A crisp breeze darts through the Stardew Valley Fair, infused with the earthy sweetness of fallen leaves and barbecue smoke. Sam scarfs down a maple bar, Abby happily slurps a giant hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, and Sebastian sips black coffee from a paper cup. You weave through the red-and-white-striped festival tents hunting for funnel cake when you hear someone behind you.
“Hey, farm girl.” You turn to find Alex, a wolfish grin on his face. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the Smashing Stone. “Say I win 10 times, will you kiss me?”
Excitement stirs in your chest like a tumble of kicked-up leaves. Abigail leans into Sam’s shoulder, whispering furiously. Sebastian rolls his eyes. Heat sears your cheeks when you feel them look at you.
Alex doesn’t notice them. Only you. His gaze lingers on your mouth, willing you to speak.
“Are you serious?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, “and if I lose, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I’m out,” Sebastian says, deadpan, tossing his half-full coffee into the trash to retrieve a box of cigarettes from his pocket.
“I’d play the Slingshot Minigame again, but I ran out of money,” Sam says, wiping crumbs off his face. “At least this is free.”
Sebastian shoots Sam a glare as he lights his cigarette—then you see Lewis skewer Sebastian with an even more hate-filled look. Even Alex turns to watch Lewis march straight toward your group.
“We could see the fortune teller,” Abby suggests as she pushes Sebastian toward the other end of the fair, away from Lewis.
“I don’t give a fuck,” Sebastian says, exhaling a plume of smoke.
“Sounds good to me, as long as you’re buying,” Sam says, cheery.
“See ya later,” Abby calls over her shoulder.
Like a tiny tornado, Lewis storms past, leaving you and Alex in his wake.
“I hope they’ll be all right,” you say.
“They just have to outrun him. Not so sure about those smoker lungs, but Lewis can’t be that quick.” Angling his body toward the Smashing Stone, he asks you, “So, you in?”
You nod, cheeks ablaze, and arc your brows like question marks, spurring him on.
He steps up to the man at the Smashing Stone and asks for 10 rounds.
“Big day, huh?” the man booms.
“Don’t worry, I warmed up.”
“I don’t worry about you, kid. You know what to do.”
With a quick roll of his shoulders, Alex hefts the giant mallet above his head.
He drops the hammer to the grass and staggers back, panting. When he turns around, sweat shines on his forehead like a crown.
“You did it,” you say, still in shock.
“Didn’t think I could?”
“I wanted you to.”
He comes up to you, leans down—and stops.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Lewis, headed this way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that purple before. Follow me.”
You slink past Pierre’s storefront and around the corner until you reach a cove of overgrown jasmine and butterfly bushes—Caroline’s garden, you assume. Bees swerve around your heads, drunk on the heady bouquet.
Alex guides you to lean back against the wall. Your heart thumps in your ears, drowning out the bright shrieks of laughter and fair games in the distance. He dips his head to meet your eyes—his are frenzied green, glowing hot. His mouth an inch from yours. You meet his lips, and he presses back firmly—a warm, decadent feeling. Heat blooms in your stomach and rises to your collarbones, your mouth.
He pulls back. He wants to see you flustered, the way you unknit under his touch.
“Can we,” you start, and his eyes flash with desire, “go somewhere private?”
He nods, takes your hand in his, and leads you away. When you stroke the muscled pad of his thumb, a wave peaks and crashes in your stomach at the thought of him using his broad fingers elsewhere, anywhere. How strong and practiced they would be.
When you see the familiar blue siding of his house, you squeeze his hand in alarm. “Aren’t your grandparents here?”
“They’re at the barbecue. Grandma loves to get Grandpa outside, and he’ll do anything for a good steak—kind of like Dusty.” You giggle and relax when you picture Evelyn dabbing a napkin at George’s cheek, him swatting her away.
He leads you inside. The kitchen is empty, television silent. You take off your shoes at the door and wander to his bedroom at the end of the hall. Soft afternoon light splashes the walls, turning them golden like sun-drenched wheat. Your stomach swoops low at the clicking latch of his door.
Alex comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.
You’ve always seen Alex at a distance but rarely took the initiative to talk to him. How could he have possibly known you liked him?
“Alex,” you ask, “how could you tell?”
“Hm?” he murmurs into your neck.
“That I liked you.”
“Good instincts.”
“What does that mean?”
His arms slide up your body when he shrugs, the friction igniting a spark in your chest.
“I could just tell,” he says, casual. When you turn your head to face him, he continues, “Your cheeks are always red when I’m around.”
You feel your cheeks, unbidden, redden a degree.
“That is not—”
“Come on, you’re always checking me out.”
“What?” you ask, mortified. He chuckles. You persist, “When?”
“When aren’t you?” he laughs. You protest with a drop of your jaw. And then comes the death blow: “Especially when I run.”
He caught you ogling him? You wish you could correct him, but the fact you could draw his abs from memory—and have, perhaps once or twice—tells you he’s right.
“Okay, all right, you win.” Shame deflates you, makes you curl inward a fraction. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.” His voice lowers. “I like it when you look at me.”
He lets go of you and takes a step back. Strands of sunlight catch flecks of gold glinting in his hair, the sharp edge of his cheekbone. He grabs the bottom of his shirt and drags it up his abdomen, revealing chiseled columns of muscle. The sound of his shirt hitting the floor makes your stomach flip.
“Do you want to see the rest?”
You nod, chest fluttering like a flower in the wind.
He undoes the button of his jeans, pushes them and his boxers down his thighs. Your pulse elevates when he strokes his cock, thumbs the tip.
He watches you through hooded eyes. “You like it, don’t you.”
Your shortened breaths and pink cheeks are more than an answer for him. He closes the gap between you.
You pull your dress over your head, toss it aside. His eyes dip to your bra, his breath ragged with desire. You unclasp it and slip it off your shoulders. Your nipples perk from the autumn chill mingling with the heat of his skin.
Shame threatens to detach you from the present, but his eyes shine with utter devotion, as if he wants to lose himself to you. He wants to give you everything you desire, anything you can bring yourself to ask of him.
You lead him to the bed where you lie on your back, legs slightly splayed. He settles between them, traces a broad finger along the edge of your underwear. He gently lifts the hem and slides his hand underneath the fabric to draw slow circles on your clit, the rhythm wavelike. Your breaths rush out of you like a current guided by his touch. You push your underwear down your hips, and his hands brush your thighs as he slides them off.
You hear his breath catch when he sees you completely naked. You reach for him and he climbs on top of you, holding himself up on his forearms to kiss you, his hard length pressing between your thighs. You feel his stomach tense as you slide your tongue into his mouth.
There’s nothing but the sound of his breaths coming quickly and his warmth against you.
He slowly slides into you, sending rivers of endorphins rushing into your stomach. He grunts into you as he pulls out, as if it hurts to leave you for even a moment. He slides back in, deeper, soft as silk, his pace quickening.
His movements grow sloppy, unmeasured, like he can’t feel enough of you fast enough. A frenzy of desire overtakes him when you wrap your legs around his waist. He angles his body against your clit, scattering beads of color across your vision.
He curls into you, burying his face in your chest as he comes, his breath warm against your skin.
You lie there for a moment before he pulls his head up, his eyes glossy green like dewdrops on grass. You stare at each other as he pulls out of you, your body buzzing where he touched you.
Splayed in the blankets together, you steady your breaths until they’re quiet as clouds.
You wonder what will tear down the sheet of silence that hangs across you, but for a long time, nothing does.
You can’t imagine a more perfect moment—then your stomach growls ferociously enough that even Alex startles.
“Damn, farm girl, I’m hungry too,” Alex says. “Wanna get some funnel cake?”
“Yes,” you say, beaming, excited to go anywhere with him. You untangle your limbs from his to stand, feeling radiant as a dandelion in the sun.
Caldarus x f.Reader. nsfw. minors do not interact.
cw: dragon hybrid x f.Reader. mate biting.
Shirtless, Caldarus lies on his back while you lean over him to tuck a strand of hair behind his pointy ear. A whirlwind of yearning slices through him. You are the anchor fastening him to this world through each day of bitter loneliness. Always an outsider looking in, his once looming presence has been distilled to a whispering breeze. Sometimes he wonders if he exists at all. His stomach is a bubbling pot when you’re away. He can’t do it. Another night alone mourning the loss of you. Darkness is closing in. He grabs your wrist.
“Please, stay.” The trees outside groan as the wind combs their leaves. He lies on his side and lifts the stack of opulent blankets to make space for you. You slip off your shoes and crawl into bed next to him. The mattress sighs. His arm rests, curling around your waist. To hold you without hurting you, he’s trimmed his claws. Moonlight casts long shadows that tango across the floor. The soft trill of the forest plays like a soothing violin.
His long, musical fingers trace the curve of your nose and a sensation in his chest beats like the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. A shiver of longing creeps up his spine. He kisses your nose—and when you don’t pull away—he kisses your mouth. The taste of tea lingers on his breath. Like a stretch of cloth being undone by a single thread, he’s unraveling. His warm tongue slides along your bottom lip. You whimper in surprise. He gently pulls back to ask if you’re alright.
“Yes, it’s just,” you touch his mouth, “your tongue has ridges.”
“Is that bad?” Dread slithers in his stomach.
“No,” you’re quick to reassure him. He admires how bright your eyes shine in the dark and thinks: Has he frightened you? Should he slow things down to make you more comfortable? Often, when he’s lonely in bed it soothes him to think about his day.
“How was your day?” In circles, he rubs your back with his thumb.
“Good,” you say. He stays quiet, staring softly. “I went to Balor’s cart for supplies, and it was nice to see him.” A prickle like an irritated sigh sweeps through him. Embers of jealousy flicker. An emotion so new to him, he doesn’t know what to make of it. “And Eiland stopped by and wanted to talk about the artifacts I donated to the museum.” The embers burn bright.
“But they are not your mate.” His tail slides across the sheets and winds itself around your calf, and in a fluid decisive jerk his tail drapes your leg over his hip.
“No, they aren’t.” You grin, amused. He doesn’t understand what his mate thinks is so funny, but his thoughts loosen and crumble when you stroke the top of his left horn. An incandescent shiver washes over him.
“I am your mate,” he emphasizes. The ache stiffening his cock punctuates his statement.
“You are.” You move your hand from his horn to the back of his neck and kiss him. Your bodies flush against each other, you feel his substantial length. You break the kiss with a small gasp. He watches surprise flash in your eyes.
“Don’t worry,” he says while cupping your chin, “I won’t hurt you.” His second dragon heart shifts its focus to sending blood to his cock. The rush of it makes his dick pulsate. He squeezes your thigh, cradling his hip, and kisses you again. Deeper.
His mouth moves to your neck. The small pining noises you make dissolve him like a sugar cube in water.
“Do you know what mates do?” he asks. Uncertain because he doesn’t know much about human customs. He only knows the flurry of mating season. Do humans have a heat? He wonders while recalling the tinge of pink creeping up your neck. Your shallow breath. But if you were in heat you would have already presented for him.
“I do,” you chuckle, “but would you like to show me?” His orange eyes burn like matches.
“I would, but you are wearing far too many clothes.”
“Do you want me to take them off?”
“I think you know that I would,” he says.
“Ok, you’ll have to let go of me then.” You wiggle your leg that’s entwined with his tail.
“Only if you no longer speak of other men in my bed.” His tail’s hold becomes firmer, but not tight. You arch your brows and he playfully mimics you.
“I didn’t realize you were so jealous,” you tease. Caldarus huffs, indignant.
“Jealous? I do not know what that is. If it means I do not wish to share you at all times, then yes, I am very jealous.”
“I only want you,” you reassure him softly, and he releases his hold on your leg.
Wriggling under the blankets, you take off your clothes. He’s not sure if lifting the covers to see your body will upset you, so he settles for seeking glimpses of your naked body while you undress. When you’re done you lie on your side, facing him. His eyes caress yours.
“I’m not familiar with human matings, and I don’t want to disappoint you,” he admits, blushing.
“How do dragons mate?” You touch a strand of hair framing his face and let it slip through your fingers. His shoulders relax in response to your touch.
“A female in heat would present by bending over and baring—“
“That’s not quite,” you stammer, flustered by his candidness. His shoulders tense.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s that,” you sigh, hoping you can give your dragon a solid sex education. “Humans usually kiss and touch before—you know how to, uh, connect our bodies, right?” He nods, still tense.
“You will present for me, and I will press my cock into your soft cunt.”
“Humans don’t present, but everything else,” you swallow thickly, “sounds about right.”
“How will I know when you want my cock?”
“I’ll tell you,” you explain. “But first, we kiss and touch.”
“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs. The two of you explore each other’s mouths at a languid pace. He squeezes your breast. Soft and squishy in his grasp. His thumb swipes your nipple. You moan. He has an idea: His mouth would feel better than his hand. He thinks of how clever he is, and if any human has thought of this before. You squeeze the back of his neck as his ridged tongue swirls around your peaked nipple. He sucks on your breasts like he’s licking his claws clean after a tantalizing dish. Your low howl penetrates the air between you; he hopes he will remember the sound for the rest of his life.
He breathes in a scent so distinguishably you. Determined to find where it’s coming from, he searches your body. Hovering over you, pulling the covers away, and kissing your skin as he seeks it out. Between your legs, he senses it the most. All he wants to be is drenched in the scent of his mate. He pulls your legs apart and opens his mouth to taste you. With heavy, loving intent he kisses your pussy.
His textured tongue slides across your clit and your legs shiver with ecstasy. Drawn out broken whimpers jump into existence and fall like mist fading.
Your legs shake when his tongue touches a bead of skin at the peak of your cunt. He notices, and is sure to keep doing it. The wriggle of your body and sounds you make send a flood of excitement coursing through his veins. He’s the hardest he’s ever been. You speak, but he can’t make out the words because he’s too absorbed in the task at hand.
“I’m ready,” you repeat. Louder. Breathing hard.
“Ready?” he questions as your meaning dawns on him. He looks at your pussy, the ribbons of skin like petals. It’s small, and he knows he’s big. To see how much you can take, he’d like to put a finger inside you. But he’s too afraid of hurting you with his claws. He thinks about what to do.
“I’m ready for you,” you say. From his perch between your thighs, molten heat glazes his eyes. He knows what to do. He’ll take you slowly, and if you can’t take all of him, he’ll appreciate giving you what he can.
He lies down on his side and pulls you close to him. Cupping your chin, he gives you a passionate kiss. To give him easier access to your body, he wraps his tail around your leg and props it up in the air. Tracing every soft curve with his eyes, he admires the valley of your body.
He pulls down his pants and holds his throbbing cock. Like he did with his tongue, he drags the tip of his dick across your petals of skin. He pets your clit with his tip and demure mewls drift from your throat like threads of smoke. His cock throbs, practically panting at the thought of you. A tiny part of him wishes he didn’t have to be so slow. So patient. But all of him wants you to enjoy every minute he’s inside you. He wants that more than anything else.
The glazed film of pleasure screening your face is all the encouragement he needs; he sinks the head of his cock in your wet cunt. The sound of your pleasure echoes throughout his body like a cymbal being struck. He sinks further into you, and your silken path yields to him. Molding itself around him. Adjusting. He’ll fit. The weight of his worries drop.
“Please, Caldarus,” you beg, “more.”
Your body shifts to receive the pleasure of his tight fit as he roots himself inside you. Each inch creates a chasm of rapture. Your mind flooded with a bliss so strong its ache is almost painful. Absentmindedly you strum your clit like a harp while he fucks you. Determined to savor every drop of this ethereal pleasure.
Fully inside you, he pauses. His dick throbs inside you, and he thinks if he thrusts he’ll cum. You rub your clit while he watches. His body is warm to the touch. Your legs shake like the warbled moans you make, and the smell of your excitement is so strong he can taste it on his tongue.
He’s mesmerized by your flushed chest rising and falling. Your moans becoming a roar. You scream his name over and over as your body flickers. And then, you’re still. His cock pants inside you, wanting more. Out of breath, you sink into the sheets. Not sure what’s happening, he worries.
“Are you ok?” he says. You lift your hand from your clit and stroke his cheek.
“I finished and you should too.” It takes him a moment to calculate your meaning. When he does, he gives you a determined nod.
He can’t imagine anything more pleasurable than seeing your beautiful face while fucking you, so he switches positions. The familiarity of your features an endless comfort to him.
He buries his face in your neck while he thrusts. Your hands explore his back, his hair, and his sensitive horns. Suddenly, you grab both his horns in your hands. A bolt of divine euphoria grips him mercilessly. Unable to think clearly, he bites down on your shoulder and marks you with his mate bite. The endorphins from his bite send you into the heady spiral of a second orgasm. An impossible lightness spreads in your chest as a bond forms. The glow of your dragon’s happiness shines through it. You’re not sure what’s happening. Everything feels like a dream.
He cums. Slowly, he releases you from his mouth’s grip. The newly formed bond thrums in his chest, and his markings will soon be yours too. Claiming you as his mate.
He smiles, knowing part of his mate will live inside him forever.
My other fics are sort of romantic, this one is not. This is toxic af.
Alex checks the time again. You’re late.
It’s already three, and he should leave, but he won’t. He stares at a deep crack splitting a faded blue floor tile. The sharp smell of chlorine clings to the air, though he’s long since gone nose-blind to it.
He should leave. See if you even care. It pisses him off—the way you avoid eye contact with him in public, pretending he doesn’t exist anywhere outside this room. It wouldn’t kill you to wave or say hi every once in a while.
He racks the weight with more force than necessary. The bench creaks beneath him as he sits up, sweat cooling against his back in the humid air.
He scowls.
One day a week. That’s all this is. And you still can’t show up on time. Bullshit. He crosses his arms tighter across his chest and tells himself if you ever blow him off, he’s done.
It’s a lie, but a comforting one.
He used to think if he fucked you good enough, maybe you’d want to be his girlfriend.
He scoffs under his breath. You’re never going to want anything more from him anyway. Fine. Whatever. If you just want to get off, he’ll do it. Hell, he’s probably the only one who can.
Where the hell are you? It’s ten after three. You know what? You can enjoy your stupid ass—
The sound of the doorknob turning sends a pathetic burst of excitement through him, like a dog waiting for his owner to come home.
You slip inside the spa’s weight room and glance back through the narrow crack in the door to make sure no one noticed before quietly shutting it behind you.
“You’re late,” he snaps.
You shrug.
Something hot and frustrated twists in his chest.
“Do you want to do this or not?” you ask, lifting your shirt over your head.
He watches you undress while pushing his shorts and boxers down his legs. The second you’re naked, he’s moving toward you. Too eager, he realizes too late. He grabs the back of your neck and crashes his lips against yours.
He loves the pressure of your mouth against his. You always kiss him, even though you don’t have to.
He pulls away, irritated by how hard kissing you makes him. Later, he’ll taste you and think about you all over again. You probably never do the same.
Overwhelmed, he guides you down onto your knees. Your face hovers level with his cock as he grips the back of your neck tighter, making you look up at him.
He looks down at you.
You lick your lips.
“You could at least say you’re sorry,” he mutters.
You roll your eyes, and something bitter twists inside him.
“Fuck,” he mutters before shoving his cock into your mouth.
You let him, relaxing your throat to take his entire length.
He watches you take him so easily. The familiarity of it—the way your body already knows his—makes something ache inside him.
Are you just using him? Is this all he is to you?
Irritated, he pulls away from your mouth and smacks your cheek with his cock, needing some kind of reaction from you. Anything that proves this affects you too.
You do nothing. Eyes wide. Mouth open. The look in your eyes twists something ugly and needy inside him.
“You can come on my face if you want.”
He sees your mouth move, but it takes him a second to process the words. His heart’s beating too hard. You think he wants to come on your face? How about a sorry for being late? Or even a how are you for once?
You stare at him, breathless. Your flushed skin glows beneath the harsh lighting, chest rising and falling while your nipples harden in the cold air.
He enjoys this part, pretending he’s in control.
“Get up,” he says, gently pulling your hair. His hand slides to the nape of your neck as he guides you toward the weight bench. “Bend over.”
You bend over, resting your forearms on the bench, your ass in the air. It’s nice not having to think for a while.
He slides his hand between your thighs. You’re wet. A self-satisfied smirk spreads across his face. He traces slippery circles around your clit while your hips grind against his hand. You always moan loud, like you forget about getting caught. He likes that.
When you come, it slicks his fingers and drips down to his palm.
He pulls away. What would you do if he hugged you right now?
A sick feeling settles in his stomach as he plants his hands on your ass, steadying himself. He pauses for a second, then thrusts into you. His whole body tuned to your softness taking him in. It’s almost like a hug.
He groans, squeezes his eyes shut, and fucks you hard enough to drown everything else out. Like he’s underwater, staring up past the surface.
He grabs your hips like they belong to him. Pretending you do.
He imagines you waiting all week to see him. That he’s the first person you think about when you wake up. That you reach for him even though you know he won’t be there. He pictures the two of you eating meals together, going on runs together, pretending this is something real.
His breath quickens, and his body jerks as he comes apart.
Immediately you pull away. Wordlessly, you get dressed like he’s not even there and leave.
Naked, he stands there wondering what your husband thinks you’re doing right now.
want more Alex? check out my friend's Alex x f.Reader fic 💚
Maybe Sam could pretend to be into the movie if your leg wasn’t touching his. The warmth of your bodies mixing. The memory of how your sunbaked skin tastes. The first and last time you had sex with him. Fondling each other in the dark on his squeaking mattress. The way he held his breath when he quietly locked his bedroom door. Not wanting his mom to barge in again. Both of you giggling while trying to keep it down. The tickle of your skin sliding against his.
He thinks about it every day.
“That’s sweet,” you coo at the screen, and Sam’s thoughts scatter like scared fish. Leaving behind a cloud of heat that has his skin flushed. What movie is this again? He remembers. The Miracle at Coldstar Ranch. He’s pretty sure the only miracle is how anyone can get through this film without falling asleep. But it’s not like when you asked him to go to the movies with you, he’d say no. Besides, it’s the night before The Winter Star Feast. It’s festive or whatever. And it’s very cute how much you like it. Sam watches the flashing lights bounce on your face and his mind wanders. He recalls all the empty seats. Most people spend this night with their friends and family. The lone movie theater employee barely looked away from their phone to greet the two of you.
You smile at him. His thoughts splinter. Part of him staring at your lips while the other remembers how good your mouth feels. He shifts his hips, hoping it’ll stop his dick from getting any harder. Trying to concentrate on steadying his breath, clearing his mind.
You gently touch his arm. Lean over to whisper something in his ear. Even though it’s only the two of you in the theater. Laced with watermelon from the hard candy you’d absentmindedly sucked on during the first act, your warm breath strokes his neck. So sweet. And before you can say anything, he kisses you. Watermelon in his lungs. Everything he wants. Has been wanting twists and pulls him like a puppet. But do you want this? He retreats, a little ashamed.
You stare at each other. Need drips from his gaze like hot wax. You lean into him. Squeezing his thigh while his tongue is in your mouth. Each kiss leaves him both gratified and desperate for more. Your soft wet mouth is a reminder of what it’s like to be inside you.
Your hand cups his shaft. A surge of pleasure rushes him.
“So good,” he moans and lifts his hips up, pressing himself into your palm. Relishing your touch. The rhythm of your hand rubbing the denim around his crotch makes your body bounce slightly. Faces close, mouths still, his wet lips graze yours with each bounce. The fabric of his pants strains harder. His breath heavy and twitchy. A thread of pleasure stretches and tugs at him, and his half-lidded gaze blurs.
He thinks of that night again. Your velvet nipples between his fingertips. Hot breath on his neck. How good it feels to cum inside you.
You stop to unbutton his pants. He wants your warm palm wrapped around his shaft, but he doesn’t know how long he can last. His taut balls like a cocked gun. But there’s so much more he wants tonight, and a handjob isn’t going to cut it. Before you can wiggle the metal button loose, he takes your hand and puts it on the back of his neck. Open-mouthed, he kisses you. Rougher than before. His hand under your shirt, it moves at a more reverent pace than his mouth as his fingers slide across the soft skin of your belly and disappear under the waistband of your pants before they slip into your underwear.
He touches the seam of your cunt, pressing until his fingers dip into the wet satin valley between your thighs. You both inhale sharply. Sam’s brows are clenched by disbelief, and his eyes are misty with the pain of yearning. Trembling with anticipation, he strokes your cunt with two of his fingers mashed together.
“Do you know how fucking wet you are?” His words strewn in a breathy whisper. Before you can say anything, he’s kissing and stroking you with the tempo of a fever dream. His movements are frantic. More, more, more, his body screams at him. He lets out a frustrated moan and stops. “Sit on my lap.” It’s more demanding than he means for it to be, and shame sparks but dies out when your ass is on his lap. Your thighs piled on top of his. He spreads his legs and yours. With his hand back in your underwear, his touch explores your slippery skin. He pays attention to what makes your breath hitch, what movements of his cause you to grind against him. And he does more of it. His cock aching while you’re splayed and wiggling on his lap. “Please cum for me baby,” he groans in your ear while you whimper and shake in his grasp. “Please, please, please,” he begs as he strums your clit. A dizzying intensity tightens your body, and your legs shake until sudden euphoria slams into you and breaks the tension. Pleasure ripples through you.
A few moments of bliss and stillness pass through the theater like a breeze brushing the surface of a lake.
“Do you—” He pauses and swallows hard. Butterflies swat at his stomach. “Can you bend over one of the—the chairs?” He stutters slightly and keeps his voice soft, just in case you want to pretend you didn’t hear him.
And he can’t believe this is actually happening.
You’re smiling while you peek past your shoulder, looking at him. Your body bent at the waist and your arms hanging over the red-cushioned seat. He glances around the movie theater and makes a silent plea to the universe: don’t let anything ruin this for me. His breath shakes as he grips your hips with both hands and stares down at the curves of your ass. Slowly, he hitches his thumbs under the waistband of your pants and pulls them down to your thighs. He bites his bottom lip at the sight of your lacy underwear and wishes he could live in this moment forever. Then he pushes aside the crotch of your underwear to slide his finger in your pussy. You moan and push your hips back to take him further.
He looks around at the empty theater. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but it only makes him want it more. But what if you two get caught? While he collects the nerve to fuck you in public, he pulls his finger out of your cunt and sucks on it. Tasting what could be his right now. His fear dissolves and he peels away your underwear. Taking a moment to savor the view of your bare ass, he hastily unbuttons his pants.
Hard cock in his hand, he runs the pink tip across your folds before thrusting it in your pussy. “So warm,” he babbles and eases himself further into you. His whole body is throbbing. Aching. When your pussy is gripping his entire cock, he holds still. Afraid if he moves, he might cum. You grind against him, encouraging him to fuck you. Thighs trembling, he pulls his dick out of your cunt slowly before thrusting into you in a rough, fluid motion. He moans loudly and it bounces through the theater. Sheepishly he looks around, but it’s still just you, him, and the soft glow of the screen.
He presses into you again and a drowsy haze clouds his thoughts. Soon his thrusts become ruthless and sloppy. His grip on your waist tightens. The world around him dims until all there is, is the vibrations and rhythm of his cock drilling into your pussy. Pleasure thrums throughout his body like a banging drum. Pounding louder and louder. He juts his cock in you and all the longing and yearning he feels bursts out of him and into you. Spent and panting, he leans over and kisses your back. Before tucking himself back in his pants, he pulls your clothes back over your body.
And for the rest of the movie, you sit on his lap with both his arms wrapped around you. He watches you watch the movie, and the memory of fucking you in the theater plays in his mind on repeat.
Elliott’s honey-copper hair clings to his shoulders. As he writes, his body leans and curls over his desk. Raindrops tap on the windows like impatient fingertips. Circling his bare feet are crumpled papers that resemble clenched fists.
You lie in bed and watch him, making a mental note to sweep away the papers after he’s asleep so he can start fresh tomorrow.
The only light in the room shines above his desk. Everything around him is covered in a grainy black shadow. His pen scratches paper. It stops. Scratches again. Pauses. He sighs, disgruntled, shifting in his seat—uncomfortable.
You want him to stop being so hard on himself. Take a break. Come to bed. But you don’t want to seem pushy.
“Elliott,” you say. A tender plea.
His squared shoulders slump when he hears your voice. He sets his pen down and rises. The wooden floorboards groan as he moves toward you.
He sits beside you and leans over you the same way he does his desk—intentional, focused.
“Say my name again,” he asks while you’re lying on your side. He slides his hand beneath the blanket you’re under. His touch is warm and smooth, like his voice. He runs the backs of his fingers across your bare thigh.
“Elliott…,” you repeat, softer this time. You lie on your back now, in an oversized shirt and underwear. A low, thoughtful hum purrs in his throat. His palm rests on top of your thigh. Like the sway of a rocking chair, he gently strokes you with his thumb. You close your eyes and savor the moment.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so distant,” he tells you. You open your eyes and see the vexation in his gaze.
“It’s okay—really,” you reassure him. A wistful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“It’s going to take more than late-night scribbling to get rid of me.” He chuckles at this. The sound of it is like hot buttered rum: intoxicating and sweet.
His hand moves up your thigh, each fingertip leaving a lingering print in its wake. At the waistband of your underwear, his hand pauses. His clover-green eyes scan your face for any sign he should stop. There is none. You inhale deeply as he brushes his fingers across the length of your clothed pussy.
He kisses you, then deepens it, coaxing your lips to match his slow, sensual rhythm, bergamot tea lingering on his breath.
He slips his hand in your underwear. At first, he cups your pussy in his hand, then he spreads your folds with his outer fingers. His middle finger grazes your clit—a coil of pleasure twists inside you. Mimicking the push and pull of the ocean’s tides, he strokes you.
Your small sighs of pleasure drown out his thoughts, leaving him wholly immersed in the moment. Like a struck piano key, a low, soulful ache hums between his thighs.
His deft finger slides down your petal-soft skin and finds your satin arousal. Curling his finger, he coaxes your wetness upward. Your legs tremble as he traces lazy circles around your clit. You raise your hips, a silent plea for more. Unable to deny you, he adjusts the tempo of his caress.
Outside, the waves thrash beneath the storm.
While his hand seeks your release, his velveteen lips search for your warmth; they brush the length of your neck, the angles of your jaw, your mouth.
Your small sighs dissipate and reemerge as needy whimpers.
Blissful vibrations shake you like a taut violin string that’s been plucked. A wave of all-consuming euphoria crashes over you, and you let it drown you.
Something cool drips down Elliott’s arm. The storm howls, and raindrops no longer tap—they knock. A yellow light with red edges rims his eyes. He opens them.
You’re gone. A dream.
Thrashing in his sleep, he’s spilled a pot of black ink on his desk. Ink pools around the side of his hand and floats into his shirt cuff.
Something cracks in his chest.
Groggy, he stands and cleans up the mess.
He sits back down at his desk, resolved, and crafts a letter inviting you to join him at the saloon.
want more? check out Reverie II (Elliott x f.Reader) 🧡
I followed my heart and swapped out DND for Solarion Chronicles and took some creative liberties.
It starts out innocent enough—a friendly game of Solarion Chronicles in Seb’s dimly lit basement. The three of you sit around an oak table while you wait for Abby. Sam to your left, Seb to your right, knees almost touching yours.
Sam’s phone glows. He leans over to check his messages; the stool he’s sitting on creaks.
“Abby can’t make it,” he says. Across from you, at the other end of the table, is an empty stool.
You tell him, “That’s too bad.” A swarm of anxiety buzzes in your chest. Alone? With Sam and Seb? You stare at Sam’s sweating can of cola and avoid eye contact. You tell yourself there’s nothing to be nervous about—Sam and Seb have always been nice to you. Sometimes a little more than nice—maybe even flirty. A fat bead of condensation slides down Sam’s cola can like a Tetris piece being toggled. But that’s just how they are, you think, even with each other. It doesn’t mean anything, right?
“Ready?” Sam playfully winks. Perched in a corner, a wall sconce gleams. Its warm yellow light stretches and touches his cupid’s bow. It calls attention to the mischievous grin below his twinkling blue eyes.
Seb draws the scenario card and reads it out loud. He asks you what character you want to be: the wizard, healer, or warrior. You pick the healer.
“I think your hands can heal me,” Sam laughs as he says it—a pitchy noise that cracks with nerves. Seb rolls his eyes.
Sprawling his legs out under the table, Sam takes up as much space as possible. His shoe touches yours. A pressure blooms in your ribcage, like petals holding rain.
“Nothing can cure you, Samson.” Thoughtful, you pause. “You’re hopeless.” Covering his heart with his hand, Sam frowns in a way that resembles a smile.
Seb glances at you, and your eyes almost meet, but he averts his gaze to the cardboard map lying on the table.
“That wasn’t very healing of you,” Sam says with mock sadness. You give his shoe a gentle kick. He grins, and the two of you stare at each other. Like frantic Morse code, your heart beats.
“Are we going to play or not?” Seb grumbles. His usual nonchalance warped by something unplaceable.
Have you upset Seb? He’s been quiet at times but never like this. Maybe it’s because Abby didn’t show? She’s more familiar with Solarion Chronicles than you. Does he think you’ll ruin the game?
“Sorry,” you say, looking directly at Seb’s steely eyes. Uncomfortable, you lightly pinch the fingertips of your left hand with your right hand. “I know I’m not as good as Abby, but I’ll do my best.” Confusion weighs Seb’s shoulders and brows down, and he opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance to.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” An uncharacteristic tinge of authority nests in Sam’s words. He stands up and puts his hand over both of yours. His hand is warm and dotted with calluses. You stop fidgeting.
“Seb just gets jealous when pretty women pay attention to me,” Sam says, shrugging as he pulls his hand away. Heat prickles your cheeks. You lower your eyes and they’re drawn, again, to Sam’s glaring blue can of cola. Using two fingers, he pushes the cola towards you. “Thirsty?” You’re not, but you nod. It’s easier than explaining how you’re feeling. “I’ve got to take a leak—don’t let Seb scare you off while I’m gone.” Seb scowls. Sam disappears behind the bathroom door.
You take a small sip of Joja cola, and the signature chemical taste fizzes in your mouth. You set the can back down on the table.
“You do know that I like you?” Seb says. His voice is deeper and fuller than usual. You choke on your mouthful of soda. Coughing—once, twice—eyes watery, you swallow.
“I like you too.” Because of course you do. You and Seb are friends. And if the universe could stop making you do embarrassing shit in front of him (even if it’s just for tonight) that’d be great. Seb chuckles. It’s a low, gravelly sound your ears cling to.
“I don’t think you understand—“
Sam reappears and interrupts Seb.
“Let’s get started,” Sam says, sinking into his seat until his shoe touches yours.
Is Seb trying to tell you he has a crush on you?
Seb’s mood sours the more Sam pretends to flirt with you. But wouldn’t Seb know better than anyone that Sam is only joking? Unless Sam’s not joking.
Seb starts the campaign. Lost in thought, you barely follow along.
Sam touches your wrist, and a spill of warmth floods your body. Under the table, your shoes are still pressed together.
“It’s your turn, babe,” Sam says. Desire beats in his words like a pulse. Seb scoffs. You take your turn.
Seb’s jaw tightens; he grinds his teeth to ease the tension writhing inside him. He’d give just about anything for a cigarette right now. If he leaves, he’s pretty sure by the time he gets back you’ll be sitting on Sam’s lap.
Earlier that spring, you had moved to town. Practically every Friday night you hung out with Abby, Sam, and Seb at the local bar. Seb knew he needed to tell Sam about his feelings for you when Sam’s gaze started lingering too often.
A few weeks ago, at the Spirit’s Eve festival, Sam and Seb stood next to a large iron cage. Inside it, two skeletons paced. Through the silver bars, Seb saw you chatting with Caroline. He told Sam he had a thing for you, and Sam smiled. The betrayal stings like alcohol on a wound.
Then there were the drunken nights when he and Sam frantically explored each other’s bodies. Followed by mornings when the salt of Sam’s skin still lingered on Seb’s tongue, and Sam snubbed his questions by saying, “There’s nothing to talk about,” and, “You worry too much.” And it kept happening.
Does Sam expect Seb not to worry about his friend flirting with his crush? Is he supposed to clap and cheer when Sam starts screwing you too?
Seb has felt lonely before, but never this alone.
Thoughts like these sink Seb’s mood as the three of you continue to play Solarion Chronicles.
“Most heroes are rewarded with a kiss,” Sam says after defeating the boss.
“Give it a rest,” Seb seethes. “Can’t you see how uncomfortable she is?”
“Jealous?” Sam laughs—this time there’s no uncertain lilt to it. Only genuine amusement. He slides his palm across the table until his fingers graze Seb’s hand. Seb recoils and grips the smooth edge of the table with both hands.
“Do you want to kiss me?” Sam asks Seb. The depth of Sam’s eyes is as still and dark as a lake at night.
Seb’s grip tightens and the peaks of his knuckles turn white. The night in Sam’s eyes passes. They glitter like the sun. “Or,” Sam pauses. His hand still reaches across the table for Seb as he looks at you. “Maybe he’d like a kiss from you?”
Shame singes Seb’s cheeks.
“Would you like that?” Sam adds.
Seb wants to scream at Sam. To know exactly what the fuck Sam thinks he’s doing.
“I would,” you say. Your voice so soft and sweet, Seb thinks he imagined it. His anger twists into knots of nervousness.
“You don’t have to—“ Seb starts.
“But I want to.”
“Oh?” Sam’s pink mouth forms a circle of mock surprise. “Did you hear that? She wants to.” He studies Seb’s face—a kaleidoscope of surprise, fear, and lingering anger.
He hopes Seb’s anger will fade when he realizes all of this—everything Sam has done—has been for him. A gift for Seb’s birthday, only two days away. There are times he wishes his lover wasn’t so serious. But the whole brooding thing? Sam can’t deny its appeal.
You stand. Have you thought about kissing Seb? Sure, along with other daydreams you mentally regarded as: Things that will never happen.
Seb stands and moves toward you. He cups the side of your neck with one hand, and places the other on your waist. The cologne he spritzed on himself so you wouldn’t think he smells like tobacco is warm and spicy. His breath brushes your lips and the smell of mint fills your nose.
He promised himself he’d walk you home tonight and tell you how he feels. Wanting to be ready for anything that might happen next, he rinsed with mouthwash three times and had a fifteen-minute debate with himself about the likelihood of you liking pubic hair—which resulted in him shaving his balls because he’d rather be safe than sorry.
Savoring the way your body leans into his touch, Seb stands still. His heart somersaults.
For a moment he lets his imagination wander—his mouth on your breast, your pussy wet and begging for his cock. Excited, he overcomes the small space separating him from all the things he wants, and kisses you. The kiss is a desperate plea that screams please like this. Please like me. His fingers on your neck curl. A stab of insecurity twists in his chest and he breaks the kiss.
“Sorry if I taste like cigs,” Seb says with an uneasy smirk. He’s smitten, but aware the moment will pass. Things can change.
You lick the top of your bottom lip. The taste of Seb lingers there.
“I like the way you taste,” you whisper to him. His smirk widens. You kiss him again.
Sam stands and clears his throat.
“Do you want to be with both of us?” Sam asks you with the same cool casualness he’d use while asking someone if they’d like a glass of water. Surprised, you stare at Sam and let the question settle in your mind.
At first, the thought of Sam wanting to share you irritates Seb. But then something deeper, more primal stirs inside him—the image of Sam’s face between your thighs, of how he and Sam could take care of you. Take care of each other.
Seb wants this. Sam knows it. Has always known.
You do want them both, but will it make things complicated between Seb and Sam? Seb’s been upset tonight.
“Do you want to?” you ask Seb while touching his cheek. A flush of pink blooms over the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks.
The finality of telling you he wants this causes a lump to form in his throat. Seb swallows hard. He doesn’t want you to do this for him. And definitely not for Sam. Seb’s always wanted to know if you’ve thought of him with your hand nestled between your thighs. Touching parts of yourself he’d give anything to feel on his mouth or with his hands. He won’t ask because Sam’s here. And the worst answer isn’t no—it’s both.
“Yes,” he tells you. He moves his thumb back and forth, petting your jawline with the pad of his thumb. He watches you search his face. You grin like you’ve found what you’re looking for.
“Yes,” you say to Sam. Sam moves toward you. When he’s close, he gently grabs your chin, guiding you to him. Seb’s hand falls from your neck. Sam kisses you. Seb hopes this isn’t a mistake.
Sam unfolds Seb’s couch into a full-sized bed while your lips follow the hypnotic rhythm of Seb’s mouth. Seb undresses you slowly. Every new inch of skin that appears in front of him, he caresses and kisses in such a tender way you can’t help but be flattered. Any fear you felt at first, at the thought of being naked in front of both Seb and Sam, has vanished.
You and Seb are naked when Sam finishes setting up the pull-out couch, tossing a couple of pillows from Seb’s bed on top of it.
Seb’s hard dick presses against your thigh as he drags his bottom lip down your neck, toward your breasts. He stops to kiss your collarbone, his velvet tongue teasing your skin.
Sam’s hand settles on your hip, drawing you into him. The press of Seb’s erection disappears. Sam wraps both his arms around you and kisses you, his tongue stroking yours as he squeezes your ass with both hands before lifting your legs to his waist.
Suspended in his arms, Sam’s warm body slides against yours. A thrum of excitement hums under your skin.
Seb sits at the top of the sofa bed, leaning against a pillow. Bent over him, you hold his dick in your hand and stare down at the flushed tip peeking from your fist. A bead of precum slips free, sinking onto the skin between your thumb and index finger.
You lower your head and lick it away, swallowing before dragging your tongue along your lips. Then you circle the head slowly with your tongue, teasing until he moans and shifts beneath you.
With your ass in the air, Sam slips his fingers between your thighs, exploring your wet folds.
You take Seb in your mouth, inch by inch. Your tongue traces along his shaft as he sinks deeper inside you.
Sam’s tongue presses flat against your clit. You moan around Seb, the vibration pulling broken sounds from his throat.
You lift your head just enough to stroke him, then take him back in, moving slowly at first before finding a steady rhythm.
“Is that what you like, Seb?” Sam murmurs, breath heavy. “Her pretty little throat?”
Seb answers with a sharp twitch against your tongue.
You straddle Seb’s naked lap. Holding his shaft, you guide him into your pussy. Seb bullies your nipple, flicking and pinching it. A hot tingle singes in your lower stomach.
Seb sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when you start bouncing on his cock.
“Slow,” Seb says, putting his hands on your hips and guiding them to grind on his dick pulsating inside of you. Your dissatisfied whine shivers through the air. You want it faster, harder. Mouth parted, tongue first, Seb kisses you.
Understimulated, you reach out and feel the smooth, pale skin of Sam’s thigh, then the damp blond curls at his groin, and finally his cock, slick with lube. You squeeze him and he slips from your hand. Something shifts in Sam’s hips that you don’t understand. You stop riding Seb and look over at him.
Sam is sprawled beside you and Seb, fingers working inside himself. His chest is flushed and heaving, his hard cock resting against his stomach. He grins and takes your hand in his free one, guiding it back to him. With his hand over yours, he jerks himself off using your grip.
“Look at me,” Seb snaps.
You turn away from Sam, startled by the sharpness in Seb’s face. It confuses you, but before you can ask anything, he kisses you. The kiss is demanding—a far cry from the tenderness before. His grip pins your hips in place as he moves inside you, rough and fast. Your hand slips free of Sam. You cling to Seb’s shoulders while he drives you against him.
“You like that,” Sam says. “I knew you would.”
Seb stops. He presses a reverent kiss to your mouth and gently guides you off his lap, setting you aside. You don’t understand what it means, but his hands are careful, almost tender, as if he’s trying to say something without words.
He straightens slowly, eyes never leaving Sam.
The room feels quieter. Taut.
Sam tilts his head, a faint smile playing at his mouth, like he already knows what’s coming.
Seb steps closer.
They circle each other once—close enough that their knees brush, that their breath mingles. Sam says nothing.
Something dark and charged passes through Seb’s expression. Seb exhales once, sharp and controlled.
Then he grabs him.
They fall back onto the bed together, bodies colliding, skin sliding against skin. The sheet rustles beneath them as they grapple, more heat than anger in the way they move.
Seb pins Sam down, gripping his wrists like restraints.
For a heartbeat, you’re unsure—
until Sam grins.
Then Seb leans down and kisses him.
Sam spreads his legs. Seb settles between them. With one smooth thrust he pushes inside him. Sam grips the sheets, arching, a sound breaking from his throat. He turns his face to the side, meeting your eyes. You trace the line of his jaw, the shine of his hair as it shifts with every movement of Seb’s hips.
“Sit on my face,” Sam says.
You straddle him, hovering over his mouth.
Seb’s brow is drawn tight as he focuses on the place where their bodies join, hands gripping Sam’s knees as he moves.
Sam’s tongue finds you, circling, slow and deliberate. You squirm and sigh at the sensation. He opens his mouth and draws you closer, working patiently until your voice breaks loose from you.
Your hands collapse against his chest. Your breathing turns uneven. The tension builds, tightens, claws through you—until it shatters, leaving you weightless as you come against his mouth.
Satisfied, the three of you lie on your backs, catching your breath. Seb pants the hardest.
Sam thinks of Abby’s text—telling him she isn’t coming because she’s not going to watch Sam and Seb fight over you. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, bright and quiet, like a banner being raised at a celebration.
If only she knew.
He considers telling her. Seb would probably be furious if he did.
Sam glances at Seb and catches the look in his eyes—clouded with questions he wants answered, with promises he wants made.
Lying on his back, Sebastian stares at the ceiling.
It’d be easy to blame his restlessness on the hardwood floor—to assume the thin flannel blanket under him simply isn’t good enough. “Not good enough” echoes in the cadence of his step-dad’s voice. Demetrius has made it clear that Sebastian is, in many ways, just that. A blade of indignation cuts through him, and he smiles. Staring down the throat of a microscope all day makes Demetrius pedantic and boring, not all-knowing.
The chirr of small bugs crackles in the night.
He turns his head. There you are, sleeping on his couch.
Sam snores, asleep on Sebastian’s bed. Abigail’s feet rest next to Sam’s head.
Sebastian can’t sleep when he’s always thinking about you. If he tells you how he feels and you reject him, will you stop being his friend? That—that would hurt the most.
The thought of his crush being requited pops up. He dismisses it. Images of his hands tracing the curves of your body flash through his mind. His longing thrums in the dark, insisting.
What if you knew he was lying here thinking of you this way? He pinches his eyes shut. The mental image of his fingers seeking your pleasure both excites and torments him. Why can’t he be normal about you?
He slides his hand beneath the black waffle blanket and reaches for his hard-on. You sigh in your sleep—the sound takes the shape of a moan, and the ache between his thighs pulses. Just being this close to you could get him off. And afterward, maybe he can get some rest.
For a moment, he considers going to the bathroom. But the sound of him moving around might wake someone. He doesn’t feel great about masturbating in a room with his friends. But they’re asleep. And if he’s going to get any sleep, he has to do something to make it stop.
And if he’s completely honest with himself, part of him doesn’t want to be any farther from you than he has to be.
You spend so much time working on your farm (and really, he finds your dedication inspiring), but he doesn’t get to see you as often as he’d like. When he does see you, he tries to make the most of it. Even if most of that time is spent with you, Sam, and Abby together. He wonders if Sam and Abby know how he feels about you. Do they realize how hard it is to share what little time he has with you?
He’s imagined ways the two of you could be alone. He could visit you, ask if you need help with the farm. You’d answer the door wearing barely anything.
The palm of his hand hugs his warm shaft. A rush of pleasure spreads through him.
He fantasizes about you pulling him inside, your eyes bright with the same want he feels. You’d kiss him. Frantically undress him. Stand on your knees.
His hand moves like his breath—jerky and frantic. Desperate for relief. He’s so close—
“Sebastian?” you whisper.
He hears your voice and thinks he’s imagined it. You’re calling out to him with that perfect, wet mouth. His hand moves faster.
“Seb?” you say, a little louder than a whisper.
Clearer.
He freezes. The tips of his ears burn red. He pulls his hand away.
The couch cushions rustle. A shadow moves toward him.
Your face hovers over his.
“Are you,” you murmur, voice barely perceptible, “jacking off?”
“No,” he blurts, staring at you, dazed. This is everything he wants. Just not like this.
You move. He feels your body heat at his side. You lie beside him on the floor, your head propped up by your hand. The whites of your eyes fixed on him as you study his face. He mimics your position. Your eyes meet.
“I want to help,” you tell him.
It’s hard not to notice how his face warms when you smile. How flustered he gets when he talks to you. When you asked Sam and Abby if Sebastian had a crush on you, they giggled. Said it took you long enough to notice. Now they call you Sherlock whenever Sebastian is out of hearing range.
He’s been shy about his feelings. It was sweet at first. Now you’re tired of waiting for him to make the first move. Another year of tension-filled glances, finger-brushing, and excuses to sit close to you is going to drive you insane.
“Sure,” he says after a moment.
This has to be a dream, he thinks. But it can’t be. The floor is too hard. Too familiar.
Maybe you’re joking. That has to be it.
He should say something. Now.
He tells himself he’s ruining everything.
“I mean it though—you know—if you want to,” you say. The words catch in your throat. You hold his gaze.
You’re tired of pretending you’re just friends.
When you first met Sebastian, it was hard to believe he cared about much of anything. At first he seemed aloof—cold, even. Later you saw him more clearly. The small smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth when he’s happy. The way he looks after Sam and Abby. The way he ends up sitting a little closer to you than anyone else.
His fingertips brush your cheekbone. His heart thumps loud, like drunken footsteps. He waits to see if you’ll pull away. You don’t. For a moment, neither of you move.
He leans toward you.
Are you offering him a handjob? Or is this a joke? He searches your face—it’s earnest, a little embarrassed. His chest feels heavy. What if you think this is just a horny, meaningless moment?
Your lips touch. Soft. Careful. Your thumb traces his jawline. The world around him blurs. All he can feel is your warmth.
Slowly, the kiss breaks.
You lie face to face, eyes locked. He touches your face, tracing the curve of your cheekbone to your ear before his hand drifts down to your mouth. His finger rests on the bow of your top lip. His heart pounds in his chest, loud and unsteady, like it might give everything away.
You kiss his finger. A soft shiver passes through him. Before he can overthink, he kisses you again. Time slows, like the two of you are sealed inside a snow globe.
You slip your hand beneath the blanket covering him, and curl your hand around his shaft. He breaks the kiss. A sharp breath escapes him, turning into a small gasp.
“Is this ok?” you whisper, your lips grazing the shell of his ear. His stomach flips softly.
“Y—yeah,” he says, breath unsteady. He rolls onto his back, looking up at you. You lean closer and press a soft kiss to his cheek. He turns his head, kissing you back like it’s all he’s ever wanted. The tip of his tongue grazes your bottom lip—asking for more but not expecting it. You part your lips and let go of his shaft, running your fingers lightly over his groin. A moan slips from him before he can stop it, muffled into a grunt.
He wants to make the sounds that would tell you how much he’s loving this. But with Sam and Abby asleep on his bed, he holds them back. You’re touching him, and he can’t tell you how he feels. Even like this, being with you feels incredible. Almost fated.
He lowers his chin to kiss your neck. At first his kisses are soft, like you might break under the weight of what he feels. Soon he wants more. They grow messier—hungry. His hand closes around the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, your skin like silk against his tongue.
He tries to hold onto the memory of every soft sound you make, but the moment moves too quickly. All he wants now is to be fully present—here, with you. So he lets go of his restraint and rests his hands at your hips, guiding you on top of him. Your hand slips away as you settle over his thighs. For a moment, all he can think about is how close you are.
You lean forward, and the two of you fall into a slow dance with your tongues, parting only long enough to steal short breaths before coming together again. He slips his hand under your shirt and rests it on the bare skin above the elastic band of your pajama shorts. His thumb traces slow patterns there. The warmth of your skin makes his breath catch.
A quiet, intense ache rises inside you. He hitches his thumb on the band of your shorts. Pauses. Tugs at it, like he’s deciding something. You decide for him. Guide his hand into your shorts. You let go.
His hand stills. He feels the softness of your underwear. Your warm wetness against his palm. He unfurls his fingers, touching as much of you as he can. His own body hot and throbbing. He forces himself to move slowly, carefully. The lace at the edge of your underwear tickles his fingertips. He hooks a finger under the fabric and eases it to the side.
More than anything he wants to make you happy. To be the one you think of when you want to be touched. Fuck. He hopes he gets this right.
At first his fingers move awkwardly. Then he notices what makes your legs shake—and focuses there.
With your face buried in the curve of his neck, small broken sounds escape you, swallowed against his skin. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt. Pleasure flickers inside you, growing until it engulfs your body in heat, then loosens its grip like a fist slowly unclenching.
For a moment you can only breathe. His hand drifts slowly along your back. He tries not to think about how easily this could fall apart.
You shift your weight until your face hovers above his lap. He lifts his hips to help as you slide his pants down his thighs.
The sight of you there fills him with a quiet reverence.
Your hand hugs his shaft. You lower your head. His breath pools slowly in his lungs. The warm, wet caress of your mouth on the tip. Then slowly—lower. His toes curl. He pulls the pillow from beneath his head and presses his face into it, determined not to make a sound that might wake anyone.
You move faster.
He’s not even sure what you’re doing anymore, only that it feels incredible. His back arches slightly. A muffled sound caught in the pillow. The feeling builds too fast.
His body trembles as he comes inside your mouth.
You rest your head on his chest. His hand drifts into your hair without thinking. He closes his eyes, a lightness filling his chest. All the restlessness he felt before, gone.
The soft chorus of insects outside fills the room. The quiet of night has always made more sense to him than the noise of the day. His eyelids grow heavy.
There’s still so much he wants to say to you, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.
For now, it’s enough that you’re here. Your weight warm and steady against him. Your breathing slow where your cheek rests over his heart.
Earlier he had been so careful. Holding everything back.
Now he lets himself sink into the quiet of it.
Something inside him settles, like a knot finally loosening.
For a long time he’d convinced himself that wanting this was pointless. That he’d ruin it somehow. That you’d wake up one day and see him the way everyone else does.
You’re still here. Some part of him still can’t quite believe it.
Tomorrow he’ll find the words.
Tonight, he lets himself believe this moment is real.
And for the first time all evening, Sebastian lets himself drift.
Your breathing settles into the rhythm of his heartbeat.
It’s the 28th of Fall. You need to finish harvesting today.
You watch Sam breathe, slow and drowsy. Sunlight strokes his golden hair and right cheek. The rest of his face pressed into his pillow.
Your back sinks into the mattress. Your body aches—legs sore, hands calloused—and there’s still more to do.
His warm limbs usually wind around you like ivy. Not this morning.
You turn to reach for him, then stop. You don’t want to wake him.
When you had more time, Sam trying to train chickens to jump through hula hoops for Vincent used to make you laugh. Now it stresses you out instead. Guilt pinches you. You hate thinking that way. But a few weeks ago, he had the chickens racing each other. They got so stressed they stopped laying eggs.
You miss when things were simpler.
One of the things you love most about him is how he makes you slow down and appreciate the small things. Even if you could, you wouldn’t change a thing about him. It’s easier to encourage him to spend time with his family or work on music than risk growing frustrated with him on the farm. He’s never been much of a farmhand.
You’ve been so busy the little routines you shared have started to slip away. When you come home at night, he’s already asleep. Dinner waits in the fridge, suffocated by tinfoil and cold to the touch.
The mornings you woke with him holding you tightly were the last signs of life in your marriage.
You need to hire a reliable farmhand. You’ll tell Sam today. Finish the harvest before dinner. Eat together. You close your eyes. Imagine it all. Inhale deeply, exhale. Let it go. It’s time to focus. Get up.
The bed shifts. He opens his eyes and watches you move to get up. He could let you go. Instead, he reaches for you.
His arms find your waist. He already struck a deal with Marnie and Shane. They’ll help you harvest today, and he’ll spend the next few weeks babysitting Jas in return. He gently pulls you back beside him for a little longer. He’d tell you now, but figures you could use a surprise after so many exhausting days.
Tonight, you’ll have dinner together. He’ll tell you about watching Jas and see if maybe you’d want to join them sometime. Because he wants kids. He wants that life with you. But things need to change. He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, even though he knows he’ll forget it. Plans fall apart. If the world worked the way it should, there’d be no reason to say any of this. But it doesn’t. And it’s not your fault or his.
He thinks of his mom. How everything she does revolves around him, Vincent, and their dad. How even her love carries resentment sometimes. There was nothing he could do for his mom. He was just a kid. When he got older, he tried to help however he could. But by then, her resentment had become her purpose. Taking that away from her felt like telling her they never needed her at all. So he helped, but not too much. Sometimes he’d even ask her for small things he could’ve done himself, just to remind her she was needed.
There’s no way he’s going to let you do the same thing to yourself. He’s not a helpless kid anymore.
He imagines his mom holding his future child, tears in her eyes, seeing something beautiful come from all the years she spent giving pieces of herself away.
The sheets rustle as he pulls you closer, his hand splayed just below your chest. Your breath moves beneath his palm. His thoughts drift away. He finally has you here with him.
He presses his lips to the arch of your neck. Heat blooms beneath his mouth. A deep longing moves through him. He’s missed this more than he wanted to admit.
“Sam.” Your voice is hoarse with sleep.
Is this the part where you tell him you have to go? His arms tighten around you without thinking. You move, and for a moment he really thinks you’re going to leave.
You don’t leave. You turn in his arms to face him. Your eyes meet.
You reach for him, fingers brushing his bottom lip.
A grin spreads across his face.
“I was starting to think you loved the cows more than me,” he says.
You laugh. It comes out sharp and abrupt.
It was supposed to be a joke. But afterward, heat flushes his cheeks. Maybe some ugly part of him wants you to feel guilty. A helpless sort of vulnerability settles across his face. Like he’s not sure if he’s done something wrong, or how to fix it if he has. All he knows is he’d do anything for you.
“I didn’t mean it—“
“It’s alright,” you say softly, reassuring him.
His shoulders relax. He hadn’t even realized they were tense.
You trace the faint wrinkles on his face with your eyes. Warmth floods your chest at the familiar lines beside his mouth, curved like commas. The creases on his forehead come from how often he lifts his brows, his eyes wide and bright whenever he asks about your day. Even the smallest things you love about him have become part of something larger, a love that keeps growing and reshaping you.
You try to focus on him instead of the urgency screaming inside you. Pushing. Only one more day to harvest. To smother it for ten—maybe twenty—more minutes with your husband.
Something pleading flickers across his face before resolve sets in. He leans closer, your body blanketed in his heat, and kisses you with all the tenderness and care that’s been missing.
You want to show him how much that means to you. How much he means to you. You kiss him back, sharing breath the same way you share a life together. Your lips move slowly, thoughtfully. Tongues shy. Touching once, twice. Retreating. Then finding each other again.
He slips his hands under your shirt. His tongue presses against your neck as his thumb grazes your nipple. Heat floods through you. Then his hand glides over your lap.
You take his hand. He looks uncertain, like he thinks this is where things stop. But before that fear can deepen, you place his hand against your cheek. You kiss him, then climb onto his lap, his bare chest warm beneath you. His mouth parts as he lifts the hem of your shirt. You help him pull it off.
He rubs your hips slowly, brows drawn together as he unabashedly stares at you, pressing himself between your thighs. Gripping your hips, he lets out a breathy, frustrated sigh, like he’s offended there are still clothes between you.
“Babe,” he murmurs, the word sounding like a question as he reaches for your pajama pants.
You intertwine your fingers with his before pressing his hand down near his head. You lean over him as you kiss him slowly, mouth lingering first on his lips, then along his neck.
He squeezes your hands impatiently, like he’s pleading with you to let him touch you.
You let go of his hands and guide his thighs apart with your knee. Kneeling between his legs, you lean down to kiss the hard outline pressing against his boxers.
He cups your face. There’s so much longing in his eyes it nearly breaks you. His thumb strokes your cheek, then traces the edge of your mouth.
He runs his thumb across your bottom lip before easing it into your mouth. You hear his breath catch when you start to suck. He reluctantly pulls his hand away and tilts your chin upward. He wants you to look at him.
“Are you sure you want—“
“You’re all I want,” you say, slipping your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and pulling him free.
The thought of being inside you and the feel of your hand around him make his thoughts blur together.
You take him into your mouth slowly, deliberate in every movement.
Pleasure pulses through him in warm waves. Your touch is like a map guiding him home.
He doesn’t mean to come so fast. Once it starts, he can’t stop it.
You swallow.
Lying beside him, you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest as he settles back into himself. After a few breaths, he turns toward you and moves over you gently, kissing you as he helps undress you. An ache twists low in your stomach.
His head between your thighs. You feel his mouth on you, the slow roll of his tongue. Each touch draws more pleasure from your body. Heat floods your skin. Your legs tremble as you come.
He lies down beside you and gathers you into his arms, his hand resting against your chest.
You trace the peak of his knuckles. Dappled sunlight sways across the back of his hand in a slow, trance-like rhythm. You sink deeper into the sheets, limbs heavy, ready to drift back to sleep. But then you remember the work waiting for you and force yourself awake.
You don’t want to leave. One more day, you tell yourself. Just one more day.
“I have to get up,” you whisper.
Disappointment flashes in his eyes and fades just as quickly. He hums softly in acknowledgment.
You don’t move. Silence stretches between you.
He leans forward to brush his lips against yours. Pauses to share a breath with you. Like he might break something, he pulls away.
“I can pick up dinner from Gus’s tonight,” he offers with a shy smile.
“Sounds good,” you say, reluctantly untangling yourself from his arms.
“What do you want?”
“The usual,” you tell him, shuffling off the bed.
Uncertainty tightens his shoulders at the thought of telling you he wants kids. He scratches the back of his head.
“I was thinking we could have dinner tonight and talk about some stuff.”
Panic flutters in your chest at the thought of him telling you how unhappy he is.
“I’m hiring a farmhand,” you confess, deciding it’s better he knows now. You pull your pants up your legs and button them.
“Yeah? They better not be prettier than me.” He tries to tease, but his body stays tense.
You glance at him, an uneasy grin on his face. When you smile back, his grin softens into something joyful, instantly putting both of you at ease. It says everything’s fine, even if it’s not.
“No one’s prettier than you.”
A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest.
You stretch across the bed to kiss him goodbye.
And all too soon, the door clicks shut behind you.
You step into the day already planning how to make things better. Tonight, you’ll finish early and sit down together. No more tinfoil. Just the two of you.
Behind you, he lies back against the sheets, staring up at the ceiling. He goes over the words again—the ones he’ll say tonight. The future he wants with you.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself.
It’ll be different now.
It has to be.
want more? check out my Sam x f.Reader fic, Double Feature 💙
It can also be read as Elliott x gn.Reader. The first part uses f.Reader, so I kept it that way for continuity.
This fic has been brought to you by: he's not creepy, he's just passionate, OK?
Elliott lies on his side, one arm hanging over the edge of his bed and disappearing into the dark.
A few days have passed since you accepted his invitation to the saloon. Together, you stood at the bar and toasted to your friendship. Friendship. The word leaves a bittersweet smile on his face. Outside the cabin walls, the wind howls.
Is friendship really all there is between you? Can you not hear the thunder of his heart whenever you are near? Did you not notice how he chugged his ale to steady his nerves?
Heat rises to his cheeks as he remembers how foolishly he danced. Closing his eyes, he tries to relive the moment—your laugh, sweet as honey after all the bitter ale.
He makes a fist, squeezes it, and holds onto the tension for a few breaths. Then lets go.
The thought of you strips him of whatever reason he once possessed.
Could ordering wine for you without asking have offended you? He hopes not.
He only ordered you wine because it’s one of the artisan goods your farm produces, and perhaps too hastily, he assumed you must have a fondness for wine. But maybe not. Maybe you drank it only out of politeness.
He lets out a low, self-deprecating laugh.
Whenever he’s around you, it feels as though he slips outside himself, forced to watch as he behaves in ways that leave him burning with embarrassment. He even forgot Gus’s name and had to resort to calling him bartender.
He wouldn’t blame you if you never sought him out again. That evening may have been his only chance to bare his heart to you, and he let it disappear through his fingers like sand.
But how do you tell someone you dream of them?
That meeting you split his life cleanly in two: the man he was before, and the man he is now.
Before you, he was lonely. Writing was the only thing that made his life feel meaningful. He accepted solitude as part of the bargain.
After you, life grew far more complicated. Meaning no longer existed solely within the pages of his novel, but in countless small things beyond it. He started taking longer walks, reading thicker books, and spending more time around other people. For a while, the peace he found felt almost miraculous. But over time, it gave way to something deeper—an insatiable longing he could no longer ignore.
At first, he convinced himself his feelings for you were nothing more than gratitude. But eventually they became too vast to deny, slipping into his dreams and consuming every part of him.
Now, his long walks feel aimless. Whenever he sits down to work on his manuscript, his thoughts wander inevitably to you—what you might be doing, what sort of day you’ve had, what dreams you keep tucked away inside yourself.
He imagines tracing his fingers gently across your knuckles. Warmth hums through his chest. He’d kiss the soft skin of your neck and follow the curve of your shoulder with his mouth, lingering there as though he could memorize you by touch alone.
He rolls onto his back, the blue blanket twisted around his feet. Despite the biting chill in the air, he welcomes the salt-laced wind spilling through the cabin, grounding him before his thoughts carry him too far away.
If he confessed to you and you rejected him, the pain would surely be unbearable. What a terrible burden to place upon another person. Love me or I will perish. The sentiment mortifies him, and still he cannot seem to stay away. Something beyond his own will continues pulling him toward you.
You’d surely think he’d lost his mind. Yet somewhere inside him, the word soulmates continues to glow softly in the dark.
And how do you feel about him? The question burns ceaselessly inside him.
Could you ever imagine the ways he’s undressed you in his thoughts? On nights like this, he lies awake picturing the soft outline of your body beside him. How you might enjoy the slide of his tongue. The thoughtful rhythm of his touch devoted entirely to your pleasure.
A low thrum of longing pulses between his thighs. He inhales the salt-heavy ocean air and presses a palm to his lower stomach, warmth lingering beneath his skin despite the cold.
The image of you touching yourself in front of him slips into his mind, and despite the shame curling through him, he cannot let it go. He imagines bringing your wet fingers to his lips just to taste you, to breathe you in. To show you how good he could make you feel. Would you want that? Would you let him?
Eyes closed, he spreads a hand across his abdomen just above the waistband of his boxers, where the flushed tip presses insistently against the fabric.
He pictures his head between your thighs, your legs wrapped around him while your body trembles with pleasure. He imagines the taste of you, the feel of your movements, the sound of your moans.
Do you think of him too? If you do, what do you think about? He’d give anything to know.
He takes a few steadying breaths, trying to clear his mind. Perhaps a glass of wine would help. But all the wine he owns comes from your farm, and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to open a single bottle. As though drinking it would mean losing some small piece of you he once possessed.
A walk, then. That would be best, he decides.
He nudges the blanket away with his feet before rising from the bed. The wooden floorboards creak softly beneath his steps as he moves through the darkness with practiced ease.
He reaches across the desk and switches on the lamp. The click echoes softly through the stillness of the cabin. Lamplight spills over scattered papers and half-finished notes until it catches on the red rose resting among them, its petals perfectly untouched by the chaos around it. The sight of it makes him think of you—the farm, your sun-kissed skin.
For reasons he cannot fully discern, he rushes to dress, pulling his coat from the back of his writing chair and slipping into it.
A gust of wind pushes against the cabin door, making it difficult to open. He braces his tired body against it and forces it wide enough to slip outside. The vast ocean stretches endlessly beneath the dark sky, as restless as his thoughts. He draws in a long breath, filling his lungs with cold night air and trying to convince himself this is enough.
He trudges through the sand, his footsteps heavy, as though his body is trying to force him to acknowledge where it has chosen to lead him.
Laughing softly to himself as the wind tosses his hair across his face like strands of smoke, he thinks of all the novels where fleeing to the countryside somehow cures the protagonist of himself.
He really should ask you what you think of him, though the question itself seems unbearably self-indulgent. He cannot fathom how one even begins such a conversation. And yet he still dares to wonder if you’ve imagined how his hair might brush against your cheek as his lips pull away from yours.
Lost in his reverie, he wanders aimlessly through town until his steps falter and his heartbeat quickens.
Shrouded in darkness, he realizes he’s standing at the entrance to your farm. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls into the night. His breath grows heavy in his chest.
He takes a step forward, then stops.
No. He knows better than this. There is no acceptable reason to appear at your farm in the middle of the night.
He turns away.
Heat floods his face while longing hums stubbornly beneath his skin.
Not like this.
want more? check out Reverie (Elliott x f.Reader) 💙
🎣 a fishing trip ends with a bigger splash than you anticipated 🌊
wc: 2,109 /// minors do not interact
“Just one more fish,” you grumble to yourself. You fling the bobber over the ocean, and it lands with a soft plink. Then—a wave of exhaustion slams down on your limbs, anchoring you to the dock. Panic pools in your stomach.
The fishing rod jumps in your hands. After a few frenzied tugs, something emerges from the water. You can’t believe your eyes at first, and then there’s no denying it: you caught another fucking seaweed.
“Just one more fish,” you repeat like it’s a broken enchantment. Dizzy with disbelief, you beg Sky Daddy to cut you some slack, but you swear the universe says NO.
Defeated, you slip the rod into your backpack and begin the trek down the pier. Every step threatens to fling you to the splintery floorboards. You hobble to the shore and collapse, your hands and knees swallowed by the sun-baked sand.
I need a moment to rest, that’s all.
Suddenly you feel the chill of an unnatural shade hovering over you. What a merciful cloud, your weary brain thinks. How nice—
“Hey, farm girl.”
Oh, dear god.
Alex Mullner. Free range, iron pumping, high school letterman, grandma’s boy. Ever since he said you were doing something right because of your pants, you’ve managed to restrict your interactions to polite waves at holiday gatherings.
“What are you doing down there? Did you trip?” he asks, his voice bouncing with amusement. You feel like an ant frying under a magnifying glass.
“Pretty much.” You pray that he loses interest so you can crawl home in peace.
“Wow, you look like, um,” he says, then clears his throat and swallows the rest.
“You don’t like my pants today?”
A flash of his teeth fades as quickly as a lightning bolt. “I’m being serious. You look pale.”
“You always say that.” A crease you’ve never seen plants itself between his brows. “It’s no big deal. I overdid it. I’ll just grab a Muscle Tonic from the clinic.” You brace yourself to stand.
“It’s closed.”
“Pardon?” One of your ears starts ringing.
“A while ago,” he says, frowning at his watch. As if late for its cue, the sun dips beyond the horizon, turning the sky a bruised lilac.
Panic ossifies into dread. You forgot—the only medical clinic in town closes at 3:00 unless you’re literally on your deathbed. This turn of events makes you want to bury yourself in the sand like cat shit.
“What do I do?” you ask, and then you realize how fucked you are, taking advice from raw-egg-drinking, 1,000-pushups-a-day Alex Mullner.
“You could go to the spa.”
Spa. Such a mystical word, like a compulsion to relax. You permit your curiosity to stretch a little.
“I don’t know where that is.”
“Yeah, I think I’m the only one who uses it. I keep most of my weights in there—it’s pretty much my zone.”
My zone echoes in your head, igniting a smile on your face.
“Please tell me it’s not far.”
“It’s by the railroad tracks.” Your heart topples off a cliff and plummets in your chest. He must see the look on your face because then he offers, “I could carry you.”
You picture Alex carrying you like a damsel in distress through the town square at dinner time. Imagine the torrent of stares, whispers, and start scrambling for some justification—Alex saved me from drowning, a true hero of the Fern Republic.
You nod to Alex, weak with relief, and then with something else—vertigo. A cool breeze brushes by your face—how nice—as you plummet face-ward to the sand.
“Oh—” he yelps and grabs your backpack before you hit the ground. He squats down and guides you toward him, slides one backpack strap off your shoulder, then the other. You melt in his arms, briefly startled by the clank of your pack hitting the sand.
“Why’s it so heavy?” he asks as he drags it toward him and shuffles into the straps, all while holding you up. “Is there a sword in here?”
You feel weightless as he peels you off the ground.
“That’s nice,” you mumble. You bob like a buoy in his arms as the sky blankets you in endless purpling clouds.
Strange dreams consume you. In one, you find yourself at the end of a long pole—or something like that. You know how dreams are.
You wake up on a wooden bench, head propped on a rolled-up towel. A fluorescent bulb hums above you. The pale blue tile reminds you of the sky on a hot day. The smell of chlorine hits your nose.
With a surge of fear, you realize none of this looks familiar.
“Farm girl?” says a deep voice, snuffing out your alarm. Your heart slows. “Good, you’re awake.”
He pushes a cup of water into your hands. You draw it to your lips, and then it dawns on you—this is the spa. The glass starts to slip from your fingers. He catches it, cups your hands with his to hold them still. Warmth blossoms on your skin.
“You carried me,” you say, inviting him to disprove you in the silence. “Thank you.”
He pulls his hands away. You’ve never been this close to his face for this long. An unexpected curl of heat flickers in your stomach. You bring the glass to your lips. It’s icy, shocking you awake. After you drain it, he sets it aside and starts rummaging through a nearby locker.
“I hope these fit," he says. He hands you a blue pair, keeping a grass-green pair for himself. Then he disappears around the corner. You hear a door squeak, followed by the slide of a metal latch.
Your clothes stick like saran wrap to your skin, but eventually you peel them away and shimmy into the shorts. They fit better than you’d anticipated.
“Can I come back now?” he calls from around the corner.
“Yes.”
His feet pad across the tile, the sound somehow exhilarating. Your heart surges when he pops into view. Instinctively, before you can get a good look, you turn away, bringing a hand to your neck to cover your racing pulse.
“So, do they fit?”
You consider not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d sized you perfectly. But you opt for honesty.
“Great, actually.”
A satisfied smile crosses his face like a shadow.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.” You try, but your legs feel like rubber stilts.
“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice soft. Despite your heart rushing in your ears, you hear his breath stutter. “Put your hand here,” he says, drawing you to his shoulder.
His arm slides behind your back, his hands shaking—from strain, maybe? You’re not sure.
He’s nervous, your brain all but screams. Mr. Unironically-Talks-About-The-Ladies is nervous.
He curls you into his chest, his skin hot and smelling of cedar and eucalyptus.
When you enter the pool area, you’re plunged into dense steam that coats your nose when you inhale. His feet clap against the water as he steps into the pool. He sets you down between him and the railing, holding you by your wrist. As you descend, the warm water already lending you strength, he lets go. Slowly you take the stairs until you’re submerged to your shoulders.
Your feet drift from the pool floor, and you float onto your back. Tiny bubbles weave through the tangles of your hair like fish through a reef, tingling your scalp.
Finding solid ground, you stand and search for Alex. He’s on the stairs where you left him, watching you. Head tilted downward. Shy.
“Are you coming?”
“I’ve never been here with anyone before.” He takes a hesitant step into the pool.
You’d always assumed the attention he gave you wasn’t particular to you. That it was never that deep. Sometimes, at your most insecure, you wondered if he was playing a cruel joke on you, making you think he was interested in you.
Now, seeing him like this—eyes blazing green, the tops of his ears a fevered red—there’s no mistaking his desires.
“How do you feel?” he asks, his voice low.
Your heart is leaping in your chest, but other than that, you feel wonderful. A lovely warmth dances across your skin.
“I feel incredible,” you breathe. Your chest buzzes with new energy. “Is this pool like an aphrodisiac?”
“I don’t think so,” he says, earnest, “I use it all the time and my memory’s really good.”
“No,” you laugh, “not amnesia, an aphrodisiac. You know, like a food that makes you feel good?”
“Oh. I have no idea, but I know it works.”
His eyes, the green of new leaves, watch you through the steamy fog. His lids look heavy as if drunk on his proximity to you.
He pulls you toward him. The edges of your vision soften to brush strokes of color, but Alex is sharp in your mind, all angles and hard edges, burnished olive skin and shimmering green eyes.
You close your eyes as he presses his mouth to yours—gentle at first. His breath tastes like peppermint on your tongue. As he slides his tongue across yours, a tendril of pleasure unfurls between your thighs.
You wrap your legs around his waist and feel him, hard as marble, eliciting a fresh ache inside you.
“Come with me,” he says, and you let go of him with your legs and swim toward the stairs.
Once out, you grab a towel off one of the lawn chairs, wrap it around your shoulders, and hold another out for him. When he steps out of the pool you gasp at the sight of his cock jouncing in his shorts. He smirks at you, taking the towel. He musses his hair and hangs it over his shoulder. Unbothered by you staring.
On light feet you return to the locker room and hang up your towels. He leads you to a shower, turning on two side-by-side faucets. Moonlight drifts in through a hazy skylight. It doesn’t take long for steam to rise and obscure everything.
You step under the shower, eager to be close to him again. His eyes brighten like live coals.
He tucks his fingertips into the band that runs around your ribs and gently pulls it away from your skin, sliding it over your head and off your shoulders.
Water runs in ribbons down his chest. He lightly grabs your breasts, kisses you—harder than before, emboldened with a thread of need.
He leans back against the tiles. You slide your hand up his thigh, and you feel him trembling. You untie his shorts. His stomach tenses as they fall to the ground.
You stroke the tip of his length, see his fingers gripping the wall behind him, knuckles white. He groans when your fingers grip him.
“Come here,” he says, breathy.
You push your shorts down. As you step out of them, he lifts you and presses your back to the tiles, warm from his body.
He slides in—freezes. His eyes flare with yearning and overload all at once—his greatest desires suddenly and overwhelmingly eclipsed by this reality. By you.
He lifts you slowly, slides you down, relishing the sounds you make. Desire and pleasure tangle inside you as you taste his uneven breaths on your mouth. His lips move down to your jaw, the hollow behind your ear.
“Touch me here,” you say, drawing one of his hands between your legs.
His brows flinch when you whimper. He thrusts into you faster, pushing you up the wall.
You cry out as aftershocks of pleasure ripple across your body. When he comes, his hands gripping your hips, a new, shared wave of pleasure rushes through you.
Your sighs ebb into heavy breaths, lost to the soft patter of water on skin.
Standing on your porch under the full moon, the crickets nearly drown him out.
“I don’t want Grandma to worry any more than she already has,” he says, a tad sheepish.
“I don’t either,” you say, offering a sheepish smile in return. “You’ll be okay walking back?”
“Are you kidding? I live like right there.” Excitement peeks out of his voice.
A gale of giddiness swells in your chest.
“Goodnight, Alex.”
“See you later, farm girl.”
You step inside, watching him watch you as you close the door. After a few moments, you hear his footsteps crunch away.
Happiness wraps around you like a warm blanket. In a sort of magical daze, you get ready for bed, giddy at the thought of when you’ll get to see Alex again.
Shane peers through the bottom of an empty glass at a distorted view of the festival. The dancing guests, the carefully chosen decorations, the impossibly green grass, and blinding blue sky are all distilled to a symphony of beautiful moving colors. It reminds Shane of a toy Jas has. But he can’t think of the name right now. All he can think about is how much better the world looks through a skewed lens.
“Are you all right dear?” Evelyn’s voice shakes with age.
“Yes,” he says. Lowering the glass away from his eye. Realizing how crazy he must look. Not that he cares too much, but maybe he cares a little because Evelyn has always been kind to him. He looks at the pink tablecloth draped underneath a mesh of refreshments. It makes him queasy looking at how perfect everything is arranged. Like the world is made of plastic. He has an urge to spill something, knock something over. Make it messy. Real. But he doesn’t.
“Would you like some?” Evelyn offers while she pours herself another glass of tea from a sweaty pitcher.
“No, thanks.” He sets his glass on the table and folds his arms across his chest. He views the world with blinding clarity, and he’s forced to see you now. Dancing with Alex. It’s like he’s watching others experience an intense joy while riding a carousel, and he’s stuck as an outlier because he gets wrenching motion sickness. To him, it’s no great wonder why you wouldn’t want to dance with him. Who wants to dance with a man they’ve seen passed out in their own vomit? No, it’s better this way. For you, he decides, it’s better.
The music and dancing start to lull until they reach a full stop.
You race to Shane. Excited to tell him how dancing wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it might be. Did he see? You hoped he was watching. Maybe he’d even want to dance with you one year? The thought of it makes a pang of longing squeeze tight in your stomach. When you approach him, something is wrong. He pretends not to see you running to him and averts his gaze when asking if you enjoyed yourself.
“What’s wrong?” He has the gall to look surprised by your question. Acting like you don’t know him. Like you weren’t there for him in his darkest hours. “Stop bullshitting, Shane. I know something’s wrong.”
“I don’t know,” he wears a defeatist’s frown, “I’m just being dumb. I don’t know why, but I thought we might dance together. Or whatever.”
“That’s not dumb.”
“Really?”
“I’d dance with you any time. It’s just Alex asked and you didn’t.”
“There’s always next year,” he offers, like it’s a consolation prize. You scoff.
“There’s always right now.” You grab his hand and drag him over to the patch of field designated for dancing and ask Lewis to play the music again. Lewis mutters something about kids these days but complies. When the music starts, instead of imitating the practiced traditional moves of the flower dance, you take his arms and enclose your waist in them. Your blood is rushing and hot, and you are concerned if your skin gets any warmer you might melt the both of you into a gelatinous puddle. You act like it’s totally normal for your arms to be hanging out on his shoulders.
Soon others join in. Including Jas and Vincent who twirl around your feet like tiny drunk buzzards.
Shane basks in your grin, the rise and fall of the music, and Jas’s cries of laughter and tries to remember every detail. He wants it to sink in until the memory is etched into his blood. But he knows all of this is fleeting, so instead he decides to let the lightness in his chest grow without trying to dim it with his worries. He’s dizzy with hope, and he thinks to himself maybe he can still ride the carousel.
Sam
“Tell him,” Sebastian says.
“I don’t get why he would dance with Abby,” you say. Sebastian groans.
“For the same reason you danced with me.”
“I thought his allergies were bothering him.”
“Tell him.”
“What if he doesn’t like me back?”
“He likes you.”
“But what if he doesn’t? What if I ruin our friendship?”
Sebastian sighs and crosses his arms. “If you don’t tell him right now, I will.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Sebastian waves to Sam. A flurry storms in your chest at the sight of Sam walking toward you. You rush to Sam.
“There you are,” you say, intercepting his path to Sebastian. You place your palm on his chest absentmindedly. Sam stops walking to inspect the hand on his chest with a teasing smile. “I was looking for you.”
“You were?”
“Yes.” You grab his arm without thinking. At the base of his neck, a tinge of pink sprouts and spreads to his face. His smile unwavering.
“Did Seb want to talk to me?”
“No, he uh—he was looking for you because I asked him where you were.” You give his arm a gentle tug and pull him farther away from Sebastian. The two of you walk to the stretch of river bobbing through the forest. Springs of grass bounce under your feet.
“Was there something you need?” He looks at you, and it’s like all the world is as blue as Sam’s crystalline eyes. You’re overwhelmed by a sea of emotion, thrashing in your stomach.
“What?”
“You said you were looking for me?”
“Oh, right.” You think of what to tell him. Each suggestion your mind offers is like striking a match, and soon a flame of anxiety sears your face.
“Everything ok?” He touches your cheek; he recoils and violently sneezes. “Sorry,” he manages before sneezing a second time, and then a third. “My allergies are killing me.” He takes a tissue out of his pocket and wipes his nose. “It’s a good thing you didn’t dance with me, or I would’ve sneezed on you.”
“You can sneeze on me,” you blurt out. He grins.
“Hey,” Sam says while combing his hand through his hair, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but why dance with Seb?” The sprigs of blond pass through his fingers.
“I thought you wouldn’t want to dance because of your allergies.”
“So, you’re not, like, secretly in love with my best friend?”
“No.” You blush when you realize you reached out to touch his chest again, but before you can recoil Sam strokes the back of your hand. You look down at the row of small clear buttons on his white oxford shirt and pick at one. “Are you super into Abby or something?”
“No.” Sam touches the bottom of your chin, and you look up at him. His eyes sparkle. He glides his fingers across your jaw and rests his palm on your neck. His thumb traces a small circle on your throat. “Now I’m bummed we didn’t dance together.”
“Me too.” Sam continues rubbing the pad of his thumb on your throat in soft circular motions. He takes a step closer, and you tilt your head. Your heartbeat flutters.
“Samson, there are children present!” Jodi’s voice carries across the field and slams into the two of you. Sam pulls away from you and looks out at festival.
“I can’t even see her,” he mumbles while squinting at the crowd.
“If I gave you a private dance later—would you still feel bummed?” You whisper in his ear.
“Only if we don’t leave right now,” Sam says with a playful grin, and grabs both sides of your waist to lead you to the exit.
❀ Part I (Sebastian & Elliott)
❀ Part II (Alex & Harvey)
Thank you to my incredible beta reader, @spamantha8! 🩵💜💖
I finished them! Hell yeah! 🤙 Next for waxskies is enemies to lovers scenarios, but first. I'll be posting to onyxdaze for a while. Dead ass, I'm tired of writing all 6 for 1 idea (not that I never want to do it again, or anyone forced me to do it in the first place, I just need a huge break). I'm not going to pretend ik when I'll finish anything (affectionately). But yeah, I'm going to go write smut for onyxdaze now.
“Evelyn does a bang-up job on the flower arrangements,” Harvey says. You walk to the farmhouse together, and the gravel path crunches underfoot.
“That she does.” You pull the blazer he draped on your shoulders closer to your body to guard against the fall frost chomping at the spring night’s air.
“It looked like you had a great time dancing.” The gleaming moonlight strikes against his brown eyes with a hint of resentment.
“I did.” Your raise a brow at him. He barks a dry nervous chuckle.
“Elliott is quite the dancer.”
“He is,” you say. An irritated twitch knocks his jaw. “I noticed you didn’t dance with anyone.”
“My intended partner was preoccupied.”
“Your intended did not want to end up without a partner for a second year,” you say. He halts, and you pause beside him. The sound of grinding gravel is replaced by a gaping silence. “Elliott asked.” You start walking. “I thought you would dance with Maru again this year.”
He touches your shoulder. You stop and turn to him. Glowing light spills from your home and onto the front porch where the two of you stand.
“I wanted to ask,” he says. Elongated strokes of warm light slash his features and highlight every edge.
“But you didn’t.” He places your palm on his cheek; a tremble ripples across your skin. His brown eyes seethe with a naked intensity.
“I was nervous.”
“Are you nervous now?” He takes a deep breath, and the light reflected in his eyes quakes with uncertainty.
“Yes.” The word blows from his mouth and shakes like a leaf caught in the wind. You press your palm closer to his cheek.
“Am I supposed to wait season after season for you to not be afraid?”
He overcomes the space between you and his soft lips press on yours. His mustache prickles your skin. A roaring bloom of heat surges to condemn every inch of you to ruin, and he parts his lips to feed the endless chasm of need aching in both your bodies. He ends the kiss with slow, fluid yearning. His breath taut, as if the separation from you is strangling him.
“No.” His eyes are covered in a glaring film of desire, “No more waiting.” Your heart beats heavy, calling to him in the passing moments, but the force of his actions ignite a meekness in you.
“Would you like to come inside for a cup of coffee?” He nods, the hunger in his eyes unwavering. The two of you rush inside and slam the door shut behind you.
Alex
Alex’s heart is seized by an impetuous chill while you dance with Shane. There’s an explanation—he’s sure—as to why this is happening. Your body twirls and your face smiles. He freezes as Shane looks at you like dew clinging to sharp blades of grass. An inferno of rage swirls inside him and shatters his icy bitterness like glass, and any trace of rational thought he has been able to grasp onto has melted away.
Oozing embers of fury fuel each step he takes toward Shane, and the sound of cheerful dancing feet and exuberant music become an echo. The totality of his focus turns to you.
Alex touches your waist, and you are a broken link in the jaunty chain of movement.
“I can’t do this,” he says.
“Do what?” His resentment-shrouded face jolts you with a shockwave of surprise. “Alex?” You notice the tide of questioning eyes around you.
“I can’t watch you dance with him.”
Shane asks if everything is ok. Alex bristles and narrows his eyes.
“No, it’s not,” he tells Shane, whose eyes bloom in surprise. The whirlwind of dancing slows to a cautious drawl.
“Maybe you’ve had too much to drink. How about I walk you home?” You say and give Alex’s puffed out chest a firm pat. Alex continues to glare at Shane. You stand behind Alex and give his shoulder a gentle push to nudge him away from the maze of whirling bodies; he grunts his assent and moves. You tell Shane you’ll see him around. Alex stiffens in defiance. “Let’s leave,” you lean to whisper in his ear; your breath grazes his ear, and goosebumps tackle the nape of his neck. You squeeze Alex’s shoulder. He steps forward.
You walk beside him. Concerned stares come from the ring of villagers outlining the wave of dancing bodies. You wear your best everything-is-so-fucking-fine smile. As if to say, see guys? Alex isn’t a monster. He just got a little possessive. The thought of Alex being possessive over you sends a drop of molten heat trickling down your stomach.
“I’m not drunk,” he says. He takes your hand to lace his fingers with yours. You pass by massive wicker baskets showcasing bundles of flowers drenched in the most vivid pastels; the top of the baskets is tied with a billowy scarlet bow like each one was meant to be a gift from spring itself.
“I know.” His large hand clings to yours. You would’ve never imagined he would be jealous enough to cut into your dance and try to start a fight. Sometimes it was hard to imagine he cares for you at all; he’s always too busy working out or helping his grandparents to hang out, and you were lucky if you saw him twice a week, so you wrote off his slew of excuses as his polite way of turning you down. But now you weren’t so sure.
You breech the festival’s exit and enter the forest.
“I don’t want Shane to get the wrong idea,” he says. His bottle-green eyes are struck by the sun and transformed into a kaleidoscope of glimmering emerald jewels by its spark. You stare. Dumbstruck.
“Ahoy there!” Willy saunters to the entrance of the Flower Dance. “Had to do a run back to the shop and grab a lure for Marlon. Hope I didn’t miss much.”
“Only the whole dance,” you jest.
“Ah well, there’s always next year,” Willy pauses, “And the year after that, and the year after that.” He laughs at his own joke, and his laughter sounds like a gold coin rattling in a tin can.
Vying for privacy, you lead Alex into the forest until you’re both standing behind a veil of trees. He lets go of your hand and props his palm on the thick trunk of the oak tree behind you. His broad muscular body looms over you. He tilts his cleft chin downward, and in his verdant eyes is a cloudburst of yearning. Above you, the trees' long twisted branches reach toward the sky like open hands trying to touch the bobbing clouds wafting across the sky. Warm yellow light languidly stretches past the fluttering leaves and kisses the tops of his cheeks and turns his tan skin to gilded silk. Every inhale you take is infused with his sandalwood cologne and the sweet smell of grass.
“If you wanted me alone, all you had to do was ask.” He hovers his mouth over yours, but you cover his eager lips with your hand. He gives the curved middle of your palm a gentle kiss; his eyes, shaded with longing, weigh on you. A gust of wind causes the leaves around you to rustle.
“Why were you staring at Haley?” You told yourself you asked Shane to dance because he looked miserable, but the truth was you asked him because watching Alex fawn over Haley made you miserable.
He lifts his mouth away from your palm and grins.
“Why? Are you jealous?” You glare at him. A tempest of anger flurries in your chest. “It’s ok if you’re jealous, babe.” On the ground, the shadows cast by wind-blown leaves flicker in an uncertain dance. “I mean, I almost punched Shane for dancing with you.” He peers up at the sky like he’s letting the words he’s spoken digest. Each point and curve of his face seems to be custom made for him, and you think of how divine but unfair it is at the moment. And say nothing. “Haley asked me to give her some pointers because she invited Sandy to come watch her dance.” Shame dapples your cheeks pink. “She has a crush on Sandy.”
“Oh.” He chuckles like you’ve said an almost funny joke. “How come we rarely hang out?” His pink mouth twists into a scowl.
“If we hang out too much you’ll get bored of me.” He looks away from you.
“What?” You laugh and trace his sharp jaw with your fingers.
“Haley says it’s better if I don’t make myself too free.” He shrugs.
You grab his chin and point his face at you.
“Stop taking dating advice from Haley.”
“Ok.” You let go of his chin. With his outstretched hand still flat against the tree behind you, he bends his elbow and lets his body sag. It fills the space between you. “I don’t want you flirting with other guys.” He’s so close his hot spearmint-scented breath swims in the small pool of air between you.
“Ok.” A soft throaty chuckle rides the coattail of his next exhale. He leans his forehead on yours and gently traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.
“Sometimes I can’t tell if you like me or not.” His voice is low and flush with longing.
“I do.” You give him a willful short kiss. He bridges the gap between you with a longer kiss and his breath sweeps through you until you’re weightless. You let his tongue slide against yours. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw and down to your neck. He gently bites your neck. A moan vibrates in your throat. Your hands travel down his taut torso. The hard edge of his belt touches your fingertips, and underneath his buckle his bulge stretches and tests the limits of his dress pants. “I can show you how much I like you.” You rub his dick with your palm. He makes an enthusiastic but incoherent noise.
You drop to your knees.
“Are you sure?” His breath is erratic.
“I’m sure.” You smile and unbuckle his belt. You peel his zipper down and fold his pants away from his cock like you’re dog earring the love-worn pages of a cherished book. You pull his boxers down.
The sudden exposure causes a shiver to surge down his spine. You take his cock in your warm hand to stroke it. You press your thumb on his tip and when you pull it back a string of precum stretches and breaks. A bolt of pleasure throbs in his shaft as you lick the precum off your thumb and wrap your lips around his flushed tip. The wet warmth of your tongue circles the head of his dick, and you massage his balls with your other hand. His warbled moan punches the air. You slip the entirety of his length in your soft mouth, and he is mesmerized by the sight of his cock splitting your parted lips. How beautiful you look sucking his cock, he thinks to himself. From the base of his cock to the pointed tip a surge of torrid pleasure swells and throbs. Your head bobs back and forth as you continue to tease his velvety girth. Pleasure turns into a pounding need for release. He tightens his abdominal muscles, trying not to cum, willing himself to make this perfect moment last as long as possible. You wrap both your hands around his cock and stroke him while sucking his tip. A violent tremble shakes his legs and the burst of his salty release floods your mouth. You swallow it.
He dresses himself. You stand and he takes you in his arms and holds you tight. Your head rests on his chest. You listen to his heartbeat dance. The beats mimic the frantic footsteps of a salsa dance but soon take on the rhythm of a slow dance. He kisses your forehead.
“How about we go back to your place?”
The two of you walk to the farm hand-in-hand, and you think of how excited you are to spend more time with Alex.
❀ Part I (Sebastian & Elliott)
❀ Part III (Shane & Sam)
I'm going to finish the last edit and post Shane & Sam (and then play Fields of Mistria and read Intermezzo). 😄 I promised myself to write hard for Alex every time I have the chance bc he gets sm undeserved hate.
“Dunno,” Sam says. You hear the hoarse suction of phlegm tunneling down his throat. A flash of concern shines in his watery eyes. “You should find him.”
It isn’t unlike Sebastian to wander off to do his own thing—but this time it feels different—and a forceful barrel of worry thrusts itself into the pit of your stomach.
“I’m sorry, I thought the allergy medicine would help. I didn’t know it was this bad, Sam.”
“It’s ok,” he says, and succumbs to a fit of sneezes akin to the intensity and vibrations of a shotgun firing multiple rounds. You stare out at the festival’s jumble of saturated greens and oranges playing accessory to dainty pastels, and it reminds you of a winter star tree decorated with mismatched colors. While balancing on your toes, you hope to spot an inky blot of black hair.
“Are you going to be alright, Sam?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for dancing with me.” Before disappearing into the crowd, you offer him a sympathetic smile.
A current of roaring music and cheerful voices floods your ears as you walk past a copse of shoulders and search for Sebastian. But you can’t find him. You notice a stretch of carnival-colored flags sent into a frenzy by a gust of wind. Behind the flags is a path to the forest. You give the dirt path a nervous glance but walk over to it and step past the rope holding the flags back from being pitched into the sky.
You walk across the soft forest floor, and the sounds of celebration drop behind the coniferous trees like a shadow. When the scent of Sebastian’s favorite cigarettes cling to the air, you follow the smell like a beacon to a small clearing where Sebastian’s powder blue blazer (the shade of which he once called suffocating) sags on a low hanging branch. He is crouched next to his blazer, and tucked between his fingers is a cherry-tipped cigarette. The sleeves of his white button up have been pushed up to his elbows. You trace the winding veins across his forearms before lifting your gaze to his.
Unblinking, he stares at you. He lifts the cigarette to his lips; then, smoke creeps from his mouth like fog eddying above a lake on a cold morning. His eyes are as deep and dark as a cave in the distance. You move toward him.
“What are you doing here?” he says.
You crouch down in front of him to glide your fingertips across a blade of jet-black hair cutting through his right eye. Gently, you tuck it away from his line of sight.
“Looking for you.” His gaze softens for a moment, only to harden in the next. He jerks away from you and stands. You straighten your legs to stand beside him. “What’s wrong?” The edges of his mouth twitch as you speak.
“Did you have fun dancing with Sam?” He drops his cigarette on the ground and extinguishes the glowing tip with the toe of his shoe.
“Er—sure?” A sudden realization staggers you like a dagger to the heart. “You’re not jealous, are you?” He blanches, and you bite your bottom lip to suppress a sly smile when he shrugs. “Good, because I’m here to invite you to mine and Sam’s wedding.”
“Hah-hah.”
“You told me you hated the flower dance,” you say. He scowls. “You told me it was this town’s futile attempt to bring meaning to everyone’s otherwise empty lives.”
“It is.” He steps closer to you. Pine needles crunch under his shoes, and you smell their sweet earthy scent. “But maybe it wouldn’t be so meaningless if I were dancing with you.” He’s close enough you can feel his body heat. He touches your arm, and you look up to see him smiling at you with an impish curve of his lips. Heat bunches in your cheeks.
“If I knew that, I would have asked you instead of Sam.”
“Now that you know?” He leans his face close to yours. His eyes are an endless black pool your thoughts are drowning in while the distant jovial chords from the flower dance whisper past the trees. You take a deep breath to gather your courage before wrapping your arms around his neck. His smile beams with a warmth that sweeps through your body.
“Will you dance with me?”
“Yes.” He caresses your waist, and the two of you sway to the faint pounding music.
Elliott
“I feel horrible about all of this,” Harvey says. “Just horrible.”
“It’s only for fun,” you say. Harvey tugs at the white button sewn to his blazer. The button falls off; he cradles it in his palm and sighs. His muddled brow at odds with the vibrant spring festival. “Do your best.” His big brown eyes are glazed with a veil of desperation. He stuffs the button in his pocket.
“It may help to dance with someone who understands my situation.” You glance a few feet away at Elliott’s blazing red hair. He’s talking to Leah—and as if he expected you to be seeking him out—Elliott turns to you and winks. “Please,” Harvey pleads. His misty eyes overwhelm you with pity. Elliott turns away to respond to something Leah has said.
“Yes.” You give Harvey’s hand a reassuring squeeze and tell yourself Elliott will understand. After all, these events are about community.
Just then, Lewis shouts. It’s time for the dance to begin.
“Shall we?” Harvey offers you his arm, but you hesitate.
“Darling?” Elliott steps in front of you. His eyes teeter from Harvey to you. “Can I speak to you for a moment?” The alarm in his voice pains you.
“Of course,” you say. Elliott covers your shoulders with his arm and guides you away from Harvey.
“What’s going on?” he whispers while staring directly at you. His green eyes gleam like a window being pierced by sunlight. You wring your hands. It’s difficult to think when breathing in the heady scent of his bergamot and sage cologne. Fuzzy static dominates your thoughts while you stare at an indentation pressing down on his bouncy bottom lip. In an attempt to clear your head, you peer away from him, but Elliott trails his fingers across your jawline and turns your attention back to him. His glittering eyes beseech you.
“He’s really nervous about dancing, so he asked me if I could help him.” The sharpness of Elliott’s posture dulls, and a deep smile cuts across his face.
“I admit, I don’t like this arrangement.” He succumbs to a thoughtful pause and lifts his arm from your shoulders. While scanning the crowd he grasps your hand to twine his fingers with yours. “I would suffer an anxiety greater than Harvey’s if you were to dance with anyone else,” he tells you and takes a step forward. You follow his lead.
“Maru!”
“Elliott!” Maru giggles at the urgency in his voice.
“Do you by chance have a partner to dance with?”
“Nope.”
“How serendipitous because Harvey is looking for a partner.” With a wave of his hand, Elliott beckons Harvey. “Harvey! Come dance with Maru.” Harvey pads over to the group and opens his mouth to presumably protest but shuts it when Maru’s beaming face hits him. Elliott squeezes your hand and whispers to you, “Maru is a nurse, so she understands Harvey’s condition better than anyone.”
It’s time for the dance, so you line up to perform the traditional flower dance with Elliott. But when the music starts, he pulls you close to him. He presses one hand against the small of your back while the other ties his fingers and yours in a secure knot. He touches your cheek with his.
“You are the only cure to my suffering,” Elliott tells you. The heat behind his words melts your bodies together.
The two of you continue dancing when the music stops.
➛ He started dropping his loads in his socks, but after a horrifying conversation with Jodi (who does all the laundry), he dropped the socks from his routine.
➛ Every time Sam’s hand brushes against his dick, he’s ready to go and will start tugging at his cock like he’s flirting with himself.
➛ Sam has a glowing pink stripe across his cheeks, and a tuft of his blond hair clings to the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The glossy pink tip of his cock pokes out between his thumb and index finger while he pleasures himself.
Harvey
➛ He has the cleanest sex toys in town.
➛ He loves buying toys and thinking about the new experiences they’ll provide.
➛ When he’s single, he likes to call sex hotlines and jam his cock inside a fleshlight while the operator talks dirty to him.
➛ I just think Harvey’s a freak, and he totally has homemade sex tapes, so if he’s not single, he’s watching videos of his partner while playing with his newest toy.
Alex
➛ He grew up in a religious household, and there’s a certain level of guilt in his psyche associated with masturbating. And he struggles because his guilt turns him on.
➛ He tries so hard to resist touching himself.
➛ The hardest he’s ever come while jacking off was while doing it in front of his bathroom mirror, and his body burns with shame every time he thinks about it.
➛ He jacks off to an underwear catalogue he’s had forever and hides it in a large, empty container of protein powder.
Sebastian
➛ He needs everyone out of the house before he can masturbate.
➛ And his porn collection is not only extensive but contains a wide variety.
➛ Masturbates three times a week because it’s his lucky number.
➛ Sebastian leans back in his desk chair and slides his fingers across his thick cock. It’s coated in lube and pulsates under his touch. His skin is flushed and his breathing uneven as he pounds his dick while thinking about bending the farmer over his desk. His cock twitches at the thought of the farmer whimpering his name.
Elliott
➛ He loves to use his imagination and is more likely to be turned on by erotic poetry, or a scenario he’s made up in his head than watching porn.
➛ He sometimes sets the mood for himself by listening to an audio of an erotic book.
➛ He closes his eyes while he masturbates and pays careful attention to the sensations in his body.
➛ He takes his time and can last anywhere between 30 minutes to an hour going solo.
➛ Partakes in a little wax play from time to time.
Shane
➛ He masturbates on the regular, regardless of whether or not he’s in a relationship.
➛ He has a hard time being himself around other people and struggles to feel intimate connections, so masturbation is a form of self-intimacy.
➛ He also has a lot of pent-up self-hatred, so bro goes hard on his dick. Sometimes he doesn’t bother with lube and gets little microtears, but he kind of likes the pain because it makes him feel more alive.
➛ His favorite place to masturbate is his bed. He’ll curl up under the covers with his large hand coveting his cock, and the other holding up his phone to watch porn. He’ll fist his dick with a tight grip and peer down every so often at his swollen red tip leaking cum.
➛ Shane likes to come on his hand, the viscous milky fluid a tribute to his own perception of existence—messy, pointless, and driven by instinct.
