shark vs the universe
DEAR READER
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Misplaced Lens Cap
PR's Tumblrdome
taylor price
styofa doing anything
Discoholic 🪩
izzy's playlists!
Acquired Stardust
Peter Solarz
Andulka
Sade Olutola
we're not kids anymore.
oozey mess
AnasAbdin
Game of Thrones Daily
Cosmic Funnies
🪼
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from France
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Finland
@laundry-basquiat
★ masterlist ★
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
caleb - the inevitable ** - unravel - what happens in vegas ** home for christmas **
vlad - the kiss - the wedding night ** - sad vlad
syd - home coming **
- requests wide open -
** = nsfw
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Nobody asked, but the group chat gals and I got our astrology caps on and came up with Syd March's Big 3 (not at a random, we picked his birthday, birth time and everything).
Syd March, b. November 11th, 1989, at 11:00 AM:
Scorpio Sun
Aries Moon
Capricorn Rising
I’m in love with it ♥ omfg
COLE | 2: miss june ‘75
summary: oh, girl I want to take you home and get down on my knees / in front of you, I really like the way you squeeze / my head between your thighs, the way your face turns red
Cole (Low Down, 2014) x female reader
tags: fingering and oral sex. that’s basically it, guys. eat it up ;-)
The rain outside your place has replaced the lazy jazz record now hissing quietly on the turntable.
You are settled deep under the heavy floral quilt. You are barely moving, holding a paperback open against your hip.
It’s been a month or two that your apartment became a space where Cole’s thoughts don't have to race, or where he isn't constantly scanning the exits. He sits near the foot of the bed, with the denim of his jeans cool against his skin. He fiddles with the few damp strands of his copper hair that keep falling from the useless elastic tie.
He then shifts, watching you intently. He notices the light that catches the delicate curve of your collarbone he’s since learned to kiss at random, when he cuddles up to you after a tough day, or when you looked so damn irresistible in the cigarette smoke clouding the space in his kitchen.
He still can't quite believe you are here with him, together, and so often at that. The initial, painful awkwardness he’s been carrying around like a second skin has softened into a comfortable weight, like a favorite jacket he’s lent you many times now, for you love his sense of style, even if he doesn’t understand why.
Soon, Cole reaches out slowly and with the back of his fingers he grazes your ankle under the thick fabric.
Granted, first time you slept in the same bed you were both a bit awkward about it, but then he touched you gradually, and ended up fingering you gently under the sheets before you both fell asleep. His heart nearly exploded back then.
That was at his place, on his worn mattress, and under his ugly scratchy blanket. It was fumbling and sweet, and he worried the entire time he was doing it wrong, and that his hands were too big, or that he smelled too much like stale cigarettes and practice room dust.
He doesn't need to worry about that now, though. He is clean, his head is clear, and the gentle contact of his hand on your leg feels solid and real.
Your eyes lift from the page and a warm smile he adores so much spreads across your face. You know what that touch means. You know he is gauging the distance, the mood, and the space between you. You set the book down, deliberately turning it spine-up on the bedside table.
"Hey," you murmur, giving him all the invitation he needs to stay, to move closer, and to keep touching.
Cole’s smile is small in response. It’s a shy curve of the mouth that makes the freckles across his nose bunch up. He slides onto the bed, crawling across the quilt to reach you, and his jeans rasp softly against the cotton. He lowers his body over you, letting his weight settle, and begins to kiss on you slowly and deeply, letting his breath and his saliva mingle with yours. He quickly realizes that he wants the noise of the room, of the rain, the record, and the distant hum of people outside to disappear, for he wants only you; and for his name to slip off your tongue like it does every single time he lets himself love you right.
Like you’re his girl. His first steady girlfriend.
Like you deserve.
Cole smiles at that sentiment and his hands lift from your hips to settle immediately on the sides of your face, palming your cheeks, for that’s what he does when he feels moved somehow. By you. Which he does often. You know now that this gesture serves as his anchor, his familiar grip that grounds the rush of a feeling, and a necessary check-in before the rush takes over. His thumbs trace the line of your jaw, and he angles his head back down, deepening the kiss until there's nothing left but the sound of his breathing against your flushed cheek.
His hands soon break away, but his gaze stays put, holding you as he slowly pulls his thin shirt up over his head catching on the copper strands of his hair before the fabric falls somewhere onto the floor by the bed. He's pale against the bright florals of the quilt, freckled and bony in the low light.
You love just how soft he looks.
You can’t help but move to pull his jeans down and begin to ease the denim past his hips when he stops you with a hand on your arm. He keeps the jeans, as still, it’s a last line of defense he doesn't quite need but isn't ready to give up either.
You decide not to press and instead, you reach for the quilt. The sheet slides down, and the sudden exposure of skin to the cool air makes you shiver once.
He watches the movement, absorbing the sight like he always does with you, whether you make him a cup of coffee, or reach out to hug him tight when he looks like he needs your open arms to calm his nerves, or when he knows you’re naked under the covers, because “the weather is smoldering.”
Then he moves against you, and soon you’re taking pleasure in his bare chest rubbing against your bare skin. The contrast is immediate as you feel the rough denim of his jeans and the shocking heat of his body pressed so close to you. He groans low in his throat. He feels large and slightly awkward, unsure where to put his weight, but utterly centered on you.
He shifts again, sliding down just enough that his face is near your shoulder, so that you can feel his breath warm on your neck.
He murmurs into your skin, and the words catch on a sigh: “You’re... so warm. Oh wow.”
His arms tighten around your ribs and he pulls you flush against his body. The rough fabric brushes your thigh as he presses his hips down, seeking your heat. His hand glides down your side, following the curve of your waist, then hooks over your hip, pulling your legs closer to his body.
He adjusts his position and presses the length of his side into the curve of your thighs.
"I can feel it," he mutters, speaking the thought without giving it time to filter. He shifts his weight, testing the feeling and the undeniable warmth that's radiating from between your legs and soaking through the heavy quilt. "You're getting so warm."
It means he isn't forcing this. It means your body is responding, and that the energy is shared, and for a moment, the buzzing anxiety in his head quiets completely, replaced by the simple, glorious confidence of shared heat. He closes his eyes and moves his hips again in a gentle, searching press.
He keeps his gaze locked on yours for a breath, looking for a simple dip of your chin and a softening of your mouth.
He leans forward, taking a moment to breathe before he lowers his head. He presses an open-mouthed kiss low on your belly, as if marking the boundary of the space he is about to enter. The dampness from the earlier shower and the rain outside is replaced by your own sweet, rising warmth, and that alone seems to snap his focus completely.
He lifts his head, but keeps his hand moving down. His knuckles are wide and pale against your inner thigh as his fingers spread, so large against your skin. He uses his thumb first and brushes gently, lightly across your wet heat, exploring the texture and finding the slick, certain path towards where you’re at your most vulnerable.
He whispers, and the words almost get lost in the linen of the pillow beside your head, for his voice is strained with the need to do everything right. "My girl."
His fingers are big, the tips thick and blunt, and he moves slowly, sliding one into your cunt. It is tight, blissfully slick, and his hand tremors once from the overwhelming rush of sensation that runs down his abdomen.
“You’re taking them so deep,” he whispers. “That’s it. Take a little more.”
He seems to marvel at the stretch, and the fact of being inside you; it’s endearing. His second finger follows, easing past the resistance, until two of his digits are fully pressed into your body, making you gasp for air.
He keeps them still for a second, existing inside the heat, feeling the immediate squeeze of your walls around his knuckles.
"Can I add one more? Yes? Great..." he mutters. He doesn't wait for your response anymore.
He shifts his weight again, and his eyes finally lift to meet yours, seeking out the pleasure he knows he needs to see there. He then begins to move his fingers, pressing against your walls.
He’s flushed, and smiling, and he bites on his full lower lip as he locks onto the simple, perfect feeling of friction and wetness under his fingertips. He curls his fingers then, finding a sensitive spot inside you, and the heavy pressure causes you to gasp.
He moves his wrist, twisting the large knuckles against your tightness, exploring the curves and the depth, intent on making that sound happen again, and again, and again.
Deep down, you can tell that he is waiting for a signal, a tell, or anything that confirms he isn't just fumbling in the dark.
As his wrist twists and his fingers bend, his middle finger finds a spongy spot inside of you, and he presses against it. You exhale sharply, and your hips then tilt minutely upwards in a sudden, involuntary motion.
“Oh, here? The right... spot here?” he whispers, utterly flushed.
He watches your mouth and sees the answer written there before the sound leaves your throat.
He is a drummer after all, relying on precise timing and instinct, and your body is giving him the right rhythm.
He pulls back, then presses again, more firmly, seeking the sweet resistance he has just found.
He’s the type to discover a treasure on accident, too. It feels like stumbling onto the perfect drum break, completely unplanned, yet undeniably correct.
“Oh... here? Oh—here, I get it,” he murmurs to himself and makes you chuckle.
He surely is the sweetest, seamlessly funniest boy you’ve ever met.
You shift underneath him, which ultimately pushes you deeper onto his fingers. You lift your hips, reaching for his hand with your body.
"Can you do that again? Please? Can you squeeze on my finger—? Yes, that’s it." He mumbles as he intensifies the curl that makes you whimper so sweetly against him, pressing into you with a lazy pressure, moving in strokes that quickly become relentless.
His hand is suddenly no longer shaking, now anchored by the beautiful, demanding need in your body.
He loves to love on you.
“I can feel you squeezing around me, fuck...” he whispers, feeling your walls contract and tighten around his knuckles, as if claiming his hand completely. The pressure is a welcome vise; a proof that this is all real, all you, and all him.
Cole soon leans down, and his long unruly hair spills forward in a curtain of waves that brush against your belly and the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The unexpected tickle of the strands makes you gasp and arch towards the heat of his blushy face.
He doesn't stop, but he twists his body, bringing his mouth close to your ear. His breath is hot and rapid.
“Mind if I kiss you there too?” he whispers earnestly. “I want to.”
He pauses the pressure just enough to lift his head, and his eyes travel down your body, past his working hand, to the tight, swollen clit of yours he finds there. He stares for a moment, genuinely captivated. “It’s so cute and tiny,” he mutters, and it comes out so clumsy and honest, that it almost makes you laugh.
You shift, reaching to grip his shoulders, wordlessly giving him the hint he needs.
He immediately lowers his head and peppers the small, sensitive nub with quick, soft kisses. The tiny puffs of air and the heat on his tongue make your walls clench even tighter around his fingers.
As he curls them inside, driving deep with a slow push, he pulls his mouth away from your center just long enough to whisper again, sincere and utterly misplaced in the moment.
“I want to make love to you one day, you know, when we... feel like it.”
A nervous, breathy giggle escapes him then. He laughs even as his fingers are jammed deep inside of you, pressing so hard you feel them in your guts, pushing you past the point of thought or control.
You know that it is the most intensely vulnerable statement he could possibly make, and you know at that moment that you love him. You love this shy, bright boy dearly, with all his quirks and insecurities, his gentle fingers, and his endearing smile, and even now as he works you so gingerly, ever committed.
He can soon feel the final, powerful squeeze of your body around his fingers. You pant, and you whimper, and you bite down on your knuckles against the hot, messy wave of pleasure that hits you when the tip of his tongue flicks your clit just right.
You reluctantly come down from your high as you take in the shape of him still glued to your shaky thighs. His forehead is beaded with sweat, and the damp copper hair clings to his neck.
Slowly, just as reluctantly, he pulls his fingers free. He quickly wipes his hand on the discarded edge of the quilt, and then abandons the effort entirely to slide forward, shucking the heavy denim of his jeans and tossing them onto the floor with a soft thump that sounds deafening in the sudden quiet.
He doesn't waste a second finding your side, pressing his sweaty, trembling body against yours, burying his face into the familiar, comforting curve of your neck and shoulder. He is suddenly heavy; a dead weight of exhausted relief.
"You don't have to talk," Cole sighs. He means it—he knows the feeling of being too full of noise and light to manage speech. He just needs the contact, and the undeniable proof that he is safe.
You shift your arm, gently reaching for the thick edge of the floral quilt and pulling it up, tucking the weight around both of you until you are cocooned in the low, humid light. After a breath, you turn your head to press your cheek against his damp hair.
"I'm back now," you murmur.
Cole’s arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He knows that this quiet is more precious than the loudest, fastest beat he could ever lay down.
He closes his eyes, and his breathing settles against your neck.
The hiss of the turntable continues for a moment longer, running silently across the empty label, before the needle finally snags and begins to skip, gifting you with the last, lazy rhythm of the evening.
You smile as you feel the total weight of Cole relax, so heavy and sweet, as the sound of tick-tick-tick fades into the deep, shared warmth of your breaths.
A rhythm.
Heart like a drum.
Your boy.
Under The Skin - Syd March x Misty Davenport (Fem!OC) | Part 2 - Early Infestation
Part 1 | Part 2
Summary : Misty Davenport, a former private investigator, sets out on a self-assigned mission to uncover the truth about The Lucas Clinic. Her copious research has led her to zone in on one particular scandal that, whilst closed, feels suspicious. As the disease grows in her body, so do her thoughts of Syd March, which threaten to create a dent in her investigation. However, she finds a way of using his incessant presence to her advantage
Tags : 18+ only minors do NOT interact, the borderline stalking is back, more tension, detailed sexual fantasies that most definitely includes : slight blood play, finger sucking, breast play, praise with a hint of mocking if you squint, subtle d/s dynamics if you look close enough, allusions to choking, misty being a freak in denial, subtle manipulation tactics, slight sickfic at the end
A/N : Phew back for Round 2! Wanted to get this out before Christmas for you wonderful, wonderful people. Tagging my usual girls in the freak discord chat @cornmine @solusipsum @laundry-basquiat @ianixela @userhannahgeist bcs I love you fucks so much <3
-------------------------------------------------
Two days had passed. Just as promised, her symptoms started to show. Thankfully, her symptoms treaded closer to that of a common cold, so she wasn’t rendered completely immobile. A relief for her, considering there was much to decipher from what she collected.
Unfortunately, it appeared to be the only relief she had.
Misty had been hunched over a laptop for the past 8 hours, scouring the internet for any tidbit of information that could help her in this investigation. After dragging herself through forum after forum (including ones that went back as far as 2002), she found very little that was actually useful. Just seemingly overwhelming praise of The Lucas Clinic – their efficiency, their intricate practice, their ability to offer exclusive experience. This was all Misty didn’t need to be told, as she can now verify it based on her own experience.
What was even more suspicious though, was that any possible trace of a dent within the company’s facade seemed to have been wiped clean from the internet. In her experience, this nearly always meant that these kinds of scandals were ones never made public, either due to writers and editors being paid off at best, or threatened at worst. No company was this flawless in their practices - especially not one as esteemed as The Lucas Clinic. There had to be something that slipped through the cracks.
After spending the hours of the previous day scanning and highlighting bits of it, the physical intel she had been able to gather offered her very little. The introductory pack seemed much like a standard corporate introductory letter - nothing but pleasant platitudes and advertising for the even more intense packages they had on offer, if that was even possible. The information consent form appeared to be at least slightly more revealing - The Lucas Clinic was very strict about never, under any circumstances selling their information to third parties. They were unlike many other companies in this regard - with most of them at the very least offering the client the chance to opt in. Again, it was difficult for Misty to not respect this in some way.
After some time searching through archives, she stumbled across a scanned newspaper clipping which detailed the case of the great Lucas Clinic Security Leak.
She had heard about this one.
The great Lucas Clinic Security Leak had taken place just the previous year. It resulted in the arrest of one Lucas Clinic employee Derrick Lessing, and a Vole & Tesser employee named Chloe Mann. In a never ending rivalry between the two companies, Marie Tesser had hired a prolific hacker by the name of M to enact a data breach on the Lucas Clinic. This exposed all of their files, including their inventory. The inventory files found that there was a significant enough amount of stock missing that did not align with what was initially claimed. This lead to the eventual arrest of Derrick Lessing, who was revealed to have had ties to the black market. He thought he mastered the act of manipulating loopholes, but he was caught in his tracks before he truly started.
Once he had been arrested however, Chloe Mann, a Vole & Tesser senior employee, published a statement claiming that they were the prolific hacker known as M. I mean - it made sense. If Vole & Tesser wanted to instigate conflict between companies, it would make the most sense to hire their own to attack opposition. She stated that she had took it upon herself to take down somebody like Derrick Lessing, who was deliberately exploiting a system that was created for the better for his own profit, and expose the “rotten pig carcass” of a human being he truly was. Despite being arrested for the security breach, she had been praised as a large scale hero in this story, with Derrick Lessing being the Wicked Witch of the West.
This case also caused The Lucas Clinic as a whole to be infinitely stricter with how they dealt with employee confidentiality. Misty remembers this case like a ghost of Christmas past. This explained the frankly nonsensical pieces of the information consent form she was able to collect - this policy also extended itself to their clients as well. That also made more logical sense than she would willingly admit to herself. Vole & Tesser would also be infinitely more stricter with their hiring process after all, instilling the complete opposite of the Lucas Clinic’s employee confidentiality.
However, this case always seemed off to her. Chloe Mann's arrest was no less than a month after Derrick Lessing's, and the insistence with which she claimed she was the hacker, despite the lack of evidence, was baffling. There was never a mass campaign for her innocence, yet there was never enough to prove her guilty. If she were to suspect so, Misty believed that Chloe had been forced to stand in for somebody else - the real M, who may still be out there. She had no way of knowing this, or any evidence but a hunch, but it was somewhere to start.
Finding somewhere to begin her search relieved Misty, but in this relief she began to feel dizzy. Her symptoms had been worsened by the mere fact that the heating in the apartment had gone, again. An unfortunately regular circumstance, but she took this as her signal to halt for the time. Glancing over at the digital clock on her desk, the time read 3:10AM. Staying up this late with the fever she had would make the symptoms worsen faster, and she could not afford for this to ravage her body in such a way. Slightly begrudgingly, she closed her laptop and filed away her intel in her desk drawer.
As she staggered into her bed, she took a quick side glance out of her window and immediately recognised that flame red top. In her usual routine, she halted her steps to observe his stature. He appeared both huddled and hunched over, shrinking into himself as if he were a prey animal attempting to shield itself from an undeniably stronger predator. The predator in question being any kind of attention, as he darted his head around at regular intervals, constantly on the lookout for anyone who could be watching. Where on earth could he be going that required him to be so guarded in the way he moved? She wondered.
Before she could register it, Syd snapped his head around just over his shoulder and his gaze bore itself directly at her. She’d been caught, or had he? It was hard to tell. Within seconds, Misty had drew her bedroom curtains closed and backed away from the window as if it was trying to attack her. It was mystifying how out of all the people she had encountered on missions, it was him that bore the highest likelihood of catching her. Whether learned or not, he had this knack for catching her off guard, and it scared her how easily he was able to do so. She had to tread much more carefully now.
Her adrenaline still peaking, she grabbed her chunky cardigan on the back of her desk chair, grabbed the aspirin that sat on the side of her bed and tucked herself in. Attempting to pop the aspirin was a struggle, given her hands were still shaking from the combination of her symptoms, the incessant cold of the apartment and getting caught in her pseudo stalking behaviour. Once she managed to obtain the pills from the packaging, she swallowed them down and instantly passed out on her pillow.
---------
She was there again, under those blinding white lights, in that very same chair.
Speak of the devil, and he will appear.
Syd March, once again, stood over her with the light touch of his fingers slowly guiding themselves down the front of her neck. She felt her nerve endings set alight with every caress, only amplified by the fact that his stare, once again, bore holes into her. Scanning her every slight movement, picking up on the increase of her pulse, the growing heat of her skin. Even in her dream state, Misty felt it impossible to hide from him. Not that she cared that much about it though.
His fingers slowly pressed down slightly on the base of her neck, just enough to leave her slightly breathless. Though he appeared to be the master of self control, she could hear his breathing become shaky. There was a strange comfort that came from not being the only party affected by this, but also a subtle joy.
Continuing their journey, Syd’s fingers travelled past her clavicle - an unexpected diversion from how the actual encounter that took place - and landed just above the top of her blouse. In a rare moment of hesitation from him, he felt her chest rise. His stare travelled upwards, scanning every place on her body he had crossed so far, memorising every single miniscule detail. By the second Misty locked eyes with him again, she sensed something within him shift. Still the same intensity, but now they clouded over with awe. A shift in the object of his devotion.
“Please, may I?”
“Do you even have to ask? Of course”
He began to meticulously undo the buttons of her blouse. Every accidental scrape of his fingertips against the skin of her clevage felt like torture, like she could burn alive and would be happy about it. The chill of the air wreaked havoc on her senses, attacking her on all sides. In many ways, Syd’s touch was the only thing that kept her grounded.
“Not wearing a bra, I see”, Syd smirked to himself. That alone was an indicator that he couldn’t wait to have more fun with her, and neither could she. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks out of embarrassment, but also between her thighs out of arousal.
Never had she been more turned on at this prospect - the most arousing experience of her life, and it was only partially real.
Once Syd had completely undone her blouse, he slowly pulled away the fabric from both sides, leaving Misty’s torso entirely open to him.
“You’re perfect. Completely perfect”. His voice was no more than a whisper, but just enough for her to luxuriate into its warm drawl, so willing to fall under. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and she knew it. On the edge.
Just as she was about to fall under, Misty felt a profound sting above her right breast. Her upper body jumped slightly as an involuntary reaction to the pain, causing Syd’s large palm to rest on her shoulder - an attempt to restrain her as much as it was to ease her. He leaned close to her, lips brushing against her ears.
“I know that hurt, but you took it so well. You were so good for me, and for that, you deserve to be worshipped”.
His warm breath that enveloped her, the rasp of his voice that set her nerve endings alight, the praise that made her dizzy. This was not a seduction, but an enchantment ritual. She couldn’t help the slight whimper that was pulled out of her mouth at that moment.
The pads of Syd’s fingers once again danced over the tops of her breasts, taking a swipe over the spot where she felt the sting. Wincing slightly, Syd hushed her gently, as if he were lulling a baby to sleep. He brought the tips of his fingers to her bottom lip, awaiting permission to enter her. In her hazed state, Misty poked her tongue out to taste what was on his fingertips. The taste was strong, almost metallic in nature.
It suddenly dawned on her that she was tasting her own blood.
This was something that should have disgusted her, but she only felt her arousal grow. Her lips parted slightly, giving his fingertips access. More than her own blood, she found herself wanting to taste more of him. Flattening her tongue, she encouraged him to push his fingers further into her mouth. Glancing upwards, she saw Syd. The usual cold, calculated intensity of his impossibly pale face was now replaced with a man who looked close to exploding. His entire face was flushed crimson, his jaw clenched impossibly tight and his eyes drooping, solely focused on the sensation of her tongue on his fingers. He was as lost as she was.
“Enjoying how you taste? Without even letting me try? How mean”. His state clearly did not stop him from teasing her “A shame, honestly. You look so pretty taking my fingers like this”.
Bringing his face as close to hers as he could, he whispered onto her face, “Its my turn now” before placing a soft kiss on her cheek. It landed like a dare, a promise and a threat all at once. If her mouth wasn’t occupied with his fingers almost at the back of her throat, there was not a single doubt in her mind she would’ve been begging him by now.
He dragged his lips slowly downwards across her face and neck, placing soft kisses at regular intervals that left Misty’s skin as close to burning as his own. The combined feeling of his blazing skin and the soft caress of his lips made her lose the ability to think properly. She continued to swirl her tongue around his fingers in an attempt to stay grounded, but the way he would moan into her skin drove her ability to think even further away. The ultimate push and pull.
After what felt like an eternity, she felt his lips hovering over the wound on her breast, heavily breathing in a way that expressed to her just how much he was really holding back. Dropping to his knees beside her, he suddenly removed his fingers from her mouth and moved that hand down to squeeze her right breast. Her body jumped in response, he used this as an excuse to drag his tongue over the wound, savouring all of the blood that was at the surface.
“Just as divine as I thought you would be. I need to taste more of you”. Syd’s tongue traced its way down across her left breast onto her nipple, collecting the blood that had fallen downwards on the journey. Encasing her nipple with his lips, he gently traced the tip of his tongue around it before dragging his tongue back upwards to the wound, lapping at it like a starved kitten while he used his fingers to draw gentle circles around her other nipple.
Misty’s brain had already malfunctioned by this point. The world no longer existed, only Syd - the touch of his hands, the heat of his skin, the feel of his mouth, his praise. Just him and the pleasure he was giving her. She was an altar, and he was a devout disciple worshipping at her.
She absentmindedly snatched the hair tie out of his hair, causing the copper red strands to cascade past his shoulders and onto her the sensitive skin of her stomach. Grabbing him by the back of his head, she pulled his mouth closer onto the wound. She found herself needing more of him, all of him. This caused Syd to fully cover the cut with his lips and press his tongue down harder onto it. Multiple waves of euphoria surged through Misty all at once, and it wasn’t long before that euphoria peaked into a concoction of feral ecstasy. Gripping Syd’s hair impossibly tightly, a loud groan escaped from her mouth into the air as her body trembled with its release.
She loosened her grip on Syd’s scalp entirely, and fell limp into the chair. Syd removed his mouth from her chest and stood up. Holding her face with both of his hands, Syd forced Misty to look at him. His face was still flushed, his breathing was still heavy, but his eyes were blown wide open, as if he were a predator animal zoning in to attack on his prey. His flame red hair no longer maintaining the uniform elegance of its usual state, now looking like the untamed mane of a lion, sweeping across the front of his face just leaving enough room for his stare to peek through and pierce through her own. His lips stained with her blood, with traces of it falling down his chin, as if he’d just torn an animal apart with his mouth alone. He looked impossibly beautiful like this, as undone and feral as she had been.
Pushing their foreheads together, he whispered against her lips, “you were unbelievably perfect. I fear you might be addictive”. Then, he crashed his mouth onto hers with a ferocity that aptly matched one of a starved animal. Pulling herself into the kiss, Misty wrapped her arms around his neck, matching his intensity. It wasn’t long before she felt the tip of his tongue prod at her lips, and she was only too eager to allow him access. The metallic taste of her blood on his tongue overtook every sense she had, and she found herself losing her breath once again.
She could have lived in this scene forever.
-----
“There is no way in hell that just happened”, Misty thought to herself the second she gained consciousness. Her clothes stuck to her body like melted candy, her breathing was fast and shallow like she’d just ran a marathon. That was not the dream she expected to have whatsoever, let alone the person that appeared in it. I mean, she was injected with a disease obtained from Hannah Geist, it would make the most sense for Misty to have dreamt about her. So why on earth was it him? She dragged herself up in her bed to gather her thoughts.
She wished she had some kind of dream journal at times like these. Mostly due to the corner of her brain that was insatiably obsessed with knowing why, but in cases like these, it might just be something she would like to remember, possibly even refer to. Yes, she found Syd alluring and mysterious, and she would be a horrible liar to deny that she was drawn to him. She just never expected to have a dream that intense about somebody she had only really met once, and even to say they “met” was a stretch in her mind. She forced her brain to ignore the obvious answer.
Glancing over at the clock, she saw that it was 9:30am. Not that much sleep, she thought, but now her brain was too awake for her to even consider getting a few more hours, even if it was a Saturday. Reaching into her bedside table to obtain her in ear thermometer, she placed the metal nub gently inside her ear and waited for it to give a reading.
One beep. That meant it was normal, but Misty saw that it was only just 37°C. She still had to be careful, considering her limbs still felt like lead and her mouth was still slightly raw. Taking initiative and thinking it best to clear her head through other methods. Ambling slowly out of bed and into the doorway, she grabbed the coat on the stand beside her, slipped on her trainers and grabbed her keys. A walk around the apartment complex should suffice, since she didn’t have to fully dress and frankly didn’t feel like it very much. She slipped on and zipped up her coat, unlocked her door and stepped outside, making sure to lock her apartment door behind her. The almost arctic breeze hit her face instantly, even on the landing, so she pulled on her hat and gloves and sped walk down the stairs.
By the time she hit the bottom of the stairwell, she could feel her head begin to make room. Despite her symptoms laying dormant with any chance of them rising, she could tell that the blast of cold air she felt blew a gust through her brain, clearing away any scattered matter in the depths of her mind. She concluded she would get straight back to researching once she got back.
Unfortunately for her, the second she stepped out of the main door, she saw someone leaning against the wall of the building. Probably the last person she would want to see right now. Dwarfed by his long, black coat and looking as shrunken in as he appeared the night before - fearing any kind of attention but at the same time secretly wishing it would come. His hair fully undone, falling over his face like draped curtains, an even greater attempt to hide himself from the world. Something about Syd March in this state resembled a scared kitten, a far cry from the man she saw back at the clinic a few days ago. Misty found him strangely endearing in this state, like he was someone to protect rather than be intimidated by.
Momentarily, her investigator brain took over, and thought this would be a great time to approach him. His guard was most likely down, so that lessened the likelihood of being super observant. This would partially be out of curiosity, but if she could get any useful information out of him, that would make it all the better. Let the act begin.
With new found confidence in tow, she marched down the stairs and pattered across the front lawn to reach him.
“All by yourself in this cold?”
An abrupt opening, for sure, but it was worth a try given how unmovable he appeared. To Misty’s pleasant surprise, he did appear to be caught off guard - his eyes snapped in the direction he heard her voice coming from, as if he was a deer that had been caught in the headlights of a truck driver. It was obvious to her that he was not the kind to expect company, and probably even shied away from it, much like he did any kind of attention. His eyes followed her as she stood next to him against the wall
“Could ask the same for you. Besides, I’m used to it”. His voice sounded hoarse and raw, like he was sicker than she was.
“I’m just out here for some air. I just needed to refocus myself, and spending time outside helps”. She leaned her head back against the wall, slightly exposing her neck. Syd’s eyes zoned in on both her jawline and neck, wondering what that would feel like in his grip. Before he could let the thought run away with him, he turned his eyes forward and quickly grabbed a cigarette from his pocket. Lighting it with visibly shaky hands, he let the taste of the nicotine overwhelm his senses and any other thoughts that could have risen up.
He decided to break the silence. “You shouldn’t be outside. Its almost freezing, and given I remember you from The Lucas Clinic on Wednesday and what you were injected with, this isn’t the greatest call to be making”.
It was Misty’s turn to be caught off guard. She did not expect Syd to recognise her at all. What she could remain unaware of was the quiet thrill that permeated through Syd’s being at seeing her again. For the past two days, he could not get the image of her in the clinic out of his mind. This caused a series of daydreams that involved the pair of them in even more compromising positions than that. How she would react to his touch, how she would feel under it, how she would sound, how she would look…it drove him to the brink. He was well aware that he became easily obsessed, but it had never been this instant for him before. He wanted her all to himself, and equally, he wanted her to want him all to herself.
Misty delivered a response that was as truthful as she could give without the risk of letting her true intentions slip. “I’ve spent most of the last few days in bed, but also strangely restless”. A half truth, that Syd could probably call her out on. After all, he did see her watching from her window last night. “I’m okay now, I just hope they don’t worsen”.
After this comment, she heard Syd reach into his pocket for something. What he pulled out was a regular clinical orange pill bottle. Though it was a standard sized one, it was dwarfed by the size of his palm. He held his hand with the pill bottle out in her direction, still unable to directly look at her. “Here, you should take these”.
Slightly thrown off, Misty took the pill bottle out from his palm, doing her best to stave off the cold touch of his freckled hands. She held the bottle in her own hand, and gazed at it inquisitively. “What are these?”.
“Very strong antibiotics. If the symptoms get any worse, take them and see what happens. If you need more, I know people who can get them for you. Same with the immunisation vaccine”.
An interesting turn of events, she thought. Who are these “people” he knows? Could this be a lead to information that might help her? Regardless, she sniffed a lead like the way a shark would smell blood. Unlike the shark though, she would have to lie and wait - she needed him less guarded than this. She shoved the pills into the depths of her coat pocket.
“Thanks, really. That's kind of you”. A genuine response from her. Based on external appearances, she would have never expected Syd to be this way. His mannerisms certainly indicated that he was not like this with everyone, so why her in particular? Was it because he suddenly felt responsible because they were neighbours, or did he have a soft spot for her based on their brief meeting two days ago? It all felt strange. Not that she had never experienced a stranger's kindness, but this was different. She almost lost track of what she was listening for in this conversation. Though she was looking right at him, he was still as hard to read as ever. As still as a marble statue.
“Just doing what I can”. Said so casually, like it was just part of his method. Maybe it was just nothing more than that, so she decided to drop it.
“I saw you up late last night. I don’t know if you caught me, staring out of my window”. She stuttered as if she were a child admitting to have stolen sweets from a jar. “I’m sorry if I spooked you out slightly, I was just wondering where you were going. I’ll try to mind my own business in the future”. Every single thing she said was true, except for the last part. She knew the risk that came with broaching this, but sometimes, the route one is most scared to take just also happens to be the one they must.
Syd turned his head towards her, finally looking into her eyes. Once again, he looked like he was trapped in something of his own making and was trying to escape it. “So it was you”, said with absolute confidence.
It was now Misty's turn to stare at the ground in shame. There was no way of telling how he’d respond to this admission, especially considering he saw her. She jammed her hands into her coat pockets, she shouldn’t have brought that up. She huddled into the warmth of her jacket as best as she could, but she was still shivering.
Syd softly chuckled at this. “It’s okay. I was a little bit freaked out, but given how you responded I could tell you were slightly embarrassed”. Almost instantly, the air felt looser around the pair, and Misty felt the tension in her shoulders ease significantly. Despite her knowledge around navigating such situations, she could still get nervous on occasion. She was never the most flawless investigator, but she got the job done.
With that relief settled, she could still feel herself shiver from the cold, maybe it was time for her to go indoors. “Well, I should be heading back indoors. You’re not half bad to talk to, you know?”.
She caught a glimpse of Syd quietly smiling, a rare crack in his normal demeanor. “You’re not half bad either, actually”, he responded. “I should probably be getting back indoors as well, it's been a long night”. Misty held back the urge to inquire more - the art of the game was something she remained true to. However, she saw another possible opening.
“Is there heating in your apartment? As in, do you own a separate room heater?”
Syd looked at her as if fireworks had just exploded in his face. “No, why?”
“I was just asking. I own one that I haven’t put on yet, but I could very much do given the central system is down. Maybe you could come back to mine and warm up there for a bit, before heading back to yours?”. It was an offer that would be moronic to turn down. Besides, having him around whilst she did more research might prove to be beneficial. Even if she was incapable of extracting any information from him, it would still be nice to have some company.
“Normally, I would say no. But given that I’m sick right now, it could do me some good”, he admitted sheepishly. Internally however, a sense of twisted glee rose within him.
—---
The pair of them stepped inside her apartment, still shuddering visibly from the cold. Despite this, they both shrugged off their jackets and hung them up on the pegs next to the door. In the midst of taking off her shoes, Misty momentarily glanced over at Syd, who was now shaking more than she was. Concern seeping into her system, she took off a glove and placed a hand on his forehead.
“Oh my god, you’re burning up. Let’s get you to lie down. I usually have the heater in my room.” She maintained a vice grip on Syd’s arm, practically dragging him down the hallway to her room. Anyone from the outside looking in would think Misty was kidnapping him in some way instead of attempting to help him. Well, the truth lay somewhere in the middle, but she didn’t like seeing anyone seriously hurt or in pain.
Finally reaching her room, Syd all but fell onto the edge of her bed, his legs no longer able to hold him up. This gave Misty ample time to plug in her room heater and set it on a warm enough temperature for the room to warm the whole room equally. She ripped off the large chunky cardigan and draped it around Syd’s shoulders, “here, this should keep the chill off while the room warms up”. Syd, not having the energy to defy her, placed his arms into the sleeves one at a time.
Sitting next to him on the edge of her bed, Misty noticed that he looked even more vulnerable than he looked outside. More so than a scared kitten, he resembled a stray one. The strands of his hair hung over the front of his face like jungle vines, his eyes were even droopier than normal, like he would drop off to sleep at any moment. Not to mention he still remained hunched over like he was shielding himself. He looked as beautiful as he did in her dream.
Just as that thought passed through her mind, Syd toppled sideways on the bed, with his face in her lap. He was completely deflated, but then she remembered the likelihood of him having been awake all night. He was probably more tired than she was, so Misty let him lay there for a while. She pushed his hair back from his face, exposing his freckled face that ran all the way down his neck. To her, they almost resembled the beauty of the constellations in the night sky - chaotic and untameable. How badly she wanted to count them at that moment, but she didn’t want to disturb him when he looked so peaceful.
After a while, she gently lifted him off of her, stood up from her bed and tucked him under her bedcovers. To her shock, he didn’t stir once. A stray kitten is also a sleepy one, she mused to herself and smiled. She reached into the top of her wardrobe and pulled out a thick, knitted blanket to give Syd some extra warmth as he slept soundly. Once she was sure he wouldn’t stir, she threw on another cardigan from her wardrobe, ran to grab the antibiotics from her coat pocket and back to her room. Quietly closing the door, she noticed it was exactly as she left it - with the intel in her desk drawer, her notebooks piled in a corner and her laptop sat squarely in the middle.
With this knowledge, she sat down. Not wanting to risk stirring Syd with noise, she decided to work on a summary of her research that she had gathered and what to do next. Being sure to type as slowly as possible, she devised that her next course of action would be to build further trust with Syd somehow, so that maybe he could spill any useful information to her. As a Lucas Clinic employee, he was bound to have something. She thought it would be easier said than done, but given how they were neighbours alongside the current fact that he was asleep in her own bed right now, it now seemed possible.
She still missed a piece of the puzzle - it would be all too easy to break somebody who was completely, utterly and wholly obsessed with her.
-------
As always, any kind of feedback is welcome
Home For Christmas
a/n: an angsty little holiday plot with a happy little ending merry december friends and freaks! also exclusively listened to this song while writing so...!
warnings: fem!reader, pinning, angst, situationship, sex, porn with plot, semi public sex MINORS DNI
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The chill in the usually sweltering Texas air was always welcome, though tonight it felt sharper. Strings of flickering fairy lights draped across lamp posts and shop awnings, making the downtown square sparkle with a hollow kind of intention.
Tonight was the party. The big one that arrived every December. Everyone from the local studio would be there, decking the halls with garland, lining sound booths with liquor, and filling recording boxes with a haze of smoke and laughter. You’d been behind the mixing board since high school, a position secured by a local engineer and your own steadfast insistence that this was the dream.
Over the years, you’d collected it all: the strong opinions of local bands, the free vinyl, the weed. In rare, dazzling cases, you even earned their time. Their kinship. You had it made- getting paid for your passion while the world handed you free things. Weed, vinyl, and the temporary warmth of friends.
But you hadn’t seen him in a few of years. Caleb had been working on projects. Working on himself. Or whatever a man does after a substantial breakup from a relationship that was never even official.
It was always something with you two. The late nights at the pub. The car rides home that ended with both of you squeezed into the passenger seat. Those mornings you’d wake to find his body tangled with yours. You moved through life like magnets, unable to work against the force of the pull- compelled closer at every wedding, birthday, and funeral. Brushing knuckles and sharing glances. The nights you recorded his music and crashed in the studio together. You woke up to fights about nothing that were actually about every single thing you never said.
Then came the big move. The day he loaded the last of his things into a van. He kissed you like he wished he didn’t have to go- yet he drove off without a goodbye.
He had been home for a couple Christmases, since. Or at least that’s what you heard, through the grapevine. Thank God his parents lived a few hours away now. Thank God he wasn’t kicking around the pub. Thank God he always booked a flight back to L.A. before each New Year- or so you heard.
///
The studio was a buzz with bands and girlfriends and roadies from neighboring musical realms. Someone was drumming out the beat to a Christmas classic tune, and another set of friends were practicing their screams into a microphone that had yet to actually be turned on. Beer and whiskey were passed around with the desperate generosity of holiday gifts. The walls, usually built to absorb sound, seemed to buckle under the weight of the screaming laughter.
You were floating, suspended between the joyous noise and your own growing social fatigue, when the air near the doorway blustered a little colder.
“Look who I talked into coming!”
The shout belonged to an unfamiliar boy, a blur of holiday cheer, who was enthusiastically yanking a sleeve into the room. He was a frantic narrator, telling the person attached to the jacket sleeve how anxious he was to introduce him to the new faces in town. Then, Caleb was there, shifting into the light.
There was no time to brace yourself, no room to retreat. As the crowd swarmed him, their greetings became a muffled, underwater roar. They were only feet away, yet they sounded miles beneath the surface. It was an involuntary collision. You stood anchored in the center of the room by the cold obligation of politeness, forced to inhabit a role in whatever interaction was about to unfold.
“This is someone who works here, I think,” The unfamiliar and unaware boy- too drunk and eager- finished, trading your name for Caleb’s. And there he was. Those bright eyes gleaming into yours just the same as they had in years past, his once-bony figure now warmed by time and age. His copper hair was a tangled frame for a face that looked like a memory come to life.
Caleb stood tall before you. He wasn’t quite laughing, but he was biting back a grin that refused to reach his pale, distant eyes. He was simply present, soaked in the impossible irony of the moment.
A beat too long hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The boy glanced between you, a flicker of confusion furrowing his brow. That tiny spark of scrutiny was all it took for Caleb to decide to play along.
“It’s very nice to make your acquaintance,” Caleb eased out. His voice was a gentle drawl- entirely too soft, entirely too familiar for the formality of his words. He extended a hand for you to take.
Maybe it was the beer blurring the edges of your composure, or perhaps the reflex of years spent performing for an audience, but a sharp, knowing grin broke across your face. You raised your hand into his, completing the performance.
His fingers closed around yours. The contact was brief, firm, and electric. A simple greeting that felt like the renewal of an old, complicated contract.
Then, he let go. Your hand dropped, leaving a phantom heat where his palm had been. Before a real word could break the manufactured silence, the crowd swept him away toward the mixing desk, gesturing excitedly at the gear. The moment was swallowed by the room’s ambient roar.
You didn't wait. Adrenaline overrode the fatigue as you bolted, your legs carrying you to the furthest corner of the studio, tucked away near a dusty supply closet. But it wasn’t enough.
You needed air, space, and a moment where the overwhelming past couldn't reach out and touch your present. You grabbed your worn leather jacket and slipped out the back door, trying to keep your movements casual and quiet. Like nothing was amiss, like you were just stepping out for a smoke. Just stepping out.
The alley air was sharp, cold, and clean. You leaned against the rough brick, pulled a cigarette from your pocket, and lit it. The first long drag of nicotine was a grounding force, a small, selfish luxury you allowed yourself. For a few glorious puffs, you were alone, watching the smoke dissolve into the chilly night, the frantic energy of the studio scene finally beginning to recede.
Then the door creaked open behind you. You didn't need to turn around. You knew the weight of his shadow, the precise rhythm of his footsteps in the silence.
Caleb cleared his throat once. “Got a light?”
You let out a puff of smoke toward the sky and rolled your eyes- a gesture that was simultaneously exhausted, annoyed, and deeply, achingly familiar. Caleb leaned back next to you. You didn’t say a word. You just lifted the cheap lighter, and turned enough for him to bend closer.
The brief tilt of your body put him right in your peripheral vision, close enough to smell the winter air clinging to his sweater. He leaned in, his fingers brushing yours as he cupped his hands around the new flame.
The cigarette caught. He inhaled, then straightened up.
The two of you stood side-by-side, smoking in perfect silence. It wasn't awkward. It was just the continuation of a thousand late-night conversations that never happened in words. The intimacy of it felt like a dangerous undertow, pulling you toward a place you thought you had securely navigated away from.
He broke the quiet first, his voice low and casual, aimed at the brick wall more than at you.
“What have I missed?”
You took a drag, watching the ember glow. “Hard to say.” You breathed back. You wanted to say ‘Me I hope.’ But that’s not how you did things. That’s not how this worked, despite your wishing it was.
You both stood there, the silence stretching taut between you, holding the potential for everything you’d always left unsaid. It felt like you were standing on the edge of the chasm you’d spent years avoiding. This was the moment- the one where someone asked the real question. ‘Why did you leave? Why did you let me go?’
“Why are you on this side of town?” You managed to piece the question together like a riddle. Like you were simply curious about his answer, and not desperate for it to be ‘I came back for you.’ His parents lived hours away.
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice lilted back, smoke following his words. And they hurt. Because if it was for you, that meant you didn’t matter. And if it wasn’t for you, it didn’t matter. And if it was neither, he still wasn’t letting you in. He still wasn’t breaking apart. The game played on.
With that, heflicked his cigarette butt into the wet asphalt where it instantly sizzled out.
You watched him turn away and step back toward the door, leaving you standing alone in the cold. It wasn't until he disappeared back into the warmth and chaos that you realized your own hand was still clenched, ready to ask the question that would have finally broken the pattern.
You took one last, deep drag. Then you flicked your own butt and followed him inside, the exhausting familiarity of the failure settling back over you like a heavy coat.
///
Christmas came. Familiar and fatigued. The usual meals. The usual sweaters. The usual family getting into the same tired arguments and trading neatly wrapped packages like that made up for everything.
The day was long and the night eased in cold. Unusually cold even for Texas. By the time you made it back to your apartment, a hot shower was enough to ease the tension in your shoulders and the chill bumps on your skin. As you stepped out of the steam filled room and stumbled into the comfort of loose clothes and a warm bed- your phone rang.
All the tension you’d worked away from your body coiled back tighter at the sight of Caleb’s name lighting up the screen in your hand.
You stared at the screen until it nearly timed out, your heart kicking against your ribs. He never called. He texted your group chat, maybe, or liked a Facebook post once in a blue moon, but he never actually called. You answered before the final ring.
“Hello?” Your voice was tight, thin.
“It’s me. Merry Christmas.” Caleb’s familiar drawl was quieter than last time you heard it, edged with a weariness that had made your chest flutter. “Listen something happened,”
You fixed your posture, your elbows holding up your shoulders, the holiday fatigue forgotten, phone pressed tighter to your ear.
"What's wrong?"
“My… car just died. Completely died. I was leaving our grandparents near Dallas, headed home, but it seized up a block past the old bowling alley on Elm.”
That intersection was miles and miles from his usual route. But only a few short blocks from your place. He was close enough to walk to, too far from anyone else he knew.
“The transmission blew or something, I don’t know. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, and none of the tow companies are answering on Christmas night, or they’re quoting me ridiculous rates.” He sounded worn down, defeated, and truly apologetic for needing your help. There was no excitement in his voice, only necessity.
“And you don’t know anyone who lives close to rescue you.” You finished for him, the familiar pattern of his life problems suddenly overlapping with yours again.
“I really don’t. Your place is just right there... I’m sorry. I know it’s a holiday. And I know… Fuck it, I’ll pay you to come get me. I don’t want to sleep in the intersection on Christmas.” His humility felt genuine, making it impossible to refuse. This wasn't a setup; it was a crisis.
“Keep your filthy money. I’ll come get you.” You mused, relenting.
You threw a coat on over your lazy pajamas and headed for the door.
///
You drove, watching the time change from eleven to midnight- tension radiating off you like heat. You found Caleb exactly where he said he’d be; by a large, dark and dirty car listing awkwardly at the curb, its hazard lights blinking a mournful, solitary rhythm. He was standing outside, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked up as you pulled alongside, and the relief in his eyes was almost painful to see.
“Thanks,” He muttered, as he slid into your passenger seat. “Seriously. That was going to be a long walk, three towns away.”
“You’re lucky I still have a little Christmas spirit left.” You shot Caleb a sidelong glare, your mouth barely forming the faintest of grins. You shifted gears and drove home. You muttered that you could help him find a tow in the morning, keeping your tone neutral, keeping your eyes on the road and your knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“I know I’m probably not the person you want to be spending this day of the year with.” Caleb mumbled back, voice a low rumble, his face turned toward the passenger window. “Thank’s for the rescue.” He let the words fall between you like an olive branch. You weren’t sure what to do with them.
“Yeah, yeah.” You sighed, eager to settle back into silence. Eager to get home, to put a wall between you. It was better that way. Seeing him was too weird. Too… nice. His smile was too familiar. You’d spent the past few years trying not to think so. His eye’s were too pale. You’d spent the last few years trying to forget.
When your car parked outside of your apartment, you walked ahead of Caleb, quick enough to create distance. Slow enough to encourage him to follow your lead. You unlocked your apartment door and threw your keys onto the coffee table, a mess with magazines and candles. You kept moving, because you couldn’t stop to face whatever this was, not yet. You swam through the tension toward the kitchen, pouring two glasses of whiskey. That would be your olive branch.
Caleb eased into your cluttered kitchen, looking around the corner like you might be hiding to jump out and attack at any moment. Maybe on a different day. Tonight you were simply waiting there to extend him a shot of alcohol. It was Christmas after all.
Caleb took the shimmering crystal glass from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours in the transaction, that same fiery buzz following his touch. He offered you a pressed smile, and a look into his seemingly exhausted and apologetic eyes.
“Thank you. Again.”
Caleb breathed a nod, searching your gaze like he was trying to figure out if you believed that he was grateful.
You took a slow, thoughtful sip of the alcohol in your grasp. Your eyes drifted over his face- the weariness in his eyes, familiar way a stray lock of coppery hair always fell just over his left eyebrow. You caught yourself staring and quickly turned your gaze toward the kitchen sink. The silence was thick, woven with the weight of all the words you couldn't say and the proximity you couldn't shake.
“I can get you something to change into.” You pointed to the hallway bathroom, trying to keep your tone instructional. Not invitational. He seemed to understand, nodding like he was accepting your words as transactions. Keeping his gaze fixed unfocused, uncaring. Maybe.
After your swallows of Johnny Walker, you waved Caleb down the hall. Found him some clothes, an old concert shirt you’d won at a long ago studio raffle. You watched him shut and lock the interior door, and turned away like this was a normal every day event.
You paced around the living room while the sound of the shower rippled past the closed bathroom door. You finally ended up in your room, sticking your phone back on the charger and reminding yourself to breathe. It wasn’t like there was a monster in your home. Just… beautiful, complicated Caleb. You’d dealt with him before. You could do it again, just for tonight.
When he emerged from the bathroom, steam and silence followed. He was only two steps away from your bedroom. One step led him to stall in the door frame, keeping his gaze distant. Keeping his jaw set.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, watching as he took another tentative step. Caleb’s restlessness seeped out with each dragging step into your bedroom. Like he hadn’t seen your posters before. Like he hadn’t slept in your bed. He briefly scanned the frames on your wall and quilt on your bed, then brought his hands to his head, brushing his damp coppery hair back with a frustrated gesture.
“I owe you more than just a thank you,” He said, his pretty voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. Something like regret bubbling forward. “You didn’t have to get me. You didn’t have to let me stay.”
You crossed your arms tight around your middle, adjusting your posture on the bed. “My car still runs, and it’s Christmas. It’s what people do.”
“No,” Caleb insisted quietly. “It’s what you do. I would’ve been on the side of the road for hours if you hadn’t answered. It’s a lot to ask of someone who... who I left.” The word left hung there, sharp and heavy.
You stared hard at him. “What do you want, Caleb? It’s two o’clock in the morning, and you’re stuck in my room. Just tell me.”
“I just wanted to make sure things were okay between us,” He admitted, turning to face you fully, his figure hesitant, his voice filled with cautious hope.
You shot your brows up, biting back a sharp laugh. “Things are never okay between us, Caleb! They’re either tense and unresolved, or we’re hundreds of miles apart. And I’m not the one who left. You say that like I fucked everything up. Like I made things confusing.”
“You certainly helped keep things confusing,” Caleb retorted back, past a grimaced frown. “The silence. The.. the nothing!”
As he spoke, you rose to your feet, casting him a glance of disbelief, stepping closer as if you heard him closer, clearer, that what he said would make more goddamn sense.
“Don’t pin this all on me!” You pointed a finger toward your chest, watching Caleb watch you step closer, like he couldn’t believe you had free will to bend your knees in his direction. “For years, we did the car rides, the late nights, the close calls, and the fights about nothing that were actually about the fact that you refused to commit to anything! You made it a problem by being the first one to walk away without a goodbye, remember?”
He pushed his hair back again, his eyes flashing pale fire, taking one step closer. He was toe to toe with you now. “Yeah well you can’t fault me for walking away in silence when we never talked about it in the first place! You never opened your mouth unless you were eye level to my dick.”
“And God knows you never opened your mouth to complain about that!” You shot back, your breath fanning out hot, your pulse raised in rage and regret. Your eyes flashing hurt into his.
You were locked in a battle over blame, both equally guilty of refusing to confront the truth when it mattered. You both stared, breathing heavily, letting your words hit like bullets. At your final word, Caleb took a slow, deliberate breath, visibly forcing himself to step back from the edge. He didn't answer the accusation. Instead, he simply looked down at the floor, accepting the sudden necessity of silence.
“You… should get some sleep,” He whispered, the command directed entirely at his desired finality of the argument, not the late hour. And he started to withdraw, sucking anger back from his eyes, a sheen of something more melancholic settling across his unfocused features. And it made your heart race with unease.
“Caleb…” You eased, your tone a white flag. He shifted his shoulders at your silent call. And after a beat of stillness, it was like before. Like magnets. Like your hand was pulled by a force, to reach out to him. “It’s Christmas.”
He let his eyes set on your limp, waiting fingers, a lazy but determined gesture. And maybe he couldn’t help the pull either. Because his knuckles brushed against yours. And his fingers eased into your palm. And all at once you gripped each other’s hands in a loose hold.
“Yeah. Okay.” Caleb nodded, like this interaction was obligatory. Like it was the right thing to do. You weren’t sure if it was. You were just sure about him, right now. So in the darkness of your room, in the late hour, after all these years, you pulled Caleb toward your bed like you always used to do.
Except this time, something shifted. As you fell into either side of the bed and turned to meet in the middle, the tight wire of tension that had stretched between you for years went slack. It didn’t just break; it eased, settling into the mattress like dust.
When he reached out, his hand found the curve of your waist with a devastating accuracy. He didn’t have to look. He knew exactly where you began. He pressed a kiss to the fullness of your lips, a slow, heavy thing that tasted of whiskey and exhaustion. His tongue tangled with yours like before. Pressing into your mouth without pause.
It felt like giving up. It felt like giving in.
But it didn't make sense. You had been here before, tangled in these same sheets, sharing these same slow, rhythmic kisses. Yet tonight, the air in the room felt different. The ghost of your argument still vibrated in the corners, but the anger had been replaced by a quiet, desperate lucidity.
There was no talk. No questions about where he had been or why he had left. Instead, there was just the friction of skin against skin. Your lips on his pulse. His fingers tangled in your hair. There was just him pushing you over, pulling your panties to the side with careful fingers, slow, like he’d stop if you just said the word. But you wouldn’t dare. You arched your hips. Back against his, a silent plea.
There was the stretch of him inside of you, like coming home. There was his moan in your ear, like a song only you could get him to sing. There was the sound of his ragged breath against your neck. As he rocked into you, slow, sleepy.
The intimacy rose between you like a tide- sudden, unacknowledged, and overwhelming. You moved together with the muscle memory of a long-term habit. Every touch was a silent confession. Each thrust of his hips into yours was a way of saying all the things that had nearly choked you both for years.
You let yourself sink under the weight of him, your fingers curling into the fabric of the old concert shirt you’d lent him. It was a dangerous kind of comfort. You knew that when the sun came up, the car would be towed and the silence would likely return. But for now, in the sanctuary of the dark, you allowed yourself to believe in the lie of the moment.
///
The morning arrived with a cruel, gray light that stripped the room of its midnight mercy. The Texas cold had turned brittle, frosting the edges of the windowpane and casting the bedroom in a flat, clinical hue. When you opened your eyes, the warmth of the night before felt like a fever dream that had broken, leaving you shivering and hollow.
The tension returned, not as a wire this time, but as a leaden weight. It sat on your chest, ten times heavier than it had been at the studio. Every sound was magnified: the rustle of the sheets as Caleb shifted away, the distant hum of a heater that couldn't quite keep up, and the sharp, rhythmic vibration of his phone on the nightstand. The tow truck was coming. The world was resuming its orbit, and you were no longer the center of his.
Breakfast was a series of avoided glances and the hollow clink of ceramic mugs. There was no whiskey to blur the edges now, only the stark reality of two people who had said too much and not enough all at once. The air in the kitchen was thick, stifling any attempt at a real conversation. He sat across from you in your old shirt, looking like a stranger wearing a costume of your past. The intimacy of the dark had curdled into a stiff, professional courtesy.
A horn sounded from the street. a blunt, impatient summons.
Caleb stood, his movements efficient and hurried. He gathered his things, his eyes fixed on the door as if he were already halfway down the highway. At the threshold, he paused. He didn't look you in the eye; instead, he stepped back into your space for a fleeting, agonizing second. He leaned in and pressed a warm lingering kiss to your temple.
It wasn't a promise. It was a benediction.
As the door clicked shut behind him, a cold panic flared in your throat. That kiss quiet, soft, and final- felt exactly like the night he helped you load the van years ago. It was the same ghost of a gesture, a way to soften the blow of a departure he had already decided on. You stood in the silent apartment, the phantom heat of his lips already fading from your skin, wondering if you had just participated in your own second heartbreak.
///
The days that followed were a slow, agonizing blur- that strange, hollow week between Christmas and New Year’s where time feels suspended and purposeless. The sadness was different this time; it wasn't the dull ache you’d carried for years. It was newborn. It was raw, and demanding, catching you off guard with its sheer, violent scale. You had survived his absence before, but having tasted the proximity of him again, the silence of your apartment felt deafening. It felt like a physical weight in your lungs.
Going to work at the studio was like putting on a tired play for an audience that had already seen the show. You moved through the motions… adjusting faders, checking levels, reciting lines of professional banter- while your mind stayed trapped in the memory of the light on Elm Street. You found yourself staring at the mixing board, the ghost of his hands over yours, until the red clip-lights of a recording track snapped you back to a reality you didn't want to inhabit.
Every few minutes, the pull would start… a magnetic, desperate urge to reach into your pocket and call him. Your thumb would hover over his name, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, before the memory of that dry, final kiss on your temple stopped you. You didn't know what to do with a feeling this large; it was a map with no legend, a song with no resolution. You were a seasoned professional at missing him, but this new version of grief made you feel like an amateur, drowning in a shallow pool of your own making.
///
New Year’s Eve arrived with a biting persistent chill that seeped through the cracks of the pub’s heavy wooden doors. Inside, the air was a thick soup of cheap cologne and desperation, a forced celebration that made the walls feel like they were closing in.
You stood leaned near a corner booth, the low light of the bar reflecting off a pint of beer that had long since gone flat. It tasted stale- metallic and bitter—perfectly matching the gray, stagnant mood that had anchored itself in your chest since Christmas morning.
You were watching the clock, counting the minutes until you could leave without looking like a ghost, when the crowd near the bar parted. Your heart didn't just skip; it plummeted. Caleb was standing at the counter, shoving a few crumpled bills toward the bartender. He shouldn't have been there. By this time every year, he was already back in L.A., swallowed by the concrete and the distance, safely out of reach.
But as he grabbed a drink and turned, his eyes locked onto yours with a startling, deliberate focus. He didn't look surprised to see you; he looked like he had been searching for you. He began to weave through the throngs of people, heading straight for your table with a slow, steady momentum that made the room feel suddenly, dangerously small.
You had no choice but to push off the wall, moving with the sudden, frantic pretense of having somewhere else to be. But as you shifted, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, anchoring you. A shiver rippled through you at the contact- a familiar, electric jolt that you weren’t ready for.
“Where are you going?”
His voice was loud in your ear, cutting through the dull roar of the party. You could feel the heat of his breath against my skin, the grip of his hand tightening just enough to let me know he wasn't ready to let go.
“I have to get back,” You lied, the excuse forming in slow, jagged pieces even as you moved to commit to it. “I have to finish up at the studio.”
“Aren’t you tired?” Caleb’s voice was closer now, his chest pressing against your shoulder, his body a familiar, suffocating warmth. “Aren’t you tired of this?”
The question hit you with the weight of the last several years. You were exhausted. You were bone-deep, soul-weary tired.
“I have to go,” You shouted back, the words sounding like an apology. In a way, they were. You pulled your wrist from his gentle hold, an effort that felt like it was physically crushing something vital in your chest. Without looking back, you kept your feet moving across the sticky floor, leaving him behind in the smoke and the noise. In a way, it was your revenge. Your turn to leave.
///
You worked. You mixed sounds until the levels blurred, spinning languidly in the engineer’s stool. Every so often, you reached for the nearby piano, pressing keys just to fill the void with a lonely, ringing note. You paced the floor, eventually finding a forgotten bottle of tequila in the break room. Outside, the distant, muffled cheers for the New Year began to rise from the city blocks.
Then, the main door creaked a heavy groan. Boots scuffed against the floor, and you knew who it was long before his shadow detached itself from the hallway.
“So, we’ve gone from years of silence to a night of stalking?” You hummed into the dark, not bothered to stop the slow rotation of your stool.
“Why’d you leave the bar?” Caleb asked. He stepped closer, moving as if he were always destined to meet you here. He didn't wait for an invitation; he simply slid onto the piano bench, his long legs stretching out under the mahogany. His eyes scanned you, dark and unblinking.
“Why did you come here?” You pressed, squaring your shoulders and turning to face him fully.
His expression caught you off guard. The usual fire of his anger or the spark of his passion had been stripped back, leaving something softer and fiercer in its wake. It was a vulnerability he had never let you see, a raw, exposed nerve.
“Why aren’t you sitting on this bench with me?” Caleb challenged. His voice was a low, heavy rumble that vibrated in the small space between you. He was the siren, and you the mad sailor; through every storm, you couldn't help but steer your ship toward the wreck of him.
You stood. With a slow, deliberate gravity, you eased onto the bench at his side. But the air was different now. The old, easy consent of their history was gone, replaced by a buzzing, electric hesitation.
Caleb brushed his long fingers across the keys, as if searching for a chord that could resolve the dissonance of the last ten years. You leaned closer, drawn in by the ghost of a melody. He turned his head, his chin nearly brushing your shoulder, his breath hitching in a cool huff as you turned to meet his gaze. You were so close you could feel the radiate heat of him.
“Why aren’t you in L.A.?” The question was your final strike- the last blow of a bat against a piñata, the one that finally cracks the shell before the contents spill out.
“I canceled my flight.” Caleb’s voice was barely a breath, the words floating from the deepest part of his chest. “I’m tired of running away from home.”
His answer was the final swing. The burst. The fall.
His lips were the first to find yours. There were warm, heavy against your held breath. His fingers were slow and steady reaching into your hair. You had to kiss him back. Your body worked too well against his. You had to lean close, the piano bench creaking as your hips shifted. Caleb took your melting against him as a sign. He moved his heavy hands from your hair, trailing down to the bend of your waist to the hilt of your hip. He curled his fingers to grip and washed you in like a tide, sweeping you toward his lap.
Your hips straddled his like they had a million times before. This was choreographed long ago. You pressed a hotter kiss to his lips, wet and hungry, and scared.
“Don’t do this.” You breathed hard past the pounding of your heart, pulling your face from Calebs, letting him keep his hands around your ribs, letting your hips settle against his, all the while. “I’m tired of doing this. Of wondering if every time is the last time.”
You ripped the confession from the depth of your throat, pressing the words from your lips to his, so he might taste the fear. The longing. You felt his hands creep up my back, near your shoulders. You felt his arousal under the layer of your jeans. You felt his heart hammering under the palm you placed near his chest.
“It’s not the last time.” Caleb breathed a ragged breath, his lips pressed into your jaw, his teeth grazing your quickened pulse. “It’s a new time. We’re starting over.” His voice rippled across your skin as he growled a promise you’d never heard the likes of. His grip on your hips tightened, pressing you down against the stiffness of his growing desire.
You breathed a sigh like gasp, your heart hammering like a warning, your ears ringing with alarm. This couldn’t be a lie. It felt too detrimental.
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” You challenged back, bringing your fingers toward his soft curls and gripping on, pulling his head back in a way that scored a groan of surprise from his throat. His eyes burned into yours, a silent understanding formed. And just as quickly as his eye’s flashed and his breath caught, his grip tightened against you, and he was moving with force, shoving your ass back against the piano, the keys sounding off in a clatter at the contact. He stood, keeping his hips pressed to yours, a reminder of how he was really feeling. Keeping his chest heaving against yours, keeping his lips biting at your neck.
“I’m staying.” Caleb growled near your throat, rocking his hips hard against yours. The grind set a flurry of fire through your core and right into your frantic heart. You stuttered a curse and crashed your lips to his again, like the press of your tongue in his mouth sealed the fate of his word and my wishes.
With another groan of deference; Caleb grabbed you again, slinging your legs around his torso and lifting your hips as he stood.
“We should stop. What if someone comes in-“ You worried, only a little, clinging to the way he held you, grazing your lips at his throat as he took strides toward the wall. It was past midnight, a whole new year. But anyone could’ve seen the lights on from the studio window and come in to jam. The room was alive with light and growling kisses and the buzzing of a plugged in amplifier.
“Why? You don’t want anyone to see how bad I love you?” Caleb whined into your ear, his voice a sultry plea. The words, his intention, it was all making you dizzy with a depth of feeling he’d never made you sick with before. He backed you against the wall, his ridged body compressing into your soft figure. Your hip bucked into his as your legs tightened around his waist.
“I mean it this time.” Caleb groaned in your ear, while one of his hands worked to unbutton your pants and the other kneaded into the fullness of your breast. Even past the fabric of your shirt, his touch spread fire in your veins. You let your hands find his hair again, tangling and tugging and letting a cry of desperation bubble from your chest.
In a mutual rush, you fumbled to rip away buttons and zippers. In a flash, Caleb had your back braced against the wall and the entire broad length of his arousal shoved into your core, hammering his hips against yours in an effort that shook the half opened window blinds just near. You cried a hoarse moan as Caleb railed into you. He bit his teeth into your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he fucked you hard and fast. Sending your body rattling into the new year with a force you could feel the future forming.
This wasn’t a lie anymore. But it never really was.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Home For Christmas
a/n: an angsty little holiday plot with a happy little ending merry december friends and freaks! also exclusively listened to this song while writing so...!
warnings: fem!reader, pinning, angst, situationship, sex, porn with plot, semi public sex MINORS DNI
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The chill in the usually sweltering Texas air was always welcome, though tonight it felt sharper. Strings of flickering fairy lights draped across lamp posts and shop awnings, making the downtown square sparkle with a hollow kind of intention.
Tonight was the party. The big one that arrived every December. Everyone from the local studio would be there, decking the halls with garland, lining sound booths with liquor, and filling recording boxes with a haze of smoke and laughter. You’d been behind the mixing board since high school, a position secured by a local engineer and your own steadfast insistence that this was the dream.
Over the years, you’d collected it all: the strong opinions of local bands, the free vinyl, the weed. In rare, dazzling cases, you even earned their time. Their kinship. You had it made- getting paid for your passion while the world handed you free things. Weed, vinyl, and the temporary warmth of friends.
But you hadn’t seen him in a few of years. Caleb had been working on projects. Working on himself. Or whatever a man does after a substantial breakup from a relationship that was never even official.
It was always something with you two. The late nights at the pub. The car rides home that ended with both of you squeezed into the passenger seat. Those mornings you’d wake to find his body tangled with yours. You moved through life like magnets, unable to work against the force of the pull- compelled closer at every wedding, birthday, and funeral. Brushing knuckles and sharing glances. The nights you recorded his music and crashed in the studio together. You woke up to fights about nothing that were actually about every single thing you never said.
Then came the big move. The day he loaded the last of his things into a van. He kissed you like he wished he didn’t have to go- yet he drove off without a goodbye.
He had been home for a couple Christmases, since. Or at least that’s what you heard, through the grapevine. Thank God his parents lived a few hours away now. Thank God he wasn’t kicking around the pub. Thank God he always booked a flight back to L.A. before each New Year- or so you heard.
///
The studio was a buzz with bands and girlfriends and roadies from neighboring musical realms. Someone was drumming out the beat to a Christmas classic tune, and another set of friends were practicing their screams into a microphone that had yet to actually be turned on. Beer and whiskey were passed around with the desperate generosity of holiday gifts. The walls, usually built to absorb sound, seemed to buckle under the weight of the screaming laughter.
You were floating, suspended between the joyous noise and your own growing social fatigue, when the air near the doorway blustered a little colder.
“Look who I talked into coming!”
The shout belonged to an unfamiliar boy, a blur of holiday cheer, who was enthusiastically yanking a sleeve into the room. He was a frantic narrator, telling the person attached to the jacket sleeve how anxious he was to introduce him to the new faces in town. Then, Caleb was there, shifting into the light.
There was no time to brace yourself, no room to retreat. As the crowd swarmed him, their greetings became a muffled, underwater roar. They were only feet away, yet they sounded miles beneath the surface. It was an involuntary collision. You stood anchored in the center of the room by the cold obligation of politeness, forced to inhabit a role in whatever interaction was about to unfold.
“This is someone who works here, I think,” The unfamiliar and unaware boy- too drunk and eager- finished, trading your name for Caleb’s. And there he was. Those bright eyes gleaming into yours just the same as they had in years past, his once-bony figure now warmed by time and age. His copper hair was a tangled frame for a face that looked like a memory come to life.
Caleb stood tall before you. He wasn’t quite laughing, but he was biting back a grin that refused to reach his pale, distant eyes. He was simply present, soaked in the impossible irony of the moment.
A beat too long hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The boy glanced between you, a flicker of confusion furrowing his brow. That tiny spark of scrutiny was all it took for Caleb to decide to play along.
“It’s very nice to make your acquaintance,” Caleb eased out. His voice was a gentle drawl- entirely too soft, entirely too familiar for the formality of his words. He extended a hand for you to take.
Maybe it was the beer blurring the edges of your composure, or perhaps the reflex of years spent performing for an audience, but a sharp, knowing grin broke across your face. You raised your hand into his, completing the performance.
His fingers closed around yours. The contact was brief, firm, and electric. A simple greeting that felt like the renewal of an old, complicated contract.
Then, he let go. Your hand dropped, leaving a phantom heat where his palm had been. Before a real word could break the manufactured silence, the crowd swept him away toward the mixing desk, gesturing excitedly at the gear. The moment was swallowed by the room’s ambient roar.
You didn't wait. Adrenaline overrode the fatigue as you bolted, your legs carrying you to the furthest corner of the studio, tucked away near a dusty supply closet. But it wasn’t enough.
You needed air, space, and a moment where the overwhelming past couldn't reach out and touch your present. You grabbed your worn leather jacket and slipped out the back door, trying to keep your movements casual and quiet. Like nothing was amiss, like you were just stepping out for a smoke. Just stepping out.
The alley air was sharp, cold, and clean. You leaned against the rough brick, pulled a cigarette from your pocket, and lit it. The first long drag of nicotine was a grounding force, a small, selfish luxury you allowed yourself. For a few glorious puffs, you were alone, watching the smoke dissolve into the chilly night, the frantic energy of the studio scene finally beginning to recede.
Then the door creaked open behind you. You didn't need to turn around. You knew the weight of his shadow, the precise rhythm of his footsteps in the silence.
Caleb cleared his throat once. “Got a light?”
You let out a puff of smoke toward the sky and rolled your eyes- a gesture that was simultaneously exhausted, annoyed, and deeply, achingly familiar. Caleb leaned back next to you. You didn’t say a word. You just lifted the cheap lighter, and turned enough for him to bend closer.
The brief tilt of your body put him right in your peripheral vision, close enough to smell the winter air clinging to his sweater. He leaned in, his fingers brushing yours as he cupped his hands around the new flame.
The cigarette caught. He inhaled, then straightened up.
The two of you stood side-by-side, smoking in perfect silence. It wasn't awkward. It was just the continuation of a thousand late-night conversations that never happened in words. The intimacy of it felt like a dangerous undertow, pulling you toward a place you thought you had securely navigated away from.
He broke the quiet first, his voice low and casual, aimed at the brick wall more than at you.
“What have I missed?”
You took a drag, watching the ember glow. “Hard to say.” You breathed back. You wanted to say ‘Me I hope.’ But that’s not how you did things. That’s not how this worked, despite your wishing it was.
You both stood there, the silence stretching taut between you, holding the potential for everything you’d always left unsaid. It felt like you were standing on the edge of the chasm you’d spent years avoiding. This was the moment- the one where someone asked the real question. ‘Why did you leave? Why did you let me go?’
“Why are you on this side of town?” You managed to piece the question together like a riddle. Like you were simply curious about his answer, and not desperate for it to be ‘I came back for you.’ His parents lived hours away.
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice lilted back, smoke following his words. And they hurt. Because if it was for you, that meant you didn’t matter. And if it wasn’t for you, it didn’t matter. And if it was neither, he still wasn’t letting you in. He still wasn’t breaking apart. The game played on.
With that, heflicked his cigarette butt into the wet asphalt where it instantly sizzled out.
You watched him turn away and step back toward the door, leaving you standing alone in the cold. It wasn't until he disappeared back into the warmth and chaos that you realized your own hand was still clenched, ready to ask the question that would have finally broken the pattern.
You took one last, deep drag. Then you flicked your own butt and followed him inside, the exhausting familiarity of the failure settling back over you like a heavy coat.
///
Christmas came. Familiar and fatigued. The usual meals. The usual sweaters. The usual family getting into the same tired arguments and trading neatly wrapped packages like that made up for everything.
The day was long and the night eased in cold. Unusually cold even for Texas. By the time you made it back to your apartment, a hot shower was enough to ease the tension in your shoulders and the chill bumps on your skin. As you stepped out of the steam filled room and stumbled into the comfort of loose clothes and a warm bed- your phone rang.
All the tension you’d worked away from your body coiled back tighter at the sight of Caleb’s name lighting up the screen in your hand.
You stared at the screen until it nearly timed out, your heart kicking against your ribs. He never called. He texted your group chat, maybe, or liked a Facebook post once in a blue moon, but he never actually called. You answered before the final ring.
“Hello?” Your voice was tight, thin.
“It’s me. Merry Christmas.” Caleb’s familiar drawl was quieter than last time you heard it, edged with a weariness that had made your chest flutter. “Listen something happened,”
You fixed your posture, your elbows holding up your shoulders, the holiday fatigue forgotten, phone pressed tighter to your ear.
"What's wrong?"
“My… car just died. Completely died. I was leaving our grandparents near Dallas, headed home, but it seized up a block past the old bowling alley on Elm.”
That intersection was miles and miles from his usual route. But only a few short blocks from your place. He was close enough to walk to, too far from anyone else he knew.
“The transmission blew or something, I don’t know. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, and none of the tow companies are answering on Christmas night, or they’re quoting me ridiculous rates.” He sounded worn down, defeated, and truly apologetic for needing your help. There was no excitement in his voice, only necessity.
“And you don’t know anyone who lives close to rescue you.” You finished for him, the familiar pattern of his life problems suddenly overlapping with yours again.
“I really don’t. Your place is just right there... I’m sorry. I know it’s a holiday. And I know… Fuck it, I’ll pay you to come get me. I don’t want to sleep in the intersection on Christmas.” His humility felt genuine, making it impossible to refuse. This wasn't a setup; it was a crisis.
“Keep your filthy money. I’ll come get you.” You mused, relenting.
You threw a coat on over your lazy pajamas and headed for the door.
///
You drove, watching the time change from eleven to midnight- tension radiating off you like heat. You found Caleb exactly where he said he’d be; by a large, dark and dirty car listing awkwardly at the curb, its hazard lights blinking a mournful, solitary rhythm. He was standing outside, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked up as you pulled alongside, and the relief in his eyes was almost painful to see.
“Thanks,” He muttered, as he slid into your passenger seat. “Seriously. That was going to be a long walk, three towns away.”
“You’re lucky I still have a little Christmas spirit left.” You shot Caleb a sidelong glare, your mouth barely forming the faintest of grins. You shifted gears and drove home. You muttered that you could help him find a tow in the morning, keeping your tone neutral, keeping your eyes on the road and your knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“I know I’m probably not the person you want to be spending this day of the year with.” Caleb mumbled back, voice a low rumble, his face turned toward the passenger window. “Thank’s for the rescue.” He let the words fall between you like an olive branch. You weren’t sure what to do with them.
“Yeah, yeah.” You sighed, eager to settle back into silence. Eager to get home, to put a wall between you. It was better that way. Seeing him was too weird. Too… nice. His smile was too familiar. You’d spent the past few years trying not to think so. His eye’s were too pale. You’d spent the last few years trying to forget.
When your car parked outside of your apartment, you walked ahead of Caleb, quick enough to create distance. Slow enough to encourage him to follow your lead. You unlocked your apartment door and threw your keys onto the coffee table, a mess with magazines and candles. You kept moving, because you couldn’t stop to face whatever this was, not yet. You swam through the tension toward the kitchen, pouring two glasses of whiskey. That would be your olive branch.
Caleb eased into your cluttered kitchen, looking around the corner like you might be hiding to jump out and attack at any moment. Maybe on a different day. Tonight you were simply waiting there to extend him a shot of alcohol. It was Christmas after all.
Caleb took the shimmering crystal glass from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours in the transaction, that same fiery buzz following his touch. He offered you a pressed smile, and a look into his seemingly exhausted and apologetic eyes.
“Thank you. Again.”
Caleb breathed a nod, searching your gaze like he was trying to figure out if you believed that he was grateful.
You took a slow, thoughtful sip of the alcohol in your grasp. Your eyes drifted over his face- the weariness in his eyes, familiar way a stray lock of coppery hair always fell just over his left eyebrow. You caught yourself staring and quickly turned your gaze toward the kitchen sink. The silence was thick, woven with the weight of all the words you couldn't say and the proximity you couldn't shake.
“I can get you something to change into.” You pointed to the hallway bathroom, trying to keep your tone instructional. Not invitational. He seemed to understand, nodding like he was accepting your words as transactions. Keeping his gaze fixed unfocused, uncaring. Maybe.
After your swallows of Johnny Walker, you waved Caleb down the hall. Found him some clothes, an old concert shirt you’d won at a long ago studio raffle. You watched him shut and lock the interior door, and turned away like this was a normal every day event.
You paced around the living room while the sound of the shower rippled past the closed bathroom door. You finally ended up in your room, sticking your phone back on the charger and reminding yourself to breathe. It wasn’t like there was a monster in your home. Just… beautiful, complicated Caleb. You’d dealt with him before. You could do it again, just for tonight.
When he emerged from the bathroom, steam and silence followed. He was only two steps away from your bedroom. One step led him to stall in the door frame, keeping his gaze distant. Keeping his jaw set.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, watching as he took another tentative step. Caleb’s restlessness seeped out with each dragging step into your bedroom. Like he hadn’t seen your posters before. Like he hadn’t slept in your bed. He briefly scanned the frames on your wall and quilt on your bed, then brought his hands to his head, brushing his damp coppery hair back with a frustrated gesture.
“I owe you more than just a thank you,” He said, his pretty voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. Something like regret bubbling forward. “You didn’t have to get me. You didn’t have to let me stay.”
You crossed your arms tight around your middle, adjusting your posture on the bed. “My car still runs, and it’s Christmas. It’s what people do.”
“No,” Caleb insisted quietly. “It’s what you do. I would’ve been on the side of the road for hours if you hadn’t answered. It’s a lot to ask of someone who... who I left.” The word left hung there, sharp and heavy.
You stared hard at him. “What do you want, Caleb? It’s two o’clock in the morning, and you’re stuck in my room. Just tell me.”
“I just wanted to make sure things were okay between us,” He admitted, turning to face you fully, his figure hesitant, his voice filled with cautious hope.
You shot your brows up, biting back a sharp laugh. “Things are never okay between us, Caleb! They’re either tense and unresolved, or we’re hundreds of miles apart. And I’m not the one who left. You say that like I fucked everything up. Like I made things confusing.”
“You certainly helped keep things confusing,” Caleb retorted back, past a grimaced frown. “The silence. The.. the nothing!”
As he spoke, you rose to your feet, casting him a glance of disbelief, stepping closer as if you heard him closer, clearer, that what he said would make more goddamn sense.
“Don’t pin this all on me!” You pointed a finger toward your chest, watching Caleb watch you step closer, like he couldn’t believe you had free will to bend your knees in his direction. “For years, we did the car rides, the late nights, the close calls, and the fights about nothing that were actually about the fact that you refused to commit to anything! You made it a problem by being the first one to walk away without a goodbye, remember?”
He pushed his hair back again, his eyes flashing pale fire, taking one step closer. He was toe to toe with you now. “Yeah well you can’t fault me for walking away in silence when we never talked about it in the first place! You never opened your mouth unless you were eye level to my dick.”
“And God knows you never opened your mouth to complain about that!” You shot back, your breath fanning out hot, your pulse raised in rage and regret. Your eyes flashing hurt into his.
You were locked in a battle over blame, both equally guilty of refusing to confront the truth when it mattered. You both stared, breathing heavily, letting your words hit like bullets. At your final word, Caleb took a slow, deliberate breath, visibly forcing himself to step back from the edge. He didn't answer the accusation. Instead, he simply looked down at the floor, accepting the sudden necessity of silence.
“You… should get some sleep,” He whispered, the command directed entirely at his desired finality of the argument, not the late hour. And he started to withdraw, sucking anger back from his eyes, a sheen of something more melancholic settling across his unfocused features. And it made your heart race with unease.
“Caleb…” You eased, your tone a white flag. He shifted his shoulders at your silent call. And after a beat of stillness, it was like before. Like magnets. Like your hand was pulled by a force, to reach out to him. “It’s Christmas.”
He let his eyes set on your limp, waiting fingers, a lazy but determined gesture. And maybe he couldn’t help the pull either. Because his knuckles brushed against yours. And his fingers eased into your palm. And all at once you gripped each other’s hands in a loose hold.
“Yeah. Okay.” Caleb nodded, like this interaction was obligatory. Like it was the right thing to do. You weren’t sure if it was. You were just sure about him, right now. So in the darkness of your room, in the late hour, after all these years, you pulled Caleb toward your bed like you always used to do.
Except this time, something shifted. As you fell into either side of the bed and turned to meet in the middle, the tight wire of tension that had stretched between you for years went slack. It didn’t just break; it eased, settling into the mattress like dust.
When he reached out, his hand found the curve of your waist with a devastating accuracy. He didn’t have to look. He knew exactly where you began. He pressed a kiss to the fullness of your lips, a slow, heavy thing that tasted of whiskey and exhaustion. His tongue tangled with yours like before. Pressing into your mouth without pause.
It felt like giving up. It felt like giving in.
But it didn't make sense. You had been here before, tangled in these same sheets, sharing these same slow, rhythmic kisses. Yet tonight, the air in the room felt different. The ghost of your argument still vibrated in the corners, but the anger had been replaced by a quiet, desperate lucidity.
There was no talk. No questions about where he had been or why he had left. Instead, there was just the friction of skin against skin. Your lips on his pulse. His fingers tangled in your hair. There was just him pushing you over, pulling your panties to the side with careful fingers, slow, like he’d stop if you just said the word. But you wouldn’t dare. You arched your hips. Back against his, a silent plea.
There was the stretch of him inside of you, like coming home. There was his moan in your ear, like a song only you could get him to sing. There was the sound of his ragged breath against your neck. As he rocked into you, slow, sleepy.
The intimacy rose between you like a tide- sudden, unacknowledged, and overwhelming. You moved together with the muscle memory of a long-term habit. Every touch was a silent confession. Each thrust of his hips into yours was a way of saying all the things that had nearly choked you both for years.
You let yourself sink under the weight of him, your fingers curling into the fabric of the old concert shirt you’d lent him. It was a dangerous kind of comfort. You knew that when the sun came up, the car would be towed and the silence would likely return. But for now, in the sanctuary of the dark, you allowed yourself to believe in the lie of the moment.
///
The morning arrived with a cruel, gray light that stripped the room of its midnight mercy. The Texas cold had turned brittle, frosting the edges of the windowpane and casting the bedroom in a flat, clinical hue. When you opened your eyes, the warmth of the night before felt like a fever dream that had broken, leaving you shivering and hollow.
The tension returned, not as a wire this time, but as a leaden weight. It sat on your chest, ten times heavier than it had been at the studio. Every sound was magnified: the rustle of the sheets as Caleb shifted away, the distant hum of a heater that couldn't quite keep up, and the sharp, rhythmic vibration of his phone on the nightstand. The tow truck was coming. The world was resuming its orbit, and you were no longer the center of his.
Breakfast was a series of avoided glances and the hollow clink of ceramic mugs. There was no whiskey to blur the edges now, only the stark reality of two people who had said too much and not enough all at once. The air in the kitchen was thick, stifling any attempt at a real conversation. He sat across from you in your old shirt, looking like a stranger wearing a costume of your past. The intimacy of the dark had curdled into a stiff, professional courtesy.
A horn sounded from the street. a blunt, impatient summons.
Caleb stood, his movements efficient and hurried. He gathered his things, his eyes fixed on the door as if he were already halfway down the highway. At the threshold, he paused. He didn't look you in the eye; instead, he stepped back into your space for a fleeting, agonizing second. He leaned in and pressed a warm lingering kiss to your temple.
It wasn't a promise. It was a benediction.
As the door clicked shut behind him, a cold panic flared in your throat. That kiss quiet, soft, and final- felt exactly like the night he helped you load the van years ago. It was the same ghost of a gesture, a way to soften the blow of a departure he had already decided on. You stood in the silent apartment, the phantom heat of his lips already fading from your skin, wondering if you had just participated in your own second heartbreak.
///
The days that followed were a slow, agonizing blur- that strange, hollow week between Christmas and New Year’s where time feels suspended and purposeless. The sadness was different this time; it wasn't the dull ache you’d carried for years. It was newborn. It was raw, and demanding, catching you off guard with its sheer, violent scale. You had survived his absence before, but having tasted the proximity of him again, the silence of your apartment felt deafening. It felt like a physical weight in your lungs.
Going to work at the studio was like putting on a tired play for an audience that had already seen the show. You moved through the motions… adjusting faders, checking levels, reciting lines of professional banter- while your mind stayed trapped in the memory of the light on Elm Street. You found yourself staring at the mixing board, the ghost of his hands over yours, until the red clip-lights of a recording track snapped you back to a reality you didn't want to inhabit.
Every few minutes, the pull would start… a magnetic, desperate urge to reach into your pocket and call him. Your thumb would hover over his name, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, before the memory of that dry, final kiss on your temple stopped you. You didn't know what to do with a feeling this large; it was a map with no legend, a song with no resolution. You were a seasoned professional at missing him, but this new version of grief made you feel like an amateur, drowning in a shallow pool of your own making.
///
New Year’s Eve arrived with a biting persistent chill that seeped through the cracks of the pub’s heavy wooden doors. Inside, the air was a thick soup of cheap cologne and desperation, a forced celebration that made the walls feel like they were closing in.
You stood leaned near a corner booth, the low light of the bar reflecting off a pint of beer that had long since gone flat. It tasted stale- metallic and bitter—perfectly matching the gray, stagnant mood that had anchored itself in your chest since Christmas morning.
You were watching the clock, counting the minutes until you could leave without looking like a ghost, when the crowd near the bar parted. Your heart didn't just skip; it plummeted. Caleb was standing at the counter, shoving a few crumpled bills toward the bartender. He shouldn't have been there. By this time every year, he was already back in L.A., swallowed by the concrete and the distance, safely out of reach.
But as he grabbed a drink and turned, his eyes locked onto yours with a startling, deliberate focus. He didn't look surprised to see you; he looked like he had been searching for you. He began to weave through the throngs of people, heading straight for your table with a slow, steady momentum that made the room feel suddenly, dangerously small.
You had no choice but to push off the wall, moving with the sudden, frantic pretense of having somewhere else to be. But as you shifted, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, anchoring you. A shiver rippled through you at the contact- a familiar, electric jolt that you weren’t ready for.
“Where are you going?”
His voice was loud in your ear, cutting through the dull roar of the party. You could feel the heat of his breath against my skin, the grip of his hand tightening just enough to let me know he wasn't ready to let go.
“I have to get back,” You lied, the excuse forming in slow, jagged pieces even as you moved to commit to it. “I have to finish up at the studio.”
“Aren’t you tired?” Caleb’s voice was closer now, his chest pressing against your shoulder, his body a familiar, suffocating warmth. “Aren’t you tired of this?”
The question hit you with the weight of the last several years. You were exhausted. You were bone-deep, soul-weary tired.
“I have to go,” You shouted back, the words sounding like an apology. In a way, they were. You pulled your wrist from his gentle hold, an effort that felt like it was physically crushing something vital in your chest. Without looking back, you kept your feet moving across the sticky floor, leaving him behind in the smoke and the noise. In a way, it was your revenge. Your turn to leave.
///
You worked. You mixed sounds until the levels blurred, spinning languidly in the engineer’s stool. Every so often, you reached for the nearby piano, pressing keys just to fill the void with a lonely, ringing note. You paced the floor, eventually finding a forgotten bottle of tequila in the break room. Outside, the distant, muffled cheers for the New Year began to rise from the city blocks.
Then, the main door creaked a heavy groan. Boots scuffed against the floor, and you knew who it was long before his shadow detached itself from the hallway.
“So, we’ve gone from years of silence to a night of stalking?” You hummed into the dark, not bothered to stop the slow rotation of your stool.
“Why’d you leave the bar?” Caleb asked. He stepped closer, moving as if he were always destined to meet you here. He didn't wait for an invitation; he simply slid onto the piano bench, his long legs stretching out under the mahogany. His eyes scanned you, dark and unblinking.
“Why did you come here?” You pressed, squaring your shoulders and turning to face him fully.
His expression caught you off guard. The usual fire of his anger or the spark of his passion had been stripped back, leaving something softer and fiercer in its wake. It was a vulnerability he had never let you see, a raw, exposed nerve.
“Why aren’t you sitting on this bench with me?” Caleb challenged. His voice was a low, heavy rumble that vibrated in the small space between you. He was the siren, and you the mad sailor; through every storm, you couldn't help but steer your ship toward the wreck of him.
You stood. With a slow, deliberate gravity, you eased onto the bench at his side. But the air was different now. The old, easy consent of their history was gone, replaced by a buzzing, electric hesitation.
Caleb brushed his long fingers across the keys, as if searching for a chord that could resolve the dissonance of the last ten years. You leaned closer, drawn in by the ghost of a melody. He turned his head, his chin nearly brushing your shoulder, his breath hitching in a cool huff as you turned to meet his gaze. You were so close you could feel the radiate heat of him.
“Why aren’t you in L.A.?” The question was your final strike- the last blow of a bat against a piñata, the one that finally cracks the shell before the contents spill out.
“I canceled my flight.” Caleb’s voice was barely a breath, the words floating from the deepest part of his chest. “I’m tired of running away from home.”
His answer was the final swing. The burst. The fall.
His lips were the first to find yours. There were warm, heavy against your held breath. His fingers were slow and steady reaching into your hair. You had to kiss him back. Your body worked too well against his. You had to lean close, the piano bench creaking as your hips shifted. Caleb took your melting against him as a sign. He moved his heavy hands from your hair, trailing down to the bend of your waist to the hilt of your hip. He curled his fingers to grip and washed you in like a tide, sweeping you toward his lap.
Your hips straddled his like they had a million times before. This was choreographed long ago. You pressed a hotter kiss to his lips, wet and hungry, and scared.
“Don’t do this.” You breathed hard past the pounding of your heart, pulling your face from Calebs, letting him keep his hands around your ribs, letting your hips settle against his, all the while. “I’m tired of doing this. Of wondering if every time is the last time.”
You ripped the confession from the depth of your throat, pressing the words from your lips to his, so he might taste the fear. The longing. You felt his hands creep up my back, near your shoulders. You felt his arousal under the layer of your jeans. You felt his heart hammering under the palm you placed near his chest.
“It’s not the last time.” Caleb breathed a ragged breath, his lips pressed into your jaw, his teeth grazing your quickened pulse. “It’s a new time. We’re starting over.” His voice rippled across your skin as he growled a promise you’d never heard the likes of. His grip on your hips tightened, pressing you down against the stiffness of his growing desire.
You breathed a sigh like gasp, your heart hammering like a warning, your ears ringing with alarm. This couldn’t be a lie. It felt too detrimental.
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” You challenged back, bringing your fingers toward his soft curls and gripping on, pulling his head back in a way that scored a groan of surprise from his throat. His eyes burned into yours, a silent understanding formed. And just as quickly as his eye’s flashed and his breath caught, his grip tightened against you, and he was moving with force, shoving your ass back against the piano, the keys sounding off in a clatter at the contact. He stood, keeping his hips pressed to yours, a reminder of how he was really feeling. Keeping his chest heaving against yours, keeping his lips biting at your neck.
“I’m staying.” Caleb growled near your throat, rocking his hips hard against yours. The grind set a flurry of fire through your core and right into your frantic heart. You stuttered a curse and crashed your lips to his again, like the press of your tongue in his mouth sealed the fate of his word and my wishes.
With another groan of deference; Caleb grabbed you again, slinging your legs around his torso and lifting your hips as he stood.
“We should stop. What if someone comes in-“ You worried, only a little, clinging to the way he held you, grazing your lips at his throat as he took strides toward the wall. It was past midnight, a whole new year. But anyone could’ve seen the lights on from the studio window and come in to jam. The room was alive with light and growling kisses and the buzzing of a plugged in amplifier.
“Why? You don’t want anyone to see how bad I love you?” Caleb whined into your ear, his voice a sultry plea. The words, his intention, it was all making you dizzy with a depth of feeling he’d never made you sick with before. He backed you against the wall, his ridged body compressing into your soft figure. Your hip bucked into his as your legs tightened around his waist.
“I mean it this time.” Caleb groaned in your ear, while one of his hands worked to unbutton your pants and the other kneaded into the fullness of your breast. Even past the fabric of your shirt, his touch spread fire in your veins. You let your hands find his hair again, tangling and tugging and letting a cry of desperation bubble from your chest.
In a mutual rush, you fumbled to rip away buttons and zippers. In a flash, Caleb had your back braced against the wall and the entire broad length of his arousal shoved into your core, hammering his hips against yours in an effort that shook the half opened window blinds just near. You cried a hoarse moan as Caleb railed into you. He bit his teeth into your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he fucked you hard and fast. Sending your body rattling into the new year with a force you could feel the future forming.
This wasn’t a lie anymore. But it never really was.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Caleb Landry Jones ♡
COLE | 1: ruin the friendship
summary: the most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway / is that it's you / and that you're standing in the doorway / and you smile
Cole (Low Down, 2014) x female reader
tags: (kind of) friends to lovers • epileptic character (canon) • mentions of seizures • angst • fluff • infatuation • first kiss • low key hurt/comfort • this one is supposed to m o v e you, girlies
this one’s for @laundry-basquiat I love you, sweetums. hope you survive this one 🤍
The room is too warm, that’s for sure. Especially in this weather. Cole sits behind the drum kit with his knees wide and his back hunched, with sticks resting loose in his hands. He’s not playing yet. The others are talking over each other, arguing about tempo, about whether the bridge should come in earlier, and about nothing that really matters, so he lets it wash past him.
You’re at the piano in the corner.
It’s an old upright that’s seen better days, with its keys yellowed and a little sticky, and the bench wobbling when you shift your weight. You sit straight anyway, like you don’t notice it.
Cole notices.
He notices how you pull your shoulders up just a little when you’re thinking, like you’re getting ready for the sound before you play it, like you want to meet it halfway. You don’t play right away. You listen first with your head tilted and your eyes down, taking in the noise of the room until it makes sense to you.
He likes that about you. He likes a lot about you.
When you do play, your fingers move clean and sure. You don’t slam the keys or linger on them like you’re trying to save rock’n’roll. You press and release, careful but not precious, like you trust the sound to come out right if you give it room.
Cole’s eyes follow your hands a lot. He knows better than to stare, but he does anyway, tracking the small movements, and the way your wrist rolls on a softer note, or how your thumb hesitates for half a second before finding its place again.
You’re not trying to impress anyone. He can tell. That’s what makes it easier to watch you. If you were trying, he’d feel it in his chest, that tight, nervous pull that comes when people want something from him he isn’t sure he can give. But you’re just there, helping, like it’s normal, like you belong in the mess of cables and cigarette smoke and half-tuned guitars all right.
Cole shifts on the stool and wipes one damp palm against his jeans before he realizes he’s doing it. Sweat beads at his temples and runs into his hairline. His hair’s pulled back with a thin elastic that keeps slipping, and his loose copper red strands brush the sides of his face and stick when he turns his head. He should’ve shortened it months ago. He keeps meaning to, but he doesn’t.
The drum kit smells like metal and dust and the faint sour tang of old beer. He rolls one stick between his fingers and feels the familiar weight of it under his calloused fingertips. His hands are big around the sticks, his knuckles pale where he grips too tight. He loosens his hold and reminds himself to breathe through his nose.
Did he take his meds?
The thought comes like a tap on the shoulder. He runs through the morning in his head. The bottle on the counter. The glass of water. The chalky taste. He thinks he did. He’s pretty sure he did. His stomach doesn’t feel wrong. His head isn’t swimming, not really. Just buzzing a little, like it always does when the room’s loud and bright and he’s clearly tired.
The lights hum overhead. He blinks up at them once, then looks back down before it turns into what’s never welcome. He can handle this. He always can, if he pays attention.
You stop playing and glance over your shoulder, asking if the key’s okay, if it’s too high. Your voice cuts through the room cleanly. Cole nods in approval, then realizes he hasn’t actually listened to what the others are saying. He clears his throat and leans forward, adjusting the snare, buying himself a second.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s good.”
You smile at him like you believe him. It lands low in his chest, or also somewhere else he doesn’t want to think on too much in a room full of his buddies. He looks away before he does something stupid, like smile back too hard or blush, or both.
One of the guys cracks a joke. It’s dumb and about how they should just let you replace them all since you’ve got real training. You laugh, with your head tipping back, and mouth open unguarded and bright.
The sound hits Cole like a soft thump, like he’s been tapped from the inside. He swallows and shifts again, pressing his foot against the bass pedal.
You glance down, a little embarrassed, and shake your head. “I just know how to read notes,” you say. “That’s it.”
That’s not it, Cole thinks, though he doesn’t know how to explain why. It’s not just the notes. It’s how you fit yourself into the space without taking it over. How you adjust when someone else talks, and how you watch faces instead of waiting for your turn to speak. He’s good at reading rooms because he’s had to be, because missing things used to mean getting hurt, and he sees the same careful attention in you. It feels familiar.
He taps the edge of the snare once, just to hear it. The sound jumps, sharp and clean. He adjusts the tension, then again, making sure it’s right. He doesn’t want to mess this up. He wants to be solid. He wants to be someone you can count on to keep time, and to hold things together.
The others count in, sloppy and loud, and Cole straightens automatically, with his shoulders settling and his hands lifting. This is the part that usually comes easy. The beat is simple, something he’s played a hundred times before. He starts in, letting the rhythm take over, and letting the noise of the room line up into a song.
But you start playing again, picking up the melody, and he catches himself watching you instead of the kit. He looks at your shoulders lifting on the downbeat. Then he notices how you lean into the sound without forcing it. He misses the cue by half a second, for his stick strikes too late, and the rhythm stumbles just enough for everyone to hear it.
He winces and corrects immediately, feeling heat rush up his neck. No one makes a big deal out of it. Someone just laughs and counts again. Cole nods. His jaw is suddenly tight, and his eyes are nervously fixed on the drumhead now, forcing his attention back where it belongs.
Still, even as he locks into the beat, the thought sits there. He’s surprised to realize that it’s not loud enough to scare him, though: I hope she sticks around.
By the time the last song falls apart and the count gets lost for good, the room gets looser. Someone kills the amp, and the sudden quiet makes Cole’s ears ring. Soon enough, chairs scrape, cases snap shut, and cables are tugged and coiled without much care. As for the people, warm bodies pass close, and the smell of sweat and smoke stirs up again. Cole stays on his stool for a moment longer, rolling his shoulders, letting the buzz in his head settle into manageable hum.
He sets his sticks down, lining them up the way he always does, then leans forward to loosen the snare. His hands feel heavy now, thick with effort, and his fingers marked red where the wood pressed into skin. He stands, stretching his back. The room tilts just a fraction before it rights itself. Fine, he thinks. He’s fine.
In the meantime, you’re packing your music away, sliding loose sheets into a folder that’s already a little bent at the corners. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, distracted, listening to something one of the guys is saying without really looking at him.
Cole watches the small, familiar movements and feels that quiet pull towards you again. He decides against molding it into a coherent thought, or a sharpened sculpture, because for guys like him, putting a name on a fuzzy feeling would make it harder to carry.
He tells himself he’s going to say something. Not something big—no, no. Nothing that would turn into a whole thing. Just something easy, something that could pass for casual if it had to. Coffee, maybe. There’s a place a few blocks down that stays open late and doesn’t care if you sit there for hours with one cup between you. He can’t afford more, for that matter. Or a walk. Just around the neighborhood. He doesn’t even care where. He just wants to be next to you without the noise of the band around, and wants to hear what you sound like when you’re not half-turned toward someone else.
He wipes his hands on his jeans again and grabs his jacket, slinging it over one shoulder. You glance up when he steps closer, meeting him near the door as everyone else filters out ahead of you. The hallway light spills in, harsher than the room, catching on the freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He hopes to god you don’t notice how flushed he still is, and how his hair’s come loose again, with his copper strands curling at his neck.
You fall into step beside him, and that alone makes his chest tighten. He walks a little slower than usual, matching your pace, listening to the soft scuff of your shoes against the floor. The words line up in his head, simple and clean when they’re just that—thoughts. He runs through them once, then again, trimming them down so there’s less that can go wrong.
Finally, he clears his throat.
“So,” he starts, then stops, already irritated with himself. He tries again, forcing his voice to stay even. “I was thinkin’, maybe—”
You turn your head toward him, giving him your full attention, then.
Cole’s heart gives a hard, uneven beat that he feels all the way up his neck.
“You wanna— I mean, if you’re not busy,” he says, and the words tangle together again. He hears how unsure it sounds and hates it, hates that he can’t just push through like other guys seem to. He sees the opening right there, wide and waiting, and suddenly his mind fills with everything that could follow if you say yes.
You saying yes would mean sitting across from him at a small table, watching him too closely when his hand starts to shake around the mug. You saying yes means seeing him go still, his eyes unfocused, body betraying him in a way he can’t explain fast enough. You saying yes because you feel sorry for him, because you think he needs it, because you’re kind and don’t want to hurt his feelings.
The panic hits fast enough to make him pull back. His mouth keeps moving before he’s made the decision, covering the retreat with a crooked smile.
“—if you’re not busy with, uh,” he adds, then lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Never mind. I just meant, you did real good today. On the piano. Helped a lot.”
It’s not even a lie, which makes it easier to say. He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like he hadn’t been standing there working himself up for the last minute, like his chest isn’t still tight with everything he didn’t say. He reaches for the door and holds it open, suddenly very aware of how close you are, of the heat your body leaves in the space beside him.
You don’t call him on it. You don’t tease him or press for more. You just smile, and he sees the tiny hint of curiousity in your eyes that makes his stomach twist in a way that isn’t too unpleasant.
“Thanks,” you say. “I like playin’ with you guys.”
With you, he thinks, and has to look away before his face gives him away completely.
You step out into the night and he follows. The street is cool compared to the room, and the air sharp enough to wake him up a little. You pause on the sidewalk, adjusting your bag, and for a second he thinks maybe you’ll say something else, maybe you’ll pick up the thread he dropped and hand it back to him.
You don’t. You glance at him again, and then you’re heading off down the block, lifting a hand in a quick wave.
Cole sticks there a tad longer, with his jacket still slung over his shoulder, watching the way you move until you turn the corner and disappear. The streetlight hums above him. Somewhere down the road, a car radio plays some low and groovy tune. He breathes out slowly and starts walking in the opposite direction, with the feel of that smile settling deep in his gut and refusing to let go.
***
The air in the apartment is thick with cigarette smoke that clings to Cole’s jacket as soon as he steps inside. Someone’s got a record playing low, and it’s set on a tune with a lazy bass line and a singer who sounds half-asleep, and it hums along under the noise of people talking over one another. Empty bottles crowd the coffee table, a couple are overturned on the floor, and the lamp in the corner throws a yellow, uneven light that leaves the edges of the room in shadow.
Cozy.
Cole leans against the wall near the door at first with shoulders tucked in, watching the way the group spreads itself out across the space. This is familiar territory, the loose sprawl of young people killing time together, nothing special and everything at once. He feels okay, steady enough, and the buzz in his head remains a low background thing he’s learned to live with. He keeps his beer untouched in his hand, letting it sweat against his palm while he listens.
You’re there, perched on the arm of the couch, with your knees drawn up as you laugh at something someone says. You’ve got a cigarette between your fingers that you keep forgetting to smoke, and the ash at the tip grows long before you tap it into an overfull tray. Every so often, your eyes move through the room, taking stock, checking in, the way they always do. Cole notices when they land on him and move on again, not lingering, but far from ignoring him either.
He so wishes they lingered. They’re so pretty.
Someone turns the lamp brighter, twisting the knob too far so the light jumps suddenly, sharp and white for a second before settling. Cole feels it immediately then; the tight pressure behind his eyes, the room seeming to tilt just enough to make his stomach drop. He blinks hard and shifts his weight, telling himself it’ll pass if he doesn’t draw attention to it. He’s used to riding these things out, waiting for his body to catch up with his mind.
It doesn’t, not right away.
The noise starts to press in on him, voices overlapping, laughter spiking too loud, the record skipping sharply before someone fixes it. His vision blurs at the edges, and the colors bleed together in a well recognizable pattern. He sets the beer down carefully on the windowsill, not trusting his grip anymore, and reaches out for the back of a chair.
You see it before anyone else does.
You move closer and put a steady hand at his elbow like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your touch is warm and grounding.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “Sit for a sec.”
Cole nods, grateful for the excuse, and lets you guide him down onto the couch. The cushions dip under his weight and he leans forward, digging elbows into his knees, and bows his head as he focuses on his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth. The light still feels too bright, but it’s manageable now, pulled back from the edge.
You stay close. Someone asks if he’s okay and you answer for him like it’s nothing worth worrying over. The conversation drifts back to something else. No one stares or makes a fuss. Cole feels the tension ease out of his shoulders inch by inch.
After a while, when the room settles and his head clears, he leans back and closes his eyes briefly, listening to the music again. He opens them to find you watching him, attentive and waiting.
Damn it.
“I’m good,” he says. “Just needed a minute.”
You nod, accepting it, and shift back to give him space without pulling away too far. He sits there longer than he probably needs to, letting the moment stretch until the thought that’s been hovering at the back of his mind finally pushes forward. He’s tired of hiding it. Tired of the quiet calculations, the exits mapped in his head, and the fear of being found out at the wrong time.
Later, when the apartment’s thinned out and the noise has dulled to a murmur in the other room, he finds himself standing with you near the kitchen doorway. The counter is cluttered with empty glasses and an ashtray that needs dumping. He clears his throat and stares at a dark spot on the linoleum, gathering the words he’s said before countless times.
“That thing earlier,” he starts, then pauses, glancing at you to make sure you’re listening. You are, fully, and he notices that your body is angled toward him. He wonders whether you’d mind if he placed his hands on your hips right there and pulled you closer, like his buddies do naturally with girls that smile at them easily, but then he scolds himself upon realizing how much he’d despise himself for weeks to come if you as much as flinched against his touch after hearing what he’s about to share—“I should probably tell you. I got epilepsy.”
He says it plainly. He keeps talking before he can second-guess himself.
“Sometimes lights mess with me. Or if I’m real tired. It’s mostly under control. I take meds. Just… every now and then it sneaks up on me.”
He risks a look at your face, searching for the signs he knows too well; the usual tightening around the mouth, the spark of discomfort, and the careful distance people put up when they don’t know what to say. He doesn’t see any of that. You don’t pull back or soften in a way that feels like pity.
“Oh,” you say. Then, after a beat, “What should I do if it happens?”
To his surprise, your question is a neutral one you ask when you expect to still be there, even when he’s out cold and whimpering on the floor. His chest tightens and he has to look away again, swallowing.
“Mostly just keep me from hittin’ my head,” he says, managing a small smile. “And maybe tell people not to crowd me. It passes.”
You nod, filing it away, like it’s information you’re glad to have rather than something you wish you didn’t know. The ease of it makes his eyes sting, just a little, and he blinks it back quickly.
“It started when I was a kid,” he adds, because that’s as far as he’s ready to go, and you don’t push him for more.
You lean your hip against the counter beside him then, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you again that he wishes he could cuddle up closer to, where he a normal, healthy dude girls weren’t scared of, and the room doesn’t feel so unsteady anymore. Nor does his head.
***
The bus is already there when you reach the stop. It’s idling with a tired shudder that runs through its long body. The doors fold open soon and the smell hits Cole first, with its diesel fumes, old vinyl, damp coats, and staleness underneath it all. He climbs the steps behind you, dropping his fare into the metal box, and listening to it clatter too loud before the driver jerks his head in acknowledgment. The lights inside are harsh and buzzing, bleaching everything a little, turning faces flat and tired.
There aren’t many seats left. A couple of people are slumped against the windows with their heads knocked sideways, and their coats pulled tight. Someone farther back hums along to a song only they can hear. You hesitate for half a second, scanning for space, then step into the aisle and grab one of the poles. Cole follows automatically, ending up close enough that he can feel the scent of some vague floral perfume coming off your coat.
The bus lurches forward and he reaches out at the same time you do, and his fingers close around the metal. There’s barely room to adjust. His shoulder touches yours, constant, and he holds himself carefully, with his knees bent just enough to keep his balance without leaning too hard into anyone. Into you, especially. The pole is cool under his palm, slick from a hundred other hands, and he becomes aware of how large his own looks wrapped around it, how his knuckles stand out pale against the steel.
Your hand is already there, too.
It’s smaller than his, slimmer. He notices that your nails are short and clean, and that there’s a tiny mark on your index finger where a ring might usually sit, or the soft crease at your wrist that you like to put colorful bracelets on when you’re in a good mood.
That much he’s learned early on.
His first instinct is to pull back, to give you space, but there isn’t really any to give. The bus hits a bump and sways, and his grip tightens at that.
His pinky brushes yours.
It’s barely anything, but his whole body reacts to it. His breath catches and his neck muscles lock. He waits for you to move away, for the usual polite withdrawal, or the small apology people make when they touch by accident.
You don’t.
Your hand stays right where it is, so relaxed, like you don’t even notice the contact, or like you do and don’t mind. The bus rattles on, stops and starts, and the space between your hands seems to shrink on its own. The silence between you grows thick. Cole keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead at first, then drops them to the scuffed floor, watching the way his boots shift with the movement of the bus.
His thoughts scatter and reform, all of them circling the same simple fact. You’re touching him and not by accident anymore. He can feel the side of your finger against his. He wonders if you can feel his pulse there, the quick, uneven beat he’s suddenly aware of in his hand. He wonders if his hands always shake this much or if it’s just now, just because of you.
The bus swerves again and, without deciding to, his fingers curl inward. It’s a slow movement, giving you time to pull away if you want to. His pinky hooks gently around yours, followed by the next finger, then the next, until his hand is folded around yours in a loose, protective grip that surprises him with how natural it feels. His thumb rests against the back of your hand, pressing gently.
You let him.
The relief is so sharp it makes his head spin for a second. He exhales through his nose and a smile pulls at his mouth before he can stop it. He keeps his gaze on the floor, afraid that if he looks up, if he sees your face right now, he’ll blurt out an apology and step aside. His shoulders ease, and he adjusts his stance so he can hold on without squeezing too hard and sweating against your hand.
This feels different from anything he’s known. There’s this new, quiet certainty of your small hand in his, and it’s sweet. He thinks of all the times he’s imagined closeness and how those thoughts always came tangled with fear, with questions about what he could handle, or what his body might do without warning. None of that seems loud right now. It’s there, tucked away, but it isn’t running the show for once.
The bus slows for the next stop and the doors hiss open. Cold air rushes in and the lights seem brighter for a moment. Someone squeezes past you, jostling the space, and your hands shift but don’t separate. Cole adjusts with you, moving together without looking, like you’ve practiced it.
When the stop he needs comes up, he loosens his grip reluctantly, and finally, his fingers slide free as the bus rolls to a halt. He steps down onto the sidewalk and turns back with his head light and his chest buzzing like electricity. The bus pulls away behind Cole, and the dream of kissing you one day, maybe over coffee at his place, or a glass of coke in a bar, or mid-that infectious laughter of yours when your nose scrunches so sweetly, sends him on a wilder ride that doesn’t quite match his calmer stride back home.
***
Cole is the type to measure time by rehearsals, by the weight of his sticks in his hands, and by how often he sees you leaning against a wall with your arms crossed, listening more than you talk.
Practice rooms blur together. Some are basements that smell like damp concrete and old paint, others are borrowed spaces with mismatched chairs and windows that won’t open all the way. You’re there more often than not, sitting in when you can, offering suggestions that aren’t bossy, filling gaps without stepping on anyone’s pride. Cole keeps his eyes on the kit more than he needs to, counting beats he already knows, because when he looks up you’re usually watching him with a smile, and it makes his focus slip.
He learns your habits the way he learns rhythms. How you tap your fingers against your knee when you’re bored. How you mouth along to melodies under your breath before playing them. How you always ask if the volume’s okay, even when it clearly is. He starts to anticipate your jokes before you finish them, feels them land in his chest before the sound of your laugh catches up. He laughs too, sometimes too quick, and then reins it in, reminding himself not to look like he’s hanging on every word.
Bars come next, the same few places with sticky floors and lights turned low enough to hide the cracks in the walls. The band crowds around small tables, bottles sweating rings into the wood. Smoke hangs heavy. Cole nurses his drink, never finishing it, watching the way you walk around the room, how people lean toward you when you talk. He wants to sit closer than he does, wants to feel your ankle press against his under the table, but he keeps a careful distance, shifting his chair just enough to give you more and more space.
He hopes you don’t think he’s avoiding you.
Not after your pinky-moment.
Every now and then, there’s a moment that almost tips into more. Your hand rests on his arm when you lean in to hear him over the noise, and he shivers at the warm fingers pressed through the thin fabric of his shirt. You pass him a lighter, and your hands meet for a second that feels like eternity. He feels these touches long after they’re gone, and the echo of them makes his palms itch. Each time, he stills himself, breathes, and tells his body to behave.
Don’t lean too close.
Don’t stare at her ass.
Don’t scare her off.
The rules line up in his head. He follows them because he’s good at following rules when they make sense, because he knows how quickly good things can vanish if you grab at them too hard. He’s seen it happen enough to recognize the warning signs in himself; the urge to rush, to say too much, to want too openly.
Sometimes, late in the night when the noise has faded and he’s alone in his room, he thinks about what he might tell you if he let himself. Small truths. That he likes how you listen. That he feels steadier when you’re around. That he replays the sound of your voice when he’s trying to sleep. That he likes your eyes, your nose, and your pillowy lips. Each thought rises up and settles back down again, swallowed before it reaches his mouth.
His hands need something to do with all of it.
He makes the paper flowers almost by accident, folding scraps torn from old notebooks, from flyers no one bothered to read. He sits on the edge of his bed with a lamp turned low, working slowly, creasing and smoothing, letting the repetition calm him. The paper whispers softly as he folds it. His fingers know what to do even when his thoughts drift and circle back to your smile.
The flowers pile up on his nightstand, uneven and imperfect, and their petals bend at slightly wrong angles. He doesn’t know why he’s making them, only that it feels better than pacing or smoking too much or letting his hands shake with nothing to hold. He imagines giving one to you, then tells himself that’s stupid and sets it aside with the others.
At rehearsals, at bars, on street corners waiting for rides, the need to see, to hear and to feel more of you lives on. It stays, patient and alert, like a bridge in a song waiting for the right moment to kick in.
***
One evening, you’re standing outside the rehearsal space.
Someone’s borrowed a lighter and not returned it. Someone else is arguing about whether the drums were too loud in the last song. Cole has his jacket half on, one sleeve caught at the elbow, when you say it, easy and offhand, like you’re suggesting another cup of coffee instead of changing the shape of his week.
“You wanna come by my place sometime?” you ask. “I’ve got a piano that actually stays in tune.”
He says yes too fast.
“Yeah,” he answers, like the decision was already made weeks ago, and his mouth is just catching up. “Sure.”
You just smile and tell him when, give him the address like it doesn’t feel to him like someone’s reached inside his chest and turned the volume up on everything at once.
By the time he gets home, the panic has settled in properly.
He shuts the door to his room and leans his back against it, breathing through his nose, counting until his heartbeat slows enough that it doesn’t feel like it’s rattling his ribs. His hands shake a little as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the chair. He tells himself it’s excitement, not more, though he still checks his pill bottle on the dresser, twists the cap just to be sure it’s closed, and that everything’s in order.
He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the floor for a while, then at the wall, then at the stack of paper flowers on the nightstand.
“Jesus,” he mutters quietly, rubbing a hand over his face.
He stands up and starts pacing, then makes himself stop because pacing only makes it worse. Instead, he opens the closet and looks at his clothes critically. He pulls out one shirt, then another, holds them up against himself in the dim mirror and frowns. Too wrinkled. Too thin. Smells like smoke. He changes twice, then a third time, finally settling on something plain because at least plain won’t look like he’s trying too hard to impress a cool girl like you.
To make matters worse, his hair won’t do what he wants it to. He wets his hands and pushes it back, but the red, unruly waves spring loose again as soon as he lets go. He ties it up, then unties it, then ties it again, and each attempt makes him more aware of his own reflection, of the freckles across his nose, and of the way his face looks too young and too worn at the same time. He tells himself you already know what he looks like. He tells himself it doesn’t matter.
Does it?
When it’s time to leave, he hesitates at the door with keys in his hand, and a strange lump settles in his throat. He thinks about all the ways this could go wrong, as well as all the small exits he could take if he needed to. What if he dissociates at random? What if he passes out and seizes on your floor? What if he says something utterly idiotic and makes you cringe? What if he leans forward too quick and captures your mouth in a toothy kiss instead of a gentle clasp? If you’d ever want him to kiss you at all, that is. He reminds himself, firmly, that he doesn’t have to stay. He can step inside, say hello, listen to you play, and leave if his head starts buzzing or his nerves get the better of him. No one’s trapping him. No one’s expecting anything.
He reaches for the paper flowers then.
They’re clumsy in his hands now, more obvious than they ever were on the nightstand. He considers putting them back, feels a hot wash of embarrassment at the idea of handing them to you, or of having to explain why he made them at all. His fingers curl around them anyway, careful not to crush the petals. He slips them into his jacket pocket, and listens as the paper crinkles softly against the lining.
The walk over feels longer than it should. Every step seems too loud as his boots scuff against the pavement. He notices everything at once; the smell of someone’s dinner drifting from an open window, the sound of a radio playing somewhere down the block, and especially the way his heart keeps speeding up and slowing down like a terrified hummingbird. He checks the address twice, then again, just to be sure.
When he reaches your building, he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks up, counting the windows, matching them to what you told him. A light’s on upstairs. He wonders if it’s yours. He wonders what it looks like inside, and what kind of space you’ve made for yourself.
If he belongs there at all.
His hand hovers near his pocket, and his fingers brush the folded paper. He takes one more breath, steadying himself the way he’s learned to do, and climbs the steps. The hallway smells like old wood. He stands in front of your door, straightens his jacket, and raises his hand.
He knocks, once, then again, not too loud.
The door opens almost right away—he notices—like you’d been waiting close on the other side, and the light from your apartment spills out into the hallway, warmer than the bare bulb overhead.
Cole straightens, and his heart jumps at the sight of you hard enough that he feels it in his throat. You’re there in front of him, close enough that he can see the fine texture of your skin, and how your hair sits a bit different than it did earlier. It’s looser, more yours.
Cole becomes painfully aware of his hands, and of the paper flowers folded tight in his jacket pocket, and he quickly realizes that their edges got soft from how much he’s played with them. He clears his throat and reaches for them. His fingers are clumsy as he pulls them free and holds them out toward you.
“I, uh,” he starts, feeling the heat rush up his neck. “These’re for you.”
They look smaller out here in your doorway, and more obviously handmade. He half-expects you to laugh the way people do when they don’t know what else to do with an earnest gesture. Instead, your face brightens.
“Cole,” you say, and you take them from his hands, careful not to manhandle them more.
Before he can think better of it, and before he can remind himself to stay still, to let things unfold at their own pace, you lean forward and kiss his cheek. It’s quick and light, but it lands with a force he’s completely unprepared for. His mind blanks out entirely, every thought scatters at once, and is quickly replaced by a warm rush that makes his ears ring.
It is the right pace.
A breathy giggle slips out of him in response. It rings too young and too honest to take back once it’s in the air. His eyes widen for half a second, startled by himself, and then he laughs again, softer, ducking his head like he might hide inside his own shoulders.
“I’m—” he starts, then shakes his head, trying to gather the pieces of himself back together. The words come automatically, pulled from a place he’s used to guarding. “I know I’m sick, but—”
You reach out and touch his arm to stop him. You don’t look worried or solemn.
“You don’t have to explain,” you say.
That’s all.
He breathes out, slow, and feels his shoulders drop an inch.
“Okay,” he says, almost to himself.
He suddenly becomes aware of how close you are, of how your breath moves in and out, and the scent of soap and cigarette smoke that clings to you. He leans in, guided by instinct, and your noses bump gently, awkward and perfect all at once.
He smiles before he can stop himself, and you smile back, just as close. His heart is beating fast again, but it’s not panic this time. It’s sharp and hopeful.
Finally.
He tilts his head and soon, you feel the first taste of his mouth pressing to yours, forming a quick, careful peck around your upper lip that barely lasts a second. It’s soft and shy, like he’s checking to see if you’ll still be there when he pulls back.
You lean in and kiss him back, just as gently. Your mouth fits against his with an ease that sends a quiet thrill through him. He stays very still, afraid of doing too much too soon, but his hands lift a little at his sides, and his breath catches audibly as he feels the full, undeniable fact of your lips on his.
The space between you doesn’t pull back after the kiss, and that’s what surprises him most. He stays where he is, tasting the warmth of your breath.
As if on cue, his hands lift.
They hover for a second, uncertain. He’s always been aware of his hands, of how large they are, and how easily they seem to take up space. He’s broken things before without meaning to. Made people uncomfortable by being too slow, too stiff, or too unsure. This feels different, but the instinct to be careful is the same.
He cups your face with both hands, presses his palms warm against your cheeks, and nestles his thumbs near your jaw. They tremble a little, betraying him, and he swallows hard, hoping you don’t notice.
A quiet laugh slips out of him at the sheer beauty of getting to touch so little but so much of you at once.
“Wow,” he murmurs.
He looks at you again, and you catch his eyes tracing the line of your mouth, and the way your lashes cast soft shadows under the light. You’re watching him too, and it gives him the courage to lean in again.
He presses his lips to yours with a little more intention now. He doesn’t rush it, lets it last just long enough for the feeling to settle in his chest. He then pulls back enough to see your face and make sure you’re still with him.
You are.
His breath hitches and he smiles before he dips his head and brushes a kiss against the tip of your nose. It makes him laugh again under his breath, surprised by the intimacy of something so simple. His warm thumbs move and trace the barest suggestion of motion along your cheekbones.
He kisses your forehead next, shyly.
He keeps glancing at your eyes, your mouth, your hands, checking for any sign that he’s gone too far, that he’s misread the moment. He’s used to stopping himself, to pulling back before anyone else has to. Here, he lets his hands remain where they are, for it’s too late to panic now.
Not that he feels it approaching anyway.
His breathing evens out slowly, growing steadier, and he’s praying to make this moment last if he treats it right.
He doesn’t realize you’re moving until you already have.
You lean into him, and your shoulder settles against his chest with ease that catches him completely off guard. Your head fits just under his chin, like it’s found its place there, and the contact goes straight through his trembling body.
Until it stills, that is.
His breath stalls halfway in, and his arms dangle uselessly at his sides while his brain scrambles to catch up. This wasn’t part of the plan, not that he had one, but it feels bigger than the kisses somehow, heavier in a quiet way.
“Oh,” he breathes. Then, softer, almost surprised by himself, “Wow.”
You feel absolutely heavenly.
He lets his heartbeat slow enough that it stops shouting in his ears. He becomes aware of how solid you feel against him, of how steady the rise and fall of your breathing is, and how the sweet warmth of your body sips through your clothes.
Slowly, he brings his arms around you.
One arm comes first, resting across your back, and his hand stays open awkwardly. The other follows, settling lower, drawing you in just enough that you’re properly held. His hands are warm and a little unsteady, but he keeps them that way, loose and open, giving you room even as he holds you close.
There was a time when being held meant pressure in the wrong places, arms that didn’t let go, and breath knocked out of him and nowhere to put it back. His body remembers that even when he tries not to, muscles bracing out of habit, waiting for the moment it turns. He feels it now, that instinctive tightening, and the reflex to pull inward.
But nothing happens.
You don’t squeeze or shift suddenly. Your weight feels easy against him, oh so blissfully.
The tension drains out of him smoothly.
He feels it in his shoulders first, as they lower without him telling them to. Then his chest loosens as his breathing evens out. His grip softens and turns to a shelter more than a brace. He lowers his head carefully and lets his chin rest lightly on the top of your head.
You’re so tiny in his arms.
He closes his eyes.
He realizes he isn’t waiting for it to hurt.
Eventually, he shifts just enough to look down at you. You tilt your head up, and the movement pulls a small smile out of him before he can help it. His thumb moves absently against your back, and he almost giggles at how natural it feels.
“So,” he says then, playfully. “Looks like our friendship’s ended.”
The words sound different out loud than they did in his head. As soon as he says them, a flush creeps up his neck, and he wonders if that was a stupid thing to say, if he’s ruined the quiet by trying to be clever. He watches your face closely when you pull back just enough to look at him, and he sees confusion blooming in your eyes.
He clears his throat and rushes to explain.
“I mean,” he adds quickly, then slows himself down, forcing the words out the way he means them. “You’re my girl now.”
He feels exposed saying it, like he’s stepped forward without checking where the ground is, but he doesn’t take it back. His mouth curves into a shy, crooked smile as his eyes search yours, waiting.
When you don’t pull away, and your expression softens instead, he exhales a quiet laugh and leans in again, cradling the side of your neck.
The next kiss is slower than the others.
He’s never been religious, but it feels like a calming prayer.
He takes his time with it, with you, letting his lips settle against your mouth fully. He smiles into your lips the moment he feels you nodding in approval.
“Yes. I am.”
he will be loved
Red Welby x female!reader
summary: My advice is always ruin the friendship / Better that than regret it for all time
tags: basically friends/colleagues to lovers • angst • hurt/comfort • fluff • kissing • oral (m receiving)
The thing about Red Welby was that he showed up in ways that didn’t draw attention to themselves too much, which meant most people missed it entirely.
And some used it against him.
You noticed because you worked beside him most days, in the supply room that always reeked of dust and old paper and ink, or at the back desk where radios crackled and no one ever quite remembered to throw away yesterday’s coffee cups. You’d been there a little over a year together, which was long enough for his presence to start feeling like a headrest you could lean against without musing too much. Red was never the loudest voice in the room and never the quietest either; he filled space with rambling sentences that doubled back on themselves, explanations that arrived five seconds too late, and jokes that made him laugh harder than anyone else because he’d already decided they were funny before they left his mouth.
“Don’t drink that,” he told you once, eyeing your coffee with mild alarm as you stood near the filing cabinets, “I think that’s been there since, uh—well, actually I don’t know how long it’s been there, which is sort of the problem, isn’t it.”
You looked down at the cup, then back at him. “I’m already halfway through.”
He grimaced, sympathetic in a way that felt genuine. “Okay, well. If you die, I’ll tell people you were brave about it.”
It was those small, stupid exchanges that didn’t demand anything of you, that made it easy to sit with him through lunch breaks. Your elbows nearly touched at the narrow table while he picked apart a sandwich to remove the pickles, apologizing for the mess as if you might report him.
Sometimes you talked, about nothing important, about the weather or a movie he’d half-watched on cable and didn’t really recommend, and sometimes you didn’t talk at all, just existed in the same quiet pocket of time while the rest of the agency moved around you.
Red never pushed. He never asked questions that felt invasive, or filled silences just because they were there, and you found yourself offering things anyway, including complaints about your morning, and little details about your life, because he listened. His attention was steady and slightly serious, like he was trying to do it right.
You wished you’d told him he’d always been right. For you—
—on top of that, there were moments, usually when he smiled at you without realizing he was doing it, or when his hand brushed your shoulder passing a stack of forms, when you wondered what it would be like to step over whatever invisible line the two of you had drawn for whatever unspoken reason. The thought came quietly and left the same way, insistent enough to be noticed from time to time. Usually when his face lit up as he paraded around in a new, colorful fancy shirt, or when he’d just finished his latte and forgot to lick the cream off of his beautifully bow-shaped upper lip. Which was—you’d noticed early on—freckled, too.
You never acted on it. Partly because work was work and lines were lines, partly because Red had a softness to him that made recklessness feel unkind, and partly because timing is a real thing no one likes to admit matters as much as it does. It felt safer, and somehow more honest, to keep being the person who brought him coffee on late shifts, who waited for him to finish locking up before leaving, and who knew when to let the silence stretch and when to laugh along with a joke that didn’t quite land.
On some sleepless nights, you couldn’t help but think of the nearly-closely-as if/if-only’s you’d shared with him over the last twelve months.
1)
The copier jammed at exactly 3:17 p.m., which was late enough in the afternoon for everyone to be tired, irritable, and already mentally halfway home. The usual.
You heard the stuttering mechanical whine before you turned around, and then what rang was a defeated little clack that sounded suspiciously familiar.
Red sighed enough to register as a man bracing himself for a situation he already knew he was about to make worse big time.
“I can fix that,” he said from somewhere near the copy room, with the misplaced confidence of a man who absolutely could not.
You looked up from your desk in time to see him hovering in front of the machine with his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, his tie hanging loose and already perilously close to the feed tray. He peered into the copier’s open mouth with the furrowed concentration of a scientist examining a hostile specimen.
“Red,” you called mildly. “Maintenance put a sign on that thing.”
“I know,” he replied, leaning in anyway. “But the sign is mostly just… advisory, right? Like a suggestion. And I’ve unjammed it before. Once. Successfully. Mostly.”
The copier made another ominous noise.
You stood. “Red.”
“I’m just gonna—okay, so if I pull this page out slowly—”
The machine whirred, and Red yelped a startled, deeply offended sound, like he’d just been betrayed by an inanimate object he’d trusted too much.
“Oh no,” he said immediately. “Oh no, no, no—”
You were across the room before he finished the sentence.
His tie was caught deep enough that the copier had claimed it with clear intent, the fabric drawn taut into the inner mechanisms. Red stood frozen with hands hovering uselessly in the air, and eyes wide.
“I’ve made a mistake,” he said calmly.
You bit down on the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. “You think?”
“I want to clarify,” he added, “that I did not anticipate this outcome.”
You stepped closer, reaching for the machine’s power switch. “Hold still.”
“I am very still,” he said. “I am the stillest I have ever been.”
You turned the copier off. The sudden quiet was startling. Up close, you could see the pink creeping into Red’s cheeks, and the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Okay,” you said. “Let me see.”
You leaned in, closer than necessary, fingers carefully working at the edge of the trapped fabric. The space between you narrowed drastically. Red’s breath was warm against your temple.
“I should apologize,” he said quickly. “I feel like I should get ahead of that.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I do,” he insisted. “This is, at best, OSHA-adjacent behavior. Possibly worse. And if you lose a finger because of me, I will never emotionally recover.”
“I’m not losing a finger,” you said, tugging gently. “Stop moving.”
“I am not moving,” he said, even as his shoulders shifted a fraction closer. “That’s just… existential trembling.”
Your knuckles brushed his chest as you adjusted your grip. It was accidental. Completely. Still, the contact sent a small, sharp awareness through you that had nothing to do with the copier.
Red went quiet, and you glanced up.
His face was very close now. You could see the numerous freckles along his cheekbones, the tiny crease between his brows as he focused on not panicking, and the way his mouth had fallen open like he’d forgotten what it was supposed to do.
“Okay,” you murmured. “I think if you ease back just a little—”
He did, carefully, and the fabric slid free with a soft whisper of release.
Red’s tie hung crooked and rumpled. His breathing was uneven, and his chest rose faster than before. You were still holding the edge of the fabric, fingers curled like you’d never meant to let go.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah,” you replied.
The moment stretched. The copier loomed beside you, harmless now. The office beyond the copy room felt far away, muted. Red’s eyes darted from your face to your mouth and back again, like his thoughts had briefly lost their map. Like he caught himself musing about what it would feel like to kiss you and—
—then someone cleared their throat behind you, and the spell shattered.
Red jumped back as if shocked, bumping his elbow against the copier with a soft thunk. “I’m free,” he announced unnecessarily. “All good. Everything’s fine. No casualties.”
You stepped away at the same time, smoothing your shirt, suddenly aware of your pulse, of the warmth lingering where you’d been close.
“Copier’s still jammed,” you said, a little too brisk.
Red nodded, tugging his tie straight with hands that were not entirely steady. “Right. Well. Maintenance. Love those guys. Big fan of… letting them do their jobs.”
You returned to your desk. He returned to his. The office noise swelled back to normal. You heard phones ringing, chairs scraping, and someone laughing near the break room.
As if nothing had happened.
But later, when you caught Red glancing at you from across the room with a small, thoughtful smile he didn’t seem aware he was wearing, and when you realized you were still thinking about the warmth of his breath near your ear, you knew one thing with absolute certainty.
The copier had jammed, yes, but so did your heart.
2)
Trivia night happened by accident, which was how most things involving Red tended to happen. There was no clear plan involved, only a series of small decisions that somehow landed everyone at O’Malley’s on a Thursday night with laminated answer sheets and a chalkboard promising PRIZES!!! in three different colors.
Red hovered near the edge of the group, nursing a cold beer.
“I should warn you,” he said, earnest to the point of concern, “I’m really bad at trivia. Like, actively detrimental. I panic. I second-guess. I once insisted the capital of Nevada was Reno because I’d seen a movie set there.”
“You did not,” you said.
“I did,” he replied solemnly. “They asked me to leave the team.”
You smiled, because that sounded exactly like something Red would carry around as a formative wound.
You ended up at the same end of the table, knees nearly touching under the scarred wood, the surface sticky with old beer, chewing gum and god knows what else. Someone wrote your team name at the top of the sheet, ironic and forgettable, and the trivia host launched into his opening spiel with the energy of a dude who owned several novelty hats.
The first round was general knowledge. Red kept quiet, with his shoulders tucked in, and his brow furrowed like he was trying not to make eye contact with the questions.
Then came round two.
“State mottos,” the host announced.
Red made a small noise, like a surprised intake of breath that didn’t fully commit.
“That one’s Esto perpetua,” he said automatically, before he could stop himself.
You turned to look at him.
“And that’s Sic semper tyrannis,” he continued, eyes still on the sheet, pen tapping once against the table. “Which people always think is patriotic but is actually… kind of aggressive, when you unpack it.”
Someone stared at him. “How do you—”
Red blinked, realizing he’d spoken. “Oh. I just—my dad was weird about license plates.”
You watched him then, as the rounds shifted and the questions narrowed and Red quietly, steadily came alive. Obscure films. Fonts. The origins of phrases no one else remembered learning. His hands moved when he talked, sketching ideas in the air. His voice lost its hesitation, gaining warmth, confidence, and gentle rhythm.
He laughed once, and something in your chest—and pussy, for that matter—tipped sideways.
This was Red without the edges sanded down. Red not apologizing for existing. Red being good and not shrinking from it. And you loved it.
Halfway through the night, during a question about title cards in 1970s cinema, he leaned toward you without thinking.
“It’s Saul Bass,” he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed your neck. “It’s always Saul Bass.”
Your pen paused mid-word.
The bar noise fell away, replaced by the low register of his voice. You nodded, because words felt suddenly optional, and wrote it down.
Correct.
By the final round, you were neck and neck with another team, and Red looked genuinely stressed about it, chewing the inside of his cheek like he might take responsibility for the outcome no matter what happened.
When the last answer was called and the host announced your team as the winner, you reacted without thinking.
You turned and high-fived Red.
The contact was sharp and warm, palm to palm, the sound crisp in the space between you. Red froze with his eyes wide, then laughed startled, delighted, like the sound had surprised it out of him.
“Oh,” he said. “We—wow. We won.”
“We won,” you echoed.
Your hands separated just a fraction too slow, your thumbs brushing against each other again as they pulled back. Red’s smile lingered, soft and dazed, like he was cataloguing the moment for later review.
As the table erupted around you, Red glanced at you again, quieter now.
“Thanks for letting me be on the team,” he said.
You met his gaze. “Anytime.”
And as the bar buzzed and the night rolled on, you realized, with a clarity that felt almost inconvenient, that you’d fallen a little.
And he hadn’t even noticed yet. Or so you thought.
3)
Another day, you and Red signed out within seconds of each other.
“Long one,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck as you stepped outside together.
The cold hit immediately, slipped under your collar and made you regret your jacket choice. You sucked in a breath and shivered before you could stop yourself.
Red slowed and creased his brow with concern. “Oh. You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, already regretting it as another shiver worked its way up your spine.
Red stopped walking entirely.
He reached for the zipper of his jacket. “I mean—here. You can—if you want. Only if you want,” he added quickly, already pulling it off his shoulders. “I’m warm. Weirdly warm. Always have been. It’s a circulation thing, maybe? Or just anxiety. Hard to say. Anyway—”
“Red,” you said, gently.
He paused, jacket halfway off, looking at you like he’d been caught doing something deeply personal in public.
“I’ll take it,” you said.
He blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Okay. Yeah. Good.”
He stepped closer to drape it over your shoulders, careful. His fingers brushed your collarbone for a fraction of a second, then retreated. The jacket settled around you, heavy and warm.
It smelled like him, of detergent, coffee, and papery and familiar, like the supply room or his desk drawers. You breathed it in without meaning to.
Red noticed that too.
You started walking again, side by side. Red kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold he’d insisted wasn’t bothering him.
Every few steps, you felt his gaze flick to you, then away. Again. And again.
“What?” you asked, finally.
He flushed. “Nothing. Sorry. I just—uh.” He gestured vaguely at you. “It looks… good. I mean. Not—good good. Just—comfortable. Which is good. That it’s working.”
You smiled into the collar.
Halfway to the parking lot, he cleared his throat. “You can keep it until you get home. I’ll be fine.”
“I know,” you said. “But thank you.”
When you reached your cars, you slipped the jacket off and held it out to him.
He took it, then paused when your fingers didn’t immediately let go.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“For the jacket?” you asked.
“For… a lot,” he replied, then immediately looked like he might regret saying it.
You smiled and finally released the cuff.
Red watched you go, with his jacket folded over his arm, standing there a second longer than usual in the cold, like he needed time to adjust to the idea that you’d nearly just flirted.
When you drove home, still warm in the place his jacket had been, you realized care didn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it just showed up like a good friend with a coffee cup on a cold winter morning.
4)
It happened on a Tuesday, which somehow made it worse.
Tuesdays were for neutral things like lukewarm coffee, half-listened meetings, long cigarette breaks, and the quiet agreement that everyone was just getting through the day without incident. No one expected a moment to land hard on a Tuesday.
You were standing near the back desk, sorting through a stack of reports with Red beside you, when one of the guys from Records, Mark, maybe, wandered over with a grin already loaded.
“So,” he said, eyeing Red’s notes. “You still alphabetizing by vibes, or did you finally figure out the system?”
Red laughed immediately.
It was the reflexive kind, the one he used like a shield. Light, agreeable and designed to smooth the air before it could snag on anything sharp.
“Still a work in progress,” he said easily. “I like to keep things exciting.”
Mark snorted. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta keep it simple around here.”
Red’s shoulders tightened and anyone not looking for it would’ve missed it entirely. But you saw the way his posture pulled inward, and the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.
“It’s actually color-coded by intake date and urgency,” you said, calm and precise. “Red reorganized it last quarter. Cut our retrieval time in half.”
Mark blinked.
“Oh,” he said. “I was just joking.”
“I know,” you replied, pleasantly. “Just didn’t want it to sound like you didn’t know what he does.”
Mark muttered something that might’ve been an apology and wandered off, suddenly very interested in his phone.
Red stood there for a moment with hands still on the papers. When he finally moved, he let out a whistle.
“Hey,” he said, lighter than he meant to be. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” you said.
He shrugged once and turned back to his desk.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Red was still polite, but he didn’t ramble. He kept his head down, working with careful focus, and didn’t offer a single joke.
You found him later in the supply room, restocking printer paper with uncanny thoroughness.
“Hey,” you said.
He looked up, startled, then smiled.
“Hey.”
The room hummed softly around you. Red stacked the last ream, then rested his hands on the shelf, suddenly unsure what to do with them.
“Thank you,” he said.
You leaned against the counter. “For what?”
He swallowed. “For earlier. You didn’t… you didn’t make a thing of it. But you also didn’t let it slide.”
Dear god, that sincerity in his voice.
“I know I joke,” he continued, quieter now. “And I’m fine with it, mostly. But it meant something. That you stepped in.”
You met his eyes. “You deserve that.”
He went still at that.
Red then cleared his throat. “Anyway. I just—wanted you to know.”
“I do,” you said.
He nodded again, lingering a second longer before turning back to the shelf.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
5)
That one night the bar was nearly empty. A single table was still occupied near the back, someone nursed a drink they no longer wanted there, and the bartender wiped the counter in slow, looping motions, killing time on purpose.
You and Red sat side by side. The day had run long, bled into evening, and neither of you had bothered to pretend you were in a rush to leave.
Red traced a ring of condensation on his glass with his thumb, thoughtful.
“I don’t really do relationships,” he said suddenly, in a tone that suggested he hadn’t meant to say it out loud yet.
You turned to look at him.
“I mean—I used to,” he added quickly. “Or I tried to. But it always felt like I was… late to my own life, somehow. Like everyone else had read the manual and I was just guessing.”
He laughed softly at that, self-aware, but the sound didn’t quite land.
You watched his reflection in the darkened mirror behind the bar and eyed the way his shoulders stayed loose but his jaw held tension, still.
“I don’t think that’s a flaw,” you said.
He shrugged. “Feels like one sometimes.”
“I’ve been thinking about you,” you said, before you could overthink it. “More than I probably should.”
Red’s hand stilled.
The air changed like a room when someone opens a window and you don’t realize how stuffy it’s been until the cold slips in.
He turned toward you slowly, and his eyes searched your face.
“Yeah?” he said.
You nodded.
There it was.
Red swallowed.
Then his phone buzzed on the table.
The sound was sharp in the quiet, jarring and deeply unwelcome.
Crap.
Red flinched, glanced down at the screen, and let out a small huff. “Sorry. It’s work. They’re… yeah.”
He didn’t answer it right away but chose to look at you instead, and you could swear that his eyes still held that unfinished thought.
“Rain check?” he said quietly.
You smiled, because it felt like the only thing you could do without breaking the moment entirely. “Yeah.”
Or breaking down, for that matter.
He answered the call and you heard his voice shift back into its careful, professional register.
You finished your drink and stood, shrugging into your coat.
When he hung up, you were already near the door.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said quickly.
Outside, the night air was cool and clean, and the street empty and waiting.
You stopped beside your car. He stopped too, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him up your nostrils.
As you drove away and saw him still standing there in your rearview mirror, with his hands deep in his pockets, watching you go, you knew that he wasn’t done with you yet.
***
It happened so fast that for a second your brain refused to assign it meaning.
You were in the agency bullpen, phones ringing, someone laughing too loudly near the copy desk, and Red was a few steps away from you with a stack of mock-ups tucked against his chest, already mid-sentence about how he thought maybe the kerning looked a little off but he wasn’t sure and it could just be him, when Jason Dixon arrived.
There was no shouting, but it all blurred together; words stripped of their shape, and then there was Red’s back hitting the glass with a sound that didn’t belong indoors, sharp and final all at once. You remember the way his face changed in confusion, like he was trying to catch up to something that had already happened, and then the window was gone and so was he.
The sound of the impact below came a half-second later. It was a dull, sickening thud that seemed to travel up through the building and lodge itself behind your ribs. Everything froze around it. A chair skidded across the floor, someone screamed, but it all felt distant, muffled, like you’d been dropped into a pool without warning.
You didn’t think about Red as your friend in that moment or about lunches or coffee or the way he laughed at his own jokes. What you felt was raw and animal and immediate. It was a rush of fear so sharp it made you dizzy, followed by anger that burned hot and directionless because there was nowhere to put it that would make sense. You moved without deciding to, pushing past people who were suddenly in your way. Your hands kept shaking as you reached the broken edge of the window and looked down, already knowing what you were going to see and not knowing how you were supposed to look at it.
Someone grabbed your arm and said your name, told you to step back, told you help was coming, but all you could think was how wrong it was that Red had been there a second ago, breathing and talking and apologizing for nothing, and now he wasn’t, and how violently unfair it felt that a man like him could be removed from a room like a piece of furniture.
It wasn’t romantic, the realization that followed, and it didn’t arrive neatly. It came as a simple, brutal fact lodged in your chest: that the idea of a world where Red didn’t walk back through that door, didn’t take the long way around sentences, didn’t eye your frame when he thought you were lost in thought, and didn’t sit quietly beside you while the day wore itself out, felt unbearable in a way you hadn’t prepared for. Standing there amid the chaos, helpless and shaking and furious, you understood with startling clarity that whatever he had been to you before, it was far more than you’d ever allowed yourself to admit.
***
You started visiting Red every two days, which you told yourself was a sensible arrangement, as it looked normal from the outside and didn’t invite questions you weren’t ready to answer. Every day would have been too much, too obvious, and besides, you had work and a life and all the reasonable excuses lined up neatly in your head. Every two days felt practical. You could justify it off the hook even as you counted the hours between visits.
The hospital room was always too bright, and Red looked smaller in it somehow, folded into the narrow bed with his arm in a sling and bruises blooming across his face in colors that made your stomach twist every time you saw them. He tried to greet you like nothing had happened. Each time his voice was pitched a little higher than usual, already reaching for humor before you’d even sat down.
“Hey,” he said the first time, wincing as he shifted, then immediately adding, “I know, I look like I lost a fight with a window. Which I guess is… technically accurate.”
You huffed a laugh because it was easier than telling him how close you’d come to shaking apart when you’d seen him fall. You set the coffee you’d brought on the little rolling table and moved to adjust his pillow without asking, careful and gentle, and he watched you with an expression that hovered somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment.
“You didn’t have to come,” he said, and the words tumbled out too fast, like he was afraid you might take the idea and run with it. “I mean, not that I don’t appreciate it, obviously, I do, it’s just—this whole thing’s kind of a mess, and I don’t want to be, you know, a hassle.”
“You’re never a hassle,” you told him, a little more firmly than you’d intended.
Shit, shit, shit.
He apologized to you anyway, for the coffee you brought being better than the hospital’s, for taking up your time, and for the way he had to move slowly when he reached for the cup, as his hands were still unsteady. You started to notice those hands then; the way his big, freckled fingers curled as if bracing for pain, and the tremor he tried to hide by keeping them busy, fussing with the blanket or the edge of the sheet.
On your third visit, he was quieter, the jokes fewer and more spaced out, and when you asked how he was really feeling he hesitated, staring at the far wall.
“It hurts,” he said finally, almost apologetically. “Which I know sounds stupid because, obviously, it’s supposed to hurt, but… yeah. It just does.”
You sat longer than you planned to, the chair digging into your back while the afternoon light crept across the floor, and when he drifted into a silence, you didn’t rush to fill it. You watched the rise and fall of his chest, observed how his jaw tightened when he shifted, and you realized you were memorizing these small, unguarded moments, making them count.
By the fourth visit, you’d fallen into a pattern. You brought decent coffee or something sweet he could tolerate, adjusted his pillow before he had to ask, listened to him talk about the physical therapist with exaggerated seriousness, like it was a rival he intended to outwit.
As if anyone could outsmart Red.
Sometimes he’d stop mid-story, and you noticed his gaze drifted to you with a softness and curiosity that made your toes curl, and for a second there would be nothing between you but the quiet hum of the room, the steady beeping of the monitor, and the clear but unresolved romantic? sexual? dreamy? tension you could cut with a knife.
Those moments felt heavier than the jokes, and you found yourself wishing, without knowing exactly what you were wishing for except for that it’d made you feel fuzzy and warm and a bit flustered, that they might last just a little longer. In a safer place, at a simpler time.
One day.
***
You let yourself into Red’s apartment with the spare key he’d awkwardly pressed into your hand weeks ago, back when he still thought he might just be sore for a few days and had insisted it was “purely in case of emergencies,” though he’d blushed like he was offering you to take a look at the stack of the chick flick novels he sometimes found himself enjoying on a particularly windy day.
The place smelled of paper, old coffee and whatever detergent he used when he remembered to do laundry, and for a second you just soaked it in, listening to the quiet settle around you, aware in a way you hadn’t been before that you were alone in his space.
The apartment looked exactly like you’d expected it to, which somehow made your throat tighten. It was messy but not dirty. A prime example of the lived-in chaos that came from one person moving through the same rooms day after day without anyone to witness it. A stack of unopened mail leaned against the counter, a jacket was slung over the back of a chair like he’d meant to come back for it any minute now, and half-finished projects sat wherever he’d lost interest. You saw notes scribbled on scrap paper, a broken lamp he’d clearly intended to fix, and a book left face-down with a receipt marking the page.
A Good Man Is Hard to Find.
So Red.
You started small, telling yourself you were just doing the practical things that needed doing. You washed the dishes in the sink, surprised by how few there were, and wiped down the counters. You gathered his laundry into a neat pile and remade the bed with fresh sheets, smoothing the fabric until it lay flat and clean. You let your body lie down with your head on his pillow, reasoning with yourself that you just got a little weary, is all.
The fridge was nearly empty, so you made a list and ran out for groceries, choosing things you knew he liked without having to think too hard about it. When you stocked the shelves, lining everything up just so, it felt more like preparing, as if you were setting the apartment up to be lived in again, to welcome him back into a life that had been abruptly paused.
You hesitated in his bedroom longer than you meant to, and your gaze drifted over the familiar, unremarkable details. You eyed the nightstand cluttered with loose change and old pens, and the lamp that cast a soft, uneven light. This was the first room that made your chest ache, the first place where the reality of what you were doing settled fully into your bones.
Standing there, hands resting uselessly at your sides, you realized with certainty that you weren’t here as a coworker or even just as a friend anymore. Whatever line you’d been careful not to cross before, you were standing on the other side of it now, and the thought didn’t scare you as much as you’d expected.
You wanted him. Down bad.
***
You were still wiping down the counter when you heard his key in the lock followed by a pause that made your heart kick hard against your ribs, as if some part of you was bracing for him not to come in after all. When the door finally opened, Red stepped inside, moving like every joint had to negotiate its way through explaining itself. His coat was hanging awkwardly off one shoulder, and his face was still marked with fading bruises that looked worse in the softer light of his apartment.
You wanted to kiss them better.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
You watched the moment land on him. The stillness, the quiet, the way his eyes moved slowly from the clean counter to the stacked mail to the couch with its cushions straightened and blanket folded. For a second he didn’t say anything at all, which was how you knew it had hit him harder than he knew how to manage.
“Wow,” he finally said, and the word come out almost pompous. Then, immediately, flustered, he added “I mean—wow. Not like… you didn’t have to—wow.”
You gave a small shrug, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “I figured it’d be nicer to come home to a place that didn’t feel like a hospital room.”
He nodded, swallowing, his mouth opening and closing like there were too many things trying to get out at once. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s—this is… this is really nice. Thank you. Seriously. Thank you.” He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand. “I don’t think my place has ever looked like this. I feel like I should pay you for it… but that would be unprofessional. I mean, literally, it would be but… you get me. Never mind.”
He took another step inside, slower this time, as if afraid he might knock the moment over, and you could see the effort it cost him to keep his posture polite, upright, when everything about him was asking to sit down and stay there. When you suggested he rest, he waved you off immediately.
“No, no, I’m fine,” he said, too quickly. “I mean, not fine-fine, but fine enough. I can—uh—I was gonna make you tea. You came all this way.”
“Red,” you started, moving toward him, but he was already heading for the kettle with determined clumsiness, with every movement carefully controlled.
“I’ve got it,” he insisted, setting the kettle down a little too hard and wincing despite himself. He caught you noticing and smiled apologetically. “It’s okay. I just… I wanna do something normal.”
You stayed quiet, leaning against the counter, watching him fumble with the kettle, and you noticed his breathing a little uneven. When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, stripped of its practiced cheer.
“The pills don’t really help,” he admitted, staring at the sink instead of at you. “They take the edge off, I guess, but it’s still… there. And I hate that I can’t—” He broke off, exhaling sharply. “I hate feeling like this. Like I can’t even make tea without it being a whole fucking production.”
You crossed the room before you fully decided to, close enough now to see the tension held tight in his shoulders, and the way his jaw clenched as if bracing against the ache again. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were bright and close to vulnerable, and his voice dropped to a tone that was honest and unguarded.
“I don’t like being helpless,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I’m very good at it.”
That was the moment, you realized.
Your time to shine.
About time.
And as you reached out, you understood with perfect-fucking-clarity that this was no longer about favors or gratitude or even kindness. This was about the two of you, about choosing to be here when he let himself admit he needed someone, and realizing that you wanted to be exactly that.
And more. Oh so much more.
You didn’t say it out loud, not at first, because it felt like your tongue would stumble over whatever words pressed into it so insistently, but your body moved anyway, closing the small distance between you until you were standing just behind him.
You hesitated there for a second, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and the careful way he was holding himself together, and then you slipped your arms around his middle, light and cautious, making sure not to press where you knew it hurt.
Red went completely still.
For a terrifying second you thought you’d misjudged everything; that you’d crossed the line too abruptly, that he’d pull away and apologize and retreat behind that familiar, self-effacing smile, but then his shoulders dropped, just a little, like he’d been holding them up by force alone. He let out a breath, and instead of stepping forward or back, he leaned into you, trusting you to keep him upright.
“Oh,” he murmured, not quite a word, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides as if he didn’t know how far he could let himself reach.
“All good,” you said quietly, your voice close to his ear. “I’ve got your back.”
You braced yourself for the “oh you do, don’t you?” uttered in that sweetly-sarcastic-but-never-mean-spirited Red-like tone that… never came.
There were no jokes, no deflection, and no hurried attempt to make it lighter than it was. You stayed like that for a moment that stretched gently, with your cheek near his shoulder, and your arms trembling, and you could feel the subtle shift as Red let himself be held, feel the tension easing out of his battered body in increments.
When you suggested he lie down again, he didn’t argue this time. He nodded, slow and trusting, and let you guide him. Your hand was warm at his back as you walked him toward the bedroom. Every step was careful, negotiated, and he followed your lead without comment, allowing himself to be supported, and taken care of.
You helped him sit on the edge of the bed, then ease back against the pillows, adjusting them until he sighed softly. The sound slipped out before he could stop it. You were close now, closer than you’d ever been, and you felt a single shiver running down your spine, down to your core. He looked up at you, eyes searching, vulnerable and—yes—ready for more.
That was the sign you needed.
Then, almost without thinking, you leaned in and took a quick, deep breath.
It was a quick, instinctive thing, that sweet kiss.
Just a peck of one against his bottom lip, soft and unsure, tasting of rooibos tea and sweetener. You barely had time to register the warmth of him, the hitch in his breathing, before you pulled back again, heart racing, the moment already threatening to slip away if you made a wrong move.
Red blinked, stunned, and soon his mouth parted, too. A shy, incredulous smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded at you, like he was acknowledging an important fact about you without quite knowing how and where to categorize it.
You smiled back, just as quietly, and leaned back in to devour him.
***
And what a make out session it was. As much as you could call slow, careful, mindful of the state his body was in kissing making out.
You held his good wrist, yes.
He nibbled on your lower lip and knocked his teeth against yours by accident once, yes.
He giggled when you looked for a healed enough, scab-free spot on his cheek for your mouth to linger there, yes.
And you let him play with your hair, even though you’d hated it when any other man you’d been previously with had done it.
Yes.
This was Red, after all.
He lay back against the pillows, and his chest was still rising and falling in shallow, quick breaths after the shock of your closeness, his eyes wide and dark as he watched you. There was a look in them you hadn’t seen before, and it spoke of helpless, stunned disbelief bordering on desire that made your own blood heat.
This was no accident, no spillover of kindness or pity, or a sudden, clumsy urge. You let the truth of your intent settle in the quiet space between you, then moved on purpose, choosing to close the small remaining distance.
You didn't crawl onto the bed with haste or throw yourself into the moment with reckless abandon. Instead, you shifted onto the mattress on your knees, moving closer to his hip, slow enough that Red had every chance to stop you, to reach out, to offer one of his flustered apologies and pull you back.
He didn’t.
He went completely still, locking up with a sudden, beautiful tension that made the muscles in his arms stand out even beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His breath stuttered, and his eyes followed your movements with an intensity that was tasty to witness. It was as if he believed that any movement on his part, any sound, might break the fragile reality of what was happening.
His hands remained at his sides, open palms resting near the edge of the sheet, and the tremor he usually hid was pronounced now, not from pain, but from overwhelmed surprise.
“You don’t— I mean—” he began with his voice rough, turning into breathy murmur that sounded lost in his own mouth. “You really don’t have to.”
You reached out, found the belt buckle at his waist, and then the button of his jeans. The gentle, steady pressure of your touch was the only reply you gave him.
You made a conscious choice to peel the denim away, taking your time, easing the zipper down the track without a snag. Everything about your pace, the focus in your eyes as you worked, said this was on purpose.
As you uncovered him, your breath hitched, for your previous suspicions turned out to be true. He was packing. Truly. The soft fabric of his boxers only hinted at the full, impressive length and girth of him, and when you finally eased the last barrier down and aside, the sight of him; so thick, heavy, and already hard with an undeniable, shy readiness, was a complete shock. You felt a wave of pure, hot desire rise in you, mixed with a sudden awe at the sheer scale of the man you were looking at.
Oh, Red.
His eyes were still fixed on your face, and the disbelief in them deepened as he registered your reaction. “You really don’t have to,” he whispered again.
You leaned in, bringing your head low, letting your gaze sweep over the length of him one last time before you finally touched. And licked. And enveloped him.
Heat stunned him, that’s for sure. He marveled at the soft, wet suction around the broad, velvet head of him, followed by your tongue tracing a slow swirl along the tiny slit that made the breath rush out of his lungs in a sharp huff. He groaned a blunt, stunned sound that punched through the low-lit air.
In turn, you hummed a sound of low, feminine approval and perhaps delight, and drew him deeper by slow inches, your lips sealing snug and warm while your fingers circled the base of him in a gentle, guiding grip. You felt the involuntary jerk of his hips, and the throb of his cock on your tongue.
“Christ,” he gasped, the word ripped from him, and his hands, finally, flew to your hair. His fingers threaded themselves into your curls and held you lightly, as if terrified that a wrong move might interrupt the impossible miracle unfolding at his waist.
You set the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks on each gentle pull, drawing the sensation deep, then easing back just enough to kiss along the vein throbbing at the underside. You used your tongue in slow, lazy kitten-laps that left him trembling all the way up to his jaw. You paused, your hand palming the fullness of his testicles gently, and left a feather-like kiss on each, just the warm, soft brush of your lips and the sigh of air. Then you repeated the tender motion until you heard him whimper.
Red watched you, with his eyes dark pools of utter astonishment, and the lines around them deepening as he tried to reconcile your deliberate action with his own spiraling need.
“I—” he tried to speak, but the words were stolen by a low, throaty sound you made as you swallowed him again, deeper this time, tasting precum, with your focus absolute.
He dared a look up, at the striped shadow of the room, then back down at your head, and his hand tightened just a fraction in your hair, speaking of a desperate, silent plea that you wouldn’t stop.
Every careful movement of your lips, every flick of your tongue against the most sensitive part of him, tipped him closer to the brink.
Words failed him completely. His hips jerked again, and you tightened your hold, stroking the last inches your lips couldn’t reach and caressing his balls with soft, tender attention. You hummed a soothing note against his skin to keep him steady.
Or not.
Release hit him soon enough. He bit out a low, ragged cry, his body arched and locked up against the feeling, then finally broke, trembling, in your hands. He came down your throat with a desperate urgency that belied the stillness he’d held before, and you took him, every pulse, swallowing his come with the same gentle focus you’d given the entire act.
Only when his body sagged boneless against the sheets, and his breathing come in deep, shuddering gasps, did you lift your head. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips glossy, and you wiped the corner of your mouth with the back of your wrist. Your eyes then met his.
He reached for you immediately. His good hand cupped your cheek, and his thumb dragged a slow path near your mouth. He looked utterly undone.
“Sweet mercy,” he breathed, awe thick and trembling in his throat. His eyes searched yours, still wide with a dazed disbelief. “Why’d you do that? You really didn’t—I mean, why?”
You kissed his salt-damp palm, feeling the tremor still running through his hand. “Because I wanted to,” you said simply. “And because you needed something kind to happen to you, Red. For a change. And besides, I couldn’t stand you eyeing my chest any longer when you thought I wasn’t looking, man, and not doing something about it.”
He tugged you closer, pressing your head to his chest. He carded his fingers through your hair, and his touch was no longer fearful, but profoundly grateful.
“I feel like… like you just put me back together,” he murmured at last, his voice thick with a genuine emotion he wasn’t trying to joke away. “More than any doctor could.”
You smiled against his skin, then eased your head back just enough to look at him. “Rest now,” you advised. Then, your lips curved into a small, playful smile, “Doctor’s orders.”
He let out a tired, breathy laugh, his eyelids already heavy with exhaustion and aftershock. “Stay with me?”
“You bet,” you answered, settling down beside him. Your arm slipped over his waist with a natural ease.
***
“Hey,” he murmured in the early morning. “Thank you.”
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes in the dark, where they caught what little light there was. “You don’t owe me that.”
He shook his head once, and his mouth pressed into a line as he searched for something honest enough to hold. “I do,” he said quietly. “Not just… tonight. I mean—for sticking around. For the cleaning. For the coffee. All of it.” He let out a breath. “I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to it just being me. And I don’t think I ever stopped to consider what it might feel like… not to be.”
You instantly understood what he was really saying, and that this wasn’t gratitude for a favor, but for presence, for choosing him when it would’ve been easier not to.
“I love it,” you said, quietly. “Here. I only wish I’d come sooner.”
You leaned forward just enough to press a gentle kiss to his shoulder.
He breathed in deep, and his body sank further into the mattress as if the last few weeks were finally catching up with him now that he wasn’t bracing against them. His eyes closed briefly, then opened again, fixed on the ceiling. He looked calm and slightly unsettled by it.
You were drifting, your thoughts loosening, when he moved again.
His hand slid down your arm until his fingers found yours. He rested his palm against the back of your hand, and his fingers curled there. It was sweet and sincere and unmistakably him.
He cleared his throat.
“You can… come by,” he said with his gaze still fixed upward, as though saying it directly to you might make it too real. His hand didn’t move. “When you want to. Every two days. Or—em, anytime you want to. If you want to, that is.”
And the way he held onto you told you he already hoped you would.
Mountain-ash
Chapter three: Fever dream
(Syd March x fem!reader)
Chapters: Junction / Predisposition / Fever dream
A/N: SMUT!! And insane mutual pining that’s all teehee :) This chapter is based on what I think was our first interaction ever with @cornmine while we were talking about sickfic stuff, lots of love!! <3
Rated: M / 18+ MDNI
Tags: sickfic / slight blood / vomit / implied obsession and possessiveness / creep behavior / masturbation / mutual pining / fever / sharing a bed / sharing medical equipment / spit / dry humping / p in v sex / to be added…
Did he just whimper?
You squint and try to focus your eyes on the figure next to you, not entirely sure whether you are awake or still asleep. The latter would be the more likely option, as Syd had appeared to you in your dreams plenty of times by now. This, however, feels real. You sense his body sending out heat under your now shared blanket. The air is stuffy with the smell of sweat and sickness, and the poor guy looks at you like a deer in the headlights. You try to make sense of the situation despite the feverish shivers interruping your train of thought. You are positively freezing, and he looks to be in the same state, based on his trembling form. Why is he here?
”Sorry” he stutters. ”I m-must have sleepwalked, o-or maybe the fever made me go to bed without realizing you were here— fuck, sorry. I’ll get back on the sofa.”
Panicked, he tries to leave the bed but you manage to grab his wrist and yank him back next to you. What you are about to suggest makes your heart beat out of your chest and you close your eyes, hoping that you are allowed to explain yourself the same way as he did, if he denies your proposition:
”Stay with me?”
Silence. He sits there, quiet and stiff but you can feel his train of thought through tiny movements of his wrist. A slight pull, then a pause accompanied with a flex of his fist, before he relaxes and shuffles closer. He looks at you like an animal who has run away from its predator for miles, only now getting to rest with no threat in sight.
He slowly settles his head on the pillow where he was earlier, still careful and calculated, bordering on frigid, but his look tells you he has accepted the proposal of sharing the bed with you.
”Your fever is rising?” You ask.
Syd nods.
”Mine too.” You scoot closer to him, opening your arms and beckoning him to come closer.
”It feels better when there’s something you can hold onto. I think so at least.”
He hesitantly accepts your invitation and occupies the space you have created for him with the curve of your body, placing his legs to mirror yours and tucking his arms against his chest between you. Every move is calculated, like a current ran through your bodies with the possibility of frying both of you up if your skins ever made contact. You pull the blanket over your heads, cocooning you inside a plush cave which quickly heats up from your fevered breaths.
Slowly his hands find yours and he takes them into his, overcoming his hesitation. The touch isn’t new but it feels like a surge of electricity truly runs through you, lighting up the nerves on your fingers and making your entire body tingle. He finds the courage to move his legs too, knees bumping first and then tangling in between your legs. Despite the constant shivering he finally seems relaxed, his calves curling against yours and the pads of his fingers slowly going back and forth over your knuckles, occasionally squeezing your hands as the feverish chills ravage his body.
You decide to think what this all means tomorrow, and instead close your eyes and focus on the soft snuffles coming from his nose. Your bodies melt together in the impossible warmth under the sheets, and you fall into a deep sleep, your bodies working in tandem to defeat whatever is causing havoc within them, while you feel each other’s warm breath on your skin.
Morning comes and the sun peeks from between the blinds. You wake up with another body glued to yours under the sheets. His sleeping form hugs you from behind, palm flat against your midsection. Despite feeling groggy and drenched in sweat, your fever has gone down, letting you truly take in the heavenly soft sheets and the sleeping figure next to you
Syd. Someone you practically compose your life around now, sharing his bed with you. Fully awake now, you replay yesterday’s events in your mind:
The sudden onset of a headache and fever had completely incapacitated you then and there in his kitchen, and he had insisted that you would stay to sleep the fever off. He had used all kinds of rationale and even let you borrow his clothes, not to mention his bed. Still, it was just transactional right? The same thing you would do to him but the favor contained no further thought or feeling.
At least it had been until you woke up to find him shivering next to you hard enough to shake the whole bed. He had let you hold him so close during the early hours of the morning that you felt his breathing right against your lips. You shudder at the thought of that. Him climbing into bed with you had definitely put a wrench in your gears trying to think of the motivation behind his actions. Fleeting thoughts make you hypothesize the chance of him doing all that out of sheer want, and as a distraction from all the other symptoms that have now taken center stage from the shivers, you grant yourself the pleasure of diving into those thoughts: Was his need for you to stay over based on more selfish reasons? Could those same reasons be why he now curls against you, with an arm sloped lazily over your stomach and his soft breaths tickling your neck.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a welcome poke against your backside, and you blush as his hips roll against you ever so slightly. You push back gently, matching his movements, which elicits the quietest, softest moan out of him. It is barely audible but already has you hooked. You arch your back more, but to your disappointment he backs up, his torso losing contact with your body. His hand still stays around your stomach, now toying with the fabric of his undershirt he borrowed you last night.
Time to practice patience, you think to yourself. It would be a downright lie to deny ever thinking about him in that light. He was on your mind quite often, making you wonder how he would taste, what position he’d like to take you in, how his eyelashes would flutter and copper hair frame his face, while in between your legs with his tongue on lapping at your cunt. The thoughts often kept you busy before going to sleep, filling your post orgasm hazed mind with him.
No matter how exquisite the picture you have created of him in your head was, you had previously strictly forbidden yourself to ever act on those thoughts. From the little hints here and there, you had gathered that he was incredibly reclusive with his sexuality, anything related to it buried deep within his mind.
You sometimes wondered how he could sell viruses so naturally seductively to customers, while he would become frigid and quiet whenever you two witnessed a colleague make a dirty joke or comment about a celebrity’s STI strains. Maybe he needed to be known first. Maybe he needed someone who would have the patience to allow him to break down his own walls before getting to enjoy him.
You glance over at Syd whose eyes are already on you. He is sitting up slightly, leaning against the wall and looking nervous, like he had been waiting for you to wake up for a while now.
”I want to apologize again” he starts, looking down at the blanket.
”I think we’re past the point of saying sorry” you answer softly but Syd presses on:
”But I was weird for coming here, how did you not push me away? I was being such a creep.” You hear the anxiety in his voice and take his hands into yours again. That seems to calm him down.
”You were sick Syd, you could’ve pushed me off anytime from your own bed. But neither of us did, and I am glad for that.”
He takes in your words with slight suspicion, but eventually nods in agreement. He gets his thermometer, seemingly out of routine and measures his temperature. After pulling it out, he hands it to you, eyes following intently as your hand lifts it to your mouth and your lips part slightly around it. There’s a faint leftover taste of sweetness and sick mingling with your tongue. His taste. It makes you lose focus and you barely notice the beeping indicator for when to pull it out.
”I think it’s done” Syd says quietly, and you’re brought back to reality, flustered by your distracting train of thought. You take it out, read the temperature and hand it back to Syd. He looks at you sheepishly, looks away and promptly puts the thermometer back in his mouth.
You immediately take note of that. You knew he used to smoke, but would he actually be passing a thermometer around with another person like a cig out of sheer memory? His face looks focused as he retakes his temperature, sligtly suckling on the thermometer like he’s trying to get more out of it than just the result. His eyes avoid yours, but he has the same look from yesterday when he watched you use it the first time. No, you think, you must be imagining things. After it’s done he takes it out again, quickly repeating the action of handing it to you, this time accompanied by the nearly inaudible words:
”It tastes nice.”
Tastes nice? The cool mercury coated tip tastes nice? You try to wrap your head around it until realization hits you: Could he be talking about another taste, one that can only be obtained from you, the same way you absent-mindedly savored his taste in your mouth only minutes ago.
He has positively thrown your mind for a loop. You stare at him, unsure of what to say before taking your chance and slowly lifting the thermometer back to your lips, poking your tongue out and giving the tip a slow, gentle lick. It’s a careful trial of finding the direction where Syd wants this to progress. The risk you took was considerate, knowing his former reactions to anything that directly sexual, and you brace yourself for his reaction until—
”Fuck”
Syd whispers under his breath, eyes fixated on your mouth and a deep blush spreading over his face and shoulders. That is your green light.
”Syd” you lean closer, narrowing the space between you until you can feel his nervous breaths on your face.
”Why does it taste nice?”
Syd is basically shaking by now, and you are not completely sure whether it is from fever or the situation unraveling between you two. He gathers his words, swallows and quietly answers:
”I think it’s you. It never tastes nice like this.”
Another layer of the wall separating him from you falls off. Determined to see what will happen, you continue:
”Do you want to know what I taste like?”
He looks at you like a man starving, clenching his jaw and huffing out warm, hasty breaths. Desperate, he nods, barely needing words to confirm it but you ask again:
”Syd, what do you want?”
His answer comes out quiet:
”I w-want your spit”
Those words travel deep into your abdomen, and the need you have for him intensifies into something darker:
Ownership. You can see it clearly now, it was never about wanting to simply care for him, it was about being the only one allowed to do so, and now sharing his bed and his clothes, and him asking for your spit made your mind run wild. Hungry, you move to hover over him, your palm resting against his cheek as you make the first move:
”Tongue out”
He opens his mouth, eyes wide with anticipation and hands grasping the sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white. You stay right above him, and let a drop of sickly sweet spit fall in the middle of this tongue. He doesn’t rush, instead letting it slowly roll inside his mouth while he leans his head against your palm. He swallows, slow and deliberate while keeping his eyes on yours.
The world pauses around you. Your teeth graze your lower lip as you observe. You are unsure of your next move, still afraid he will reel back and put an end to this, but for now you are at a standstill. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air, his blue eyes pierce into yours as your bodies are slowly drawn to each other’s warmth and a whirlwind of thoughts run through your mind. Syd is the one to break it with a whisper:
”More.”
And it breaks with force. You can feel yourself tearing through the last remnants of his walls as you crash your lips against his, hot and feverish and sweet with cough syrup you both have been taking throughout the night. The kiss tastes like home and the realization makes you weak.
He deepens the kiss, grabbing your hair and holding you against his lips, tongue finding its way in your mouth with force telling of his desperation. He is giving his all to you and you want to take until you both fall apart from it. You straddle him and Syd whimpers against your lips, hips bucking up immediately at the slightest contact against your core. You press yourself down on him, bodies sensitive enough from the fever to make you both groan at the contact. His hand grips your thigh, matching the rough movement as you grind down. With every drag of your hips, Syd pushes back, deepening the kiss and biting your lips almost too hard from the sheer intensity of it all.
Your pleasure builds fast and unexpectedly, saturated by the release of pent up emotions and fever sensitized skin burning at the points of contact with his body. Before you know it, you're coming high and loud against him, repeating his name until your voice breaks and you slouch against his chest, cunt still covered by your underwear and trembling from the aftershocks.
”Fuck, fuck did you come?” Syd whispers, eyes wild and hands gripping to your hips now with bruising force.
You give him a weak nod, blushing as you catch your breath. Syd lays you down and pulls your dampened underwear off, revealing you fully for him. He looks at your wet cunt in awe, mouth open and barely keeping his drool from dripping down onto you. His whole body seems to twitch, like he can barely hold himself back.
He looks absolutely breathtaking, lips puffy from the rough kisses and blue eyes taking in your body like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
”Can I fuck you?”
He asks, barely getting a voice out. You answer by tugging at the waistband of his boxers, desperate to see him. Feel him. He releases himself and pushes in slowly, jaw muscles straining with what little remains of his self control.
His size sends a shock throughout your body. Your over-heightened senses make him feel like he is splitting you in half and you try to instinctively pull back away from the intrusion, but Syd holds your hips steady, leaning in pepper you with soft kisses as a form of silent encouragement. He mumbles against your lips, voice weak:
”I’m sorry baby, I can't pull back. It’s so warm. You’re so warm. Gonna move now alright? I need to move, I need to fuck you so bad.”
The pet name and his blabbering melt your brains, and you capture his lips in yet another intense kiss as he thrusts into you, deep and snappy and desperate. It doesn’t take him long before his hips start to stutter and he drives himself impossibly deep in you, making you cry out. He comes with a broken moan, filling you up with his release so hot it burns, branding your cunt as his. That alone is almost enough to send you over the edge again.
You take in every last twitch of him inside you before he is fully spent and weakly collapses on top of you. You share a couple of blissful minutes in silence, before you muster out a quiet question:
”Syd, are you with me?”
”Mmhhmhh.” The answer vibrates against your neck as Syd nuzzles deeper into the crook of it, his body slowly finding the usual rhythm of feverish shivers after its functions return to their default state.
”Don’t go anywhere” he whispers. ”It’s warm, you make it feel so warm.”
You cup his head in your hands and kiss him, softer than any kiss before. He mumbles against your lips: ”I’m sorry I didn't last long, I'll make it up to you. So many times, I promise”
You smile against his lips:
”I am more than happy to hold you to it.”
The light from early winter sun, combined with faint sounds of traffic create a serene atmosphere in the bedroom. You lay there, bodies once again glued to each other as you drift off into peaceful sleep.
saw a man so beautiful i stabbed my eyes out so i would never look upon another man again
Under The Skin - Syd March x Misty Davenport (Fem!OC) | Part 1 - The First Contagion
Summary : Misty Davenport, former private investigator, sets out on a self-assigned mission to find out the truth behind The Lucas Clinic as a company. However, a sudden erotic fixation with the new young man who has just moved into her apartment block threatens to thwart her plans. Especially when she finds out, he works there.
Tags : mature content (18+ only), mentions of stalker-like behaviour, (not quite) stealing of legal documentation, mostly build up and plenty of sexual tension, misty being literally all of us, freak for freak bcs I refused to have it any other way
A/N - This idea has been bouncing around in my head for a while (and by that I mean pretty much since the first time I watched Antiviral), and I owe it to my discord server freaks who give me the courage to put out my first proper fic into the world. You know who you are, and I love you guys <3 also I made Misty visually non-descript so self insert away! It's what I would want.
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From the outside, The Lucas Clinic looked like any of the other greying, brutalist buildings that made up the stifling city. On the inside though, it promised the most devoted of fans all that they could ever wish for. A candy store inside an industrial compound - hidden in plain sight.
One foot into the building, and Misty wasn’t certain. Ever the careful skeptic, she took a note of the place. To her, the reception area looked like one at any other doctors office. It created this strange dissonance between the necessary and the desirable. Maybe that was the intention. Regardless, she had her own mission to fulfill - finding out the truth behind The Lucas Clinic. Her motivations? Just sheer, untameable curiosity. That and she missed the thrill her old missions used to give her.
Her first step : experiencing the clinic as a client, to track her experience and gather as much information as possible.
Upon approaching the reception desk, she stared at the array of leaflets. Mostly advertising, for The Lucas Clinic itself and their services. Alongside the occasional celebrity endorsements and recommendations. In an alternate world, these leaflets may have fascinated her, but now they made the perfect piece of possible intel. She managed to sneak out her phone and take a picture of the spread before the receptionist's voice startled her out of her singular train of thought.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
Misty darted her gaze upwards and shoved her phone in her pocket, appearing startled. “Oh yes. Misty Davenport, here for Hannah Geist at 2:30”, she hurriedly replied. “It’s my first appointment here, I’m just a little shaky is all”. A perfectly rehearsed response, of course - she knew it would put a dent in people’s suspicions. The few years of her being a private detective worked in her favour, it turned out.
Not sensing anything suspicious, the receptionist turned to focus on her laptop screen. Misty took it upon herself to grab some of the leaflets and place them carefully into her bag.
“Yes. Here you are, let me collect the materials you need.” The receptionist spoke after a few moments, then disappeared behind the desk and reached for something that looked like a tablet, as well as an additional paper file that was filled with forms of some kind. She then re-emerged and handed these over to Misty.
“Welcome to The Lucas Clinic. This file contains all of the information about the service you have chosen, a client agreement and an information consent form. Please sign the client agreement and information consent form prior to you being called for your appointment. The waiting room is to your left, please wait to be called. Also, if its any reassurance, it’s normal to be nervous”. A perfectly rehearsed speech, she thought - not unlike her own after all.
“Thank you very much”. Misty responded outwardly. Inwardly, she thought this was all strange. Not only did this place appear like a doctors office, it ran like one too.
----------
Entering the waiting room, the harsh light struck her instantly, continuing to resemble the nature of a hospital. However, what set it apart from those was the images of their star celebrities that covered the walls floor to ceiling. Of course, most of them were of Hannah Geist - the most in-demand actress, in more ways than one - in her full, pseudo Marilyn Monroe glory. Misty no doubt understood the allure and the appeal, but the reason for choosing Hannah was the same reason one would choose to eat the most popular dish at a beloved restaurant.
Sitting down on one of the chairs in the middle, and taking a note of the time, Misty noticed that she only had 15 minutes to sift through her documentation. Observing her surroundings, she noticed there was only one other person in that waiting room, standard considering this was a weekday afternoon. Even better though, it meant she could collect information she needed to with little risk of suspicion. Without hesitation, she grabbed the stray pen on the table and signed both of them - she needed to get in, she could worry about the contents later. After signing both of these papers, she made sure to discreetly take photos of the forms - she was not risking getting caught in these circumstances.
In her minutes alone, Misty briefly looked over the kind of package she had chosen. A Hannah Geist taster package, created specifically for those who were new like herself. Featuring all of their best-sellers - malaria contracted on a press tour in Argentina, diphtheria contracted in France and pneumonia contracted on a speedy getaway in Sweden. Strangely intense and lethal for a mere starter pack, she thought, but she was their best seller for a reason. The bigger thing that fascinated Misty was how far the service stretched - in a morbid way, she almost admired how effective The Lucas Clinic were with their collection and procedures, even internationally. Supply and demand, after all.
“I wonder how long these take to develop” she whispered to herself, and mentally added it to the questions she would have to ask when the right time came.
Placing all of the paperwork in the file, Misty heard her name called out. Looking up, she noticed a man had entered the waiting room. Unfortunately for her, it was a young man, not to mention one she recognised.
What was Syd March doing here?
He had just moved into her apartment block, and had already developed the reputation of being quite the recluse. Nobody knew what his deal was, nor did anyone care. Well, except her.
On the off chance she stayed up late at night (which was most nights), she would stare out of her window and catch him sneaking out of his apartment at unforgivable hours. Sometimes, it would be just to smoke, when she would stare at him as if she were admiring the Mona Lisa itself. If he went beyond the apartment block, her eyes would follow him as far as distance would allow. She no doubt wondered where he went at these hours, and the thought of following him late at night did cross her mind on the occasion.
Now here he was, looking perfectly put together in his work attire and flame red hair pulled back into his staple man-bun. The harsh lights blaring onto his almost translucent skin forced the freckles on his face into view. His eyes simultaneously carried a focused intensity and a peculiar restlessness, as if he was permanently on a quest for something more. Somehow, he both blended in and stood out here. A person of contrast, much like the place itself was.
You are ever the mystery, Syd.
“Yes, that’s me”, she stood up to face him at a distance. His eyes sauntered in her direction - whilst they glimmered with the same sense of familiarity, he still kept his expression largely neutral.
“Please follow me”, he spoke in a manner that reflected his expression. Misty followed suit, clutching onto the file like it was the only hold on her sanity. At that moment, it probably was.
----------
Entering the appointment room, which was bathed in the same white lighting as everywhere else, Misty began to feel her stomach turn out of revulsion at what was before her. What replaced the floor to wall photos of The Lucas Clinic’s designated celebrity clients, was a singular television in the middle of the wall with a loop of the crudest headlines surrounding Hannah Geist one could think of. On the desk, 3 mysterious black cases. No doubt these contained the vials of the diseases. Hoping her internal disgust did not translate to her face, Misty hurriedly sat down opposite Syd at the table.
The moment she sat down, as if by design, she glanced over at the TV and noticed that it no longer displayed the headlines she was so abhorred by. Instead, it showed one singular video loop of Hannah Geist. She was able to recognise it as the same shoot of the photos that were plastered on the walls of the waiting room. She didn’t realise she had been staring at it for a lengthy amount of time until Syd’s voice crackled through the silence.
“I understand your fascination with her. She’s…perfect, somehow isn’t she?”
She genuinely is, Misty thought to herself. Even for a hardened skeptic like her, that statement presented itself like it was an undeniable fact.
“More than perfect, an ideal”.
Flitting her eyes over to Syd, he seemed similarly transfixed. His icy blue stare almost penetrated through the screen. It was as if Hannah Geist was the only person in the world for him. This wasn’t an act, she could tell he seriously meant every word he said. Genuine adoration, extreme devotion, undeniable obsession.
Misty, being unsure whether to find this alluring or unnerving, pulled her gaze away from him and darted it downwards to the boxes in front of her. Three consecutive ones, one for each part of the package. These were the kind of boxes one would find in jewellers, to hold a special necklace for a loved one. It was all strangely romantic in its framing, but also hinted at their grand value.
“Her eyes seem to reach right beneath your skin, and touch your organs”
She glanced up again, and found him staring right at her.
Oh dear, that was a stare that could see through to her darkest secrets. One that any sort of guard was useless against. One that could get any secret out of her.
In short, it was one she had to avoid at all costs. Fuck.
“Gives me the shivers”
As if the universe was mocking her, Misty felt a chill down her own spine. She could only pray that he didn’t notice that.
Just when she thought it couldn’t get any more tense for her, Syd leaned forward over the table, almost as if he was getting ready to unveil a secret to her. Or maybe, an attempt to observe her closely, like she was a lab experiment. Eye contact was simply impossible to maintain under these circumstances, so she averted her gaze back to the boxes that were on the table, which doubled as an implicit way of forcing herself to refocus her attention on information.
She overheard Syd let out a vaguely amused chuckle to himself - a noticeable break in the performance. “You’re new here, I have heard. As per your request, we have here with us our Hannah Geist taster package”.
Back to being perfectly rehearsed, I see, she thought to herself. Down to the soft cadence with which he spoke, the quiet, precise gestures he made, and the intensity with which his eyes studied her. It was all an exercise to lure her into romanticising the concept of a biological communion like this. More than that though, it was a seduction that could be placed in any circumstance - and would be effective. Despite being able to piece together the game quickly, Misty found it hard to deny that it almost worked on her.
Damn, he’s good at this, she thought.
“Is there anywhere you would like to start?”
She sat and deliberated for a few small moments. She knew enough about each of the diseases to know which one was the least lethal, and thought it best to start small, “Diptheria”.
“Smart choice”. He grabbed the box on her right, and slowly opened it to reveal a small glass vial. It was just as Misty thought - placed delicately in the middle, as if it were a necklace made out of pure gold, or the most expensive diamond ring imaginable. She craned her neck over to examine the vial itself closer.
“This was collected from Miss Geist in 2009. After a lack of warning about an epidemic that was spreading through a small village in France, she travelled to that town to visit. Miss Geist loves the smaller joys in life, thus she sought to spread that to others, but she collected a small sorrow alongside this. She had to be flown back two days later for treatment. Now it’s your chance to share that sorrow with her. Two souls, conjoined in small misery, for the rest of your life.”
That was it. The key part of their appeal - human connection. The concept of being connected to another person through a shared vulnerability. Deep down, it was something everybody craved, hence why it was so profitable. Without this desire, their company wouldn't exist.
“It is recommended for first timers like you so, in my opinion, you’ve made the correct choice.” The sudden, subtle compliment threw Misty off balance slightly. Even if this was part of his script, it felt like a strangely specific and intimate comment to make, especially under circumstances like this. She could not prevent the small smile that made its way onto her face as a result.
“Shall we start then?”
Misty moved her eyes upwards, and directly into Syd’s studious stare, as if she was directly challenging him.
“Yes.”
----------
Misty sat there, transfixed.
How Syd’s fingers danced so gracefully across the syringe, the precision with which he extracted the contents of the vial, the elegance with which he arranged the materials in front of him. Most importantly, how effortless he made this look. A method to his madness that indicated just how many times he has done this. Both erotic and strangely calming, it was something Misty could have watched on loop, much like that video of Hannah Geist on the TV.
Once he began to face her again, she moved her eyes to face the wall in front. Because of the nature of the disease, it was to be injected into her neck, and thus she forced herself to relax back into the chair.
“Tilt your head back for me”. She felt two fingers gently pressing under her chin, compelling her to follow instructions. She did.
“That’s perfect. Now hold still for me”
Syd’s fingers gently traced down her neck, on a quest to find the perfect spot to inject her. Travelling across the right side of her neck, he landed on a point just beneath her jawline. He drew himself slightly closer, until he was eye level with the spot, close enough for Misty to feel his warm breath trickling on the side of her neck. A compromising position, to say the least.
She suddenly became hyper aware of how exposed she felt under his watchful eye. It should have made her viscerally uncomfortable - having a stranger who she had only caught fleeting glances at so close to her like this. It was intrusive, and it would have made any normal person squirm.
Well, it did make Misty squirm. Just not in a way that signalled discomfort.
Syd placed two fingers around the surrounding spot, stretching the skin slightly. Taking full advantage of his intense focus, he aimed the needle perfectly at the patch between his fingers. This did not stop him from noticing how Misty’s breath hitched ever so slightly. Having injected countless people in manners like these, he had always assumed it wouldn’t affect him. There was something about her though, how she so readily listened to him, how a single touch sent her hyperventilating, how she practically whimpered when he pushed the needle in. She sounded so vulnerable, so pliable - the perfect prey, completely under his control. He would be lying if he said this didn’t arouse him.
As he pushed the plunger of the syringe down, he let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. “There, perfection ”. Misty shakily exhaled as well, feeling the liquid entering into her bloodstream. After a few moments, Misty felt herself returning to her body, questioning whether any of what had happened was real. Leaning back fully into the chair, she opened her eyes to see Syd standing over her. With the hospital lighting blaring overhead, he appeared strangely angelic to her - in her state though, she couldn’t tell whether she was in heaven, hell or purgatory.
“You should begin showing symptoms in the next two days”.
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Exiting the building of The Lucas Clinic, Misty was finally able to gather her thoughts back to some sense of normalcy. She still had so many unanswered questions that pattered on the fringes of her mind, ones that she would hopefully find at least some of the answers to within the materials she was able to collect. This deliberating and overthinking was not fit for the rainstorm she would be forced to face on the way home.
If there was one thing she was absolutely certain of however, it was how people kept coming back. The process itself was undeniably alluring, she was frankly shocked that it worked even on her. Was it well rehearsed? Coming from a genuine place? Maybe even both? Her well of curiosity had been dug even deeper. She had to stop herself before the rainstorm soaked her and worsened her already pending symptoms. She hastily reached into her bag and pulled out her umbrella, opening it as she walked away from the building, almost speedwalking back to her apartment.
Little did she know, those same icy blue eyes that were staring into her just 10 minutes ago, were now studying her out of a hidden window as she walked away.
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End of Part 1! Since this is my first fic, any feedback is greatly appreciated.
