably have to do work outside of class." She said. He unfolded it to see a number, and before he could thank her, she was already out the door.

---------------

"Do you guys know Y/n Y/L/N?" JJ asked the group as they sat around a fire they had made behind the Chateau. Pope shook his head.

"I have her in English I think, she's pretty reserved." John B commented.

"Well, I'm partnered with her in genetics, she's pretty cool. She'd kinda funny too." JJ said, getting a weird look from Kie. He only brushed it off.

"She seriously never talks, even when I see her talking when she is forced to be part of a group. Seems like she doesn't get along with anyone." John B said in disbelief. "I just don't know how people can go whole days without talking."

"They just shut up." Kiara deadpanned, earning a chorus of laughter from the group. But JJ couldn't stop thinking about what John B said, how could anyone think she didn't get along with people. She talked to him immediately.

-----------------

"Hi, Y/n!" JJ said, sliding into the seat next to her obnoxiously. She turned her head to him.

"Hello JJ." She replied, opening her notebook and setting it in front of him. He skimmed over the words on the page. Soon enough he looked very confused.

"Holy shit, did you do this last night?" He asked, looking into her tired eyes. The page was filled with research.

"Yeah, I got really into it last night, it's kind of interesting really." She laughed, flipping to the next page which *also* had research on it. JJ just shook his head in disbelief.

"I feel bad, you did all this and I've barely done anything." He chuckled, reading what she wrote. "Seems like we are gonna get this project done pretty fast with Miss Research machine over here." He nudged her side lightly. She just shook her head with a smile.

"Just happens sometimes." She shrugged, letting him read through the notebook as Ms. Moore began to talk about what parts of research we needed to do today. (Though JJ was sure they could do whatever they wanted today judging by the copious amount he was reading right now.)

He flipped another page, expecting more information but only seeing a pretty nice drawing of someone he recognized was from this class. He looked over at her with a smirk, knowing she couldn't say anything while Ms. Moore spoke. She just widened her eyes and shook her head at him with disapproval. He tilted his head at her challengingly. Slowly picking at the corner of the paper, as if he would flip the page.

He gave her a look that read 'just kidding' before shutting the notebook and sliding back to her side of the table. She pulled it onto her lap and out of reach. He notice her face was a deep shade of red, staring forward with a clenched jaw. Once the teacher stopped talking, JJ could comment on the drawing.

"So, got any drawings of me in there?" That was the first thing he said as everyone broke off into their conversations. She shot him a death glare.

"I draw people who are in interesting positions, it's a good way to practice body anatomy." It looked like JJ was holding back a laugh, so she glared harder at him. He put his hands up in surrender.

"Sorry, interesting positions, that's what she said." He giggled a little to himself. She rolled her eyes.

"That or people who use their hands a lot." She nodded, realizing that he was definitely going to take that the wrong way. He smiled evilly at her.

"That's was she said! I'm sorry, you're making it too easy." He said in defense, making her smile a little.

"I mean people who talk with their hands JJ. People who are animated." He nodded.

"You never answered my question though." She quirked an eyebrow at this. "Do you have any drawings of me in there?" He asked again, making her look down at the notebook, looking as if she's contemplating. She pulled it onto the table and JJ smiled.

She flipped through a few pages, seeing the dozens of drawings she had in there. But she seemed to be looking for a certain one. She stopped on a page and left it open there for him to see.

It was definitely him. He was sitting in a chair, both of his arms completely outstretched with hands spread wide. He was making a wild face.

"You were telling some story to your friends, you seem to be quite the storyteller." He stared at it for a bit more.

"This is incredible, like seriously." He said, looking at the small smile that placed itself on her lips as he complimented her. "Do you think I could have this? It's just so cool." She scrunched her eyebrows at him.

"You want it? Why?"

"So I can show my friends." He said plainly, as if it were obvious. "You can draw me anytime." He said, immediately getting his head in the gutter. "Draw me like one of your French girls." He said in a horrible French accent. She giggled at him, covering her face that was heating up at the thought. His heart fluttered at this.

He made the quiet girl laugh.

He made Y/n laugh.

In the continuing week, the two got closer, working on this project together in class. JJ actually started looking forward to Genetics, just because he knew he could talk to her.

The following Monday JJ walked into class a little late, hoping Y/n wouldn't be *too* mad that he was. He swung open the door, apologizing to Ms. Moore and looking to his regular seat.

"Oh, I'm surprised to see you here today Mr. Maybank. I figured you and Mrs. Y/L/N had run off somewhere." She wasn't here today. He just shook his head, sitting in his seat and pulling his phone out to text under the table. He opened Y/n's contact (which he had gotten not too long ago).

*Hey, where are you?* He sent, getting a quick reply.

*Hey! Sorry, I forgot to text you. My little sister is sick and my parents couldn't be home until 2 so I just stayed home with her. You're free to come to my house after school if you want. We can work on the project?* He smiled, replying with a yes and getting her address. JJ had never been so happy at school, waiting in anticipation for the day to end.

JJ had already told his friends he was working on a project after school. (This was weird to them, considering he barely cared about school before this.) And here he was, knocking on Y/n's door in a *very* nice neighborhood. He heard a yell from the other side and the door swung open.

The open doorway revealed a small girl that had the same eyes as Y/n. She waved kindly at him, sniffling a little.

"Are you JJ?" She asked quietly. He nodded with a smile. Quiet, just like her sister. She moved out of the way, letting him in. Y/n see to the door, greeting him.

"Hey! Sorry, I would have answered but I'm helping my parents with dinner, you wanna come to the kitchen? We are making enough for all of us." JJ stepped into the large house, looking around in amazement. The floors were marbled tile and the ceilings were high, she grabbed his arm to drag him to the kitchen.

She stood in the archway to the kitchen with him, waiting for her parents to look at her. They turned around and she grinned politely.

"Guys, this is JJ." She said, moving her hands while doing so. And that's when JJ realized why Y/n was *so* quiet.

Her parents were deaf.

Her dad looked at the two of them, signing something quickly. While her mom signed something and gave her a sinister smirk. JJ had never been in a situation where someone was having a conversation and he couldn't understand a word. He looked down at her to see her blushing.

"My dad says it's nice to meet you." She said with a tight-lipped smile.

"It's nice to meet you too. I would sign it if I could." He said with a smile.

"It's okay they can read lips, it's just easier to sign." She entered the kitchen, grabbing two bowls. "Are you okay with Zuppa? If not it's okay, I'm not going to be offended." JJ raised an eyebrow at her.

"What the hell is Zuppa?" He asked, covering his mouth as he thought about the little girl in the room.

"It's fine, we all cuss." She shrugged. "However I am going to get you a bowl of Zuppa since you have never had it." She said, getting him a bowl of soup. "We are going to my room to work." She said, walking out of the kitchen.

They walked up a long set of stairs, lined with family pictures. JJ looked at them as they walked up, it wasn't often that he saw a real *healthy* family. Once they hit the top of the stairs they went straight to Y/n's room. Y/n put her bag down on the ground next to her bed as they entered.

"So, you're a Coda huh? Isn't there like, only a 10% chance of that?" JJ said, sitting on her bed. She smiled at him from her sitting position on the bed.

"Uh, yeah. I guess you can say I'm *rare*." She joked, digging in her bag.

"Yeah, you are." JJ smiled confidently, having no problem shamelessly flirting with her. The problem was when you don't get flirted with very often, you don't even realize it's happening. So Y/n shrugged it off, handing him his bowl of soup.

"It's true though, my little sister is three-quarters deaf, that's why she has a cochlear implant. But I've got perfect hearing." She took a bite of her soup, sighing. JJ took a sip of his, his eyes widening.

"Holy shit, what's in this?" She smiled at his excitement.

"Potatoes, kale, sausage. Easy stuff." She shrugged again, it was something she made often. To JJ it tasted like *heaven*, way better than anything he'd ever had.

"Well it's amazing, did you make it yourself?" She nodded, taking another bite. "I should have dinner with you more often." He said, and she agreed.

"I love cooking, I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind if you came over for dinner sometime. Like a real dinner, and we will sit at a table." She laughed, opening her laptop.

"I would love that." He said, trying to gain the courage to say the next thing. Since when did JJ Maybank get nervous about saying something to a girl? "Kinda like a date?" He asked, trying to hide his face behind the bowl as he drank down the rest of it. He didn't want to see her face if she was about to reject him.

But there was only silence.

He lowered the bowl from his mouth, seeing her just staring at him. Her empty bowl sat on the floor next to her, the laptop still open to the sign-in screen.

"You're kidding right?" She smiled at him, but to him, it looked sad. Disappointed even.

He was getting rejected, wasn't he?

"I mean, if you want me to be, then yeah I'm totally kidding." He tried to laugh it off, swallowing the lump in his throat. He really wished he had grabbed something to drink while they were downstairs.

"So you aren't kidding?" She asked with a tilt of her head. This was truly confusing JJ, and he thought he didn't understand girls before this.

"Not, really?" He couldn't even say more. She got up on the bed with him, sitting next to him.

"I would *love* to go on a date with you." JJ let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He only shook his head in disbelief.

"I genuinely thought you were rejecting me." He laughed nervously, staring at his hands.

"It's funny how oblivious you are Maybank." He looked at her with scrunched eyebrows. "I don't talk to anyone but you, I invite you to my house, I visibly enjoy your company. And you don't know the sign language, but when we were downstairs my mom said something about you." He turned his head fully at this.

"Is that why you were blushing? What did she say?" He teased, his confidence shining back through.

"Yeah, uh. I talk about you a lot. She said 'oh this is the boy? He's very handsome, just as you said'." Y/n covered her face to hide her blushing, *again*.

"Oh, so I'm handsome huh?" He taunted again, poking her side and making her laugh loudly.

*He made her laugh, all he ever wanted.*

xavier thorpe x reader - getting high and having sex

“Lighter?” You whisper, voice so meek and sweet it completely transcends Xavier to a different dimension.

He gawks at you with big, doe eyes. The bedroom is dark but rays of moonlight cascade on his angelic features. His pupils are blown, cloudy whites unblinking as he studies your face from where you’re sitting on top of him. That’s how you end up smoking most of the time - sitting in Xavier’s lap and sharing lazy kisses. Or simply admiring each other, like he does right now.

Your beauty outshines every work of art, he thinks to himself but is too high to form any coherent sentences. All he can do is express his love through the way he stares at you, so entranced that he’s incapable of remembering what you even asked for.

“Huh?” It feels like an eternity until he inquires.

“Lighter. Need the uh… lighter.”

You’re both high and didn’t even need that much this time - that’s how good Ajax’s current stash is.

“Right. Lighter,” he repeats, fumbling with the pockets of his pants.

His fingers seem disoriented, addled brain trying to zap back and remember where that goddamn lighter is. Despite feeling likes he’s moving at the speed of light, he’s actually sluggish, barely finding the strength to lift you up. He finds it under your butt eventually, right between his thighs, and the laughter that follows is genuine.

When you light a second joint, he is taken aback by your features gleaming before the blazing flame. The fire puts a spotlight on your face and he beams at the reddish blur adorning the whites of your eyes. You’re just as high as he is, he concludes.

“Come here,” he demands in his dazed state, right after you take the first puff.

It’s not the first time he’s asking for this so you know what to do, inching closer and parting your lips at the same time he gapes his. This way, the cloud of smoke travels from your mouth to his. He inhales it all, lungs filling up with nothing but heaviness. When he exhales, you place a gentle hand on his throat. He smiles in return.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. You’re just so pretty,” you murmur, the pad of your thumb traveling from his Adam’s apple to his mouth.

“Yeah?” He retorts, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

At least until he parts them to suck on your digit. You shudder at the gesture and roll your hips over his, butt pressing onto his crotch. The staccato breath he lets out makes you chuckle.

“Yeah. Too pretty,” you continue to taunt.

Normally, he would blush at your compliments. Maybe even refute them, auburn strands never failing to tumble over his face to mask the heat radiating off his cheeks.

This time, however, his hair is in a half-bun, and his face is as pale as ever. Your words have no intimidating effect.

If anything, they spur him on - lanky fingers stealing the joint from your hand. He draws a puff, narrowed eyes fixed on you until the exhale reduces your face to a blur. For his sanity, it’s only for a split of a second. And, then, his gaze resumes devouring you.

“Pretty enough to put my dick in you?”

The nonchalance he exudes takes you by surprise and the laugh that erupts from your throat is accompanied by a cheeky simper of his own.

“You wanna fuck me right now?”

“Especially right now,” he explains and you’ve never agreed more.

Shifting in his lap, you pull your panties to the side and expose your puffy cunt. He palms it just as idly as he strokes his cock after freeing it from his boxers. The hand he’s working on his shaft with doesn’t even feel like his own - the numbness prickles at his skin while he alternates between ogling your puffy lips and his erect dick.

“Help me,” he whispers, furrowed eyebrows looking down on sweeping lashes.

Snapping out of the trance he’s got you in, you oblige. Damp pussy hovers over his throbbing shaft before it sinks and he watches the fat tip of his cock disappearing between your folds. When the heat embraces him, his head falls back with a groan.

“Shit… so good.”

“Feels good to fill me up?” Riling him up is always so gratifying.

“Mhm, the best,” he agrees, dumb smile directed at the ceiling.

Constellations form before his eyes when you start moving, riding him at a slow and tantalizing pace. He wishes for more but knows he’s incapable of voicing his desire out. Or taking over, for the matter. All he can do is take whatever he’s being given, desensitized hands holding your middle and aiding your slow movements.

The way your pussy sucks him in with every drop of your hips is out of this world, walls molding over his cock in ways that make him swear you were made for him. Your cunt was made to swallow him - he’s sure of it.

“I love you,” he blurts out, voice barely audible.

You catch the words but only because he caught your attention first - gripping the flesh of your breasts until you glanced down at the fucked out look on his face.

“Love you too.”

He’s convinced you do. There’s no way you don’t. Not when you fuck him like that, gyrating your hips until you have his heart in a chokehold. Until you synchronize entirely, body and soul becoming one. Until there’s one fused being floating through the universe, devoid of space and time.

outer banks

groups

pogues

blurbs

characters

jj maybank

oneshots • blurbs • headcanons • moodboards

rafe cameron

oneshots • blurbs • headcanons

pope heyward

oneshots • blurbs

john b routledge

blurbs

topper thornton

blurbs

kelce

blurbs

sarah cameron

oneshots • blurbs

actors

drew starkey

oneshots • blurbs • headcanons • moodboards

jonathan daviss

blurbs

austin north

blurbs

rudy pankow

blurbs

Mercedes Vang’s Halloween Lookbook

♡ Look ONE: Hair | Costume | Shoes | Necklace | Earrings | Nails

♡ Look TWO: Hair | Tutu | Flats | Tights | Crown | Necklace | Nails

♡ Look THREE: Hair | Dress | Wings | Shoes | Necklace | Garters | Nails

♡ Look FOUR: Hair | Costume | Tights | Wings | Horns | Boots | Necklace | Earrings | Nails

Thank you to all of the talented CC Creators! ♡

@ts4eve @ikari-sims @shoestopia @twisted-cat @sentate @magic-bot @plazasims @christopher067 @greenllamas @nolan-sims @daylifesims @sclub-privee @bluecravingcc @dream-girl @aladdin-the-simmer