Dry my fears - Calum Hood
⭑ pairing: subby!calumhood x afab!reader
⭑ summary: After years of contempt, Calum finally proves just how sorry he is.
⭑ tags: enemies to lovers, house party, smoking, mainly body worship
⭑ word count: 4.2k
⭑ listen to: Call Me When You Know Better
nfsw below cutoff ,
The sliding glass door behind you closes with a loud clunk. A deep, throaty groan accompanies it.
“You, huh?” And you recognize that voice. Fuck.
You thought you’d successfully managed to escape the loud buzz of the party just inside by sitting, knees drawn to chest, on the grimy balcony outside. You pulled a cigarette out of the tin you kept in your purse, and lite the the orange and white stick. But of course that was short lived, as you now felt a lumbering presence behind you and knew that gruff voice to be none other than Calum Hood. You took in a sharp but deep breath, releasing it slowly and letting the smoke trail up from your open mouth, engulfing the air between the two of you.
“Yep, me.” You reply, withdrawn. Cold. You take another drag, burnt orange tip crinkling quietly with the inhale. He drops down beside you, far enough away so you can't feel his presence, but close enough you can’t ignore him, either.
“Those aren’t good for you.” He states. What a dumbass. You’ve seen him smoke at almost every social event you’ve attended together, which was almost all of them, unfortunately.
“I know. You want one?” “Yeah.”
It's surprisingly cordial: normally, your conversations are anything but. That was short lived, though. Shortly after you hand him a cigarette and a light, he starts in on you.
“You know,” he passes you back your lighter, blowing out a thick veil of smoke with the cigarette still perched on the side of his full lips. “Why is it that you are literally fucking everywhere? This is the smallest party I’ve been to in, what, years? and yet you are still fucking here.”
You just scoff. This isn’t the first time you two have had this exact discussion, and every time you tell him the same thing. We have all the same friends, douchebag, you’d tell him time and time again. The contention between the two of you was a byproduct of one argument years ago that just continued to build and build.
“You wanna know what I think, Calum?” You don't give him time to respond, instead raising your voice and finally turning your head to face the dark haired boy. “I think you like when we end up in the same place because everytime, without fail, you end up speaking to me or just fucking staring in my direction like a psycho. Like right now.”
“You’re full of it, aren’t you? Fucking full of it.”
His large, tanned hand moves to pull the cigarette from his lips, smoke tumbling out of his nose and mouth simultaneously as he rebuts.
“Oh yeah, I’m full of it. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t stare at me from across the room, then walk up to me and say some shit like ‘why don’t you just fuck off back to your place,’” you do air quotes and imitate his voice.
“Only the second part is true.” He sticks up his nose and the veins in his hand flex as he scratches the scruff under his chin.
“You're impossible.”
“It’s,” he groans and takes the last drag his cigarette has to offer, flicking it off the balcony. The orange streetlights below you don’t offer much luminance, they only cast long shadows against the concrete and the man’s face, making it hard to read his expression. “It’s the way you make me feel.” From what you can tell, it’s physically paining him to feel these words on his tongue. Nevertheless, he continues and you just listen, anger still blistering subliminally.
The, could you call it a disagreement? No, you decide. It was his fault.
A couple years ago in a claustrophobic living room, you, Calum, and a large group of your friends decided to play spin bottle. It was immature, yeah, but everyone was too drunk to care. Of course he spun it and it landed on you. You weren’t opposed to kissing him, he was cute and everyone would call you chicken if you didn’t. So you moved forward, but he had other plans, apparently, and a scoff fell from his lips. He scrunched up his face and physically pulled back, much to your horror and confusion.
“Seriously? Her? No way.”
A couple of your friends began to raise their voices, calling him an asshole and shouting confused, questioning statements.
His friends, most of them had been dating your friends at that time, immediately jumped to his defense; they shouted things like “he shouldn’t have too!” And “it’s just a game!”
Which, looking back, they were all acting extremely weird, like they knew something all the girls did not. No one noticed that then.
Calum only made things worse,
“I’d rather kiss a fucking dog, mate.”
That was what had really hurt. Soon enough, your finger was pointed directly in his face as you yelled, and your fruity drink was plastered across the front of his shirt and neck.
With the memory flooding back fast enough to make your head spin, your anger burns almost as hot as it had that night.
You don’t even notice your cutting him off as you speak, “the way I make you feel? I thought I grossed you out? Make you physically recoil if I get too close.”
“You’re still on that?” He groans out and throws his head back with the sound.
“Yea, isn’t that what this is all about? I get if you’re not attracted to me, but treat me like a fucking human!”
“God, you are so naive, (Y/N)! You really think— what the hell.” he pauses, statement weaved into a humorless chuckle, “You actually believe it was because I’m not attracted to you?”
You can’t think of any other reason why he would act the way he did that night, it was just a quick kiss. A game, that’s it.
You don’t have to hear this, so you push yourself off the ground in a scrambling motion. You barely register the end of his sentence, the question, the implication, before you’re on your feet and turning towards the door.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you feel your body physically stop moving when he tells you to stop, voice low. You give him no response, instead deciding to test him: you peel your feet off the ground and inch closer toward the exit with a smirk he can’t see.
“Fucking— stop. Sit down.” His tone is almost more desperate than anything else, or at least that’s what you're gonna tell yourself once you start to question how easily you complied.
He waits for you to regain your position on the painfully solid, cold cement of the cramped balcony. Why does he feel closer now?
“When, that night, you know, I said that-“
“Said that you’d rather die than kiss me?” You supply.
“Nope.” “Close enough.”
“You’re so,” he groans and takes a slow, deep breath, “I only had reacted that way because one of our friends at the time had a thing for you, and he told me to back off.”
“Back off?”
“Maybe he’s not the only one that had a thing for you, alright?”
You narrow your eyes. You admit, you’re playing coy when you ask him what he means and he can tell, but he also feels like he owes you this: an explanation.
“We both liked you.”
You only scoff, “so you let him bitch you out? Pretty sad, Cal. Can I call you Cal?”
“Oh fuck off, you know it wasnt like that, we’re really good mates. And no.”
You try to ignore the way your body's responding to the new information. You don't like him, it doesn't change things. You find it quite pathetic, actually.
“That's pathetic, really. You couldn't have liked me much.” Your mouth begins to move quicker than your mind, unspoken words you've been holding back for years finally crawling up your throat and spilling out. “That, god, that really fucking hurt. Do you have any idea what it's like to sit in front of a crowd of people and be humiliated? If you had liked me at all you would've taken a second to consider that, so don't feed me that bullshit. I mean on account of someone else having a ‘a thing for me’, no less. What a bitch.” You can admit you're being harsh, but you can't seem to find care at the moment.
His eyes darken, it almost sends a chill down your spine. There is no trace of humor in the air between you: neither of you are teasing the other. It feels twisted and different, charged.
He speaks and your skin is intensely aware of the breeze now grazing the cramped space and the lack of warmth you feel in your bones.
“You want an apology?” You flare your nostrils but before you can even get a single word out, more fall from his lips. “Okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not kissing you that one time three years ago. I'm sitting here trying to explain–" "Prove it.” you cut him off, tired of the back and forth that's going nowhere and only adding to your frustration. “prove what?”
“I don't know! Prove it! Prove anything— that you're sorry, that you liked me,” you loathe the way your voice wavers, “anything that will stop the glares and groans when either of us walk into the room because it's getting fucking exhausting.”
His jaw sets and he barks a humorless laugh. “Okay.”
Your annoyance pulses under your skin in a steady rhythm but it's almost a second nature around him, so it's less notable than the way your breath hitches when he stands up fully, hovering above you with crossed arms. He motions for you to stand, a quick flick of his fingers. You stand, every motion deliberate and hesitant, but compliant nonetheless.
You're in front of each other now and you mimic him, crossing your arms. There's a grueling silence lingering around the two of you and your mouth drops open to fill it.
He beats you to it,
“I’m not proud, particularly, of this, but anything to keep that pretty mouth shut.”
His eyes spare just a single glance down to your lips before his mouth is upon yours and his hands are holding onto each side of your face like you're the most fragile thing he has ever touched. It almost makes you feel small, the way he holds you.
But this isn't one of those moments where you kiss the guy and everything suddenly falls into place and feels right. It blooms something inside you, yes, but it isn't this all divine rightness or a moment that the universe has been screaming for, it's sicker than that. Not in the way that feels ill or wrong, but it holds a deepness that can only be carved by years of contempt. As his lips begin to move and you feel the rough press of his stubble against your chin, your insides yearn for more as if his lips are the cure to a disease you didn't even know you had.
It's a dark, deep desire; it's something you know you might regret but not enough for you to pull away. Maybe that's because apathy is love's most pressing contradiction, and your feelings, though you would have attributed them mostly to hate, are anything but apathetic.
It's twisted, but you can't get enough, and it doesn't help that he tastes like your cigarettes and cheap liquor. That makes you wonder just how much he's had to drink, even though he wasn't acting all that gone apart from his lips being on yours. You gasp, allowing the length of his tongue to slip past your lips and enter the depths of your mouth.
His tongue brushes against yours, hot and needy. As your tongues swirl around each other, any lingering gentleness was gone; you were no longer fragile, it's like he was seeking to break you now. Like he realized you aren't going to run or be dragged away by the breeze still rolling across the balcony in grounding waves that remind you where you are when you get too lost in the man pressed against you and is testing your limits.
Apparently, he decides you can take more because he bucks his hips forward while slipping his hands down your back, stopping his pursuit at your ass. He sinks his fingertips into the flesh and pushes your body forward to meet his. This new position: your bodies flush, his hands groping your soft flesh, your hands woven into the dark curls at the base of his neck, exposes how painfully hard you've made him.
It causes you to pull back— much to his dismay —realizing you need him in ways that the disclosure of the balcony can't offer. You sputter, not before placing a lingering peck on his now swollen pink lips, “Okay. Maybe I believe you,” a pause, another peck, “slightly” you add.
“Only slightly?” He frowns but the mock expression and pouty words get lost in a groan when he moves in a way that causes his hardon to rut against your soft belly.
You giggle in a patronizing tone, “Yea, slightly. It's gonna take more than a few little kisses, Cal.”
You pull back, giving yourself access to take in his disheveled state and trail a hand down his torso. It moves from its place in his hair, snakes around his broad shoulder, and slowly drops down past his stomach. “And you're already so worked up,” you say whilst palming him through his rough, baggy jeans.
Before he has time to say much of anything, let alone react, you disconnect your bodies at all points and whip around, facing the large sliding door.
“Let’s go.” You demand and he follows without question, both of you slipping in through the glass door, making little noise.
Luckily, the bathroom is positioned in the hallway right off from the door to the balcony and smells like air freshener.
Calum being typical Calum; he's wearing baggy jeans and, somehow, managing to pull off pairing them with a light colored button up shirt and deep red tie, finishing with a worn leather jacket. It's so perfectly casual while still maintaining a thought through appearance; it's maddening. It's that deep red tie that is within your grasp now as you lead him into the bathroom, walking backward as he reaches behind you and opens the door.
Once the door clicks shut, he's upon you again.
“Would you still rather kiss a dog?” You pant into his expecting, greedy mouth as he moves in impossibly close.
“Shut the fuck up,” his voice is thick and you can feel every syllable vibrating through you as you’re pressed so tightly against him, “come here.” It was a command and your body obeys before your mind, leaning in and claiming his spit-slick lips again.
You both kiss like you've been starved. His tongue explores your mouth relentlessly and you let it. It grazes your teeth and lips and you're gone with the feeling of him expressing such desire and want and warmth, no, a burning heat, after being cold for so long.
He hooks his calloused hands under your thighs, lifting you up onto the vanity. The cool marble hitting your warm skin sends a chill down your spine, causing you to let out a gasp that sinks into his open mouth. You spread your legs and he easily steps in between them. You can feel his bulge against your core and you're drunk off the feeling, that and his lips that are, now, dropping from their place on yours, down to your neck. He’s placing hot open-mouthed kisses onto the plush column and letting his tongue tease and ghost over your skin. Then he’s biting and sucking and marking and you can’t help but cry out at the shift. That earns you a low, drawled out hush. You throw your head back, biting your lip in an attempt to comply.
His kisses and nips grow sloppy as he slips further and further into a pool of ecstasy; just having you under him and beneath his tongue is enough to fill it.
Soon you’re both panting; dark purple and red bruises bloom on your neck and clavicle.
“Can I fuck you? Please– Do I get to fuck you?” he begs with a barely contained whine.
You act like you're mulling it over, closing your eyes and sighing. But you've known the answer, knew it the moment the pitiful pleas left his lips in that pathetic, desperate tone.
“No, Calum. You think you deserve it?” You flash a saccharine sweet smile, loving the feeling of having him begging for you after years of being nothing but smug and holding pure spite behind his eyes. His eyes are glassy and little mewls and curses are slipping past his wet lips.
“Don’t look so disappointed, Cal. You're gonna show me how good you can be for me.”
His expression wavers; you can almost see his internal notions and how they coincide. You watch as his primal need tears away at submission but, ultimately, gets lost in it. Now he's nodding, frantic, with big dark curls following the movement.
You place a hand on his shoulder, pushing his large, wide frame down, down, down, until you have a head of soft, dark curls right in between your legs. You card your clammy fingers through the silky strands, then force a harsh tug so his eyes are made to find yours and nothing else. You can’t help but drawl out, “such a pretty boy…”
His hands are frantic after that, practically tearing the button to your tight jean shorts open. You lift your hips, allowing him to quickly pull them down your thighs and discard them into a random corner of the small bathroom.
You're left in only your lacy panties and revealing top, which you now pull over your head and drop onto the empty space beside you. You aren’t wearing a bra. He stares at you with pure reverence, and it’s so foreign yet lovely.
You're placing a hand on his cheek, stroking your thumb across his warm, flush skin. You feel his stubble and imperfections under your touch, but the only word that comes to mind is perfect.
But you're horny, debilitatingly so, and that sweet moment passes with the way you reposition your hand to grip onto the back of his neck and haul his face forward. His nose collides with the top of your cunt, brushing your clothed clit lightly, and his mouth comes into contact with the thin fabric that’s been damped by your arousal. His tongue tumbles from his lips instinctively, licking and tasting over the silky material all while choking out obscenities. You mirror his vocalised want, whining out; it’s too much but nowhere near enough. So he gives more. Fuck, does he give more.
His teeth tug on the lace trim of your panties, grumbling out from behind the fabric “off, off,” like some kind of animal gnawing on the flesh of its prey that’s soon to be consumed. That notion ignites a fire within and you waste no time aiding him in stripping you of the last barrier between his mouth and your pussy.
You're laid bare in front of him. You feel his breath over ghost you, causing you to shiver. He’s mere inches away from your heat, and then there’s no space left and he’s licking a long, firm strip from your entrance to your clit with an outstretched tongue.
He’s swirling and sucking around the sensitive bud and it feels like a hundred strings of yarn are pulled taut inside you, just waiting to snap. He pulls sweet sounds from the depths of your throat by delving in and out of your hole repeatedly, coating his tongue in your slick and humming. The vibrations only add to the overwhelming sensation and your legs tremble, instinctively threatening to close. Calum takes notice soon enough, as he feels the way your legs take to cradling his head instead of just bracketing it. That just won’t do. His large, tanned hands look beautiful splayed across your thighs; he’s pushing your legs open and holding them there, firm but gentle. Just enough to focus on the work he’s doing between your thighs but not to demand anything, he inherently knows not to push it. This is all about you: what he owes you, what he can physically show for his remorse.
With the new angle and fervour in which he’s devouring you, your back is arching and your hips are relentlessly bucking up to grind your clit against his tongue. There's lewd noises being ripped from your mouth and letters that are barely comprehensible woven throughout: “Cal— Calum, fuck, so good…you’re so good.”
In response he moans against your core, eyes finding yours when you finally force yourself to look down again. The sight of him alone almost undoes you: his eyes are completely glossed over and gone, almost as if he’s entirely transfixed with his attention to your pleasure, his nose is buried within your velvety folds. You start to wonder when the last time he came up for air was. Just as that thought invades your mind, it comes to fruition with the man disconnecting himself from your dripping cunt, a string of saliva following his wet lips, and sucking in a short breath.
And he’s fucking grinning. It’s a sloppily, lazy thing that solicits a matching one from your lips. His teeth gleam in the dim light and the juices— your juices — are coating his lips and chin and plump cheeks. He looks like a fucked-out mess and he hasn’t even been touched.
And you still haven’t finished.
You nudge him with the ball of your foot pressing up against his shoulder while using your eyes to motion downwards. “Needy girl,” Calum murmurs before he’s lacking onto you again, plump, swollen lips engulfing your clit. His fingers are next, first a single digit, but it’s quickly followed by a second as you welcome the intrusive with a whimper and roll of your hips.
Within seconds, you're right back on the edge.
He’s fucking his fingers in and out of you at a slow, almost taunting pace.
“Cal, more. More,” you can’t help but whine. Needy girl.
The sensation of his mouth and calloused fingers working in tandem fray the edges of the strings all tied up in your belly; the heat is pooling and you’re no longer in control of your lust-drunk babbling.
His fingers curl ever so slightly and perfectly graze that spot inside you; you clench around his fingers, chest heaving and brain swimming. A few more pumps and you're cumming. Hard. The springs inside you snap, something you deem inevitable by the mouth of Calum Hood now that you’ve experienced it. Every petty argument and roll of the eyes had been foreplay, making this moment feel absolutely divine. Your release coats his fingers and tongue that are still unwavering as he works you through your orgasm. His other hand maintains its hold on your thigh and your legs shake against it. He softens it, retreating to massaging your pliable skin and rubbing his thumb across the surface in a comforting manner.
Just as you become over sensitive, panting and turning your loose hold in his hair to a fierce grip that’s tugging him backward, his fingers slide out of you with a lewd squelch and his mouth stops its pursuit. Then he’s carefully cleaning you up, tongue collecting all the stray liquids and spit he’s left on your folds and inner thighs. He leaves you with a chaste kiss to your swollen, pulsating clit, his mouth migrating to your thighs. He suckles and kisses and nips all along the flushing skin, whispering sweet praises against it. The kisses trail up your navel and stop at your breasts. Calum’s mouth envelopes your nipple and he brings a hand up to tweak the other untouched pebble, causing you to quickly release the breath you’ve been holding. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud and he soon releases it to grumble out, “beautiful” right against your skin.
It makes you grin, the domestic nature of it. It blooms the overwhelming urge inside you to feel his lips against your own, so you guide him by his curls until you’re face to face.
He wastes no time claiming your mouth. The kiss is tender and deep, your tongues brushing each other softly, void of demand.
He's rambling, lips still pushed up against yours but far enough away for letters to slip through. They make a home inside your mouth and welcome them.
“Can you taste yourself? Fuck— got so caught up down there, felt like I was…”
You quiet him, making a shushing sound and petting his curls like he’s a small puppy, which is funny with the way he’s towering over you with his wide frame.
“So, so good,” he babbles on and presses tiny, chaste kisses to the sides of your mouth and cheeks.
“I know, I know, baby, you did so well. You're covered in me,” You coo, then lick a strip from his chin to his cheek in a teasing manner. You can taste yourself. It pulls an indolent smirk from his lips.
“Did I prove it? That I just couldn’t fucking stand being around you thinking id never get to have you like that,” he asks. It’s sweet.
“It’s a damn good start, Cal.”
Part 2 where he fucks you?
Also, if you liked this, requests open!
